Room To Swing - Ed Lacy

I began pacing the room again, trying to think logically. From the little I'd seen of Tutt-Thomas he appeared to be a hard-working joker, living down his past. That didn't rule out the possibility he was in a jam here, but it was unlikely.... He had a record, would be careful. If he was doing anything shady here, why would he be sweating at the freight company, going to a trade school? Hell, he hardly had enough free time to get in trouble. He was strictly small time, a home-town hoodlum.... Only one thing would make sense: some old buddy had knocked him off for revenge. But how did I fit into that picture? And if it was an old buddy, why wait all these years? Perhaps he'd just located Thomas, or maybe been released from a pen a couple days ago, went gunning for Thomas. But how would he—or she—know about me, about Kay? Of course Kay said they'd already interviewed people in Thomas's home town.... Sure, this joker had been hunting for Thomas for years, and the TV idea gives him his lead. Suppose he was tailing Kay and Thomas? That made hard sense. Unknowingly Kay had taken him to Thomas and to me; from that point it wouldn't take a genius to set me up for murder.

I felt much better, as if I'd accomplished something. But there was one loose end I had to tie. I said, “It was a horrible sight, Thomas' bald head split open, his rooms ransacked.”

Bobby didn't say a word, dried her eyes with her sleeve. Okay, I was clumsy, I didn't trip her. I stopped being cute. “When was the last time you saw Thomas?”

“I never saw him. I—” She looked up at me. “Are you crazy, Touie, first accusing Kay and now me?”

“Look, there's only four people knew I was hired to shadow Thomas: Kay, myself, B.H., and you.”

“Oh, for goodness' sake, I've been home all night. You know that—you called me early in the evening and again about an hour ago. It was after your second call I took the sleeping pills.”

That was good enough for me, even if it wasn't air tight. I couldn't see Bobby having the guts to kill. I waved my hands. “I have to consider all angles. Bobby, Kay said the TV show had a complete file on Thomas; did she ever tell you any of the details?”

“Vaguely, something about rape. I wasn't too interested in such sordid matters. She has some files in her desk; Kay often works here afternoons, and evenings.”

I followed her into the bedroom to an oval-shaped desk of ebony wood at one window. There was a typewriter on top of a small file cabinet next to the desk. She leafed through the cabinet, handed me a fairly thick folder with a neatly typed sticker TUTT-THOMAS pasted on it.

It was a good file, names, dates, interviews, and even a few pictures. I rolled it up, shoved it in my pocket. I felt almost happy; I could really work with this. It meant I'd have to get to his home town, Bingston, Ohio, damn fast. That wasn't a bad idea either; it would be dangerous for me to hang around New York.

“I'm going now. Bobby, can I trust you? Are you going to phone the police as soon as I leave?”

“Certainly not.”

“My life is at stake, melodramatic as it may sound. I need time. Do you think you can convince Kay and the TV studio not to say anything about Thomas for a few days?”

“Kay will have to do whatever Central does, but if I know TV and their fear of adverse publicity, they won't make any fuss unless forced to. Toussaint, I'm terribly sorry you're involved in this. I truly don't believe you would kill a person.”

“Thanks.” We were walking toward the door.

“Is there anything else I can do to help you?”

I wanted to ask her for money but couldn't bring myself to do it. “Barbara, if this gets messy, I mean, if I'm caught, our story is I dropped up here to shoot the breeze, stole this file while you were in the John. That will leave you in the clear. One thing you can do, find Kay and tell her to keep quiet.” I added a cover-up: “I'll be hanging around the city, hiding out, so tell Kay not to make any effort to contact me.”

At the door she squeezed my hand and began weeping again as she said, “Good luck, Toussaint. May God be with you.”

I was jittery riding down the elevator, looking up and down the empty street. Then I suddenly laughed and walked boldly over to Third Avenue, waited for a bus. I was fairly safe. The police would be looking for a Negro— but to whites we all look alike, and that was my protection. Except for my size, which fitted the usual “burly” Negro type the papers blame for anything and everything, I wasn't in much danger. Although by this time the cop would have given them a description of my clothes.

On the ride uptown I read through the file carefully, making notes of what sounded important. I decided I couldn't risk going home. I only had thirty-eight dollars on me. I needed money, but I doubted if Ollie would still have the rent dough around I'd left for him. I got off at 149th Street, walked toward the Drive.

I had to ring Sybil's bell four times before she came to the door in a sheer nightgown, asked, “Are you off your head, Touie? It's almost— Why it is three in the morning! I told you I had to be up early....”

“Honey, I'm in a rough jam. I can't tell you about it—it's best you don't know. But I have to leave for Chicago at once and I need money.”

“A jam? With that Madison Avenue woman?”

“Honey, don't ask questions. And it hasn't anything to do with her. Sybil, I have to grab a plane at once. How much can you lend me?”

She shook herself awake. “I still have the eighty-five dollars you gave me.”

“Any more?”

She went to a drawer and took out her purse; a sleepy, flatfooted walk. “I knew it was too good getting that money from you. Here, I have seven, eight—nine dollars more. That makes ninety-four dollars. When am I going to get this back?”

“Soon. Now, honey, if the police come here and—” Her eyes came wide awake as she cut in with “Police? Touie, what kind of trouble are you in?”

“Don't ask. And for everybody's sake don't say anything about this, talk around. But if the cops do question you, tell them the truth. I borrowed some money and I'm on my way to Chicago and Canada. Now I have to rush. 'Bye, baby.”

“But...? That's ninety-four dollars you owe me, Touie Moore.”

“Don't worry about it.” I blew her a kiss and walked up to where I'd parked the Jag. I drove across the George Washington Bridge, half expecting a road block. I got both tanks full of gas, oil, water, and a bunch of road maps at the first gas station open. I knew it would be easy to spot my Jag, something the attendant would remember. But there wasn't anything I could do about it, except steal a car, or steal different license plates.

But I didn't know how to steal a car. Taking license plates off a parked car would be simple—but it could mean more trouble; if I was stopped for going through a light or anything and had to show my license, I'd be cooked. The best thing was to keep to the Jag. If I got any sort of break, the police wouldn't know Thomas' identity for a day, and wouldn't know about me for a couple of days. By that time I'd be dead bum if I didn't come up with at least a sure lead. Hell, my money would only last about a week.

At 4:20 a.m. I started cutting across New Jersey toward Pennsylvania and Ohio. I drove carefully, not too fast, and the Jaguar ate up the road in the quiet darkness as I wondered how much longer I'd be able to drive it—or any car. I kept the radio on but the killing didn't make the news. Most of the time I felt confident, although now and then I had this doubt that I wasn't being a detective, I was merely on the run.

In the middle of the morning I stopped again for gas, then turned into a deserted side road and walked around to relax my cramped legs. It was a cold, sunny day, and it felt good to walk on the grass and dirt, fill my lungs with the clean air.

I drove till noon, when I stopped at a small roadside restaurant. There were several trucks parked outside, so I figured the food would be okay. A moon-faced woman with wild white hair was behind the counter, serving the truckers. As I sat on a stool this biddy shrieked, “No you don't! I don't serve no coloured here. Don't you see the sign?” She pointed a fat finger at a fly-specked WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE... sign.

I was in Pennsylvania and I told her, “That sign is so much cardboard. There's a state civil-rights law here.” I wasn't sure if there was or not, and was too tired and rattled to think straight.

“I go by a higher law—God. If God had meant you to be white he would have made us all the same. Now get!”

One of the truck jockeys snickered and I wanted to hit him so badly I thought I'd explode. But a rumble was the very last thing I could chance now. I stood up and told the old bitch, “You sure fooled me. I thought this was a 'coloured' place. I mean, seeing you, your face and the hard hair—bet you got as much 'coloured' blood in you as I have. That's why I sat down, seeing you.”

I walked out hearing her scream, ashamed of myself for such childish stupidity. Still, I had to hit back, some way. One thing was for sure, as the song says, when you leave Manhattan you're not going anyplace.

As I turned the Jag back toward the road, one of the truckers came out—not the one who'd snickered—said, “Wait a minute, Mac.” He walked over to the Jag and I got out fast, knowing I couldn't control myself any longer. He was a little guy, compactly built, freckles on his pale face. He had a Thermos under his arm and held it out as he said, “Old Ma hasn't all her buttons. You want some hot Java, I have a Thermosful you're welcome to.”

“Thanks a lot. But I'll get a regular meal some other place. But thanks again.”

“Suit yourself. Guess you must be a musician, huh?”

“Yeah. On my way to a job now,” I said, sliding back behind the wheel, waving as I drove off.

I stopped in the next town at a grocery, bought a loaf of bread, cheese, and a bottle of milk—ate in the car from then on. White people are nuts but I'd be even crazier if I got into a fight about it—now.

6

WE WERE driving along country dirt roads, but carefully. A low-slung Jaguar wasn't made for such roads. I'd about talked myself out, was waiting for her to say something. Her silence made me nervous. When we turned into a paved road Frances asked, “Can I take the wheel? I've never driven a foreign car.”

I stopped and we changed places. She drove with cool skill and after a moment said, “What can I do to help you, Touie?”

“The first thing is to understand what you're getting into. I'm wanted, so helping me makes you an accessory to a crime, or whatever the exact legal term is.”

“Don't worry about that. All I know is you're a musician and I'm showing you the town.”

“It won't be that simple once they start grilling you.”

“You talk as if you expect to be caught, Touie.”

I spread my palm on my knee. “I did some thinking on the drive here. No point in kidding myself. The New York City police are good, big time. For all I know they've identified me already, have 'wanted' flyers on me in the mails. Honey, I want your help, I need it badly, but at the same time I don't want you in over your head.”

“I want to help you. As for the rest—you can't cross a bridge until you reach it.” She turned off into a bumpy dirt road.

“Go slow; a rock can rip the transmission.”

She drove another few hundred feet and stopped. “What do we do first?”

“Answer a few questions. Has May Russell left town recently?”

“Not that I've heard.”

“Would you hear?”

“Yes and no. Actually I haven't seen May for weeks, but in a small town, taking a trip is over-the-fence news. I'd have heard if May left town.”

That didn't mean a thing. She could have flown to New York and back in less than an afternoon. “How about her... eh... clients? Have any of them left Bingston recently?”

She grinned. Her mouth was small and the heavy lips seemed to be pouting. “If you believe rumors, every white man in town is a 'client' of May's. I haven't heard of anybody leaving Bingston in months. Tomorrow I'll take you to somebody who can tell you everything you wish to know about May. And a lot about Porky Thomas. What else can we do now?”

I pulled out the TV data, held it near the dashboard light. “When Thomas was in school, he beaned a kid named Jim Harris with a rock, gave him a concussion. Where's Harris now?”

“In South America. He left Bingston years ago, went to college and came out an oil engineer. I know he's still down in South America. Pop saves stamps and takes them off Harris' letters to his folks here.”

“Now, in '48 Thomas did a couple of months with a Jack Fulton for petty theft. In '45, he and this same Fulton did a stretch at reform school. Do you know Fulton?”

Frances nodded. “He died in Korea. His name is on the bronze tablet next to the school flagpole. What else?”

I crossed Fulton's name off. The trouble was, there wasn't much “else.”

“Nothing about it here, but I suppose Thomas was on the lam from the draft too. Was he drafted?”

“I don't know. What next?”

She sounded like we were playing a quiz game. I put the TV stuff back in my pocket. “That's about it. Are you certain nobody—I mean, anybody who really knew Thomas— hasn't left town in the last month or two?”

“People don't leave Bingston or come to it. Dad would know if anybody has left recently or— Oh, I forgot, the McCall sisters, a couple of old-maid school teachers. They sold their house two months ago and moved to California, but you wouldn't be interested in them. Although when Porky was about ten he was supposed to have pinched Rose McCall's behind.”

“He was an all-round cut-up. Look, can you remember anybody Thomas ran around with, or anybody who hated him?”

“Hated? Plenty of people disliked him. I did, he was such a mean cuss, but I don't think most people paid enough attention to him to hate Porky. But this fellow we'll see tomorrow, he can tell you more about that. What else?”

“That's about it, until we see this fellow. Don't look so disappointed—I wish I had more to go on, too.”

“Me and my TV mind. I thought we'd be out taking fingerprints and... and stuff like that.” She started the Jag, drove very slowly. We made a turn in the rough road and there was a house and a barn silhouetted against the moonlight. She turned the ignition off. “Touie, I don't want to tell you your business, but I think you should get rid of your car. Not many people have seen it, but it's sure to be a sensation in Bingston. This is my Uncle Jim's farm. Suppose I was showing you the countryside and your car broke down?”