“O.K.” he said at last, “What happenedr
Ponce stared at the Chief. He was thinking a million things, and he didn’t know how to answer. He even wondered if he should answer. How many times, before all this was over, would he be giving answers? He sat there, pondering matters. He finally started to answer.
“Well, Chief—”
“Wait a minute—” the Chief said, rubbing the ball-point back and forth across the sheet of notepaper in an effort to get the ink flowing, “Sonuvabitch,” he muttered, rubbing harder.
“Here, Chief,” said one of the teachers, Mr. Crispwell, Commercial Studies, handing him a lead pencil.
The Chief mumbled thanks and took the pencil, meanwhile pocketing his stubborn pen, and silently cursing his wife again, in the process. He said to the lad, “O.K.—what was that again?”
“I didn’t say anything,” Ponce said, feeling so low.
“You didn’t?”
“Nothing.”
Poldaski eyed him.
“You’re Ponce de Leon right? Britfield Avenue—right?”
“That's right.”
“Any brothers?”
Ponce responded, puzzled, beginning already to regret he had decided to answer questions, “1 have one younger brother.”
“How old is her
“Six, Chief,” Ponce responded glumly. He had never thought of John Poldaski as an ace crime-buster, the truth be known.
“What sports do you play?”
Ponce hesitated. This was a sore point and a half alright. It was about the most ridiculous question so far, no doubt, and in any case the Chief should know the answer, for he was probably one of the town’s most avid sports fans, among other things.
Ponce tried this answer, “I’m the football team’s Equipment Manager.” Which was true, absolutely.
“Yeh!” Poldaski cried, “Oh ych! I seen you out there! You’re the waterboy!”
Ponce winced, for that wasn’t strictly true. His assistant, Billy King, actually performed that function. But—he let it go. It might lead to complications.
“Right, Chief,” he said.
“I thought I seen you out there!”
‘That’s me. Always out there.”
“What about next week?”
“We’ll take them.”
“Sure about that?”
“Tiger—” he paused, he really shouldn’t be bandying about that name, “The Coach said we would.”
“That’s o.k. then!”
A moment.
“Going?” Ponce couldn’t help asking him.
“Sure I’m going!”
“It’s away, Chief.”
“What’s the difference?”
Ponce said nothing, though he knew very well what the difference was. Unlike the home games, which the Chief attended free of charge as part of his duties, he would have to shell out at an away game—usually. Though even there, if he spotted the local Police Chief, whom he knew of course, he breezed by the gates. Ponce pondered, knowing he had stepped on a corn. He didn’t want Poldaski mad at him, not at this point.
“What the hell’s the difference?” The Chief demanded. No doubt about it, the tone was mean.
“No difference at all. Chief,” Ponce finally said, hoping for the best, hoping the Chief’s sense of irony wasn’t at its best.
The Chief was eyeing him. Ponce knew he hadn’t pacified him.
“What’s your age—De Leon?” It was sinister tone. “Sixteen,” Ponce told him, “Nearly seventeen,” he also told him.
“What happened?” The question hit him.
“He nearly killed me, that’s what happened,” came a mumble from one of the cubicles, Mr. Mummer of course.
“Who are you?" The Chief shot at him. His right hand actually touched his holster.
“Mr. Mummer,” Ponce barely heard him.
“Oh, yeh—Mummer—” Poldaski remembered, moving his hand away from the holster, and back to the notepad.
“What the hell you doin’ there, Mr. Mummer?” He asked of him.
“I just told you—”
“How old are you—”
“Huh, Chief?”
Mr. Golden, one of the teachers attending him, said to the Chief, “He’s still in bad shape, Chief. He had a bad jolt out there.”
"What happened?n
“Well, I understand Ponce bumped into him and knocked him over.”
“Oh yeh?” He whirled to face the lad again. “De Leon —what the hell is this—you never told me that!”
“Chief, I was trying to tell you—I was going to—”
"Don't skip anything “I won’t, Chief.”
“Start at the beginning.”
“Sure, Chief.”
“Where were you?”
“What, Chief?”
"Stop screwing around with meV*
“Listen—Chief—”
Mr. Crispwell interjected mildly, “Chief,” he said, “Why not just have him tell you the whole story—without asking any questions—know what I mean?”
Poldaski exploded, “Who the hell are you? Oh, Crisp-well! Well keep the hell out of this, Crispwell! Think this is funny? Funny game or somethin’? What’s your angle?” “Chief! Listen!” Ponce pleaded.
“I better take you down to the Station. Hell, what can I get outa you here, all these guys buttin’ in—Jesus—”
"Listen, PH tell youГ Ponce, in astute form, shouted at him.
It worked. Poldaski stood there. All he did was stare. “Don’t skip a thing,” he mumbled, finally.
And Ponce told his tale, quietly, step by step, carefully, not skipping a thing, hardly.
Poldaski took it all down, laboriously.
“Damn good cheerleader she was,” he was mumbling, writing, at the end of it all, finally, “We’ll get the bastard, don’t worry,” he added, his eyes sweeping the room, taking them all in, the girl, the teachers, the students, all of them.
Outside the school building sirens were approaching, screaming.
It was the State Police, speedy and efficient, as ever.
And an ambulance. . . .
5
Mike McDrew was helping Marjorie back into her dress. He himself, at this moment, wasn’t yet completely dressed —his trousers were still off, draped fairly neatly over a chair—but she had requested assistance, and of course, he was only too happy to give it to her.
“Where’s the hook, hon?” Tiger inquired, softly, fumbling around with the back of her blouse.
“Oh gosh,” she murmured, with a little laugh, “Can’t you ever find it?”
“That’s not the most important thing to find, is it, honey?” He too laughed softly.
“No, Honey,” she sighed. “Gee didn’t I scream though, did I scream loud? Think they heard? Anyone—?” She added, barely audibly.
“Uh uh. No. You know this little old place is soundproof —” he chuckled. “Practically.” He kept on chuckling, “Now where were we—?”
“Got it?”
“I got it.”
She turned around, warm, glowing.
“Put your pants on. Tiger, honey—” She chided him. “You didn’t give me a chance to.”
“Oh hoo.”
“Hoo hoo hoo.”
And they both laughed, softly.
Now Tiger slipped into his trousers, humming a little tune, tucked his shirt in, hanging on to that tune, and Marjorie walked to the other side of the office where the mirror was, and started fixing herself up. She combed her hair, put on lipstick, powder, before Tiger’s mirror there.