“Gonna be fun!” Iggy said, louder than Dale would have liked. They were just a mile away from their destination, the only sound the cicadas that were still another week or two from going silent for the season. Iggy was crazed, the way Dale remembered him when they played football together, driving himself into a fury beforehand. It made Dale’s blood pump faster, and he smiled to himself as he held the hood in his hand, felt the power in it. The eyeholes black and staring back at him, waiting to be filled.
Iggy said, “Great night to be out and busting some niggers!”
Dale stopped. “Wait, Iggy,” he said. “I thought you knew. The fella we’re going after, he’s a white man.”
There were days Dale didn’t remember, so many days they probably constituted years if he strung them all together. Those days were gone from his memory not because he’d blacked out—though he was no stranger to alcohol—but because they were meaningless. Not in some highfalutin intellectual way, but meaningless in that not a damn thing seemed to happen. He woke, he ate, he went to work at the textile mill. He inhaled lint and exhaled lint; he saw some lint mixed with the snot when he blew his nose into his kerchief. Then he went home and did the domestic thing with the kids and wife until he fell asleep. So many days like that, unimportant, not remotely memorable. And then one day something actually happens and you realize you’ve been chosen and it’s a day you’ll always remember and things click, fall into place, whatever phrase you want to call it but let’s just say the day seems to goddamn glow.
That day had come a week ago. As he’d left the mill after a late meeting, he’d been struck by the darkness, evening falling sooner now. Streetlamps illuminated the small front lots of the people unfortunate enough to live across the street from the mill. Dale himself couldn’t even smell lint anymore, the scent of it was burned permanently inside his nostrils, his skull. Sue Ellen claimed to like the smell of it on him, and he chose to believe her. He probably had enough of it bound to his insides, you could knit a sweater with it. Or at least a sock. The string intertwined with his muscles and tendons, his body literally becoming his work.
A green Plymouth approached, parking on the street a few feet away. The driver emerged, a gray fedora casting his face in shadow. A bit short, he wore a blue blazer and brown pants and shoes that clacked as he stepped toward Dale.
“I have a friend in Rockdale,” the fellow said, extending a hand, his left.
The unexpected Kluxer code took Dale a second.
“I’ve been meaning to ask about him,” he replied, extending his left so they could clasp hands and make the Kluxer shake, fingers loose and only their palms touching. Dale had loved this sort of thing ever since he’d first joined, the passwords and secret handshakes his father had taught him, the spycraft of it. Real life could be so goddamn boring otherwise.
Dale had been initiated at sixteen amid the fiery ceremony at Stone Mountain, he’d paid his Klecktoken membership fee, he studied the rules set forth in the Kloran, and he was on time with his dues every year, so he’d always chafed at the fact that they hadn’t promoted him up the ranks. He’d always thought he was a natural for the Klavalier Klub, the secret police of the Klan, the ones who take military action when needed. Yet it seemed to him that the local Klavern was far more interested in talking about business and crafting overly complex ways to financially punish businesses that were too friendly to Negroes; it wasn’t as engaged as it should have been in Klan basics: Breaking bones. Cutting skin. Keeping the Negro hospital busy.
Ten minutes later they were sitting at Yancey’s, a bar Dale knew quite well on account of its proximity to both work and home. The stranger, who introduced himself as Jimmy Whitehouse, had led Dale to the back room, where four small tables hugged the walls and the music from a lone banjo player up front wasn’t distracting.
Jimmy Whitehouse ordered a Coca-Cola. Some of the older Kluxers were like that, alas. So Dale, for perhaps the first time in his life at a bar, did the same.
“I’m from up in Coventry,” Whitehouse said. He looked to be fifty, and when he removed his fedora he revealed a clean dome upon which two tufts of hair clung near the ears. Damn but Dale wished he had a beer and not this stupid Coca-Cola. “You’re probably wondering why I’m talking to you and not one of the ranking members of your Klavern. Truth is, I wanted to be sure I could find someone who could be trusted. What I’m in need of is a small group that’s willing to take risks for what’s important.”
“Then you’re talking to the right fellow.” Which would have been an excellent time to punctuate things with a sip of beer. He felt like an actor with the wrong props.
Whitehouse removed a kerchief from his pocket and blew into it. When he finished, he put it away, but he’d failed to remove a large bat that dangled from the cave of his left nostril. It was distracting, but Dale elected not to say anything about it.
“Glad to hear it. I was sent to you in particular—by whom, it isn’t important. There’s a matter that needs to be dealt with, but for various reasons it can’t be done by the Coventry Klavern. We feel it should be done the proper way, one hand washing the other.”
“Of course.” Dale had no clue what Whitehouse meant, but he didn’t want to look stupid. And that booger was distracting, vibrating as Whitehouse breathed. Dale rubbed at his own nose as a hint, but Whitehouse didn’t catch it.
“So I’ll just say it straight, and you can turn me down if you want to. But the fellow who needs to be punished is a white man.”
Dale wondered if he’d misheard.
“He’s the son of a friend of mine, in fact. They’re both in the brotherhood, but they ain’t what I’d consider active members. Anyway, my friend’s son married a good woman, but he’s been out drinking and running with loose women. He works in banking and insurance, and he is without scruple—he’s cheated several families, getting them to sign documents they don’t understand for policies that don’t exist. Why the law doesn’t get after him for it, I can’t say. Bottom line, we feel that if he’s scared off his path now, there might be time to save him yet.”
“So this . . . This job doesn’t have anything to do with what’s happening here in Hanford Park?”
Whitehouse frowned. The goddamn booger was still dangling there. “No. Like I said, one hand washing the other.”
Dale knew he wasn’t doing a good job hiding his disappointment. He had assumed this meeting was to lay plans for the Negroes who, over the last few weeks, had moved into Dale’s neighborhood of Hanford Park, on the western edge of Atlanta. Two years ago, when, like now, Negroes had dared encroach on Hanford Park, Dale had tried to enlist the aid of his cop brother-in-law, Rake, but had been given the cold shoulder. Someone else had taken care of things, thank goodness, burning a Negro’s house down. Two years later, the problem had returned. So Dale had assumed this meeting was to address his Negro problem, yet they were talking about beating up someone way out in Coventry. A white someone. What the hell kind of Klavern was this?
“I believe in the creed,” Whitehouse said. “I like to go roust the niggers as much as the next man, but you need to understand your history. The Kluxers are about more than the color of skin. We are the moral authority. Back in the day, we rousted drinkers, we rousted adulterers, we rousted those who tried to profit inappropriately from the churches. Like Jesus throwing out the moneylenders. Of course we rousted the niggers—that’s one of the fundamental basics of maintaining an orderly society. But so is the sanctity of marriage. So is a man’s obligation to his family and community. So is the right to capitalism and a fair profit. No wonder the Communists are gaining left and right—we have not been keeping our house in order.”
“You’re right,” Dale said, so swayed by the man’s words that it almost felt as if he had a buzz going. Better still, the force of Whitehouse’s speech had finally dislodged the booger, sent it fluttering onto the table and almost landing on Whitehouse’s folded hands.
“This job, it’s about more than this one f
ellow I’m sending you after. It’s about reminding everyone that we still are that moral authority. That we have a larger role. After the state cops came down so hard on us, everyone wanted to disavow us.” A few years ago, the Georgia Bureau of Investigation had indicted some local Klan leaders. “All those years of FDR and his Jew Deal made everyone crazy! So the Klaverns quieted down, people stopped supporting us, and next thing you know there’re darkies wearing police badges! Well, I say it’s time to stop that tide.”
Dale had been nodding constantly for a solid minute now. He never would have believed this scenario had it been sketched out to him that morning, but the way Whitehouse put it had the air of gospel truth. Something needed to be done, and this was the way to start it.
He understood now the “one hand washing the other” bit. What Whitehouse said reminded Dale of things forgotten, stories from his father and uncle, that in fact the Kluxers had once rousted not just coloreds and Jews and Communists and labor agitators but other non-leftist white folks, too, philanderers, those who brought dishonor to their communities. (The idea of beating a fellow simply because he had a taste for alcohol seemed a bit much—surely Dale had misheard Whitehouse?—but that explained the Coca-Cola.) Often, it was best for the local Klavern to ask Kluxers from a far-removed area to step in and do the job. That way a man wouldn’t have to beat his own neighbor. One hand washed the other. One hand lifted the phone to call for aid and the other hand grabbed a whip and a gun. I take care of your problem, and you’ll take care of mine.
If Dale helped him with this sinful white man up in Coventry, Whitehouse was saying, then the Coventry Klavern would in turn put an end to the Negro disruption in Hanford Park. And that was a bargain worth making.
A week later in the Coventry woods, Iggy was holding his hood, his robe billowing in the light breeze. “What in the hell are you talking about, Dale?”
Dale felt his heart sink. “Our target, he’s a white man,” he explained. “An adulterer and a cheat and a fellow that needs—”
“What? Jesus Christ, are you deranged?” Beside Iggy, Pantleg, too, was shaking his head in horror, the moonlight reflecting off his balding pate.
Dale had not personally recruited all of them, only Mott and Irons. Both of whom initially had been bewildered by the concept of beating up a white man neither of them knew, but they’d warmed to the idea when Dale explained how this was just advance payment on an entire legion of countrified Kluxers coming down to Hanford Park to drive the coloreds out. Dale had left Mott to recruit two more. He now turned to his best buddy. “Mott, you said you’d told ’em.”
“Aw, I may have left a few things out.”
“A white man?” Iggy practically spat. “This some kinda joke?”
“No, it’s not a joke,” Dale said. “It’s us stepping up and doing our duty.” He tried to sound calm as he made the sales pitch the way Whitehouse had, but Dale was no orator, and he did not have this crowd on his side.
Iggy said, “You made us drive all the way out here for nothing, goddammit.”
“Not nothing,” Pantleg said, “we passed some colored shacks a few minutes back.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” Iggy perked up immediately.
“No, fellas,” Dale tried to regain control, “we need to stick to our mission here and not get distracted.”
“Shut the fuck up, Dale,” Iggy snapped.
“Come on, now,” Mott chided him. “We’re supposed to be in this together.”
“Screw that. We got our own mission.” Iggy proceeded to tell the others that they had skirted past a Negro part of town, that he had observed a couple of youngish males wandering to their tiny house, maybe a mile from here. “Should be easy pickings.”
Dale said, “Listen, I gave a man my word, and the way I was raised, a man’s word counts for something.” He could feel this long-awaited evening slipping away from him. “I know it ain’t usual what we gotta do tonight, but the time has come for men to step up and do what they need to do. You still with me, Mott?”
“Course I’m with you,” Mott said, loyal and steadfast as ever. But he added, “Maybe we can get after those niggers when we’re done with our job?”
“Sure, if there’s anything left.”
Iggy laughed, then took another pull on the fifth. “Y’all are damned crazy.” Then he looked at Irons as Mott and Dale pulled on their robes. “What about you, big man?”
All eyes on Irons. Despite his intimidating size, he seemed uncomfortable with the attention. He finally said, “I come here with them, I’ll leave with them.”
Thank the Lord, Dale thought. The mission would have been impossible with only two.
“That enough to change your mind, Iggy?” Dale asked.
“Fuck no. Only white ass I’ll kick is yours, you keep pushing that damnfool line.”
Dale felt his face redden and he could see Pantleg smile just before the son of a bitch pulled the hood over his head. Dale’s fists were at his sides and he was not one to stand for being insulted, particularly around others, but he told himself to cool it. He had a Colt .38 revolver in his pocket and a bit of bourbon in his veins and he knew if he let himself take too much offense at Iggy’s ravings then this evening would go sour very quickly.
“Come on,” Dale said as he, Mott, and Irons walked back to their car. “Let’s get to it.”
The isolated Lean-To roadhouse looked like an old hunting cabin the owner had built an addition onto. One story, a long porch, the old roof slightly aslant. The wooded driveway leading to it was surprisingly steep, giving the building a vista in three directions, piney woods receding into the dark. Dale had spotted three other cars parked on the grass before him, which was more than he’d been told to expect.
Dale killed his lights as Mott asked, perhaps hopefully, “This a whorehouse, too?”
“I don’t know.” Dale rolled down his window to listen for music or revelry but couldn’t hear anything. They were parked a good fifty yards away.
“I see three cars. Who-all else is in there? Friends of his?”
“Whitehouse said our man would definitely come out last, other than the fella that owns the place. And he told me the owner won’t mind what we’re doing at all. So that only leaves one unexplained car.”
A light rain started falling, barely more than a mist. They sat for a while, mostly in silence, and Dale felt his enthusiasm for the job dampening. He hadn’t realized he’d signed up for a stakeout.
The Lean-To’s door finally opened. One light above the door lit a bowl of the lawn in front of it, though not enough to reveal where Dale had parked. Dale could see this man was not their target, too young, looked barely twenty-one. He walked over to a long Chevy and got in.
“Duck down,” Dale said, feeling juvenile about it as he lowered his head beneath the dash. Seconds later he saw the light from the exiting Plymouth illuminate the top of his seat, then heard the gravel crunch as the car passed them and drove down the steep drive.
Another ten minutes later, that double snort of bourbon was feeling like a bad idea indeed. Dale had been fired up before, but now he was about ready to lean his head on the wheel and sleep. Christ, what was he doing here? Then the door opened again.
“That him?” Mott asked.
“I can’t tell,” Dale said angrily, drizzle on the windshield obscuring his view. Turning the car on to run the wipers would startle their target, so he simply said, “Let’s go,” and pulled on his hood. He opened his door and walked quickly, the others following.
Through his eyeholes he saw, stumbling toward a parked DeSoto, a man who matched Whitehouse’s description of “twenty-nine, tall, thin, light brown hair that he obviously pays a great deal of attention to, and likely wearing a hat that costs half as much as a decent used car.”
Just to be sure, Dale called out the man’s name, “Martin Letcher?”
The man looked up. Appeared to have difficulty finding their forms in the dark. Then appeared to doubt his own vision. T
hen made a panicked burst toward the DeSoto, dropping his keys as Dale and the others ran toward him full speed.
Torches—this would have been better with torches. In the old days they would have been on horseback. Jumping out of a parked car in a gravel lot hardly had the same grandeur as tearing across a field astride stallions, a fiery torch in one hand and a pistol in the other, but this would have to do.
Unable to find his dropped keys, Letcher ran. He wasn’t none too fast. Most surprising was the speed of Irons—he’d been a few steps behind Dale yet he was the one who sprang upon Letcher, driving him into the earth in an expert tackle. Dale was shocked such a big fellow could be so quick.
“You got the wrong man!” The first time, the ground muffled Letcher’s cry, so he turned his head and screamed again, “You got the wrong man! I got no problem with you fellows!”
Irons rolled Letcher underneath him, so as to see his eyes.
“You’re Martin Letcher, ain’t you?” Dale called out, trying to establish some control while Irons did all the fun stuff.
“Yeah, but I’m in the brotherhood! Jesus, you got the wrong man!”
He sounded terrified, and that was before he’d been hit a single time. Irons commenced to strike him square in the face, then again, then again. It turned out Irons was quiet even when engaged in furious acts of violence. Not a sound, not even a grunt as he swung.
Finally Dale had to grab the big man’s hand and get him to stop. At this rate Letcher would be unconscious before they could tie him to the tree and break out the strap. Per Klan regulations, Dale had brought a four-inch-wide by three-foot-long leather strap, nailed to a round wooden handle for easy gripping. He’d never used it in his life.
“We need him awake for the next part,” Dale said, motioning to the strap, the rope in Mott’s hands. Then he looked down and saw that he was already too late. Letcher was oblivious to all around him, his eyes shut, the skin from temple to jaw pink and pulverized. No way in hell would he wake anytime soon.
Lightning Men Page 5