Remembering Roxanne

1 In Little Rock, Arkansas of 1957, segregation was a tough, yet memorable experience.
2
I looked at the houses we were passing --- shanties actually, with sagging porches, peeling paint and rusty tin roofs. The front yards were small, mostly packed dirt, lacking grass and flowers or any other type of beautification. There were a few older model cars, some pickups, all scabbed with rust and in various stages of disrepair. The street signs were pocked with bullet holes and scrawled with graffiti --- some bent until they were touching the ground. “Poverty” was the first thought that struck me. The second was “hopelessness.”
“Makes you more appreciative of what you got, doesn’t it, kid?”
I nodded. “You can say that again.”
“Keep your eyes peeled for the address --- two-four-two Rollins. These frigging houses all look the same to me.”
I looked over at Virgil Starke, my partner of only two days. He was a jowly, water-eyed guy of about fifty-five, with large, freckled hands and one of those bloated bellies that belied a fondness for the suds. His wrinkled white shirt had turned yellow from too much sweat and too little washes, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A fedora was perched Mickey Spillane-fashion atop a head that was larger than usual, his horseshoe of hair rapidly turning to gray and in bad need of a trim. He was scowling at the street ahead, maneuvering a cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. On his very best day, Virgil Starke was hardly a poster boy for the U.S. Marshals Service.
“What’sa matter, kid --- you don’t like my looks?”
“If you don’t mind me asking --- how long have you been A Deputy Marshal?”
“Way too long.”
“C’mon, that’s no answer.”
The cigar stopped dead at the right corner of his mouth, spewing smoke like a steel mill’s chimney. “Twenty-two years. I was a cop in Newark before that.”
“Do you have any plans on retiring?”
“Are you keeping an eye out for that address?”
“Yes, sir, I am. I see it right up ahead --- the one with the wringer washing machine on the front porch.”
Virgil pulled over to the curb and we stared at the house for a few moments, neither of us saying a word. Compared to the others on the block, it was in pretty good shape, with decent curtains in its windows and flowers in the front yard.
Finally, Virgil released a weary sigh and got out, pulling a seersucker suit coat from the rear seat and giving it a shake as though it would magically free it of wrinkles. Then he slipped it on to hide his shoulder holster and fastened the middle button.
“Let me do the talking, kid.”