Smith had heard this argument before, often from men he was arresting. To hear it from family was another matter, making him ponder where his true opinion laid, one not dictated by paychecks or superior officers, Jim Crow or the City of Atlanta. In here, his heart. But what was in here that hadn’t been touched by someone else, either bosses or money, preachers or God?
“I like living-and-let-living. It’s when folks start dying I have to pay attention.”
11
A MONTH AGO, a knock after dark would not have alarmed Cassie Rakestraw. But that was before the Negroes had moved into Hanford Park.
So when she heard the knocks at eight o’clock that evening, just after putting the kids to bed, she hurried to the kitchen, retrieved her pistol from the top pantry shelf, and checked that it was loaded. Then she carefully pulled back the parlor curtains to afford a side view of her unexpected visitors, who were knocking again.
They turned out to be white. In fact, once she got a good look at them, she figured they were Bible salesmen.
She slipped the gun in her pocket and answered the door.
“Evening, ma’am. Is your husband at home?” The speaker was tall and thin, dark hair sadly raked across a head gone otherwise bare. Something about the way he wore his short-sleeved blue button-up suggested that he didn’t normally dress this well. Hard to put her finger on it; the shirt just seemed to want to be on someone else.
Beside him stood his wife, no doubt, though her hair had gone mostly gray before any of his. She wore glasses and a blue dress that seemed just a touch too fine, like it was her church outfit on the wrong day. She clasped a manila folder and a small stack of paper to her breast.
“He’s at work right now,” Cassie said, then added without knowing why, “he’s a police officer.”
“Oh, wonderful,” the man said. “We picked a great house to finish with tonight. Ma’am, my name is Paul Thames and this is my wife, Martha Ann.”
“I’m Cassie Rakestraw. Good to meet you.”
“Sorry to bother you in the evening, but this has taken longer’n expected. We’re representatives of the Collective Association of Hanford Park. CAHP for short. As I’m sure you know, ma’am, our wonderful neighborhood has been infiltrated by Negroes over the last few weeks.”
“Yes, it’s too bad.”
“Three houses so far, which is three houses too many.” He looked familiar, though Cassie couldn’t recall why. “We’re making a point of talking to every homeowner here in Hanford Park to do what we can to protect the neighborhood. It’s a great place, idn’t it?”
“We like it very much.”
“I’ve been here since ’32 and Martha Ann grew up here.”
“Three generations back, in just half a mile,” Martha Ann added.
“Raised three boys, one we lost in the war, God rest his soul, and one’s up in Marietta and the third moved down to Florida a few years ago, but we don’t hold that against him. My point is, it has been a great place to raise a family, and you did yourself a smart thing moving in here. But if we let the niggers keep moving in, we’re all in a spot of trouble.”
“So we’re taking a page from the West Side’s playbook,” Martha Ann added.
Then Cassie remembered being at her sister-in-law’s place a few months ago, when Sue Ellen’s kitchen sink was backed up. She saw an image of Mr. Thames crouched down on all fours, a wrench in his hand, later making some silly joke as he cleaned grime from his fingers. He was the local plumber.
“But the West Side did wind up going colored, didn’t it?” Cassie asked.
“True, it didn’t work out so well for them,” Thames said. “Some of their strategies were spot on, they just didn’t always handle things so well.”
Cassie had learned quite a bit about the West Side’s changing demographics from her husband. A neighborhood association of concerned homeowners had done what it could to stave off colored encroachment. Anytime a Negro dropped by to look at houses, representatives of the association showed up in force to inform the Negroes that, contrary to what they had heard, they were not welcome here.
There had also been some beatings and a few bricks tossed through windows.
“You’re right, though,” Martha Ann said. “The West Side did go colored, and the prices went down and all those folks took a big hit. Now, we aren’t wealthy people here, our houses are our lives and our investment, and we can’t let them come and destroy that.”
Her husband went on, “The Realtors and bankers, they all say the same thing: once the coloreds move in, your home value just about vanishes overnight.”
Cassie didn’t like thinking of this. She felt like her head had barely made it out of the fog of having her first two children so close together. How long had she been having a decent night’s sleep now, a few months, tops? It was all she could do to keep the two little ones alive, protect them from electrical outlets and fend off stray dogs and block Denny Jr.’s desperate and tenacious attempts to climb every vertical structure he came across, and then cajole and beg and plead that they go to sleep at night while her husband was at work, whereupon she collapsed into bed, alone. And additional concerns: painting one of the bedrooms, planting some azaleas to spruce up the front yard, repairing the deck—all these tasks existed in some theoretical, additional mental space she did not yet possess. Even yet larger concerns, such as their ability to pay the mortgage each month, and the larger demographic forces that seemed intent on redrawing the map of so many Atlanta neighborhoods, were so far beyond her ken that just contemplating them hurt, actually physically hurt her, in the base of her neck and her shoulders. Everything this couple was telling her had the unfortunate glare of a truth she wanted to look away from, but the harder she tried the brighter it got.
She was not by nature a worrier. The tomboy only daughter following five brothers, she’d been raised to be tough and to focus her energies on whatever task lay before her rather than fretting over what might lay beyond it. She’d known Rake (Denny to her) since they were thirteen, when her gauntlet of older brothers had devised a series of tests for him, an Olympics of manliness they insisted he needed to medal in if he wanted to continue seeing their kid sister. The test had involved outracing one of them in track, outhitting another on the diamond, and shooting a Coke bottle from fifty yards away with an old family rifle. Cryptic hints had been dropped that he might also need to outbox the eldest brother, who had moved out of town to work in an iron smelter in Birmingham but was legendarily tough. Denny lost all three of the tests that first day, but kept returning every Saturday, finally outracing the one, then eventually outslugging the second. He had yet to outshoot the third when Cassie learned of the competition and, outraged to hear that her own dating rights were being so handled, calmly walked outside, took the rifle from Denny, and proceeded to shoot better than not only her future husband but all her brothers.
She had remained a better shot than Denny, until the war.
“From what we understand,” Thames said, “these are mostly good Nigras. They didn’t know they were buying into a white neighborhood. They were hornswoggled by some of those unscrupulous Realtors, and now they’re caught in a bind that ain’t of their own making.”
Denny Jr., in pajamas and mussed hair, appeared at her side. “Mommy, Maggie woke up.”
“Get back in bed, sweetie.” He obeyed, and she told her guests, “I’m gonna need to run. I don’t disagree with what you’ve said, I’m just not real clear on what you’re asking.”
Martha Ann reached into her folder and handed Cassie a mimeographed map of Hanford Park. The three Negro homes were circled. Martha Ann pointed to the Rakestraw home on the map, dragging her finger to the nearest of the three circles to demonstrate how close they were.
“We feel the best way for us to defend our rights is to use simple economics,” Mr. Thames said. “It’s a sacrifice, and I’ll confess that it’s not easy for me to ask this of anyone, and that’s why I bring my wife here for moral support.�
�� Another awkward smile. “But our intent is to raise enough money for CAHP that we can approach the Negroes and offer to buy those homes back from them. Then we can resell ’em to white families.”
“It’s worked in some other neighborhoods,” Martha Ann said with an emphatic nod.
“Like I said, most of them are good Nigras and don’t want to be a problem. I think they’re ashamed, and even a little embarrassed to realize the mess they’ve caused. But they can’t just move out, because then they’re out all that money, and they’d be as financially ruined as we all stand to be if they don’t leave.”
“So our giving money might hurt,” Martha Ann said, “but if we all can hurt a little together, and buy them out, then it’ll spare us from much worse pain later. Once we’ve bought the places back, and resold them to white folks, we’ll be made whole, or close enough.”
Now Cassie could hear Maggie’s cries, that annoying kind of cry that isn’t panic as much as mild unhappiness that only yet another visit from Mama can solve.
“We’ll accept any contribution at all,” Thames said. “Some of the donations have been five dollars, and one was as high as a hundred. When we combine forces like this, we can ensure the community stays the way it should be.”
She agreed with them, but she wasn’t sure if Denny would. She told them she wouldn’t be comfortable making a decision like this without her husband, but they could drop by again another day. That would give her some time to convince him.
They smiled their thanks and left behind some flyers and information about an upcoming meeting she’d try to attend. Then she closed and locked the door. On her way to the kids’ room to check on Maggie, she first stopped at the pantry, returning the pistol to its hiding place.
12
NEARING THE END of their shift, Boggs and Smith walked down Krog Street, a narrow road with ramshackle shotgun houses on one side and the tall brick wall of a recently shuttered textile mill on the other. A squad car passed them, slowly, which struck them both as odd, since this wasn’t a usual cut-through.
Then another squad car approached from the opposite side, pulling over in front of them. The first car stopped at the end of the narrow road.
“Stay cool,” Smith said.
Headlights shined in their faces, blinding them. Doors opened and closed, the slams loud and violent. Out stepped silhouettes unblemished by details or identifying marks of any kind. Boggs held his right hand high to try to block the light, then traded hands so that his right could be near his gun. He couldn’t tell how many there were, likely four at least, maybe more.
“Well looky here, we found ourselves a couple a genuine blue-gummed Senegambians.”
“They seem far from their native habitat.”
“Still imitating police officers,” another said. Boggs still couldn’t see any of their faces. He also couldn’t tell if they were holding weapons, as most of them stood behind their cars. Behind Boggs and Smith was a brick wall, a great place to gun people down if they were so inclined.
“Skin’s like camouflage, ain’t it? Funny thing is, they actually think it works.”
“Don’t you fellas have somewhere you should be?” Smith said.
“You’re the ones who have been in the wrong place way too often lately.”
“This is a polite warning,” another said. Boggs wished he could see them, wished their voices weren’t so similar. They sounded young, all officers, likely no sergeant among them. Messengers sent by some higher authority. “You may walk this beat, but you don’t own it. There are business arrangements and social compacts you’d best not interfere with.”
“We know how to do our jobs,” Smith countered. “Why don’t you go do yours?”
The one standing in the middle laughed, gesturing to the squad cars. “You see how easy it would be for us to take you down if we want? And we got plenty others happy to help us out. You want to stay alive and in uniform, you stick to arresting drunks and thieves, but don’t you think about going no higher’n that.”
“This is our territory,” Boggs said. “And we won’t be threatened.” He wanted to let his hand go toward his holstered gun, but he couldn’t tell if they already had guns on him, in which case a sudden movement would be his last.
“If you even tried to lay a hand on us,” Smith said, “the chief would go through the roof and you know it. You wouldn’t want to lose your meal ticket, would you? Unless there’s another meal ticket you’re protecting?”
“This is your only warning,” one of them said. “Next time, we won’t use words to make our point.”
The silhouettes dissolved back into their vehicles. One of the cars feinted toward them, causing them to back up a step, and they heard laughter as the cars shifted back to reverse and pulled out of the alley.
After they were gone, Smith shook his head. “Spark Jones said Malley has police protection. I’d say he’s right.”
After two, they made it back to the station to clock out and change. Supposedly the prohibition against their wearing their uniforms home was for their protection, lest some drunk crackers ambush a lone Negro officer and do to him what had been done to Smith’s soldier father a generation ago.
As soon as they walked in, McInnis walked right up to them, which wasn’t his usual MO. Lord, Boggs thought, what now?
“Smith, your sister just called,” McInnis said, his voice grave. “She’s unhurt, but she’s at the hospital. Her husband got beat up in Hanford Park.”
13
THEY SPENT FAR too much time in Grady Hospital’s colored wing. Interviewing victims and relatives, lingering in waiting rooms to see who else showed up and to gauge degrees of guilt based on the reaction to their questions. Trying to interrupt mothers’ tears with queries about when she’d last seen her boy alive, trying to snap stunned widows from their fugue long enough to learn the names of best friends and worst enemies. It was both the best place to find information and the worst place to be if you cared about your soul, for they hated what they had to do there, like sticking their fingers in people’s wounds.
This was Smith’s first time at the hospital as kin to a victim. He didn’t like this role any better.
They made their way through the crowded emergency room and then a long hallway crowded with beds that couldn’t fit in rooms already filled beyond capacity. Before swinging doors marked Surgery, they found Smith’s mother and sister, too agitated to sit in the empty quartet of waiting room chairs.
Smith hugged both of them in turn. His mother’s eyes were puffy and her cheeks glistened, and her hair was pulled back in a light knot. Hannah was worse, shaking as he held her.
“He’s in surgery,” said his mother, Michelle. She seemed shell-shocked, a cold tension he’d never heard in her voice before. “A nurse came out about thirty minutes ago. She said his . . . life isn’t in danger, but they needed to attend to some internal bleeding.”
“What happened?” Smith asked.
“I don’t know,” Hannah said, her voice thick. “He was working late and I’d fallen asleep. Then I got woken up when a neighbor knocked on my door, said it looked like Malcolm was lying on the sidewalk. Didn’t know how long he’d been lying there.”
“Any police come by?”
His mother made a face like he’d told an off-color joke. So he asked Hannah what time Malcolm usually got off work.
“Depends on what act they have that night. Sometimes ten, sometimes two. He usually drives, but he took the bus today because I told him I . . . needed the car.” Her voice broke.
“It’s not your fault,” Smith said. They could piece things together later, find Malcolm’s work schedule, ask his boss when he left, interview the bus driver for confirmation, find out which neighbor had spotted him. “We’ll find who did this. You’ll need to file a police report.”
“You two are here now, isn’t that enough?”
“We’re not on duty,” Smith said. “And I’m family, so it should be someone else.”
“I don’t want to talk to white cops. They haven’t done a thing about the brick thrown through our window, have they? For all I know, they’re the ones who did this!”
“Tommy, let her be,” his mother said. “Now isn’t the time for your protocol.”
Pressing Hannah may have appeared cruel, but he wanted to believe that proceeding by the book would increase their chances of seeing some modicum of justice.
Smith said, “We’ll make sure the officers in your neighborhood take this seriously.” He himself didn’t believe that, and it wasn’t his style to make empty promises. He wasn’t handling himself right, the officer role not fitting so well when he wore the victim role beneath it. So he told himself to focus on the officer part. “Me and Lucius will be back in a little while. We’re going to check the house.”
“Right now?” his mother asked, meaning, At night? In the dark?
“Yes.” The look of horror on their faces actually made it less frightening, to be reminded that he did things that others dared not.
Two flashlight beams, meek against the overwhelming darkness of the night, as Boggs and Smith searched the block. All they found was blood.
Getting here had not been easy; first a fifteen-minute hustle to Boggs’s parents’ house, where Boggs left a note on the kitchen table and borrowed his father’s car, then the fifteen-minute drive across town. They barely spoke, Boggs warily watching his partner, who was livid and uncharacteristically silent.
Malcolm had been found not in front of their house but five houses south. That partly explained why Hannah hadn’t been woken up by the beating, but still, they must have been quiet. Not even a confrontation, perhaps, just a sucker punch or other blow from behind, then a beating while he lay on the ground.
No sound but crickets and frogs as they moved about. It was past four now and nearly every light in every house was off, yet they still tried to find something, anything. A bottle with fingerprints, a bottle cap, a scrap of clothing, a cigarette butt. Yet they were searching the cleanest block in Atlanta.
Lightning Men Page 11