Pretty Maids A11 in a Row 409 be much room there—it was full of test results, all sorts of Guidance/ Counseling stuff. He thought of Betty. He hadn’t yet been able to see her again, he wondered if she had seen the game. Tonight, he would see her for sure. He had the theme done. He had promised himself he wouldn’t go back to see her until he had it done. He knew she would want it that way. He grew warm, thinking of her, and his possible future with her. For there was no doubt, it was possible, and he would try hard. When should he propose? Did guys still propose? Or did it just happen? Should he ask Tiger? What a day. What a game. Ponce was still spinning. What about it? Just happened? Like everything else? He wondered about that, and also worried a little bit—but not unduly. It was a technicality. Mary Holden. What had happened to Mary? He had heard the craziest stories—it was all crazy. A technicality. He knew Betty would help him out on that. He wondered what his mother would say. He would tell her—one day. He tried picturing that day. Surcher. The troubles. Mary Holden. That sure had been a funny one. He would comer Surcher—or Mr. Shingle —and get the straight story. Though by now, Tiger probably had it. When he had asked him, a day or so ago, he hadn’t known—exactly. One thing for sure—it wasn’t connected with the others. He would find out alright. Everything. He had felt bad, as he had of course about the others. He even felt bad still about that poor dope the late Chief John Poldaski. Who would take over? He had heard talk about Joe Linski, Peggy’s old man. Maybe so. Id the Army, he had been an MP. That he knew. Right now, there was no one. The town had no Police Force. Dozens of Staties though. He thought of the funerals. He felt sad. Jeannie’s had been some funeral and a half. That’s how they were, those Catholics. He thought of Ben Shingle, and what a fine guy he was. Out of all this, because of it, he, Ponce, had been given the chance to meet and get to know a writer like that, of that caliber, no less. They were friends, no doubt of it, what a great guy he was. He felt bad about it though, having happened this way. He felt bad, it was like—cheating, almost. But—Ponce knew that’s how life was, or certainly sometimes was. The breaks—deserved—undeserved—out of the blue—Things happened that way. If he were given the choice, of course he’d want those girls all back alive—and never get within sight of
Ben Shingle, or anyone like that. Any day. He knew that And even the Chief too. To boot. But the choice hadn’t been his. He mused. It had happened this way. He knew that. He felt bad that Surcher and all the others who had turned up, including the Attorney-General himself, who had turned up today, he had watched the game, had so far hit a stone wall, and had turned up nothing. It was still, without a doubt, one hell of a mess, despite the great victory today. But things had been quiet, at any rate, outside of the Mary Holden thing, which could have happened anytime, anywhere, to anyone, so far as he knew, from what he knew, and had nothing at alL to do with the thing. Only this morning, he had heard Surcher confide to Tiger, while they were having a talk about things, and Ponce happened to be around, Mr. Shingle as well, he had heard him confide that maybe it was possible it was the end of the trail. It was just possible, he had said, it was classical, he had also said, Ben agreeing with him. He remembered Tiger nodding his head at that. Looking very pensive at that. In any event, what a day. And he was glad no colored boy had been tagged with the thing. He was glad all the dirty pressure from certain elements had been resisted and finally whittled down—to nothing. He admired Surcher. Now, he knew, only the hardcore Birchites were still out for their blood. And everybody knew what they counted for, so they were no worry. This wasn’t Mississippi, or any of those crapulent Southern states. Or California, for that matter, that nuthouse of a Reagan State. The phone rang. Ponce picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Who’s this?” the voice said. A female voice, low, warm.
“Ponce.”
A pause. She was still there.
“Ponce de Leon," he said, to make matters absolutely clear.
The phone clicked. There was the dial tone.
4,Hello?" Ponce said, just once more. She had hung up. He hung up. Wondering who it was. It almost sounded like, he thought now, in his astute way, his mind working with it—Rochelle. He mused, thinking about her. He wasn't sure though. What a girl. It might not have been, or —could just have been. Wrong number? He mused a bit more. Then dropped it, of no consequence. Whoever it
Pretty Maids A11 in a Row 411 was, if she really wanted Tiger, she would phone back. He could find no room for some of the stuff in the file cabinet at all. He turned and thought about trying the desk. Tiger hadn’t mentioned it, but it could go in the desk. If he filed anything there. He didn’t know. He tried a few drawers. In the top drawer he saw some folders. One was lying on its back, on top. Possibly put there by Tiger in a hurry, to be filed properly later, when he had time. He picked it up and started turning it over the right way so he could tuck it in the drawer properly, It bumped the drawer and fell out of his hands, spilling its contents onto the floor. He said, “Damn—” in a mild way, feeling embarrassed about his clumsiness, and maybe having messed up that folder on Tiger. To boot. He started to pick the stuff up. They were football plays, he noted, grinning about that, fondly. They were rough sketches of plays, he and Tiger had worked on from time to time. Here was the old Reverse-Shuffle-Fake From The ‘I* On Three. That was a one. He liked that one. Pope had clipped off forty-five the first time Dink had called it today—in the second half, that is. He looked through the sheets, each one a different play. He put each one back in the folder, carefully, after a glance at it. Then there was other stuff. Referees’ names, Coaches’ phone numbers, colleges, universities—their head coaches—all that stuff—clubs—that kind of stuff. Ponce hastened to put it back in the folder, feeling embarrassed again, as if prying. He felt like a prying kid. Though Tiger wouldn’t have minded though, he was that way. Of course. He sure had a nice wife and kid. Tiger did. She was real good-looking, his wife was. He thought of Betty again. He came across the last sheet and was just about to tuck that in. He stopped, for some reason. Incurably curious as ever, his eyes were perusing the sheet. It was just a list of names, girls’ names. His eyes ran up and down the list He saw the names. He began feeling funny, suddenly. Just a little funny, suddenly. There were marks beside each name, stars they looked like. That’s what they were. His eyes saw the names. Four of the names had lines drawn through diem. A line, through each of the four. They were crossed out That’s what they were. He could just make them out though. He felt funnier now. Just a cold kind of feeling coming up in his stomach, and at the top of his spine. That was it. Jill Fairbunn, he made out—Yvonne Mellish—Jean-nie Bonni—He could make out—Mary Holden—He also made out. He halted there. All he could do was stare. He felt funnier and funnier. The cold was spreading. What the hell was this list? What were those blue stars beside Rochelle’s name? What was Betty’s name doing—on this list? Look at those stars there—three and a half—red ones— And what did they mean? There was Mrs. Mortlake’s name —the School Nurse—number 21 on the list—a question mark after her name—What did that mean? Ponce felt icy-lingling waves spreading all over him, and through him, he felt mighty cold. What was this list? Was it Tiger’s list? What was it doing here? What did it mean? He saw Mona Drake’s name on the list. Barbara Brook’s. She just lived down the road. Her father— Marjorie Evanmore. Hetty Nectar. Ponce stared. He digested every name on that list. Each one hit him like a hammer blow. He was more than cold. What was the score? What the hell did it mean? Suddenly, with a staggering surge that nearly knocked him off his feet, Ponce realized what he had in his hand. He fell back, he slumped into Tiger’s chair. He put his head between his knees, to fight hard to keep from keeling over. He didn’t want to keel over. His heart pounded, he felt sick, and ice cold. He had never known such a sick feeling as this. He fought and fought, hanging on, going under, surfacing, going under, again surfacing —a dozen times or more. At last, he raised his head, slowly, and sat back in the chair. He was a man near death. He sat there, numb, like a ghost. Or the sole survivor of a shipwreck, after long days on the open sea. Or worse. He had the list. He stared at it, starkly, dumbfounded. His world whirled. He knew one thing: Nothing again would ever be the same. For he knew, with an excruciatingly painful burst of awareness he suddenly knew: Tiger must be insane. He stared at that list. His eyes wandered over each name. Who was Looby Loo? He hoped for a moment now that it wasn’t Tiger’s list. That someone had put it there—or—that Tiger had confiscated it, from some nut of a kid. He hoped. And hoped. But—he knew he was wrong. Somehow, he knew it was Tiger’s alright He had seen that writing a hundred times. That printing. That way. His eyes stopped and riveted themselves on Betty’s name. In the name of God, if there was a God, what was she doing on this list? Just what were those stars? Those