He held his head between his hands as the subway express hurled into lower Manhattan down the shining silver tracks, fleeing past the local stations that seemed like stops no train would ever stop at. Behind him, too, he was leaving the timeless endless bright beach of love, on which her body lay in a sunlight, gleaming and beautiful as a shell, and strewn about her, the thousand tokens of love washed up out of trillion-objected life, the lilac lipstick, the black dress with the red S, the pile of her magazines under the maple end table in her house, all part of her, part of love, patterned and meaningful because she was their center. What remained were facts. A dead Negro. Leaflets. The office of the H.E.L. The A.N.H.C. meeting tonight. The vandalized synagogue. The anonymous phone threats. A girl, by name, Suzy Buckles, kidnapped by parties unknown.
At Police Headquarters, Sam sat in one of the Identification Bureau offices, a medium-sized room with one desk and three chairs; the walls decorated with the autographed photographs of two Police Commissioners and a banquet picture of the Homicide Squad, all the faces smiling for the camera. Sam had spoken for a long time to Detective Anthony Wajek. Wajek was a heavy man of about forty-five, phlegmatic, with a big-chinned, blue-eyed face that might have belonged to a trolley car motorman or a shipyard worker. The eyes were well protected by heavy florid cheekbones and protruding bony brows. The lips were thin clamps, the nose short, the coloring in his cheeks between brick-red and purplish. Wajek’s brown hair had stopped growing at about the height of his pink ear tips, the top of his head completely bald. He had removed his jacket when Sam had begun to speak, hanging it on the back of his chair, and he had listened with the silence of a man who has been trained to listen for hours if necessary. When Sam finished, Wajek said. “You claim that the guys who printed the leaflets, one of which was signed ‘United Negro Committee’ — that’s correct, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You claim they’re the lads who snatched Buckles? Correct?”
“Yes. They phoned me today and yesterday warning me to stay out of Harlem. I didn’t stay out — ”
“So they snatched the girl. I got it. I got it. Those black babies up there are sore. Don’t have to argue that point, copper.” He smiled patronizingly. It was more than the old feud between patrolmen and the plainclothes men that Sam felt now.
“This is no sorehead job.”
“I got it, Miller. I got it. You claim that the lads who snatched Buckles are fascists, white men? Correct?”
“Yes, I do.”
“That don’t make you right. The Bund can’t show itself. Hoover’s done a job, you got to agree.”
“I never said it was the Bund. I don’t know who they are. They might be — ” he paused the fraction of a second. “ — Christian Fronters.” Wajek was smiling. “They might be some other fascists working to a riot.”
“There won’t be any riot. The black babies up there are being treated almost as good as whites since the war. I don’t begrudge it to them. Aw, we’re wasting time with all this jabber jabber.” He reached for a form sheet on his desk. “Let’s put Buckles through the mill.”
Buckles through the mill. Sam clenched his fists at Wajek’s phrase.
“Name,” Wajek said, spelling. “S,u,z,y. B,u,c,k,l,e,s. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“Any middle name?”
“No.”
“Sex? Female.” Wajek was writing on the form sheet and looking like a storekeeper jotting down an order. “Color? White. Nationality. American.” He glanced at Sam. “What religion is she, Miller? Jewish?”
“No. Protestant. Presbyterian.”
Wajek made no comment but he raised his fountain pen from the sheet and said. “Protestant, huh. Occupation?”
“Secretary.”
“Age?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Height?”
“Five foot two or three.”
“Weight?”
“About one hundred and eight.” Behind his eyes, another Suzy haunted him, a Suzy without weight, without height, without age, without occupation, just Suzy. He banished her from him as Wajek droned.
“Build?”
Sam was silent.
“Build?”
Sam couldn’t talk.
“What do you coppers learn training? Pinochle?” Wajek asked ironically. “In description of wanted and missing persons when it comes to build, we have to know whether the person is large, stout, medium, slim, stooped, stocky?”
“Slim.”
“Complexion?”
“Fair.”
“Color hair?”
“Brown.”
“Thick or thin?”
“Thick.”
“Wavy or straight?”
“Wavy.”
“What style did she wear it?”
“I don’t know.”
“I thought you told me you and Buckles were going steady. Aw, it doesn’t matter. I’ll be seeing her family tomorrow. I need a pic, more information. She live with her family?”
“With her mother.”
“How many besides her mother?”
“Just the two of them. Her father’s dead. Must you see her mother? I can give you all the information you want. It’ll be an awful shock — ”
Waejk grunted. “Miller, I’d like to turn the Department upside down for you but no can do. You’ve been running around Harlem like a dog with a tin can tied to its tail from what you’ve told me and from what I hear. How about learning a lesson, Miller? Knock off the legwork, let me advise you like a friend. Let the Department handle Harlem. The Department’s been at it longer’n you, I don’t have to tell you. You can’t win a ball game with the best pitcher in the world. You need eight other lads, you need a team. Eyes?”
“What?”
“Eyes, color eyes?”
“Grey.”
“Bulgy, small, large?”
“Large.” Sam felt the muscles in his stomach quiver.
“Eyebrows? Slanty? Bushy? Arched? Wavy? Horizontal?”
“Horizontal.”
“Short or longhaired?”
“Shorthaired.”
“Penciled?”
“No.”
“Nose? Small or large?”
“Medium.”
“Pug? Hooked? Straight? Flat?”
“Straight.”
“Chin?”
“Small.”
“Arched? Dimpled?”
“Dimpled.”
“Face? Long? Round? Square? Peg-top? Fat? Thin?”
“Round. Wide at the cheekbones. She had wide cheekbones,” he said. Had, he thought; I said had.
“Neck? Long or short?”
“Medium.”
“Any folds in the back of her neck?”
“No.”
“Lips? Thick or thin or medium?”
“Medium.”
“Lower lip droop?”
“No.”
“Mouth? Large or small?”
“Smallish.”
“Droop any?”
“No.”
“Upturn at the corners?”
“Yes, a little.”
“Did it get bunched up while she talked or in laughing?”
“No.”
“What was the posture of her head? Bent forward? Did it turn sideways? Left or right sideways? Bend backwards any?”
Sam shut his eyes and a dozen Suzies came towards him inside his brain, Suzy in her black dress with the red S, in the green pyjamas, in her suede hat with the maroon feather. “Her head was bent forward a little. But it wasn’t turned right or left.”
“Ears? Small or large?”
“Small.”
“Close to her head or projecting?”
“Close to her head.”
“Were they pierced for earrings?”
“No. That is, I don’t think so.”
“That’s where her mother’ll come in, Miller. Forehead? High or low? Sloping or bulging? Straight?”
“Straight and me
dium.”
Wajek dropped his pen and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offering one to Sam. “I want you to think hard on this next one. I want you to remember any distinctive marks on the girl. These are some she might have. Scars. Moles. She might have fingers missing. Teeth missing. Gold teeth. She might be lame or bowlegged. Pigeon-toed or knock-kneed. She might have nicotine fingers if she were a heavy smoker. She might be freckled. She might have birthmarks. This one’s important. Take your time on it.”
“She isn’t freckled.”
“Don’t tell me what she isn’t. Tell me what she is. What makes her distinctive? What makes her different from a hundred other girls her age and height?”
What made Suzy different, he pondered; oh, God … “She has no out-of-the-ordinary marks,” he said finally.
“When you got your leave of absence, Miller, you said Buckles quit her job? Correct?”
“No. She didn’t quit. She took a week’s vacation.”
“To go to work for that League, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Why exactly did she do that?”
“She wanted to help me. She knew I was trying to find out who wrote those leaflets. She knew there was feeling against me up in Harlem. She was worried and she thought she could kind of keep an eye on me.” His eyes filled with tears and he took out his handkerchief and wiped them.
“I don’t want to crab at a time like this but if you hadn’t messed around with the black babies up there you wouldn’t be here now. I know what happened to her but we’ll come to it later. Now, did she have any peculiarities you can think of? Did she walk fast or slow? Did she wear eyeglasses? Did she stutter?”
“What do you think happened to her?”
“Let’s wind this up first, Miller. What about that last question?”
“What was it again?”
“Any peculiarities?”
“None.”
“What clothes was she wearing when you saw her last?”
“A white blouse and a black tailored skirt.”
“What kind of shoes?”
“Black shoes with open toes. Summer style shoes.”
“Hat?”
“A dark blue hat.”
“Jewelry?”
“A silver ring I gave her.”
“Was it an engagement ring?”
“No. Just a ring. A silver ring with a green stone. Jade.”
“What other jewelry?”
“That’s all.”
“Now, did she have any serious sickness in the time you knew her? T.B. or anything like that? Diabetes?”
“No.”
Wajek heaved up from his desk. “I’ll be right back. I want to put this through the mill. We want it circulated coast-to-coast.”
Sam glared at the closing door, wondering what Wajek figured had happened to Suzy. Please God, he prayed; let them find her. They would find her. They must, they had to. This was Police Headquarters. He was sitting in the middle of all the related departments and bureaus. They knew all about locating missing persons here, all about fingerprinting, all about firearms, all about criminal methods. Wajek returned and Sam said, “What do you think happened?”
The detective seated himself. “Miller, this is what I think. I think here’s a white girl, an attractive young white girl who comes into a colored neighborhood, into an office on a busy street. One Hundred Twenty-Fifth is Broadway and Fifth Avenue all in one. She goes into a colored office which is one floor above the street, correct? Hundreds of colored people, thousands of them, all kinds, walk up and down that street all day long and they see her up there. You described that office as being divided into two parts by a partition with windows overlooking the street. Anybody down in the street can look up and what do they see. A colored girl and a white girl in the same office. Correct?”
“The shades’re down most of the time.”
“Most of the time. But lots of times they’re up. Those girls need light to type by.”
“She was only there two days.”
“Long enough for a white girl to be noticed. Miller, you’re a good cop. You proved it when you saved O’Riordan’s life and your own life last week. But it’s no secret in the Department, between you and me, that you’ve been behaving like a screw. Some rookies it takes a long time to learn the fundamentals. You’ve been in Harlem since you were a rookie but you haven’t learned. Don’t you think neither that I’m down on the black babies up there. I’m down on nobody. I’m no Christian Fronter and I never was one. I’m not down on you for being a Jew. I’m Polish descent myself and I’m down on nobody. But I ain’t a screw either. Facts are facts to me. This Harlem’s no kindergarten playground. It’s a place full of eyes looking over every white what comes in there. That white can be Sam Miller, the cop on ambulance duty. It can be an Italian beer peddler. It can be the Jew who runs the grocery. It can be the rich white sport from Park Avenue coming there to meet his mulatto queen. It can be a white woman out for fun. I’m a detective and in this line, you get nowheres unless you kid yourself strictly never. Lots of the black babies up there don’t respect a white woman. And we got to admit that lots of white women, themselves, have to be blamed for that. It isn’t only the low-class spicks and Porto Ricans, or the Irish and Italian whores. It’s high-class white women, some of them from the best families. Now what’s the pic? A Harlem full of pimps, muggers, rapists, junk sellers, all kinds of criminals with no respect for a white woman and always sizing up every white woman who goes into Harlem. Buckles goes in. I don’t like to say it but you’re a cop and we can take it. I think she was sized up by some nigger white-slaver mob. I think she isn’t even in the city now.”
“No!”
“Maybe I’m wrong. We haven’t investigated yet but we will. We’re going to investigate Hal Clair, that colored secretary of his, Burrow, that friend of yours, Ellis.”
“They’ve got nothing to do with it.”
“Maybe they haven’t. But come morning I’ll put the powder on them. I’m not touching them tonight, in case you’re interested, because we don’t want them suspicious. We don’t want them to think that the Department’s hounding them because they’re colored. But tomorrow, the papers’ll carry the story and they’ll expect to be questioned.”
“The papers, God! No, keep it out!”
“I would if I thought it’d help.”
“Suzy’s mother — ”
“Her mother will have to take it.”
“God!”
“It’s tough. Why don’t you see her mother after we finish up?”
“See her?”
“Prepare her. The mother’s all alone from what you’ve said. You’re her only relative practically. To get back to the press. The papers will carry a straight story. No sensation. All we want are the facts.”
“Clair and Ellis’ve got nothing to do with it. Nor has Marian Burrow.”
“How do you know for a fact they haven’t? If they got nothing to do with it, that’s fine with me. Miller, you recollect that story about that young pair, a brother and a sister, whites like you they were, friendly to the black babies? They were coming home from a mixed party one night in Harlem and they’d been spotted by muggers. A mugger snatched the girl’s pocketbook and ran into a hallway. The brother, he was one of those A-1 fools, he chased the mugger into the hallway and up to the roof. The muggers ganged up on that A-1. They knocked him down and some of them were committing a sodomy when the sister came up on the roof, she having chased after her brother. So all them niggers raped her. I’m telling you this story for one reason, Miller. You haven’t learned fundamentals in Harlem. Anything goes in Harlem. The trial proved it to the hilt. One of them muggers was asked if he had committed a rape before on a white girl. He admitted he had raped dozens. Dozens!”
“The man who came to the office said — ”
“Sure he said. He had a smart story or he wouldn’t have fooled Buckles. How he got that story and where he got that story, we don’t know, but he g
ot it. The only witness who heard him was that colored steno up there.” Wajek nodded. “How do we know her story is on the level?”
“It is.”
“Miller,” Wajek said thoughtfully. “How much does she make a week?”
“I don’t know.”
“If she gets twenty bucks a week she’s lucky? That Harlem League isn’t in the bucks. They keep going from the colored churches, from rich whites. Let’s say she gets twenty-five. That’s a fortune. Does she dress well? What I’m getting at is: There’s your smart story.”
“You’re wrong, Wajek.”
Wajek was scratching at one ear. “Maybe. I haven’t put her through the mill. It’s going to be ticklish interrogating Clair and that colored girl at a time like this. Maybe you can give me some pointers? Harlem’s red hot and we don’t want that Harlem League crying to high heaven that the Police’re knocking them around. Councilman Vincent’s seen the Commissioner twice on your case. Red-hot, they are! Maybe we’ll keep the sweetheart angle out of the papers?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Maybe we won’t tell the press that you and Buckles are sweethearts. Too sensational.” He shook his head at Sam as if he were his father. “You go see the girl’s mother. It’s the only decent thing to do. Then go home and get a sleep. If you can’t sleep, get drunk. We’ll do our best for you. The Department never lets one of its own down.” He offered Sam another cigarette. “Now, maybe you can give me some pointers? I don’t want to rub those black babies the wrong way tomorrow. After all we white men have to stick together, Miller. Correct? Correct.”
CHAPTER 10
AS SAM entered the Y.M.C.A. at One Hundred and Thirty-Fifth Street, he saw Johnny inside the doorway. “What’s up, Sam?” Johnny said.
“What’s up?” Sam echoed.
“I have to ask dumb questions. What’s wrong?” Johnny placed his brown hand on Sam’s shoulder. Sam felt the pressure of Johnny’s fingers. The fingers spoke to him in a language that pierced his despair.
“I have to see her mother.”
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