Magic City by Jewell Parker Rhodes Page B

lap.
    An old man murmured, “Nigger better run. Better run good.”
    â€œHush.” Mary gulped air. “Hush.” She covered her mouth with her hands.
    â€œMary—” Allen reached for her.
    â€œLet go. Let go my hands.” She scooted backward, her hands striking the air, her eyes wide and staring. “Please. Please let me go.”
    â€œMary—” Allen’s arms snaked around her.
    â€œLet go,” she screamed. “Let me go.” She clung to the bars, sobbing.
    â€œLet her go,” said Clay.
    Allen flinched. “She’s upset, can’t you see that? She thinks I’m—”
    â€œI’d feel the same way if a colored touched me,” said Louise. “Wouldn’t trust any man.”
    Arms across her abdomen, her brow touching her knees, Mary whimpered, “Ma. Please, Ma.”
    Clay felt sorry for her. There were scratches on Mary’s legs and hands. Bruises on her wrists. Bring the nigger in. Case solved. Simple . Mud speckled her hem. Tangled hair curtained her face. Her shoe was missing its heel. Clay knew nothing was simple. He stooped low.
    Allen was cooing, “Mary, Mary.” She wrestled away her hands. “Let go my hands. I’m not beautiful. I’m not.”
    â€œIt’s a damn shame,” said Louise.
    Mary sobbed harder. Clay reached forward and slapped her.
    Allen swore. “There’s no need to hit her. She’s been through enough.”
    â€œShe’s hysterical,” said Clay. “I need her to talk.”
    Mary hiccuped, “Hush.”
    â€œI’ll take care of her,” said Allen.
    Ignoring him, Clay moved close to Mary. “There’s a boy running for his life. Can you tell me anything?”
    â€œHe touched you, didn’t he? Took your panties and touched you,” said one of the old men.
    Mary bit her lip.
    â€œI need you to answer me, ma’am.”
    â€œA proper woman don’t talk about such things,” said Louise, pulling at her collar.
    Clay studied Mary. She must be in shock, he thought. She looked at him strangely, lines furrowing her plain face.
    â€œWe’ve never had anything like this before,” said Bates. “Niggers always take the stairs. He should’ve been on the stairs.”
    â€œHow long were they together?” asked Clay, looking up at Bates.
    â€œLong enough,” said Bates.
    â€œTwo minutes. Maybe four,” said Allen. “Not long enough—”
    â€œYes?”
    Allen shook his head.
    Whimpering, Mary collapsed against Allen. Clay thought it curious that Allen buried his face in the girl’s hair. Kissed her dull strands. Clay shrugged. He didn’t care who aroused Allen’s interests, even a vacant-eyed girl. Everybody had their tastes: Ambrose for big-bosomed girls; his friend, Gainey, wanted them black. Colored men supposedly liked them light-skinned or white.
    Clay could see Miss Louise’s toes, Bates’ perfectly shined shoes, Mary’s bruised knees. The elevator was hot. Airless. Maybe six by four, if that. Clay looked up. A minichandelier dangling from the apex cast slivers of light.
    Why take a woman here? A cage within a box. The chute was lined with mirrors. When the “bird cage” rose, everyone got to see themselves behind gilded bars. Ambrose’s fancy. Images multiplied like fun house mirrors. A white man would be mad to rape a girl here. A colored would have to be desperate to die.
    Clay stood. “I can think of smarter places for a rape.”
    â€œNigger’s got to pay,” said Bates.
    â€œAre you telling me my job?”
    â€œYou’re wasting time.” Bates squinted. “Ambrose won’t like it.”
    â€œThe girl hasn’t accused anybody.”
    â€œWe all saw it, didn’t we?” Bates said, his hand sweeping, taking in the nodding, elderly men who on ordinary days rode the elevator tooffices where they bartered oil