They drove home, then. They went into the darkened house and did not speak or look at one another; neither knew what to say, what to do: We’re strangers, Tom kept thinking; strangers.

“Dad!”

He turned and saw Ella standing in the bedroom doorway. She was in her pajamas, but she had not been sleeping.

“Dad, call Mr. Allardyce right away. He’s been trying to get you for an hour.”

“All right, thank you, kitten. You go on to sleep now; it’s late.” Tom picked up the phone. “He didn’t say what it was, did he?”

“Huh-uh. But he said it was real important. You two been warring?

Ruth wiped her face with a handkerchief and smiled. “No. Come on, now, off to bed.”

Ella shrugged. “Okay,” she said dubiously, and closed the door.

“Tom?” Jack Allardyce’s voice was loud with excitement.

“Yes. Ella says you were—”

“Tom, you better get over to Simon’s Hill right away.”

“Why?”

“You ain’t heard about it?”

“Heard about what?”

The old man almost shouted the words.

Tom said, “All right,” and put down the phone slowly.

“What is it?” Ruth asked.

“The Baptist church on Simon’s Hill has been dynamited,” he said. “The preacher was inside.”

19

19

They drove slowly past the cemetery into the section known as Death Row. It was like any other section of Los Angeles—old, gray, quiet—except that the streets were lined with funeral parlors. They began as rather ornate establishments, mostly in the colonial style, but as you proceeded toward the Civic Center they grew smaller, less fancy and more to the point.

From the third block onward, they dropped their disguises entirely. The barbered lawns and Southern mansions gave way to bleak little structures of plaster and wood, and there was no attempt made at a cheerful atmosphere.

Peter Link said, “If you ever plan to die, Driscoll, this would be the neighborhood to do it in.”

Ed Driscoll nodded. He had instinctively cut his speed down to twenty-five miles per hour, and he noticed that the other cars were moving slowly also. There were few pedestrians to be seen. Few signs of life.

He drove another hundred yards, then parked in front of an old frame house with a sign in front of it which read: Haller Bros.—Mortuary.

“You want a shot of it?” Link asked.

“Might as well.”

Link got out of the car and took a number of pictures of the establishment; then he and Driscoll walked to the front door.

A balding Negro in a black suit answered. His voice was soft. “Yes?” he said. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

“In a way,” Driscoll said. “We’re looking for a fellow named Preston Haller.”

“That’s my son,” the man said. “He’s in the back, working. You want me to call him?”

“We’d appreciate it.”

“Certainly. Come in, gentlemen.”