The windows of the little yellow house on Twenty-first Street were glowing brightly when Ben pulled up at some distance down the street from it. He could see a steady stream of figures moving in silhouette behind the thin red windowshades, and even from several yards away, he could make out the soft tinkle of muffled piano music. A continual flow of lightly murmuring voices came from the small open windows, and as he sat behind the wheel, staring at the house, he could sense the dark, guarded happiness that seemed to energize the air around it. It was a Negro shothouse buried deep within the folds of a dense Negro district, and for the first time in his life Ben suddenly felt the odd allure he remembered from his youth when he d worked in the nearby railyards until late in the night, and then, before going home, stood behind the rusty fence that cordoned off the Negro district and peered out longingly toward the beguiling lights of Bearmatch. At the time, he could not fathom the look he saw in the eyes of the other men who sometimes watched beside him, or even begin to understand the strange and fearful stirring he felt in himself. But now, as he listened to the music and the voices, it all came back to him, and he felt his hand grasp the door, then his feet drop to the ground, felt himself moving toward the house with a strange, beguiling urgency.
Several cars were parked in the adjoining driveway, while others lined the street in both directions. Most of them were empty, but a few contained a varying assortment of men and women in their front and rear seats. The people inside fell silent as he passed them, and he knew that they were staring at him with a mixture of fear and resentment.
People continued to filter in and out of the house as he approached it through the covering darkness. Others lounged idly on the small front porch, and as he drew steadily closer, he could hear them talking and laughing, but he still could not make out any details. A single lone figure stood silently at the end of the front walkway, glancing left and right down the street, his body bathed in the bluish glare of a streetlamp not far away. His body tightened as Ben emerged suddenly from out of the shadows, still walking slowly but with a steady, determined gait. For a moment the young man stood completely still, his eyes staring straight at Ben as he chewed his lower lip nervously. Then he glanced back toward the house, nodded quickly and raced away.
Instantly the voices on the front porch fell silent.
Ben turned up the walkway. From behind, he could hear several of the cars start their engines and pull away, some peeling loudly as they dashed from the curb.
When he reached the first small step of the front porch, he stopped and looked silently at the people who still remained in place. He could see a tall slender woman in a bright red dress, and another, larger woman beside her. A tall, heavyset man stood behind them, his enormous arms draped loosely over their shoulders.
‘You sure you in the right place?’ the man asked finally.
‘I think so,’ Ben said.
The man pushed his way between the two women, strode to the middle of the porch and glared down toward Ben, his enormous frame blocking the light from the front windows and throwing Ben once again into deep shadow.
‘What you want, mister?’ he asked in a hard, demanding voice. ‘A little jelly-roll?’
‘What?’
‘A little poontang, maybe?’ the man added. He glanced at the women. ‘A little chocolate poontang?’
The women laughed as the man returned his eyes to Ben.
‘So what you want, huh?’
Ben moved his hand inside his coat, reaching for his police identification.
‘Hold it right there now,’ the man said instantly.
Ben’s hand froze in place, then lowered slowly to his side.
‘You wouldn’t happen to be toting a piece, would you now?’ the man asked.
Ben nodded.
The man’s eyes widened. ‘That’s not nice. That’s not friendly. How come you toting a piece?’
‘It’s just my service revolver,’ Ben told him, hoping that would explain it.
The man looked at him oddly. ‘Service revolver? You in the service? How come you ain’t wearing no uniform?’
‘Police Department,’ Ben said.
The man took a step toward him, his eyes darting about nervously. ‘You with them Black Cat boys?’
‘No.’
‘Well, what you want then?’
‘I’m looking for Roy Jolly.’
The man looked surprised. ‘You is? How come you looking for Mr Jolly?’
‘I want to talk to him about something.’
The man smiled, his large white teeth glowing yellow in the kerosene lamp which rested on the rail beside him. ‘You sure them Black Cat boys didn’t send you?’
‘I’m sure.’
The smile disappeared. ‘Well, you ain’t too smart coming over here all by yourself, looking for Mr Jolly.’
‘Is he here?’
The man took the lamp from the rail of the porch and held it up to Ben’s face. ‘I don’t know you,’ he said, ‘and I bet Mr Jolly don’t know you neither.’ He lowered the lamp toward Ben’s chest. ‘Open your coat.’