"It isn't that," he said, looking at her steadily. "But do you really think we keep records on every nigger we kill?"
There was a murmur of laughter. Vyry stared.
"Now take your hands off my desk."
"I thought—"
"Shut up." He stared at her as if deciding what to do. As he did so another man, fat, dressed in work pants and a dirty, short-sleeved white shirt, came over from the pool table and bent to whisper in the blond man's ear.
"I see. Thanks, Billy." He swung back to Vyry, and now his voice was threatening. "Here's what I want to know. What gave you the idea that you can come in here for an accounting from us? Who told you that?"
She didn't know how to answer. "Who are you, anyway? Where do you work?" he said, picking up a pencil.
"Elvira Lewis, sir. I work at the CSAB on Bute Street."
"Oh, yeah." He wrote, and looked up with a dreadful smile. "Well, Miss Lewis, maybe they won't want you there much longer."
She knew to keep her mouth shut and to look at the floor. After a moment he laughed. "Get out."
Some of the men nearest the door had left before her. A knot of them stood outside. They closed on her as soon as she stepped out, taking her purse first, tearing the strap off. She screamed.
"Shut her up."
"What for? Let her scream. Ain't nobody going to come after her."
"Sergeant might hear."
"She just seen him. He ain't protecting no niggers."
Close around her, they held her arms. One rifled through her purse, throwing things to the bricks. "Pretty fancy shit she carryin'."
"What's that?"
"Perfume, by God! And look here! Gold earrings! Confiscate them right now."
"Those are my things. I need them for work," she gasped.
Laughter. "What kind of work you do, bitch?"
"I'm an entertainer."
"Lessee her card. Shit, boys, look at this. She's a whore over't that Army club."
"No shit?"
"High-class officer tail, huh?" The hands eased off her for a moment. "Say, honey — show us some of what them Army officers get. We'll let you keep your joolry."
"No. I don't do outside work. Get your hands off me."
"Maybe she wants money."
"Maybe she don't get the picture yet."
Looking up, she saw the alley. They were forcing her into it, step by step. Once inside, she knew what would follow. Rape — by all of them, and painful. Already she saw the gleam of a knife.
"… Fix her face, sergeant says."
Maybe they won't want you there much longer….
She panicked. Crying, kicking, she was pulled toward the alley. A hand felt for her mouth and she bit, hard; a high womanlike scream. A man doubled as her shoe found his groin. Something hit her from behind, in the kidneys, and she went limp at the sudden flash of pain. Her feet dragged on the pavement. She stopped struggling. She was beaten.
"What's going on here?"
The men stopped. "Sir?" said someone.
"I said, what's going on? I heard a scream."
She staggered, trying to stand. Men stepped away from her. The high, annoyed voice — it seemed she'd heard it before —
"Vyry!" said Quidley. "What in heaven's name are you doing here?"
She leaned against him and gasped something out. He stared down and then his hand moved to his holster and the men drew back.
"Who's in charge here?"
"Sir." The blond sergeant had come out on the walk.
"Baylor — are these your people?"
"These are Citizens' Patrol, yes, sir. Is the lady a friend of yours?"
Quidley stared at him for a long moment. Then his hand came up from his holster to stroke her hair. Baylor, watching, grew pale. "I believe she fell, sir. My men were probably helping her up."
"Get in the car, Vyry. Roberts! Put her in back."
"Yessah, Major."
She sank, numb, into the soft rear seat of the big gray car. The pain in her back lit odd flashes in front of her eyes. She saw the driver turn in his seat, glance toward the building, and glip a small bottle from inside his uniform and hold it out. "Can you use a quick one, sister?" he said.
"Thanks." She took a long gulp and handed it back. Roberts made the bottle disappear as Quidley's voice drew closer.
"Yes, sir," the sergeant, Baylor, was saying.
"Find out. And see they're disciplined. Taken off patrol. You hear me? And do it right now."
"Yes, Major." The blond man came to attention and saluted, but slowly, just short of a contemptuous slowness. Quidley leaned out the window of the Bentley and poked him in the chest with a stiff finger.
"I've had my eye on you, Baylor. On you and all your Kuklos League thugs. You'd better lie low — you hear?"
"Hear you, sir? You won't talk to me like that when—"
"What what?" Quidley waited, but the sergeant shut his lips firmly. The men around waited, watching, and at last he sat back and said, "Roberts, let's go. I've had enough of this trash. Anywhere, just drive. And draw the blinds."
He turned to Vyry as the Bentley began to move, and took off his cap; the interior grew dark as the curtains unrolled. He patted sweat from his face with his handkerchief. "Vy — what in heaven'g name were you doing there? If I hadn't shown up—"
"I know. I know what they wanted to do."
"But why? What an insane place to be for—"
"For a nigger. That's right."
He winced. "I didn't use that word. Nor do most educated people now. But you are — colored — and those Citizens' Patrol people aren't properly supervised. That Baylor…. The whole Kuklos bunch ought to be outlawed."
She glanced at him and felt herself softening a bit. Stiff and strange and not really very likable… but he'd rescued her.
Perhaps he knew where Johnny was.
"Did they hurt you, Vyry?"
"Stole my purse and hit me a couple of times. I guess I'm feeling better now, Major. I was scared. Scared I was going to die back there in that alley."
He pulled her over and kissed her. "You're all right now. But you still haven't told me what you were doing there in the first place."
In a rush of words she told him about Johnny — how he'd vanished, her fear, her search that morning. He frowned at first, when she said 'my man,' but then listened carefully. When she was done he said, "I have access to patrol records, of course. And to those of the police. Perhaps I can find out for you where he is."
"Oh, if you would—"
"His name Lewis, too? What's his first name?"
"No, not Lewis. We're not married. His name's Johnny Turner. He works on the waterfront."
"Turner!"
"Yes. You — you act as if you know something."
He didn't answer her, leaned forward instead. "Roberts. To the fort."
"Major… what's the matter?"
"I know where he is," he said, but the way he said it made her feel suddenly faint. She lay back against the fabric of the seat, waiting for him to say more.
"He was picked up Friday night after curfew, crossing the fence at a government installation. Patrollers brought him to me. We've been holding him.
"Vyry, he refused to talk to us."
"Oh, no," she whispered.
"Vyry—"
"I want to see him."
"He's not in very good shape, I'm afraid."
"If he's dead, I'll kill you, Major. I will."
"He's alive. But don't talk like that to me. It was his own fault. My duty was to investigate, get answers. Why was he climbing the fence at that warehouse area? Do you know?"
She stared at her hands, seeing only now that several of her fingernails were broken. The terrible thing was that she did know. It had to have been a Railroad meeting. Why else would Willie have been so evasive? Why else would Johnny have left her apartment, with the police after him and a bullet wound still unhealed?