“You sure you're ready for that?” she asked.
“You saw the flower she made me and those big brown eyes looking up at me in the hallway that night, right?”
“Yes I saw them. No doubt about it, that girl can melt a heart.”
90 minutes later we walked into a popular kid-themed pizzeria with lots of video games, ski-ball machines, and stuffed animals dangling from the ceiling and walls. It was loud and gaudy, and though it was the kind of place I usually avoided like the plague, the night was all about Soul, and she loved every minute of it. There were screaming kids running every which way, and sirens, bells and flashing lights everywhere. Soul had never played ski-ball but she was a natural. Every time she won a ticket she gave me a hug or a high-five. The two of us were on a roll, but I lost track of La Lena, and when I scanned the room she was sitting at the table with her chin resting on folded hands watching us. She was peace personified, and I knew then that what she told me was true. There was no way anyone could fake that look. It was at that moment I knew I'd help her. That I'd do whatever I had to.
Soul won a big handful of those little red tickets that she cashed in for a purple and yellow stuffed bunny and a pink heart key chain. By the time we sat down to eat my shirt was soaked and my feet were aching. We ordered a large cheese and pepperoni pizza and a pitcher of birch beer. Soul was in her own little world, and La Lena and I didn't talk much either. We didn't need to. We were fulfilled.
On the way home Soul curled up in the back seat and had a conversation with her rabbit, and by the time we got to their apartment she was sound asleep.
“What you told me the other day has been bugging me,” I whispered.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “I never should’ve said that. It was selfish and foolish. Can we please just forget it?”
“We don't need to forget it,” I said. “It's just not the kind of thing a guy hears every day.”
She nodded and looked down. The fingers of her left hand spun a silver ring on her right pinky. I told her I wanted to help, and that if she was playing me I had nobody to blame but myself.
“Dutch, look at me,” she said. She wanted to show me the sincerity on her face. I didn't need to see it, because I'd already seen it in the pizzeria. I looked anyway.
“I'd never lie to you,” she said.
I told her she needed to set up a meeting with someone from the organization. A straight-shooter with authority, and that if I didn’t trust them I’d walk.
“And one more thing,” I said. “No promises. Just a meeting. That's all.”
“Why are you so loyal to us?” La Lena asked. “Are Soul and I really that special?”
“Yes,” I said. “You are.”
“You could walk away from all of this,” she continued. “You have money. You could disappear and live the rest of your life on a beach somewhere. They'd never come after you.”
I shrugged. “I’m just a sucker for a pretty face,” I said, “and I’ve never been much of a beach guy. And anyway, think about things from my perspective. I belong to a race that your former organization sees as an oppressor worthy of annihilation, and I'm in a position to give you and Soul your freedom. Put yourself in my shoes. What would you think?”
“I'm not that person anymore Dutch. I love you. I just told you that you could be free of all of this. That there's a way out. Would I have told you that if I was deceiving you? If I didn't love you?”
“Maybe we both just have trust issues and low self-esteem,” I said, trying to add a little levity to the conversation before I pulled the pin on my hand-grenade. She'd given me the perfect opening. She said she wasn't the same person she used to be. I wondered if she'd believe the same of me.
“There's something I need to tell you. It's about my past. It’s ugly.”
“I'm listening,” she said.
Saying what I needed to say wasn’t going to be easy, and it couldn’t be done tactfully, so I just let it rip.
“Here it is,” I said. “When I was young I was a world-class asshole with a chip on my shoulder the size of Mount Rushmore. God, I'm glad I didn't meet you then. I was pissed off at everybody and everything. A fucked up loner with a short fuse. Anti-authority, anti-rules,” I paused, “and a racist too.”
She turned toward me. I'd gotten her attention.
“When I was 19 I assaulted a cop. A black cop. The guy was just doing his job. I'd parked illegally and ran into a store to buy cigarettes, and when I came out he was writing me a ticket. I let him have it. Just words at first, but it ended with me on top of him smashing his face into ground chuck.”
It was the first time I'd seen La Lena speechless, and I wasn’t even finished.
“There's something else,” I muttered. “I called him a nigger. I called him a stupid fucking nigger.”
“Wow,” she said.
“I can't imagine what you must be thinking.”
Her response came quickly. “We've done horrible things. Both of us. We're human. We're just hopelessly flawed human beings.”
She was right. She was right a lot.
I told her how three white bystanders pulled me off the battered cop and held me there until other officers arrived. The judge presiding over the case gave me two choices: join the Army and serve my country in Vietnam, or spend the next two years in a state prison duking it out with gang-bangers, rapists and murderers. I chose the former.
The silence was painful.
“You still love me after what I just told you?” I asked.
“I still love you. Nothing's changed.”
29
I SHOWED UP AT THE diner at ten after 12. Having grilled cheese and tomato soup with a black radical wasn't my idea of a good time, but broaden your horizons, that's what I always say. My plan was to keep my mouth shut and my ears open.
La Lena was sitting in a booth across from a scarecrow thin black man who looked about 60. As I approached she scooted toward the window and I sat down beside her. She introduced us and he thanked me for coming. Either he was the same guy who'd sent her into a dangerous neighborhood at night to play fluff-girl for a drunk Jamaican, or Arnold was a popular name in the Baltimore black power movement. I was pretty sure it wasn't the latter. Not only that, I recognized his voice. He was the basement interrogator.
“Have we met?” I asked. “Your voice sounds familiar.”
“No, I don't think so. La Lena and I work together sometimes,” he said.
“Oh, you work at the dry cleaner too?” I asked sarcastically.
“No, I don't. It may sound overly idealistic, but we're trying to make the world a better place for our brothers and sisters,” he said. The guy didn't waste any time.
“Nothing wrong with that,” I said.
“I understand you've got a few grievances of your own.”
“You don't know the half of it,” I said, “but what makes me the unhappiest is thinking about the people I love getting hurt.”
He said there was no reason we both couldn’t get what we wanted.
I turned to La Lena, and when I told her I needed to talk to Arnold alone and that she should go back to work she looked to him for approval.
“You don't need his permission,” I said. It was important I didn't start out from a position of weakness. Under the table I grabbed the top of her left thigh and gave it a squeeze. She slid out apprehensively, and I watched until she was out of sight.
“Look Dutch, we know a lot about you,” Arnold said. “We know you're not a cop. We know about your family, your background, and how you built your business from the ground up. Your brush with the law, and tour in Vietnam too.”
They'd done their homework. Good work Lestrade! I shrugged.
“And?” I said.
“This might be hard for you to comprehend, but there are powerful men who make their livings preying on my people. They target the vulnerable. Single women, children, addicts. They exploit weakness, hopelessness, and despair for profit. They intentionally keep a whol
e race of people down.”
“Last time I looked there were lots of black men who preyed on their own people too,” I said.
“You're right there are, and they're despicable, but almost without exception the men at the top are white. They're the men pulling the strings. Always have been. I bet even you'd agree with that.”
“Of course I would. It's a fact, but so what? You think you're going to change that?”
“I'm not going to change it by doing nothing, am I?”
“So why don't you tell me what you're talking about,” I said. “Maybe what you've got in mind is something I'll refuse to get involved in, and if that's the case we're just wasting our time. No offense, but there are lots of places I'd rather be.”
“All right,” he said nonchalantly. “Shock-bombings. In public places.”
My jaw should've dropped, but it didn't. I was way past that stage. Shock-bombing wasn't a term I'd ever heard, but its meaning was crystal clear. I'd experienced things just like it in Vietnam. The nastiest, most reprehensible and cowardly acts one group can commit against another. When civilian populations that actively or tacitly support your enemy are targeted instead of the enemy itself. Its aims are manifold. Mangled corpses and carnage do make their own statements, but the primary goals of such campaigns are the terror and debilitating uncertainty that plague the targeted population afterward. Ironically, the physical devastation is of secondary importance. These tactics can also be used to goad an enemy into a battle for which it's not prepared. In its most dastardly form, it involves deceiving the victims. Tricking them into believing that the force to which they're sympathetic is the actual perpetrator. The sick nuances are endless. It's a giant mind-fuck. More psychological warfare than conventional. In Vietnam, we Americans were just as guilty of using such strategies as the Vietcong and NVA. Don't believe me? Check out the Phoenix Program.
This Arnold character who'd played such a casual game with La Lena's wellbeing, maybe even her life, just told me his group was planning a terror campaign against innocent whites. I wondered what was going through his mind. Suppose I turned him down and he followed through on his threat and hurt La Lena and Soul. What did he expect me to do? Take it lying down? I doubt it. More likely I'd be the first to get a bullet behind the ear. Then, after I was in the dirt he'd make good on his threats against La Lena and Soul. Whatever his plan, he'd ignited a deep, multi-faceted hatred inside me.
“How do you know I won't go the police?” I asked, trying my best to ignore the powerful emotions bubbling just under the surface.
“Come on Dutch,” he said. “You know the answer to that question.”
He was right. I did. I just wanted him to say it. To threaten La Lena and Soul explicitly, but the fact he wouldn't didn't change anything. In 15 minutes I'd learned everything I'd ever need to know about the man sitting across from me.
“So you're talking about upscale shopping malls and ritzy venues where wealthy white people gather in large numbers, like the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra for instance. Correct?”
“You're a quick study,” he said.
“Why me?” I asked. “Why do you need my help?”
“Well, we don't need your help, not really. But why would we put one of our own at risk if we had an alternative? That would be an unforgivable misuse of a valuable resource. Simple as that. You get caught you'd never roll over and turn state's evidence. You're fiercely loyal and protective. I know that about you. Plus, let's face it, white people are just a lot less suspicious aren't they? A white man in a restricted access hallway at the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra is just lost and looking for the bathroom, but a black guy in the same hallway is just another nigger up to no good.”
As Arnold talked my mind divided itself into two autonomous hemispheres. One was intent on his every word, noting slight changes in intonation and facial expression. The other was oblivious to those external stimuli, but from its soundless vacuum it labored away formulating a course of action with the highest likelihood of success despite the obstacles in its path.
“So here it is,” I said. “That pretty girl who was just sitting right here gets left alone from this moment on. She's got a life and a beautiful daughter who needs her. If that can't happen then there's nothing more to talk about. If you can't look me in the eyes and give me your word on that we're done. If you don't have the authority to make that kind of promise then you need to find someone who does.” I paused. “That's for starters. Next, no way am I ever going to participate in your terror campaign. Never gonna happen. Not in a million fucking years.”
“Well, I guess that's that,” he said, rising.
“I’m not done. Sit down,” I said like I was the CEO and he was the part-time janitor. It caught him off guard, but he did as he was told. “Now, if you want to pinpoint an isolated target, one man, with no collateral damage, then that's something I might be willing to help with. But it'd have to be someone so corrupt, so depraved, and so rotten to the core that any sane person couldn't help but conclude that the world would be a better place without him. That's my offer, take it or leave it, but whatever you do, don't lie to me,” or I'll knock your wormy eyes into your cerebral cortex.
He smirked, like he'd heard the silent threat from my subconscious. I smirked back, leering into his milky Komodo dragon eyes. The kind of eyes you get after a lifetime of stress and booze. I noticed his hands trembling too. He saw me looking and told me that after 40 years he quit drinking, and his hands had been shaking ever since.
“How long since your last drink?” I asked.
“Three years, eight months and three days,” he said.
“What, no hours?” I asked. I was trying to be a dick, but he didn't take the bait.
We both stood sensing the meeting had come to an end. He laid a few dollars on the table, then slipped his twiggy arms into the sleeves of his worn-out army jacket.
“You in Nam?” I asked.
“Korea.”
30
I PULLED INTO THE BIG parking lot of the Mexican place on York Road in Timonium and slipped into the farthest spot from the entrance. Not that I'm one of those pretentious pricks who worries that some inconsiderate asshole will ding his new car with a carelessly opened door. I parked there to make a statement, at least subconsciously. Leave me alone. I don't want to see you, talk to you, or waste one unit of energy giving you a fake smile. May as well have been a bumper sticker. Does not play well with others.
About 30 yards away right in front of the restaurant, 20 cars sat clustered together like a school of baitfish, or sheep in a pathetic little flock. Mindless metal and plastic hulks driven by scared little robots who found comfort in closeness and conformity.
At that moment there were only two people in the world I'd have enjoyed seeing. One was in a second grade classroom somewhere in the city, the other at a dry cleaners in Cherry Hill.
When I walked in the front door Frank and James were already seated. I steeled myself and put on a smile so phony I thought my face might implode. Like the inwardly curled mouth of some toothless hayseed sucking on a lemon wedge.
We ordered a family-size platter of chicken fajitas and three Sprites in green longneck bottles. We made small talk and filled our stomachs, at least they did. I wasn’t in the mood for either. I was hiding my eagerness to unload the company on them, and they were hiding their enthusiasm in taking over from me. I noted the irony. It was a childish waste of energy and it made me tense. I forced down half of what was on my plate, then pushed it aside. I was just about to ask for their offer when a noisy adult birthday group burst into the dining room. Too loud and careless for my taste. Not a difficult thing to accomplish. A fat guy in a pink hat made for five-year-old girls bumped into me, and hard. No apology. He stopped to chat with his buddy, his fat ass hovering in the narrow aisle just inches from my face. On the other side next to my left ear a balloon popped. BANG! Here we go. I stood up, knocking my chair over. I grabbed his arm and wheeled him around.
“If you don't give me some space I'm gonna send you to the ER you fat fuck,” I said. I meant it, and he knew it. I hadn't seen eyes that wide since Nam.
For the next 20 seconds or so everything stopped. Like in the movies when some poor, terrified soul is on a stage under a blinding spotlight and everybody in the audience is laughing and pointing at him in slow motion for what seems like an eternity, but there's no sound. I was that guy.
Then I exhaled and slowly emerged from the soundless abyss back into the world. The fork in my hand fell to the floor and my sight returned, along with the familiar flood of guilt and shame. The eyes and silence slammed into me. I was shrinking. Deflating. The group moved off. I dropped into my chair, exhausted.
I'd like to take this opportunity to thank the Vietnam Conflict for the gifts that keep on giving year after year. Uncontrollable rage and a neurotic aversion to loud noises. Not a complete list by any stretch. Do I blame the Vietnamese people? Nope. Not even the Viet Cong or NVA. Whose country was I in? Do I blame Henry Kissinger and Robert McNamara? You bet your life. Gulf of Tonkin my ass.
“Jesus. You OK?” James asked.
“Fine,” I said, but I wasn't. How the hell could I ever be a husband? A father?
They put their fajitas down and looked at one another.
“Guys, I'm sorry. I gotta go. What's your offer?”
James removed a neatly folded paper from the pocket of his blazer and handed it to me.
“Done.” No counteroffer. No negotiation. No poker face. The charade was over.
If not for the hideous scene I'd just created I may have felt, dare I say it: good. But that's what I do. I sabotage. I'd just been relieved of a giant burden. They'd done me a huge favor. I wasn't yet 40 and I was set for the rest of my life, but I couldn't enjoy any of it.
On the way out I handed the waitress three twenties. I figured that would cover the food, drinks, and my shameful outburst.
FOR MOST PEOPLE AN incident like that would’ve been the low-point of their day. But for Dutch Jameson, not necessarily.
Shakedown on Hate St Page 10