Grant Park

by Leonard Pitts, Jr.

  He did not go far. Just a few feet. Just far enough to put distance between himself and the idea of wrapping his hands around Dwayne McLarty’s scrawny neck and squeezing until his eyes bulged and his neck cracked and he gurgled and flailed helplessly and his breathing stopped. Why not? He had done it once already, hadn’t he? No going back from that.

  And unlike the little homeless nigger whose body lay discarded like trash in a corner of Grandpa Ben’s old warehouse, maybe Dwayne actually deserved to have the life choked out of him. He had used. He had fucking used. After all the promises he had made, after all Clarence had told him about how he hated that shit and why he hated that shit, he had gone first thing and hit that fucking pipe.

  They were white men. Dwayne had preached to him a hundred times, a thousand times, how that meant they were heirs to the great warriors of Europe, cosigners of the great documents that had lifted humankind out of the cave, copainters of the great works of art that hung in the great museums of European capitals, codiscoverers of the great advances in science that had brought light, flight, and microwave ovens to a waiting world. Theirs was a proud and noble legacy unmatched by the woolly African niggers or the slopes or the spics or the Jews or the redskins or any of God’s other rejects.

  They were white men. This meant they were better.

  Except how could they call themselves better if Dwayne was sucking on that fucking pipe? That pipe made a lie out of everything he ever said, all the great glory he ever claimed. Why could he not see that?

  “Look, Clarence…”

  And now, predictably, here came Dwayne, his voice contrite. “I apologize, okay? How many fucking times do you want me to say it? How many fucking times how many fucking times how many fucking times?”

  Clarence spoke without turning around. “You’re doing it again,” he said.

  “Doing what? What am I doing? Doing what?”

  “That thing you do when you’re high where you say everything three times.”

  “No I’m not no I’m not no I’m not.”

  “You just did it.”

  “When?”

  “Just now.”

  “Really? Shit shit shit. I didn’t mean to.”

  “Yeah, that’s what they always say,” said Pym. “People who use that shit, they always tell you they don’t mean to say the things they say or do the things they do. They always say they don’t mean to treat you like crap and they always promise they’ll never do it again. But somehow, that never stops them from doing it. Gets to the point you can’t even stand to listen to it. Gets to the point you don’t believe a goddamn thing they say anymore.”

  “Clarence Clarence Clarence…”

  Clarence turned. “When you use that shit, it makes you mean and nasty just like he was. I promised myself when I was a kid that the one thing I wouldn’t do when I got grown, I wouldn’t put up with being treated like that ever again. I’d rather die first. I told you that, right? I’d rather die.”

  Something flickered in Dwayne’s berserk eyes. “Yeah, partner,” he said, softly, “you told me.”

  Cautiously, Dwayne came closer. Clarence was embarrassed to feel his eyes welling. He smacked at them with his large hands, angry with himself for allowing this emotion, this weakness, to leak out of him. Dwayne was touching his shoulder. “I let you down,” he said. “I get that. I broke my promise.”

  “You don’t hit me again,” Clarence said. He leveled his finger. His voice was hard. “You don’t ever lay a fucking hand on me again. You got that?”

  “Yeah,” said Dwayne, solemnly. “I got it.”

  “You never did that before. You never treated me like Darrin before.”

  Dwayne nodded. “Yeah, that was the first time,” he said. “But you know something?

  Clarence was curious, even though he didn’t want to be. “What?” he asked.

  Dwayne’s grin was Cheshire. “At least you know it’s also the last.”

  Clarence barked a short laugh without meaning to. “Yeah, I guess you’re right about that,” he said.

  “So what do you say, Sergeant? You ready to help me complete this mission?”

  It took a moment. Then Clarence nodded. “Right behind you, Captain,” he said.

  “You making any progress back there?” whispered Malcolm.

  “Yes,” said Janeka. “I’m making great progress in cutting my fingers to ribbons. The other kind, not so much.”

  “Damn,” said Malcolm.

  “I’m doing my best,” she said.

  “I’m not blaming you,” he said. “I’m just worried. I don’t know how much time we’ve got.”

  “I’ve got no leverage,” she said. “Nothing to brace this thing against. And with my wrists taped together and not being able to see what I’m doing, it’s not the easiest thing in the world to do.”

  “Keep trying,” said Malcolm. “It’s not like we have any other options.”

  “I still can’t believe they think they’re going to kill Senator Obama,” said Janeka.

  A snort of laughter escaped Malcolm. “Waste of time even if they could,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re trying to stop him from being elected president, right? They could have saved the effort. The American people are going to do that by themselves.”

  “That’s right. You said that in your column this morning, didn’t you? You think he’s going to lose.”

  Malcolm corrected her. “I know he’s going to lose,” he said.

  “You do know that I work for the senator, right?”

  “No, I didn’t,” admitted Malcolm. “Not that it would change my opinion. I’m sorry to burst your balloon, but tomorrow you’ll still be working for the senator and some bright and shiny white Republican with a flag pin in his lapel will be working for the president-elect.”

  “Well,” said Janeka, “I’ve seen the polling and the polling disagrees with you.”

  “Come on, sister,” whispered Malcolm. “We both know there are some things those polls are never going to capture, some things white folks aren’t even going to know they feel until they’re all alone in that voting booth.”

  Malcolm heard a gust of anger blow out of the woman behind him as the soft sound of ceramic scratching against duct tape continued. “You know,” she said, “you really have a way of pissing people off.”

  “It’s a gift,” said Malcolm. “Keep sawing.”

  With a grunt, Clarence lifted the last of the Kool-Aid tubs into the van. Dwayne was inspecting a blasting cap.

  “That’s the last of it,” said Clarence.

  “We’ve still got to paint the armor.”

  “Yeah,” said Clarence, “I know.” He dragged a forearm across his brow. It came away muddy with dirt and sweat.

  “Why don’t you check on the prisoners, Sergeant? They’re mighty quiet back there. I don’t trust niggers when they’re quiet.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “I got it,” whispered Janeka. Malcolm heard the adhesive tearing even as she spoke. Adrenaline drove a spike through his chest.

  “Hurry up, then. Get the key so we can get out of here.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” she hissed, “walk over there on my hands? Let me get my feet loose first.”

  It was as she was saying this that the sudden harsh white light fell upon them, its brightness so punishing it was like looking into an electronic sun. Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut. He tried to bring his hands up, but the chains prevented this.

  “What’s going on here?”

  It was Pym, though Malcolm only knew this by the sound of the voice. Had he heard them? Malcolm decided to believe he had not. “We’re having a picnic,” he answered in an acid voice. “What do you think is going on? And get that light of my eyes, would you?”

  Pym gave a sour chuckle. “Funny nigger til the end,” he said. But he moved the powerful battery-operated lantern to one side and Malcolm, blinking hard, was able to make out the shadow of hi
m, looming high above like a mountain.

  “You and your friend come to your senses?” asked Malcolm. “You’re here to apologize and let us go?”

  “Hee-fucking-larious as usual,” said Pym. “You’re just a regular Chris Rock, huh?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Pym took his lantern and went to check on Janeka. “What about you, lady? You all right back there? You want some water or something?”

  “She wants you to try a new mouthwash,” said Malcolm. He had to goad the giant, provoke him, keep him from inspecting too closely and seeing that Janeka’s hands were free.

  “Keep it up, funny guy,” said Pym. “We’ll see who laughs last.”

  “I’m fine,” Malcolm heard Janeka say.

  Pym told her, “I’m sorry about this, by the way. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. He wasn’t supposed to involve anybody else.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, “so now I guess you’re going to kill me, too?”

  “It’s not like it’s something I want to do,” said Clarence. A wounded, faintly defensive note had crept into his voice.

  “Won’t matter to me much if it’s something you wanted to do or not,” said Janeka. “I’m dead either way. I don’t want to die, Clarence. I haven’t done anything to deserve to die.”

  “Nobody deserves what they get,” said Pym, “and damn few get what they deserve.”

  He sank down to the metal chair he had used earlier in the day. The giant suddenly seemed tired in some way that went far beyond the merely physical.

  “You look exhausted,” said Malcolm.

  “Yeah.”

  “Hard work, being a homicidal psychopath.”

  “Would you just, for one minute, shut up and leave me the fuck alone?” Pym pleaded.

  Malcolm was about to answer when McLarty yelled into the darkness. “You all right in there, Sergeant?”

  “Yeah,” called Pym with a sigh.

  “Taking you a long time just to check on a couple niggers.”

  “I’m tired,” called Pym. “Taking a break.”

  “Is that so?” A moment later, McLarty appeared, walking in a semi-crouch, his own lantern held high, the ridiculous pink pistol clutched in his fist, turned sideways like something from a rap video. When he saw Pym, he straightened and shoved the gun into his belt. “Thought they might have gotten the drop on you,” he said. “Can’t be too careful.”

  “No,” said Pym. “I told you. I’m just resting.”

  “So I see.”

  Pym nodded toward the weapon. “That’s your mom’s gun, isn’t it?” he asked.

  For no reason that Malcolm could see, McLarty giggled. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s hers all right. She doesn’t mind if I use it.”

  “But what happened to the Luger?”

  “Long story,” said McLarty. “Come on come on come on, we got to get back to work. Got to finish wiring the bomb, paint the armor.”

  “In a minute,” said Pym.

  At that, Malcolm saw an unmistakable irritation flash in McLarty’s eyes. He struggled visibly to master it. “All righty then,” he said in a magnanimous voice, “we’ll take five.”

  Then his gaze fell across the computer, sitting dark and quiet on the table, and he snapped his fingers. “Holy shit,” he said. “I clean forgot to look for the video. Been so busy getting ready for the big event it slipped my mind.” A glance toward Janeka. “Bet your boyfriend’s shittin’ bricks, huh?” She didn’t answer him and he didn’t wait for it, nodding instead toward Pym. “Why don’t you fire it up, Sergeant?”

  With a grunt, Pym came around on his chair, turned the computer on, and started banging at the keys. Moments later, McLarty emitted a cackle of delight that banged off the walls of the old warehouse as the image of Pym, massive and sullen, came onscreen, reciting their manifesto while Malcolm sat in front of him, dazed and disheveled, grimacing in pain and not quite in the world.

  “There it is,” cried McLarty, as if they could not see. “He did it! Good going, Bob. They know we’re serious, by God. The white man has taken all he’s going to take!” Another laugh as he slapped Pym’s broad back. Pym allowed himself a grin of satisfaction at the sight of himself on the screen.

  “Look here,” he said, pointing to the counter beneath the image. “Over 60,000 hits.”

  “I told you, didn’t I? I told you!”

  “You told me,” agreed Pym, still grinning, fatigue apparently forgotten. “This is so fucking cool.”

  “You know what I’m going to do?” McLarty had whipped a piece of scrap paper from his pocket. “I’m going to call this chick’s boyfriend. Poor sap’s been waiting for hours. Told him I would let her go if he got the video posted online. Lend me your phone, will you? Mine’s busted.”

  Clarence passed the phone across. “So, you’re going to do it? You’re going to let her go?”

  McLarty, the scrap of paper in one hand as he punched numbers in with the thumb of the other, looked up with an incredulous grin. “Are you kidding? Fuck no fuck no fuck no. She dies like everybody else.”

  They had covered the last block on foot so the sound of the van’s engine would not alert Pym and McLarty to their presence. That is, assuming Pym and McLarty were even there.

  This was, Bob had come to believe, a very big assumption. He had reached a conclusion based on conjecture and hope, a need to be doing something other than just passively waiting while other people decided his fate—and Janeka’s. But he’d had time to think about it while navigating his way here, first barreling through traffic, then creeping along as they got closer to the area, and he had concluded he was probably wrong.

  Who did he think he was? Spenser? Mike Hammer? What he’d done wasn’t deduction. It was the glorified hunch of a man who desperately needed it to be true, and for that reason it was as unreliable as the stock market. Raintree was right. This was work best left to people who knew what the hell they were doing, not some clumsy amateur driven by four decades of carrying a torch for a girl he knew in college.

  Bob had almost turned back. But what the heck? He was so close, he might as well follow through. At this point, what could it hurt?

  He came creeping around the side of the building, Amy behind him, feeling like some kind of fool, eager to just get this over with. He peered around a corner into what turned out to be a short, narrow alley with no exit, closed on the far end by a brick wall.

  There was a white van parked there with what appeared, in the light from the street lamps, to be metal drums in the back. And parked behind it was a red pickup truck.

  “Holy shit,” said Amy, gaping from behind him.

  “Yeah,” said Bob.

  His gaze went again to the van and the drums inside. He wondered why the sight sent a coldness radiating through him. And then he knew. Bob hardly dared to breathe. “I think they’re building a bomb,” he whispered.

  Amy said, “Shhh. Listen.”

  She was pointing toward an open rollup door he had not noticed before. Through it, he heard Dwayne McLarty say very clearly, “I told you, didn’t I? I told you!”

  Another voice—Pym, he assumed—agreed. “You told me. This is so fucking cool.”

  It was them. He had done it. He had actually found them. And maybe Janeka was in there, alive and unharmed. Bob’s heart hammered like a carpenter.

  “Bob?” whispered Amy.

  “Yeah?”

  “We’ve got to call the cops, remember? Get Raintree down here.”

  “Right!” He grabbed his cellphone off the holster on his belt and brought it up to the light so he could look for Raintree’s number.

  And right at that instant, the phone chirped.

  Loudly.

  “Oh shit,” said Amy.

  McLarty’s voice said, “What the fuck? You hear that?”

  “Yeah,” said Pym. “Somebody’s out there.” Then he yelled. “Who’s out there?”

  “Run!” hissed Amy.

  They ran. They ran as fast as they could. It
was not nearly fast enough.

  Bob, who hit the gym on a regular basis, was still in good shape for a man of nearly 60 years, and he might have had a chance if he had been alone. But he wasn’t. Amy was body sore, still half concussed, and by all rights, should have been curled up on a couch with a teddy bear and a bowl of chicken soup. Bob grabbed her hand and tried to pull her along, but it was no use. She stumbled after him as best she could, but together they were no match for the speed at which the hopped-up little meth freak came tearing out of the old warehouse, waving that absurd pistol and yelling “Stop, motherfucker! Stop, or I’ll shoot!”

  Bob looked back at Amy. She knew what he was thinking. “Don’t you stop,” she told him. “Leave me here! Get help!” She tried to wrench her hand free of his.

  Bob stopped.

  An instant later, McLarty was on them. “All right,” he snarled, “you got, like, two seconds to tell me who the fuck you are and—” Then he squinted in the pale light, recognition brightening his face. “Bob?” McLarty laughed. “Bob, is that you?”

  “Yeah,” said Bob. “Small world.”

  “And you.” He looked closer at Amy. “That crazy bitch who slugged me. Ought to pop you right now.” And holding the gun sideways, he pressed the muzzle hard against Amy’s temple, pushing her head back. Her hands came up and she jammed her eyes shut and Bob tried to think of what to say, what to do, because this could not happen in front of him, it simply could not. But his mind was as empty as an abandoned house.

  McLarty grinned. “Nah,” he said, pulling the pistol away. “I’m just fuckin’ with you. We got plenty time for that later.” He confiscated their cellphones and motioned with the gun. “Come on inside. Let’s get acquainted.”

  And what else could they do? Bob lifted his hands like the captive in some old TV western. He and Amy walked back toward the building and stepped through the rollup door. It took Bob’s eyes a moment to adjust when they entered the warehouse. Two lanterns punched blinding holes in the darkness and he had to shield his eyes.

  “We got visitors,” announced McLarty merrily. “This here is Bob. And this other one here is Amy. They’re the ones work for the jewspaper.”