“The gentleman that saved your life.”
“He saved it, huh?”
“Ike would’ve opened you up from ear to ear.”
“Colored man kills a white man in this town, he’s gonna do life if he doesn’t fry first.”
“Ike wasn’t too worried.”
“Neither was I.”
“You’re tough, Karras.”
“I didn’t claim that. I just knew that it wasn’t my day.”
DeAngelo Ray allowed a smile, looked Karras over. “That limp of yours looks pretty real. You in the war?”
“The Pacific.”
“Army?”
“Marine Corps.”
“Kill many men?”
“I killed a few.”
Ray sighed. “I was over in Europe myself. Colored outfit. Had us digging latrines for the enlisted men. I envy you, Karras. I would’ve liked to have killed a few myself, ’specially when I got a good look at some of the prisoners. Why, those German boys, they were some of the palest motherfuckers I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s a long life. Maybe you’ll get your chance.”
Ray threw his head back and laughed. Karras saw gold fillings in the man’s teeth.
“Yes,” said Ray, “I really wanted to do my part for my country over there. They just didn’t seem to want to trust me with one of those M-ones. Why do you suppose that is?”
“On account of you might have tripped or something, jerked your trigger finger, shot one of your lieutenants by accident in the back of the head.”
“I might have, at that. I never thought of it, to tell you the truth.” Ray snapped his fingers. “You could have a point.”
“So you got a raw deal,” said Karras.
“Yes. They gave us colored boys quite a raw deal.”
“I wouldn’t take it too hard. Things look like they’re gonna start to turn around for you people soon.”
Ray sipped brandy, eyed Karras over the glass. “And what makes you think that I would want ‘things’ to turn around?”
“I don’t know. I thought—”
“You thought. Well, from where you sit, you’re right. There’s a lot of folks out there, thinkin’ the same way. They’re talking about equality, equal rights, all of that. And if they want that, then fine. Me, I’m a successful businessman. In my world, Karras. I got my own music, my own women, my own way of dressin’ — my own style. Any place where I really want to be, I can go. I go where I want and I see who I want to see. When I was a kid in this town, over in Southwest, I rarely saw a white man or woman in my neighborhood. When I did, it was like I was looking at somethin’ that flew in from another planet. You people looked different, talked different. You even smelled different. And I grew up just fine. So why would I want to change that now? Why would I want to sit next to you in a soda bar now? What’s that really gonna do for me?”
“I have no idea.”
“That’s right, Karras. You haven’t got a clue.” Ray puffed lightly on his cigar. He rolled a cylinder of ash off in the tray. “So what can I do for you this evening?”
Karras took the photograph of Lola Florek from his topcoat, tossed it on the desk. It slid neatly in front of Ray. Ray picked it up.
“Go on and say your piece,” said Ray. “You’re near out of time.”
“The girl’s name is Lola Florek. My source tells me you organize parties for out-of-town businessmen. That you’re a middleman for Yellow Roberts. That you recruit the entertainment — white whores for colored men. Reefer and gin parties, like that. I thought you might have seen the girl.”
“Your source.”
“A cop I know.”
“This cop on my payroll?”
“I wouldn’t know. And if I knew, I wouldn’t care. And I wouldn’t sell him out.”
Ray sipped brandy, chased it with water. “Tell me about the punch-board.”
“Small-town girl imported to D.C. Hooked on hop from what I can make out. The hop’s what keeps her tied to her pimp. Her brother’s a friend of mine. He’s looking for her, and I’m helping him out.”
“Why?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet.”
“What’s your cut of this?”
“No cut.”
“Tough nut like you? It ain’t like a man like you to be ridin’ a white horse.”
Karras shrugged. “What can I tell you, Ray? I been ridin’ that black one all my life. Thought I’d try something else, see how it felt. You know, throw the changeup ball. Just to keep things interesting.”
Ray laughed. “You’re somethin’, man.”
“Yeah, I’m somethin’, all right.”
“And,” said Ray, “you’re a lucky man. ’Cause I’m about to help you out tonight. See, Karras, you show me this picture, and I’m lookin’ at it, and I realize, all of a sudden — I know this girl.”
Karras felt his heart jump.
“See, this girl, she was at one of my parties the other night. Got treated kind of rough by this boy from South Side Chicago. When I saw what he’d done, I had to tell that boy that he ain’t welcome back. ’Cause I don’t stand to see a woman treated that way. Don’t matter to me whether it’s a lady or a punchboard, neither, understand what I mean?”
Karras nodded.
“Now, I thought when her pimp came to pick her up, he was gonna be mad, do somethin’ about it. Even expected some trouble out of him. But this pimp, all he did was, he yelled somethin’ fierce at this poor girl for complainin’ about how she got all ripped up inside. And I just didn’t care for that. ’Cause you got to take care of your women, see. This pimp, that’s a man I’d never do business with again.”
“What’s the man’s name?”
“White man. Goes by the name of Morgan.”
“Morgan — he retails women?”
“That’s his business.”
“You got a phone number where I can reach him?”
“I’ll do better than that. I got an address for you, too.”
Ray checked a notebook in his desk drawer. He wrote down the information on a sheet of paper, pushed it across the desk to Karras. Karras read it, folded it, slipped it and the photograph in his jacket pocket. He stood up, shook himself into his topcoat.
“I won’t take up any more of your time.”
“Yeah, you better go. And don’t be comin’ back around my place either, hear? You just happened to catch me on one of my generous nights.”
They shook hands.
“Leave by the back door. You don’t want to be runnin’ back into Ike.”
“See you later.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Thanks, Ray.”
“Go on and go. And Karras—”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t forget to thank Junior, too, on your way out.”
Karras opened the back door, stepped down onto the porch. He pulled the door shut. The tall thin Negro, the one called Junior, sat in a weathered wood rocker, the brim of his brown hat pulled down, throwing shade upon his eyes. A lit reefer cigarette rested between Junior’s fingers. His hand tapped along the arm of the rocker to the saxophone coming from the phonograph set by his side. Karras couldn’t pull a tune from the melody to save his life, but that saxophone, he had to admit, it did sound right.
Next to the phonograph sat a kind of open briefcase holding records. A cord ran from the phonograph to a makeshift outlet set in the wall. Karras had a seat on a schoolroom chair near the rocker. He looked out into the dark alley, colored faintly from the pale yellow lights spilling out from the back windows of the adjoining houses.
“Thanks,” said Karras.
“Say what?”
“Your boss asked me to thank you. I did it once already, back in the bar, but you were already travelin’. It doesn’t hurt to say it again.”