SMOKE POURED IN A black column from the upholstery of an abandoned car someone had set fire to at the curb. The gasoline tank, like its tires and wheels and most of the engine, had been cannibalized weeks ago and none of the officers busy cordoning off that section of Kercheval was paying it any attention. Only Quincy was watching it when Krystal found him. On the other end of the block, glass broke with a long shivery tinkle. Most of the action had moved up the street.
“You okay, sugar? I heard shooting before but the police wouldn’t let me through.”
“You should of went home.”
“You got the keys. Besides, you know Krystal don’t like to sleep alone.” She slid an arm inside one of his. “You sound funny. You coming down with a cold?”
He touched the back of a hand to his nostrils and looked at it in the firelight. The bleeding had stopped. “I’m okay.”
“Radio says rain.”
It was still playing. He could hear it in a Doppler effect from the Corvette parked several blocks down, Barry McGuire singing about the eve of destruction.
“Mahomet’s dead.”
“Somebody told me.”
“I never did understand the crazy son of a bitch.”
“Wasn’t your fault, sugar. It was that white suit.”
“Man ought to be able to wear what he wants without getting shot.”
“Wasn’t nothing you could do.”
“I could of left him in jail.”
Sirens swooped and fell. Somebody said something unintelligible into a bullhorn. Krystal squeezed Quincy’s arm. “Riot’s over, Quincy. Let’s go home.”
He let her steer him toward the car. Then he stopped, turned back, and fished something out of his pants pocket that caught the firelight in a red glint. Lydell had given it to him to hold when he went to the hospital because it didn’t fit any more and he was afraid some intern might steal it. Quincy held up the ring, read the engraving: WORLD SERIES CHAMPIONS 1957. He threw it through the broken windshield into the burning car.
“The whole town next time, Lydell.”
A few minutes later he helped Krystal into the Corvette and they drove back toward Twelfth Street.