Free Early Graves by Joseph Hansen Page A

giggling. An old white woman bundled in many layers of coats and sweaters and stockings shuffled past. She was bent with the weight of four shopping bags. A man whose color no one could tell crept on hands and knees out of an alleyway and called to Dave. The man was hanging on to a bottle in a paper sack. Dave knew he was being stared at, so he swore at the man and went on.
    He found the doorway he wanted. The number was right. It stood half open on a narrow stairway that stank of urine and years of greasy meals. Beer cans, fried chicken boxes, cigarette butts strewed the stairs. A bulging, green plastic garbage bag leaked stinking wetness where it had been dropped and forgotten. Light was supposed to come into the hallway of the second story from windows at either end, but the windows were grimy and the light outdoors was poor anyway. He looked up. In sockets along a smoky ceiling the splintery fragments of light bulbs showed. The walls were dense with spray-painted names and curses. He went along the hall, trying to read numbers on doors. Then he climbed to the third floor, and located the number, and knocked. Loudly, because the hall was filled with all those mingled noises.
    A shout came from the other side of the door. He wasn’t sure of the words. He tried the knob. Locked. He sensed he was being watched. He stepped to the stairwell. Below, a plump man in a fly-front coat moved quickly out of sight. Samuels? Dave ran down the stairs. Nobody. He climbed back to the door, rapped again. “Who that? What you want?”
    “Bill Bumbry,” Dave said.
    “He don’t live here no more. He passed away.”
    “Did you know him? Can you tell me about him?” Locks clicked, the door opened a crack, a face peered out, a black, bony face, bloodshot eyes. At Dave’s belt level. “Was you a friend of Billy’s? One of the gay ones?”
    “Did he have any others?” Dave said.
    The man smiled faintly. “Not white, he didn’t.”
    “I’m trying to find out who killed him.” Dave took out his license and showed it at the narrow opening. “I’m a private investigator. Can I come in? It’s noisy out here.”
    “And smelly.” The man shut the door, rattled the chain loose, opened the door. He sat in a wheelchair, in an old brown flannel bathrobe, a grubby blanket covering legs that ended at the knees. He let Dave step past him, and closed the door, whose spring lock clicked. “I don’t believe God would ever send a black person to hell. We got it here. Every day of our lives.” Chuckling, toothless, he rolled his wheelchair backward. This was easy: the room was almost empty. A narrow bed, beside it a little table with a lamp, a clock radio, a Bible. On the floor a television set with a cracked shell and bent rabbit ears. A doorless cupboard in a corner, shelves lined with cans of Dinty Moore beef stew. On the counter a hot plate and three charred saucepans. A grimy refrigerator, a sink with dishes in it. A door half open on a dark bathroom where the toilet box ran and ran.
    “I can’t be too hospitable,” the man said, and tilted his head slightly, to indicate he meant the state of the room. “You can sit on the bed if you want. It’s pretty clean. I change it every week.”
    “Thank you.” Dave sat on the bed. His shoulder hurt.
    “What happened to your arm?” the man asked.
    “Somebody attacked me with a knife in the dark last night,” Dave said. “I wondered if it might be the same one that killed Bill. I came to find out if anyone ever saw Bill in the company of a skinny blond kid with long hair. Maybe a teenager. Keeps the hair back by folding a bandanna and tying it around for a headband.”
    “Not me,” the man said. He held out his hand. “I’m Dixon.” The knuckles were swollen, gnarly. Dave shook the hand gently. “Billy’s uncle. I haven’t lived here long. He lived here with his daddy, my brother. I saw Billy sometimes. He had his troubles, being so, well, like a girl? From a little child, you