Макс Коллинз - Quarry in the Black

Ruth and I wound up at the Pizza Villa. On a Saturday night, this very old-fashioned red-and-white-checked-tablecloth joint was bustling and we waited half an hour for seating, and another half hour for the pie. We covered a lot of topics along the way.

Waiting on a bench, marinara sauce in our nostrils, “O Sole Mio” (Connie Francis) in our ears, I asked Ruth innocently, “Where does the Reverend get his funding?”

She shrugged. She was still in that zebra-print dress and looked fantastic. “Well, he’s paid for his speaking engagements, in most cases. There are donations, of course, including some from very wealthy people, black and white. He’s written three books that generate considerable royalties. And, of course, most of the staff is unpaid.”

“How do these kids afford that?”

“The normal Coalition staff is much smaller — this is a political campaign, remember. How can they afford it? Well, the white ones, frankly, have parents who fund their airy-fairy activities, despite not agreeing with them. Thank God for unconditionally loving parents.”

Not how I’d describe mine.

“What about the others?”

“You mean the black ones? Some are recent grads who haven’t found meaningful paying work yet. You’ll notice many only work half-days, because they have other jobs. Some have taken leaves of absence from work and tap into their savings. We have several substitute teachers among us, and accountants and—”

“Well-educated people.”

“That’s right. We’re fussy about who we take on.”

Not that fussy. I was here.

She was saying, “I’m sure you know why the Reverend insists on suits for the men and fairly conservative clothing for the women, at headquarters. We have to put a good face on who and what we are.”

“How many staffers are actually paid?”

“Myself, Raymond’s, uh... the Reverend’s driver, and his two personal assistants—”

“You mean bodyguards.”

She shrugged, nodded. “Yes. Death threats, like I told you. And of course Mr. Jackson, Harold, who is quite a public speaker himself, which is another source of income. There’s Monique, who’s really skilled secretarially...” Her dark eyes saddened. “We used to be such good friends.”

Monique was almost as attractive as Ruth, a short, shapely girl in her twenties who had not gone the Afro route, sticking more with a Ronnie Spector look.

“What happened between you two?” I asked.

“ You know.”

“The... fling?”

A shrug, a nod. “She hasn’t spoken to me in weeks.”

I wondered if Monique had had her own fling with the boss, but didn’t offer up the possibility for discussion.

“And I’m stuck rooming with her here,” she said with a sigh. “A roommate who stays mute till she goes to sleep, and then her lousy snoring keeps me up half the night.”

“Well, I have a room to myself. There’s a couch.”

“I couldn’t impose.”

“Right, a terrible imposition, sharing a room with a lovely woman like you.”

She tilted her head. Narrowed her eyes. “It would have to be strictly two staffers just sharing a room. Nothing else. Nothing more.”

“You can trust me. The Coalition is very fussy about who they put on staff, you know.”

Her chin raised and she studied me. “Do you snore?”

“No complaints so far.”

“...We’ll see.”

A waiter finally ushered us to a booth. Some piped-in asshole was singing “Funiculi, Funicula.” Come back, Connie, come back.

At least the pizza was good, very crisp, lots of sauce, not too much cheese, some zing to the pepperoni.

“So,” I asked her, “what’s your training?”

“I’m a legal secretary.”

“No wonder they have to pay you. A degree like that takes money.”

“Usually. But I don’t come from money. My father I never met, my mother is on welfare, and my two younger sisters, by another long-gone daddy, are still in high school. I won’t kid you. It’s a struggle.”

“But you went to college?”

She bit off the end of a pizza slice and nodded. Chewed, swallowed, said, “I was always a good student.”

“You must have been some kind of genius.”

“Well... I did get a full-ride scholarship at Washington.”

“What Washington? State, D.C...?”

“Washington University. Back in St. Louis. Lived there all my life.”

“And are still there, I see.”

“Still there.” Another bite. More chewing followed by a swallow. She licked sauce off her upper lip. “And still living with my mom and my sisters.”

“That must be nice. To be able to get them into better circumstances.”

Her smile was saucy, in several senses. “Not really. We still live in Pruitt-Igoe.”

“What’s that?”

Her smile was amazed. “Never heard of it? But then you’re an Idaho boy.”

Actually Ohio, but she wasn’t to know that.

I said, “So it’s some kind of slum?”

A smirk, a nod. “A housing project in the ’50s that just went almost immediately to shit. Crime-ridden, poorer than poor. A war zone. They’re demolishing a lot of the buildings right now.”

“Good thing you’re out of town.”

That made her laugh. “Well, there are... or were ... something like thirty-three buildings. But there have always been pockets of that nasty place that weren’t so bad. Floors where the tenants knew each other, where there were a limited number of families, who took pride in maintaining their apartments. Who lobbied for playgrounds and gardens. But it’s coming to an end, bad and good. The buildings will all be down before you know it.”

“What will you do?”

“I’ll have to find better-paying work than the Coalition can afford, that’s for sure. But not till after the election.”

“That won’t be long.” Nibbled crust. “You really think McGovern can win?”

Her eyes flashed and so did her smile. “Oh, I know he can. The Republicans are underestimating all these new young voters, who fought so hard against Vietnam.”

Who fought so hard against going to Vietnam was more like it.

We caught the eleven o’clock bus back and stopped at Ruth’s room, which was on the ninth floor, and picked up her overnight bag and train case. Monique wasn’t back yet, so Ruth left a note.

On the elevator, I asked her, “What did you write to your roomie?”

“Just that I found somewhere else to sleep tonight. She’ll know it’s you. Everybody’s seen we’re friendly.”

“Is that what we are? So what’s the upshot?”

“Upshot is I’ll be called an even bigger slut.” She shrugged one shoulder. “I won’t be with them that long. Most will be gone as soon as the election’s over.”

“Like you.”

“Like me.”

I let her into my room and she had a look around. At the double bed with the floral spread, the couple of campus landscapes on the wall, the dresser, the little table, the drab green carpet, the blah beige walls. Her suitcase stayed in her hand.

“You said you had a couch,” she said. “Where is it?”

“I must have been thinking about my apartment.”

A dark-chocolate eyebrow arched in the milk-chocolate face. “Really? You were just confused?”

“I get that way sometimes. No problem. You can share the bed with me. It’s a double.”

“You mean, they’re all going to say I’m a slut anyway, so what’s the harm?”

“Now that you mention it.”

Amusement wrestled with irritation on her pretty face. Then she willed it blank and set the suitcase down and walked right up to me. Locked eyes with me.

“We’ll share the bed, Jack, but you will stay on your side and I will stay on mine.”