Black & White

by Lewis Shiner

  Next to the locked wooden door was a 2004 calendar, poster sized, with a marker pen hanging on a string. The first Wednesday of every month was circled. The meetings were still going on, then. The next one was in two days.

  The only other date marked was November 6, the coming Saturday. There was a black X through the date. Some hated anniversary? Michael wondered. Not MLK’s birthday; that was in January. The day the Supreme Court decided Brown v. Board of Education? Or something more sinister?

  Whatever it was, Michael had to leave. He had begun to tremble all over. The tension was catching up to him, and he couldn’t allow that to happen, not yet.

  He climbed the stairs and let himself out of the pantry. The house was quiet. When he stepped out the back door, Henry was waiting for him, scampering back and forth with excitement. Henry barked again, and Michael jumped. “Henry, heel!” he whispered, and snapped his fingers twice. He turned the lock on the doorknob and pulled it closed. Then he knelt and rubbed the dog’s chest fur. “You ratted me out, you bastard,” he said. Henry licked Michael’s face, untroubled by the dirt and sweat, eager for more adventure.

  Together they walked to the end of the driveway. And it was there, as he stripped off the latex gloves, that Michael realized he’d left his bag of tools in the ceiling.

  “Henry, sit,” he said, with a finger snap. Henry sat. Michael looked back at the house and thought about doing it all over again, peeling the tape from the window and unlocking the door, climbing into the ceiling, cleaning up after himself. It wasn’t worth it. What were the odds that Vaughan would ever find that bag? And what difference would it make if he did?

  Michael took one step toward his car, then another, fighting the urge to run that might have made Henry chase him. Henry whined. Michael looked back, said “No,” and kept walking.

  When he got to the car he fumbled the keys, dropping them twice in the dirt before he remembered that the door wasn’t locked. He got behind the wheel and turned the keys in the ignition, breathing the plastic-scented air, comforted by the quiet ping as the electrical system sprang to life and the engine turned over.

  He pulled onto the narrow tarmac and coasted past the driveway, where Henry still waited with a forlorn expression, before switching on the lights. Then he found himself going too fast and had to take his foot off the gas.

  The rear view mirror was clear. He put the windows down and sucked cold, clean air into his lungs.

  At highway 70 he turned his cell phone on. The display announced seven new messages. He called Denise.

  “Thank God,” she said. She sounded weak with relief. “I almost called the police three times. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  “Did you find what you were looking for? Was it worth putting me through this?”

  “I think my grandfather used to host the Night Riders of the Confederacy in his basement. And now my cousin Vaughan is continuing the tradition.” He told her what he’d seen.

  “Oh my God. And you’re sure he didn’t see you?”

  “I’m sure. If he’d seen me I wouldn’t be here now.”

  “Michael, you have to walk away from this. The NRC is not some joke. They are still killing people and getting away with it. They’ve got members who are cops, politicians, business people. They’re everywhere.”

  “I’m done,” Michael said. “I’m telling Sgt. Bishop everything I know tomorrow, and that’s it.”

  “Are you sure you can trust him?”

  “Am I positive? No. But he’s been straight with me so far. And I have to trust somebody.”

  They talked another 20 minutes, until Michael hit the Raleigh city limits, and then he had to hang up and pay attention to the road. By the time he got to his hotel he was beyond exhaustion. He passed out twice in the shower and was asleep within seconds of hitting the bed.

  Tuesday, November 2

  He woke hard at seven o’clock, thinking of the brown pillowcase of evidence he’d left behind. He spent half an hour telling himself that it made no difference, no one would ever find it, and if they did, nothing in it would identify Michael.

  Gradually his breathing slowed, and he was on the verge of sleep again when he remembered the receipt. He’d taken everything from the plastic Home Depot bag and transferred it to the pillowcase, there outside the thrift store. Everything? The receipt would tell Vaughan where he’d bought it and when. It would lead Vaughan to the clerk, who would remember Michael because of the breaking and entering joke.

  He sat up in bed. He’d thrown the plastic bag in a trash can outside the thrift store. If the receipt was in the bag, it meant it wasn’t in the pillowcase. He tried to picture it in his head, a ribbon of white paper in the bottom of the bag as he crumpled it.

  The memory wouldn’t come.

  He might have put it in his pocket. He got up and searched his khakis from the day before, then went through the filthy black jeans he’d worn to the Bynum farm.

  Nothing.

  He got dressed and went downstairs. No receipts in the rental car.

  If they hadn’t emptied the trash outside the thrift store, the bag might still be there. He drove to the Durham Freeway and took it north through downtown, noting absently that they’d finished work on the American Tobacco complex, with signs and lights and retail businesses in place. He caught a glimpse of fountains and green lawns between the rows of former warehouses.

  Then he was exiting, curving south again to Lakewood. The stores in the center were still dark, meaning no one would be watching him. This seemed like a good thing, as Michael was operating on nerves and three hours sleep. He parked at the curb and got out onto stiff legs. The trash can lid was brown, with a V-shaped flap. Michael took it off and looked inside.

  Empty.

  At least, he thought, it saved me the indignity of standing here on the sidewalk, going through a couple of days’ worth of garbage.

  He stood for a while under overcast skies, listening to the breath move in and out of his body. This is ridiculous, he told himself. Get some sleep and you’ll realize what an idiot you’re being.

  *

  He slept restlessly until 2:30, then called Bishop’s mobile.

  “Michael,” Bishop said. “I was sorry to hear about your father.”

  That caught him off guard. “How did you…”

  “I saw it in the paper. I tried to call, but your cell phone was out of service.”

  “Thanks,” Michael said. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

  “Is your mother all right?”

  “You’re behind the curve, Detective. Have you got time for me to come over and fill you in?”

  “If you come now, I can spare a few minutes.”

  The skies had cleared, and the temperature was near 80. It seemed crazy to have this kind of heat wave in November. Michael thought of Roger; whenever the subject of global warming came up he would point out that bad kings always brought bad weather. “The time is out of joint,” he would quote from Shakespeare. “O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right.”

  Roger was probably there in his voice mail, with Ruth and Bishop, yet another call he didn’t want to take.

  Bishop met him in the lobby, as before, and Michael began his story on the elevator. He talked about Mercy and his father, his birth, Mercy’s suicide. He talked about the weapons in the Biltmore Hotel and the revolution that failed. For reasons he didn’t entirely understand, he didn’t mention Donald Harriman.

  By that point they were seated in Bishop’s office. “So you don’t think anymore that your father was involved in Howard’s death.”

  “No, except as an accomplice after that fact. I’m more convinced than ever that it was Randy Fogg. Who showed up at the funeral, by the way, to make a speech about the debt Durham owed my father for knocking Hayti down and burying Barrett Howard under the expressway.”

  “In those words?”

  “He didn’t mention Howard by name. And his contingent of N
RC pals was there to cheer him on.”

  “Not in hoods, I hope.”

  “They might as well have been. Did you know that they meet at Wilmer Bynum’s farmhouse, like they’ve been doing for years, the first Wednesday of every month?”

  Though Bishop hadn’t moved, his attention had snapped into focus. “How do you know that?”

  “Can you prosecute me for what I say here?”

  Bishop spoke carefully. “I won’t talk to you off the record. I won’t promise you immunity. But if you confess that you threw a candy wrapper on the street or ran a red light, I don’t think the State is going to care.”

  “I broke into Wilmer Bynum’s house.” It was a relief to confess it. “There’s a giant basement underneath that’s a meeting hall. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

  “Did you take anything? Damage anything?”

  “No. And it is my grandfather’s house. That gives me some right to be there.”

  “I thought you said Ruth Bynum wasn’t your birth mother.”

  “Wilmer Bynum was Mercy’s father.”

  Bishop leaned back in his chair, the light glinting off his glasses. “All right, Michael, I’m impressed. You’ve obviously got some detective skills. Let me point a few things out to you. First of all, there is no law against being a member of the Night Riders of the Confederacy. There is, however, a law against illegal entry. Not only can I not keep you out of jail if you persist with this kind of crap, there’s no guarantee that you won’t get killed.”

  “There’s more,” Michael said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re planning something. An action or something. This Saturday.”

  “What kind of action?”

  “I don’t know. I saw it marked on a calendar.”

  “Maybe it was somebody’s birthday.”

  “No. It’s going to be something big. I think lives are at stake.”

  “This is what, a hunch?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. I respect hunches. I wish you’d give me more to go on.”

  “What’s happening Saturday? Someplace where there might be a lot of people.”

  “There’s football. Duke’s away at Florida State, UNC’s playing Virginia Tech here. State’s at home against Georgia Tech. There’s no big concerts or special events. There’s live music at the clubs, maybe a race angle there…”

  Michael shook his head. “That’s the kind of stuff that happens every week. I’m thinking something really unusual.”

  “I’ll follow up on it,” Bishop said. “I promise—if you’ll give me your word you’ll back off. I don’t want to get called out to a crime scene and find your body.”

  Michael stood up. “Something’s going to happen. I don’t think you’re taking me seriously enough.”

  Bishop got up too. “Believe me, I do not like the words ‘I told you so.’ It gets in the papers, people remember, the whole department ends up looking bad. I will pursue this. You have to understand that all I’m working with here is a date circled on a calendar.”

  “It wasn’t a circle,” Michael said. “It was a big, black X.”

  *

  He called Denise from his car, bypassing the alert for new voice messages.

  “I’m working late tonight,” she told him. “It’s going to be leftovers and bed for me.”

  “You don’t want company for the second half of that?”

  “I can’t tonight, baby. It’s too crazy right now.”

  “Is this because of last night?”

  “It’s work, is all it is. I told you I’m really swamped.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll call you before I go to sleep, okay? Just for a few minutes. Right now I got to run.”

  When he switched off the phone, Michael felt sick to his stomach. Maybe everything was all right with Denise, he told himself. If he started a list of all the reasons he had to feel bad, he could go on forever. Lack of sleep, stress, his father’s death, Luna pages overdue, hiding out from Ruth and Roger, on and on.

  He started the car, drove to the Durham Freeway, and merged with the scant traffic. As he topped the hill overlooking downtown, it all clicked in his head.

  He didn’t trust himself to drive and talk at the same time. He pulled into the breakdown lane and called Denise again.

  “Denise Franklin.”

  “It’s me.”

  “Michael, I’m serious, I don’t have time for this now.”

  “This is important. That opening at American Tobacco, that’s what you’re having to work late on, right?”

  “Yes, that’s what I—”

  “When is it? When does it happen?”

  “Didn’t I tell you?”

  “I don’t think you did.”

  “This Saturday. November sixth.”

  *

  He called Bishop again.

  “Michael, I thought we had an understanding—”

  It seemed like no one wanted to talk to him. “I know where it’s going to be,” Michael said. “The American Tobacco complex is opening this weekend. They’re billing themselves as the fulfillment of the Hayti dream. It’s run by a black-owned consortium. This is it. I know it.”

  “Christ, I’d forgotten about that. Yeah, that makes sense. Do you have any hard information to back this up? Or is it more of the same hunch?”

  “It feels right. You said so yourself.”

  “All right. I’ll get some extra people on it. And you’re done now, correct?”

  “What else is there for me to do?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Good answer.”

  “I’m done,” Michael said. “I’m going back to my hotel and draw comics.”

  *

  He made an honest effort. He ate a lonely meal at Fortune Garden and returned to the stack of overdue script pages that sat on the dresser, accusing him.

  He got into bed with his drawing board and script. The next scene had Louann writing in her journal with an architect’s lead holder. There was a long explanation about how her suspected father had gone to a technical college and learned drafting there, how he’d taught her to use a lead pointer at an early age, and now the mere thought of it had her on the edge of tears.

  Michael had somehow missed this when he’d made his first quick pass through the script. Roger’s loyal fans, he was sure, would choke up as they read it. For Michael it was like he’d seen the pulleys and wires at the magic show. Or, he thought, more like feeling empathy for the cow being slaughtered to make his hamburger. It took his appetite clean away.

  He didn’t remember telling Roger about his father and the lead holders, though obviously he had. Beyond Michael’s personal sense of violation was something more objective and disturbing, the way Roger had labored so mightily to bring in this irrelevant moment of purloined sentiment.

  Michael had brought a complete run of the series with him for reference. He took out the first issue and found, with some relief, that it still read well. By the third issue, though, the plot had started to meander, and by issue seven Roger was coasting.

  He put the comics in a neat stack and set them on the breakfast bar. Then he sat up in bed and stared glassy-eyed at the wall in front of him. How much could somebody lose and not fall apart? The mother he had never known was dead. His father, whom he’d only started to know, was dead. His relationship with Denise had turned uncertain. And now the thought that would have been completely unthinkable a week before was right there in front of him.

  Quitting Luna.

  Just finish this page, he told himself. Maybe momentum will take over. No matter how hard he willed it, his hand refused to pick up the blue pencil. Instead it reached into his pocket and took out his cell phone. As soon as he switched it on, it began to ring, flashing the ID “Roger cell.”

  “Hello, Roger,” Michael said.

  “Where have you been? I’ve been calling for days.”

  “Something ca
me up.”

  “We need to talk, yeah?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “Helen and I had some lengthy discussions—”

  “Is that what you guys call it?”

  “Michael, you don’t sound yourself. Are you ill?”

  “Oh, let’s not be so concerned about me all the time. What did you guys talk about?”

  “Now, it’s not like there aren’t extenuating circumstances, and God knows no one is blaming you. We’re only concerned about number 25.”

  “And here I was thinking you were only concerned about number one.” Michael felt giddy. It wasn’t every day you got to throw away the only thing you had left.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “You know better than that.”

  “Can we be serious for a moment, then? You haven’t by any chance finished the book, have you?”

  “No. You’ve got everything I’ve done.”

  “Twelve pages, then. Half.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Helen wants to bring a fill-in artist on board. Just until you’re back on your feet.”

  Michael stood up. “I’m on my feet now.”

  “Michael, you’re making this extraordinarily difficult. It’s hard enough as it is.”

  “Oh, sorry, there I was being selfish again. So who is she talking about?”

  “Sean Phillips has offered to pitch in. He’s got a similar style to yours, not quite as good, maybe, but still a first-rate—”

  “So she’s already set it up.”

  “Well, merely on a contingency basis—”

  “I’m going to make this very easy for you, Roger. You can’t fire me, I quit.”

  “Michael, don’t be absurd. We’d only use him for an issue or two. You’re crucial to the book and as soon as you’re ready—”

  “You’d go right back to using me. I guess I’m feeling used up at the moment.”

  “Michael, what is all this?”

  “Among other things, I don’t like you stealing my life and putting it in Luna.”