the same time loving her even more for being able to cause him such a specific emotional disturbance. But it was a disturbance that he didn't want at the time because he had other things on his mind.
She took one more glance at her man and went over to the phone. She sat down on the bed with the telephone in her lap, looking at Kenyatta's stiff back. She couldn't understand why at times she felt as if he was fighting against her, not wanting to allow himself the pleasure of really loving her. Possibly, she thought, he was afraid that he might lose some of his power over her if he were to submit to her demanding love.
Betty dialed the number of the Twenty Grand Motel, but that came up a blank. She tried another motel, but this time she stopped and thought about the man she was trying to reach. The Creeper would probably be hiding in an out-of-the-way place, one that didn't have much traffic. Because of the crime he had committed, she figured he would want seclusion. His very soul should cry out for it, she reflected, as she remembered the news flash she had heard telling about the killing of the small children.
She had known at once that the Creeper was behind it. From conversations she had overheard between her man and that monster, she had put the crime at his doorstep. Nobody else in the organization could or would do something that vicious. Even Kenyatta had been shocked when he heard about it. It had been uncalled for. The death of the children was something that none of them wanted.
As she hesitated with the telephone cradled in her lap, it came to her in a flash. The dilapidated Kingsmen Motel, located over on Grand River Avenue near Davison Street, would be a good place for a man to hide. It was also one of the motels on their list of hideouts.
It took a minute to get Information to give her the number of the motel, and then she put through her call. "Hello," she said in that musical voice of hers. "Do you have a Mr. Marcus Gregory staying there? I don't know his room number, but I'm sure he checked in there sometime this week."
She waited a minute, then the desk man answered that he did have such a guest and put through the call. Suddenly a man's heavy voice was on the other end. "Just a minute," she replied, and held the phone out to Kenyatta, making sure she didn't use any name the switchboard operator could remember. It was bad enough making the call from the country. It could easily be traced if there was ever any need. But the Creeper kept his trail covered up so well she seriously doubted if there would ever be any need.
"What is it?" Kenyatta yelled into the receiver, then waited to make sure he had the person he wanted to talk to. "Listen, bro, I got something important for you, so when you pull up from that joint, stop at a pay phone and give me a ring, okay? Make it as soon as possible, 'cause it's important, my man," Kenyatta stated, then hung up the receiver, not bothering to wait to see if he was understood.
The person who didn't understand was the switchboard operator, who had kept his switchboard key open so that he could hear what was said. He was curious about the strange looking man who stayed in room 12. The man had moved like an animal. At first the operator had been frightened that the man might stick him up; then his curiosity had just got the best of him. The man in number 12 looked like a criminal to him, yet he hadn't done anything wrong. In fact, he paid his rent ahead of time and didn't bother him making silly phone calls all day long like some people.
But the police had asked him to listen in on conversations by people who seemed suspicious. The last time they had raided a room at the motel, they had asked him to listen in on any calls by some of the occupants who rented the high-priced rooms. No black person living honestly could afford those rates anyway. At least not the daily rates. At one time the motel had been used by affluent dope pushers, until the police came through
She took one more glance at her man and went over to the phone. She sat down on the bed with the telephone in her lap, looking at Kenyatta's stiff back. She couldn't understand why at times she felt as if he was fighting against her, not wanting to allow himself the pleasure of really loving her. Possibly, she thought, he was afraid that he might lose some of his power over her if he were to submit to her demanding love.
Betty dialed the number of the Twenty Grand Motel, but that came up a blank. She tried another motel, but this time she stopped and thought about the man she was trying to reach. The Creeper would probably be hiding in an out-of-the-way place, one that didn't have much traffic. Because of the crime he had committed, she figured he would want seclusion. His very soul should cry out for it, she reflected, as she remembered the news flash she had heard telling about the killing of the small children.
She had known at once that the Creeper was behind it. From conversations she had overheard between her man and that monster, she had put the crime at his doorstep. Nobody else in the organization could or would do something that vicious. Even Kenyatta had been shocked when he heard about it. It had been uncalled for. The death of the children was something that none of them wanted.
As she hesitated with the telephone cradled in her lap, it came to her in a flash. The dilapidated Kingsmen Motel, located over on Grand River Avenue near Davison Street, would be a good place for a man to hide. It was also one of the motels on their list of hideouts.
It took a minute to get Information to give her the number of the motel, and then she put through her call. "Hello," she said in that musical voice of hers. "Do you have a Mr. Marcus Gregory staying there? I don't know his room number, but I'm sure he checked in there sometime this week."
She waited a minute, then the desk man answered that he did have such a guest and put through the call. Suddenly a man's heavy voice was on the other end. "Just a minute," she replied, and held the phone out to Kenyatta, making sure she didn't use any name the switchboard operator could remember. It was bad enough making the call from the country. It could easily be traced if there was ever any need. But the Creeper kept his trail covered up so well she seriously doubted if there would ever be any need.
"What is it?" Kenyatta yelled into the receiver, then waited to make sure he had the person he wanted to talk to. "Listen, bro, I got something important for you, so when you pull up from that joint, stop at a pay phone and give me a ring, okay? Make it as soon as possible, 'cause it's important, my man," Kenyatta stated, then hung up the receiver, not bothering to wait to see if he was understood.
The person who didn't understand was the switchboard operator, who had kept his switchboard key open so that he could hear what was said. He was curious about the strange looking man who stayed in room 12. The man had moved like an animal. At first the operator had been frightened that the man might stick him up; then his curiosity had just got the best of him. The man in number 12 looked like a criminal to him, yet he hadn't done anything wrong. In fact, he paid his rent ahead of time and didn't bother him making silly phone calls all day long like some people.
But the police had asked him to listen in on conversations by people who seemed suspicious. The last time they had raided a room at the motel, they had asked him to listen in on any calls by some of the occupants who rented the high-priced rooms. No black person living honestly could afford those rates anyway. At least not the daily rates. At one time the motel had been used by affluent dope pushers, until the police came through
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