“I didn’ kill nobody!”
“Sssh. Tyrone, do you know what Ray Coates said about you?”
Jones lifted his head. “I know he lie.”
“I think he lied, too. I don’t think you’re a queer. I think he’s a queer, because he hates women. I think he liked killing those women. I think you feel bad about–”
“We didn’ kill no women!”
“Tyrone, where were you last night at 3:00 A.M.?”
No answer.
“Tyrone, why did Sugar Ray hide his car?”
No answer.
“Tyrone, why did you guys hide the shotguns you were shooting in Griffith Park? We have a witness who ID’d you on that.”
No answer. Jones lolled his head-eyes shut, spilling tears.
“Son, why did Ray burn the clothes you guys were wearing last night?”
Jones keening now–animal stuff.
“They had blood on them, didn’t they? You killed six goddamn people, you got sprayed. Ray did the clean-up, he tidied the loose ends, _he’s_ the one who hid the shotguns, he’s the boss man, he’s been giving the orders since you were giving out butthole up at Casitas. Spill, goddamn you!”
“WE DIDN’ KILL NOBODY! I AINT NO FUCKIN’ QUEER!”
Ed circled the table–walking fast, talking slow. “Here’s what I think. I think Sugar Ray’s the boss, Leroy’s just a dummy, you’re the fat boy Sugar likes to tease. You all did road camp together, you and Sugar Ray got popped for Peeping Tom. Sugar liked looking at girls, you liked looking at boys. You both like looking at white folks, because that is the colored man’s forbidden fruit. You had your 12-gauge pumps, you had your snazzy ’49 Merc, you had some red devils you bought off Roland Navarette. You were up in Hollywood, white folks’ neck of the woods. Sugar was teasing you about being fruit, you kept saying it was just because there were no girls around. Sugar says prove it, prove it, and you guys start peeping. You’re getting mad, you’re all flying on hop, it’s late at night and there’s nothing to look at, all those nice white folks have their curtains down. You drive by the Nite Owl, there’s these nice white people inside– and it is just too fucking much to take. Poor fat sissy Tyrone, he takes over. He leads his boys into the Nite Owl. Six people are there–three of them women. You drag them into the locker, you hit the cash register and make the cook open the safe. You take their billfolds and purses and you spill some perfume on your hands. Sugar says, ‘Touch the girlies, sissy. Prove you ain’t queer.’ You can’t do it so you start shooting and everybody starts shooting and you love it because finally you’re more than a poor queer fat little nigger and–”
“NO! NO NO NO NO NO NO!”
“Yes! Where’s the guns? You fucking confess and turn over the evidence or you’ll go to the fucking gas chamber!”
“No! Didn’ kill nobody!”
Ed hit the table. “Why’d you ditch the car?”
Jones lashed his head, spraying sweat.
“Why’d you burn the clothes?”
No answer.
“Where did the perfume come from?”
No answer.
“Did Sugar and Leroy rape the women first?”
“No!”
“Oh? You mean all three of you did?”
“We didn’ kill nobody! We wasn’t even there!”
“Where were you?”
No answer.
“Tyrone, where were you last night?”
Jones sobbed; Ed gripped his shoulders. “Son, you know what’s going to happen if you don’t talk. So for God’s sake admit what you did.”
“Didn’ kill nobody. None of us. Wasn’t even there.”
“Son, you did.”
“No!”
“Son, you did, so tell me.”
“We didn’!”
“Hush now. Just tell me–_nice and slowly_.”
Jones started babbling. Ed knelt by his chair, listened.
He heard: “Please God, I just wanted to lose my cherry”; he heard: “Didn’t mean to hurt her so’s we’d have to die.” He heard: “Not right punish what we didn’ do . . . maybe she be okay, she don’t die so I don’t die, ’cause I ain’t no queer.” He felt himself buzzing, electric chair, a sign on top: THEY DIDN’T DO IT.
Jones slipped into a reverie–Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Father Divine. Ed hit the #2 cubicle.