Quarry in the Black by Max Allan Collins Read Free Book Online Page A

mock-concern, “how can you fuck her now that you know she doesn’t like black people? Doesn’t it just sicken you?”
    “You know what would sicken me? Details of
your
love life. Just like mine would sicken you.”
    He didn’t argue the point. I let him pay and then we walked back. Back to our apartment below Becky’s.
    * * *
    Just after nine A.M. , I entered the office of the St. Louis Civil Rights Coalition, where in a space three times as long as it was wide, a group of people ranging in age from twenty to fifty were at beat-up mismatched desks on phones or at old typewriters or up and around bustling from here to there, usually with clipboard in hand. A chattering teletype was going along one wall near three four-drawer files; the opposite wall had a fold-up banquet table of coffee and refreshments. At the rear were a pair of glassed-in offices at left and right, with restrooms between. The walls bore more
McGovern for President
posters but also some for a black guy named Bill Clay who was running for re-election to the House of Representatives.
    The racial makeup of this group was a little surprising—perhaps only a third were black, although that sub-group was of varied age while the whites were mostly college kids or recent grads. Some of them may have been at that bar last night. What unified them was clothing. In my limited imagination, I had figured I’d walk into something out of
Shaft
or
Superfly
—wild colors, African prints, tie-dye, Dashikis—but this was a world instead of conservative black or brown suits with ties on the males, and conservative pantsuits for the females, with only the occasional splash of color from a blouse. Solid colors, though: yellow, navy, deep red. No flower-power prints.
    Just three steps in and I felt out of place, though I was following exactly what the Broker had suggested—coming in wearing a light-blue Ban-Lon sportshirt, new jeans and Hush Puppies, plus the windbreaker (minus the nine-millimeter Browning).
    “Casual but not sloppy,” he advised. “And then bring several business suits.”
    But that was all he’d said on the subject.
    On the other hand, Afros abounded, including some pseudoones on the white kids, though the more extreme examples were on the girls. Or rather women. Despite the predominance here of youth, nobody here looked very much like a “girl.”
    Also, nobody here was any kind of receptionist. I felt more like I’d wandered into a newsroom or maybe a horse-betting parlor. I saw the occasional eyes flick my way as a staffer passed on, headed to deal with something more important than a walk-in in fucking Hush Puppies.
    Finally a young woman—twenty-five?—at a desk to my left hung up the phone and glanced at me. She had a full Afro that Angela Davis might have envied, big hoop earrings swinging out from under, with a maroon vest and matching pants, a navy-blue pointy-collar blouse beneath.
    “Yes?” she said, as if I’d asked a question.
    I stood before her like a naughty student at the teacher’s desk with no apple in hand. “I’d like to apply.”
    A smile twitched on lips glossed dark red. Her skin was a rich caramel but her features were rather Caucasian, as if one parent had been from Nigeria and the other from Denmark. Her eyes were big and dark, her eye shadow dark too, the long lashes real. Or anyway real enough to fool me.
    “Why?” she said coolly. “Did someone tell you we were hiring?”
    “Sorry. I meant to say ‘volunteer.’ ”
    Eyebrows that were already arching arched some more. “Do I look like a recruiting sergeant?”
    “No, you do not look like a recruiting sergeant. So then,
you’re
a volunteer?”
    My tone had been innocent—that took some effort I admit—and she was a little thrown.
    She said, “No, actually I’m paid staff.”
    “Does it pay well?”
    “…uh, not particularly.”
    “Makes sense.”
    The dark eyes flared. “It does?”
    “Yeah. It never pays that