“Hey, listen—” Mizner told him, in that soft tone, ‘Think one of the nigs did it?” He asked, solemnly.
More silence. Poldaski knocked off another shot. Took a sip of beer. Another one.
“Huh?” He said, “Nigs?” he said, his mind suddenly, and swiftly, working, the six or seven coons or was it ten that came to the school this year from the all nig school in Caxton, the State said they should. Poldaski’s mind worked on. They didn’t even live in Sawyersville! One of them was on the football squad—Tiger gave him a break—Jim Green, yeh, that was his name. End. Big kid. Left end. Ran good. Or was it right? Left? Right? Which End? Poldaski grappled with the problem—
“Listen, buddy,” Dutch said, “Maybe you got somethin* there, and how—” And he looked around the bar, and behind the bar, and up and down the bar.
Abe Muvitz spoke up, “Ho Buddy!”
“What they let those come here for I’ll never know,” Jake Dalton said, “Black fucks,” he also said, soberly. “Whudda you think, Seimo?” Dalton put to the Proprietor in his foghorn voice.
“Ain’t thought about it,” Seimo responded, diplomatically.
“Christ, you ain’t?” Jake demanded, ready to ride him.
“Fuckin’ Seimo. Sonuvabitch. That Seimo,” Dutch Belmont kidded him. “I’ll tell ya what he thinks about—”
They all chuckled, Seimo joining them. He filled their glasses.
Poldaski was thinking very hard now, his mind working, working double overtime, while they played around, kidding Seimo, a favorite pastime.
“John, boy.” he heard one of them, Jack Mizner, through the chatter, “You want a look into that angle. You ask me, that’s some angle. Get yourself a medal, buddy!” And he laughed, highly tickled with it. He loved his humor.
Poldaski muttered, “Yeh—” Paused a moment, “Buddy —” And trailed off, knee-deep in thought, fingering another shot. . . *
15
Surcher was not happy. He had made the sad trip to Jill Fairbunn’s home, had met her stricken and bewildered parents, had taken them to the State Police morgue to identify the body (a requirement of law—Surcher didn’t like it), had returned with them to their home (with two of his senior assistants), and after dispersing the assorted collection of neighbors, relatives, curious citizens, and others, including journalists, had finally started a systematic search of the house, concentrating especially of course on the late Head Cheerleader’s room and belongings. So far, after two hours, he had found very little. She had a very attractive, very feminine room. The colors were soft, gentle, as were the furnishings. He felt like an intruder in it. But he had to be in it. He knew it. There were quite a few letters here and there, in her desk drawers, on her bedside table, and he had made a collection of them to take away, with the parents’ permission of course, and study. There was a framed photograph of the girl in her Cheerleading uniform on the dressing table. Surcher stared at it some little while, feeling very low. She certainly was beautiful, blooming with life, without a doubt of it. He tried to reconcile that picture with the spectacle he had seen in the lavatory at the high school and the lifeless form he had just viewed with her parents at the morgue. He couldn’t. He just felt very low. He would do all he could to find her killer, but nothing could ever bring about that reconciliation, he knew. That was probably the worst aspect of his work, and the one he always had to struggle with most. He turned away from the photograph, finally, to continue his search. But the letters were all he walked out of there with at the end of it. To cheer him further, a message had arrived in a State Police car for him. It was the Lab and preliminary autopsy reports. The former told him nothing, absolutely. The latter what he already knew: the girl had been strangled—but not sexually assaulted, apparently. And one thing he hadn’t exactly known: She had died about nine a.m. that morning. Or thereabouts. It all made Surcher very unhappy. He had been pinning his hopes on the lab crew picking up something. Prints on that scrap of paper, he had prayed for— anything. But it was a blank, utterly. Surcher was forlorn. Though a man of solid and steady character, he was definitely forlorn. He knew he had a job and a half on his hands, and he was up against it—already, no doubt of it He only hoped the letters would shed some little light on things. Anything. He left his two assistants and went downstairs to talk to the parents again, who were in the parlor, sitting very still, near one another, barely there.
Surcher spoke gently to them.
“There wasn’t anything. But thanks for letting me look.”
They said nothing.
“Maybe something will turn up in the letters. I’m hoping
_ _ 99
so.
Again, nothing. He felt their profound agony.
“Mrs. Fairbunn,” he said, very gently, “Did Jill keep a
diary? A record of things? Anything—Something like a diary?”
"Die stricken woman looked at him. He had to do this. Someday she might understand. Right now, he just hoped she would answer. It was hard enough asking her.
“I don’t think so,” she said, barely.
‘‘I don’t think she did,” her husband came in, adding, “You didn’t find one?’*
“We didn’t.”
“I guess she didn’t.**
“Nothing at all resembling one?”
The parents looked at one another.
“Not that we know of,” Mr. Fairbunn said.
Silence.
“Mrs. Fairbunn,” Surcher murmured, “Can I just ask you again, did Jill go steady with anyone? Was there anyone very serious about her?”
Now the woman was near tears, as she answered, “I don’t think she went steady with anyone.”
“She didn’t,” her husband put in.
“Did anyone phone her up a lot?”
“Oh God, she had lots of phone calls,” Jill’s father said.
“I can’t think of anyone, there just isn’t one single one I can think of, as I told you, Captain,” the woman said, bursting into tears. Her husband put his arms about her.
Surcher said, very quietly, “I won’t ask any more questions now. I’ll just say to you, please contact me if you remember anything, if you think of anything. Can I ask you that?”
“O.K., Captain,” he thought he heard the father say. Surcher stood there a moment longer, looking at them. Then he went upstairs to see his assistants. Soon, the three of them came downstairs, and departed.
16
“Ponce—I know how you feel,’* Tiger said to the boy, immediately seeking to establish rapport.
“I feel lousy, I never have felt so lousy in all my life,
“What about the game?” Ponce inquired. He was worried.
“We’ve been working on it. If we can squeeze it in somehow, in the middle of a week, say, probably here instead of away too, we’ll postpone it. I’ve already talked to their Coach and Principal. They’re willing to try,” he paused, “It’s not that easy to do though,” he paused again, “We’re trying, though.”
Ponce shook his head from side to side, slowly, “I don’t see the guys doing their best with a thing like this on their heads. Do you. Tiger?”
Tiger surveyed the lad, thoughtfully. He certainly was among the most psychologically astute youngsters he had ever encountered, in all his days. He would be very sorry indeed to see him graduate next year. He thought further about him. He was going to college, of course, and when he was finished? He wanted to be a writer, no less, Tiger mused, but that was alright, he could always do that, what did it matter, no matter what the nature of his primary occupation. He’d have material then, Tiger mused, maybe he could write about this, it was pretty unique. And suddenly, out of the blue, Tiger had a vision of what he’d like to see the lad do. He saw Ponce as a teacher, here, in this school. And—Assistant Football Coach. Tiger got warm about it, though of course took care not to show it. Assistant Football Coach. Why not? The lad certainly had the brains and the drive and the know-how for it, without a doubt, even now he was a hell of a lot more than Chief Water Boy and Equipment Manager, who didn’t know it? He was already practically Assistant, and unpaid for it! He helped evolve not an insignificant number of Tiger’s dazzling and intricate plays, and variations thereon, especially. He was particularly great at improvising something when the team was in trouble, he could do that beautifully, during the hectic, frantic plunge and thrust, and general madhouse atmosphere, of actual games. Tiger, sitting quietly, his thoughtful brown eyes on the boy, was getting excited about it, the more he thought about it. Why hadn’t he ever thought of it? How many games could it be said that this lad, this very lad, probably pulled out of the fire for him? Would the winning streak be what it was without his help? Consider the situation at the Franklin game only last week.