cradled in his arms.
Jolly leaned back in his chair and drew in a loud, wheezing breath. ‘Gaylord say you come ’bout that dead gal?’
‘Yes.’
Jolly took a white meerschaum pipe from a rack of twenty or thirty of them and shakily filled the bowl with tobacco, his palsied hand scattering dark-brown fibers across the length of his desk. ‘What fur?’ he asked after he had lit it.
‘I’m with the police.’
Jolly’s eyes rolled upward toward a ceiling which, Ben noticed, had been carpeted with a dark-blue shag. ‘That don’t mean shit to me,’ he said. ‘Even them Black Cat boys is with the police, and they ’bout sorry as you can git.’ He blew two columns of smoke into the air, one from each corner of his mouth. ‘How come you mess with me?’
‘I didn’t come to make trouble,’ Ben told him.
Jolly didn’t seem to hear him. He reached for a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, the lenses a solid, impenetrable black, and put them on slowly. ‘Police ain’t nothing but trouble,’ he said. Then he laughed to himself. ‘Like most everything else.’ The two black lenses settled on Ben like the twin barrels of a shotgun. ‘Old man, he deserve his peace, don’t you think?’
‘Yes.’
‘How come you disturbing mine, then?’
‘I’m just trying to find out something about a murdered girl.’
‘What’s a murdered little colored gal to you?’ Mr Jolly demanded harshly.
‘A case,’ Ben said.
‘We had gals dead from murder before,’ Jolly went on. ‘How come ain’t nobody seen you then?’
‘I’ve never been assigned to Bearmatch.’
Jolly’s lips parted slowly, revealing an array of golden teeth. ‘So it ain’t been your problem before?’
‘You might say that,’ Ben told him.
The old man shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wincing with pain as he did so. ‘That’s the way it is. Uh huh. If it ain’t your trouble, don’t mess with it.’ He pushed himself to the left, revealing a sharp, leathery profile. ‘Now we had murdered gals over here before,’ he said. ‘We always find out who done it. When we do, don’t nobody see them guys no more.’ He allowed the pipe to droop from the side of his mouth like a curled white tongue. ‘That’s the way it is over here.’
‘Do you know who killed the girl we found in the ballfield?’ Ben asked directly.
‘Naw,’ Jolly said. ‘I ain’t looked into it that good.’
‘Do you know who she is?’
‘Naw,’ Jolly said. Then he grinned menacingly. ‘You looking for something free, Mr White Policeman? Seem like you looking for something free.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You think it done for free?’
‘What?’
‘Us finding out who done it.’
Ben stared at him, puzzled.
‘You want to find something out for free?’ Jolly asked again. He stuck out his hand, palm up, gnarled fingers raised toward the ceiling. ‘You got something for Mr Jolly?’
‘No,’ Ben told him.
Jolly drew his hand back and laughed. ‘Where you from, Mr White Policeman? You from Beulah Land?’ His eyes dropped toward the stacks of money. ‘You see all these niggers in the streets? Huh? You see them?’
Ben said nothing.
The old man’s dark, rasping laughter broke across the room. ‘They make me sick. They set next to Mr Whiteman, they think they’re in Heaven; they think they’re in Beulah Land, setting there with God hisself.’ He turned away as if to spit on the floor, then looked back at Ben. ‘But they’re still broke. They ain’t got a dime. You know why? ’Cause they ain’t yet figured out that don’t nobody do nothing for free.’ He laughed again, a hard, thick laugh that ended in a slight, trembling cough which he willfully brought under his control. ‘They talk about dirty money. These newfangled preachers they done brought in here, they talk about dirty money. But money is the cleanest thing in the world. Clearest, too. It don’t bullshit you. It tell you right to your face what you worth.’ He allowed another
Jolly leaned back in his chair and drew in a loud, wheezing breath. ‘Gaylord say you come ’bout that dead gal?’
‘Yes.’
Jolly took a white meerschaum pipe from a rack of twenty or thirty of them and shakily filled the bowl with tobacco, his palsied hand scattering dark-brown fibers across the length of his desk. ‘What fur?’ he asked after he had lit it.
‘I’m with the police.’
Jolly’s eyes rolled upward toward a ceiling which, Ben noticed, had been carpeted with a dark-blue shag. ‘That don’t mean shit to me,’ he said. ‘Even them Black Cat boys is with the police, and they ’bout sorry as you can git.’ He blew two columns of smoke into the air, one from each corner of his mouth. ‘How come you mess with me?’
‘I didn’t come to make trouble,’ Ben told him.
Jolly didn’t seem to hear him. He reached for a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, the lenses a solid, impenetrable black, and put them on slowly. ‘Police ain’t nothing but trouble,’ he said. Then he laughed to himself. ‘Like most everything else.’ The two black lenses settled on Ben like the twin barrels of a shotgun. ‘Old man, he deserve his peace, don’t you think?’
‘Yes.’
‘How come you disturbing mine, then?’
‘I’m just trying to find out something about a murdered girl.’
‘What’s a murdered little colored gal to you?’ Mr Jolly demanded harshly.
‘A case,’ Ben said.
‘We had gals dead from murder before,’ Jolly went on. ‘How come ain’t nobody seen you then?’
‘I’ve never been assigned to Bearmatch.’
Jolly’s lips parted slowly, revealing an array of golden teeth. ‘So it ain’t been your problem before?’
‘You might say that,’ Ben told him.
The old man shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wincing with pain as he did so. ‘That’s the way it is. Uh huh. If it ain’t your trouble, don’t mess with it.’ He pushed himself to the left, revealing a sharp, leathery profile. ‘Now we had murdered gals over here before,’ he said. ‘We always find out who done it. When we do, don’t nobody see them guys no more.’ He allowed the pipe to droop from the side of his mouth like a curled white tongue. ‘That’s the way it is over here.’
‘Do you know who killed the girl we found in the ballfield?’ Ben asked directly.
‘Naw,’ Jolly said. ‘I ain’t looked into it that good.’
‘Do you know who she is?’
‘Naw,’ Jolly said. Then he grinned menacingly. ‘You looking for something free, Mr White Policeman? Seem like you looking for something free.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You think it done for free?’
‘What?’
‘Us finding out who done it.’
Ben stared at him, puzzled.
‘You want to find something out for free?’ Jolly asked again. He stuck out his hand, palm up, gnarled fingers raised toward the ceiling. ‘You got something for Mr Jolly?’
‘No,’ Ben told him.
Jolly drew his hand back and laughed. ‘Where you from, Mr White Policeman? You from Beulah Land?’ His eyes dropped toward the stacks of money. ‘You see all these niggers in the streets? Huh? You see them?’
Ben said nothing.
The old man’s dark, rasping laughter broke across the room. ‘They make me sick. They set next to Mr Whiteman, they think they’re in Heaven; they think they’re in Beulah Land, setting there with God hisself.’ He turned away as if to spit on the floor, then looked back at Ben. ‘But they’re still broke. They ain’t got a dime. You know why? ’Cause they ain’t yet figured out that don’t nobody do nothing for free.’ He laughed again, a hard, thick laugh that ended in a slight, trembling cough which he willfully brought under his control. ‘They talk about dirty money. These newfangled preachers they done brought in here, they talk about dirty money. But money is the cleanest thing in the world. Clearest, too. It don’t bullshit you. It tell you right to your face what you worth.’ He allowed another
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