The Brass Ring He slipped the folder between his fingers and cupped his hands over the glow. by Carol Jean Vendell Troyst fished for the match folder in his vest pocket. As he tore a match from it he glanced casually around at Barker, Scott, Mickey Bennet, and Razor. Barker's cheekbones and jawline tattled on his tenseness. The skin dark brown and shadowed by a neglected beard was drawn taut over the skeleton of his long thin face. Scott's expression was immobile. The only sign of emotion he displayed was in his left hand knotted, extended, knotted, extended. Deliberately, Troyst slipped the cover of the match folder back in place, carefully turning it over and over in his hand. He was watching Razor, and something inside seemed to squeeze and pinch him. The kid was haying trouble keeping the left side of his mouth from twitching. The point of his tongue kept darting out over his lower lip as though he were trying to lick away the smudge of his inexperience. Troyst felt sorry for Razor. He was too young for a job like this. Mickey Bennett flipped his soft gray felt back an inch or so on his cocky blond head and leaned back against the lamp post with the air of a father taking his little boys to the circus. Yeah circus that's what it was a lousy damned circus. Troyst ran the match viciously over the cover and watched the flame shoot up, then dim quickly. He slipped the folder between his fingers and cupped his hand over the glow. It flickered, hesitated, and waxed brighter again. He could feel the warmth against his palm and discovered suddenly that it was cold knife cold. Funny, he hadn't noticed that before. He bent to the match, inhaled deeply, and flipped the match away. He wondered what time it was but didn't dare look at his watch. Right now they were all suspended. There was no time, no movement, nothing to look forward to. They were just five men huddled silently beneath a black lamp post looking somewhat nervously toward the red brick apartment house with the white door and eleven steps leading up to it. Eleven steps. Eleven steps. One . . . two . . . three . . . "It's no fun to play with murder," Scott had said a long time ago when Troyst had first gone to work on the lieutenant's staff. "You think you're in for a gay time, Tom Sawyer. I think you've got two more ideas coming. This is not a joy ride, and if you're after the brass ring, sonny, you can get off right now." Troyst had thought of that conversation a good many times during the past ten years, but never like today. Never so clearly, never so forcefully. He had heard Scott tell others the same thing through the years. Some stayed, but a few got the idea and got out fast. But not him. He was the smart guy guts and all that stuff. He needed a drink, a good stiff one. He considered himself as having nerves with the strength of steel cables, but right now just one, or maybe two. No one wanted to be the first to speak that was evident. They were all waiting just like little boys. It Page Eighteen was up to him. ... a dead man in a green Packard . . . four .38 caliber slugs in his right side . . . close proximity . . . last man seen with him a kid in a brown tweed suit, and green eyes . . . and the gun in the car, traced to the occupant of apartment CI 16 in the building across the street . . . the man fit the occupant's description . . . yeah, it fit it all fit the whole story. And now the landlady had called to say that he had come in for the first time in five days. All they had to do was step across the street, up those eleven steps, open the white door, and Troyst stiffened. Inside, all the way down, there was a slow burning like a straight shot of good bourbon. The only thing lacking was the kick. Maybe he should have been a grocery clerk or a pharmacist or a he looked at Mickey Bennett no, not a reporter. He had one thing to be thankful for. Mickey yawned and pulled his collar up a little closer around his pale oval face. Troyst clenched his fists. "Let's go." Barker looked startled. "Now?" he breathed. His dark eyes opened wide. "Now," Troyst answered, staring back at him. Scott sounded tired. "We'd better he's probably not in for long. And Mrs. Vance is naturally nervous." "Yeah imagine she would be with a cold-blooded killer on her second story," Troyst breathed. Scott seemed to ease down further into his coat pockets. "There's no doubt, Troyst, it's cut and" "I know. Come on." "You rather stay here?" Scott asked, and Troyst was surprised to hear a note that was almost sympathetic. "I'll stick." 'You can pull in your flaps and coast, if you'd like to, kid." There was almost a suggestion of pleading in the statement. "I said I'd stick." Troyst flipped his cigarette into the gutter and stepped down off the curb. The others followed. Mickey Bennett was whistling a dry tuneless song through his teeth, and Razor shuffled his feet as he drew up at the rear. Maybe the same thing would happen to him ten years from now. Maybe, but it wasn't likely. They pushed slowly up the front steps. Mrs Vance had the door open before they reached the top. Nine . . . ten . . . eleven . . . "Oh, I'm so glad you've come," she whispered. "I've never been so frightened. She stepped back into the hall and waited for them to file in. Razor shut the door noislessly. "You know, it's funny," she said, still in a stage whisper, "I've never been afraid of that boy before. Seemed so nice and respectable like." Troyst felt for his gun and pushed past her to the stairs. Just up one flight. He wondered how many stairs there were..One . . . two . . . three . . . "Mind if I do this alone?" he asked sharply, not looking back. There was a slight pause. "No no, it's all right," Scott answered. "I know you'll get your man." Four . . . five . . . six . . . Sure, he'd get his man. Maybe he could say he was rushed and kill him in the excitement. That was the way they used to play it when they were kids no trials just manhunts and then no electric chairs or gas chambers . . . oh, dear God, what would his mother haVe said. He had been spanked so many times for even playing rough with Keith. But it was only his job to bring the man in. Justice would take care of the rest. And, after all, he wasn't after the brass ring and, of course, it is never fun to play with murder. Sunrise by Carol Jean Vendell Rising rising Steadily, Shiny new And clean All youth's Vivacious dreaming Molded into one Bright burst Of fulfillment. Take of dawn Its promise Of life-Pulsing, Waiting To return All that you Can give! Sunset by Carol Jean Vendell Fading fading Into crimson Spirals of memory Youth's potent Eager brilliance Sinking Low behind The golden clouds Of experience. Take dusk Into your mind To flavor Your wisdom, But keep dawn In your heart To season Your dreams! Page Nineteen