“Why hello, Ponce—” She said to him. singing it out, clearly pleased to see the lad. He knew she was fond of him.
She was gone. He walked on, for obviously they both had things to do. Maybe later, in his Study Period, he could drop into the Library and have a talk with her. It was always nice talking with her. She was up on everything. Not only was the Library one of his favorite retreats, but he learned a lot from her.
As he got nearer to his Lit class, there was one thing Ponce was really very grateful for: No one, so far, had made any fun out of his screaming run. He was more than grateful for it. He began to hope he might even get away with it. He kept his fingers crossed, hoping hard, feeling ashamed of it, and aware of the tactical brilliance of iL ... So far. Because he was only so far. Time would telL He was at the door of Miss Smith’s classroom. Already, he thought he had caught the scent. His heart started jumping on top of the thumping Miss Nectar had triggered off. He almost didn’t make it any farther, thinking of confronting Miss Smith. Today, sure as hell, he vowed, he would control himself. He would put up the stiffest fight ever heard of—he didn’t feel like visiting that lavatory again— under any circumstances ... for one thing. Besides, he was more than in love with her. Last night, between them, something powerful, and beautiful had sprung up. He had to control himself. No more of that kid stuff. It was with her, he knew, that he had to prove himself. If nothing had happened last night, it was his own fault. Did he expect her to rape him? Ponce felt embarrassed, even thinking that. It had no place in the thing. His view, his image—of everything. He saw Yvonne Mellish, and Rochelle, entering the classroom. They smiled at him. Somehow, he smiled back. He followed them. . . .
After having spent most of the morning with Jim Green, employing just about every subtle device he could muster, Surcher was still nowhere. It could be—and it couldn't. The boy puzzled him. If he were the one, he was a tough nut and a half, and no doubt of it, shrewd way beyond his years, on top of it. On balance, things in Surcher’s mind were evenly balanced. He would like to work some more on the boy. Possibly, and preferably, over a period of days. Sometimes, that produced wonders. Confessional wonders. How could he hold him? The moment his people, and the civil rights people, got hold of it—Surcher felt grim. What a prospect. Should he just release him? And watch him? Surcher didn’t like it. Matters were urgent. For one of the very few times in his professional career, the Captain was troubled. He needed someone to talk to—and not a Policeman. He thought of Tiger—or Mr. McQ/ew—as Surcher still called him. He seemed like someone eminently qualified to talk to—Not only was he obviously smart, and sharp, but he knew the boy through and through. He must do. Certainly, much more than he did—or could hope to. And so. leaving the lad with his key assistants, Grady and Folio, he emerged from the office, walked through the outer office, encountering Miss Cray-mire's ravenously curious stare, and others’, and went to see Tiger, after first buzzing him to make sure he was there and not too entangled.
Tiger, as a matter of fact, was there, and not at all too wrapped up in things. He was on his own and would be for a half-hour or so, at least, musing, sort of resting, ruminating over things. His schedule, that sort of thing. It was a very full schedule. When Surcher buzzed, he wondered what he could want, and then quickly remembered Jim Green’s plight. And his own plight too, Tiger mused, thinking ahead to Practice. No doubt that’s what the good Captain would want. In Tiger’s mind, as he continued perusing his schedule, there was no doubt. He still was disappointed, not to mention baffled, utterly, over Sur-cher’s incredible blunder. He shook his head at it, sighing. What could he do about it? He would see, that’s all. Next period he had Civics class. He looked forward to it. He loved teaching. In fact, if his interests weren’t so catholic, he wouldn’t mind sticking to teaching and nothing else, period. But it wouldn’t work out. It couldn’t. He couldn’t kid himself. He would get bored. In a rut. He needed activities of a wide and varied nature. That was a fact, and he knew it. Then after Civics, and after a break for lunch, Kathy Burns coming to see him here for her weekly session. Tiger smiled fondly. She was like his own daughter almost, she was the cutest thing. He had watched her coming along, over the years, from the pre-bra set. Now of course she took a pretty-fair-sized one. He grinned, warm at the thought of her. Then there was Drama class, or play practice, or tryouts, which it amounted to, just now. They were casting for the new production scheduled for December. Flowering Cherry, by Robert Bolt, of course. It was a terrific little play and Tiger looked forward to doing it. Rochelle really had been the one to choose it. Everyone had agreed enthusiastically, including Tiger. He mused over the male lead. Ronnie Swann might do it. He didn't know for sure, he would have to bear a few of the boys give it a whirl. Rochelle would help him decide. He grinned warmly, thinking of her, that supreme kid. She of course would take the female lead. Who else could? Perfect. Of course, she could do just about any role —perfectly, such were her talents, up and up. He grinned more warmly, sensing her unique presence. Then, he mused, after that, which would no doubt take up just about the rest of the afternoon, Football practice. And Tiger braced himself for it, suddenly troubled, wondering just wrhat the hell he was supposed to do if Jim Green really didn’t show up, due to that policeman’s unbelievable ma-neuverings. He was still wondering, when the good Captain himself strolled in, after knocking.
“How are you?”
“Fine, Mr. McDrew—well, pretty nearly fine, I guess I should say—” He grinned. He sat down. Tiger waited. He saw clearly that the man was unhappy.
“What can I do for you?’’ Tiger asked, finally, in his best Guidance/Counseling manner.
Surcher searched him, and said, “What’s the story on Jim Green?”
“Story?” Tiger asked.
“I’ll tell you, Mr. McDrew, I’ve got him on my list as Number One Suspect.” He paused, as Tiger took this in. “But—I can get nothing out of him.” He paused again, as Tiger sat calmly, waiting for more. Surcher looked around the room. He pulled a cigarette out of a pack, and lit up. “Smoke?” He said, offering Tiger one.
“No, thanks,” Tiger said, and, “Jim Green? What’s led you to Jim Green? May I ask?”
“You sure may,” Surcher said, grinning, wryly almost. “You’ll have to pardon me—I’ve been going all morning, working on him. It takes a lot out of you. Maybe you know —” He paused, as Tiger understanding^ nodded, watching him take a long puff— “It takes a hell of a lot. Well—this is strictly confidential, O.K.?” Tiger nodded again. The Captain went on. “We found a letter he had written to the girl—” Surcher paused. “It was pretty suspicious. I’d have to show it to you to make you see what I mean. So here it is.” And he hauled out one of his copies of the letter and passed it to Tiger, who read it, thoughtfully. “We know he wrote it.” The Captain said, “because his prints are all over it. Also did you know his nickname was Kid?” In truth, Tiger didn’t. He shook his head. “Well, maybe his owq kind just call him that—” Tiger, wincing slightly, nodded. He sat calmly. “Anyhow, that's the only damn thing we’ve really got. Nothing else. Not a thing. That’s the whole thing.” He paused. Tiger took it all in.
He said, calmly, “You can’t convict anyone on that— check?”
“Double check,” The Captain said.
“So—now?”
Surcher puffed his cigarette and blew out smoke. Tiger watched it. He would, at this rate, stink out the place. But Tiger wasn’t worried. He could air it out quick.
“That’s the question,” Surcher said, taking another long drag, “Lots of things could happen now—” He paused— “For example, he could confess—” Tiger nodded, but totally doubted it. “But that could take a long time—a lot of time,” the Captain said. “I could just turn him loose, of course—” He went on—“Keep an eye on him—or try to. But—I just don’t like to.” He said. “He worries me.”