by Brown, Dick
Roger Arnold, sitting next to Rick, poked him in the ribs. “Hey, man, she’s calling your name. Better get up there.”
Shaking his head to chase away the memories of Ann, Rick popped up from his seat and bounced up the steps to accept his award. He scanned the audience, hoping by some miracle Ann had showed up for his scholarship award.
“Stand over here please.” Mrs. Hosecloth pointed to an X marked on the floor with tape. “We have a special presenter for this award today. Please welcome Mr. Carl Billings, Editor of The Bankstowne Journal, who will present the Journalism award in person.”
Mr. Billings emerged from behind the curtain on the left side of the stage with a confident stride. He was short with a shiny bald head and a protruding paunch that wouldn’t let him button his brown suite coat. When the scattered applause stopped, he shook Rick’s hand and leaned into the microphone.
“Rick, it gives me great pleasure to award this Journalism scholarship to you. I’ve followed your work this year as editor of your school paper and was favorably impressed. You’ve shown a talent for reporting objectively. The coverage of your undefeated football team showed pride in a season that was the result of a team effort boosted by the talented Tank Johnson. Your work demonstrated what good journalism is all about.”
Rick vigorously shook Mr. Billings’ hand and looked straight at Tank as he accepted his award for objective reporting. He hoped that egomaniac choked on those words.
The student body applauded—all except Tank Johnson. He smirked and whispered to quarterback T.R. Queen sitting next to him, “Can you believe they gave an award to that little jerk for the lousy coverage he gave me? Billings doesn’t know shit about good football reporting or he wouldn’t be working for that rag of a newspaper.”
Mr. Billings reached into his coat pocket and pulled out another piece of paper and turned to Rick. “Because of your writing skills and promise of becoming a good journalist, The Bankstowne Journal is also awarding you an internship with our newspaper to go with your scholarship to Cannon College. This is the inauguration of what we hope will become an annual event. Congratulations, Rick. I look forward to working with you this fall.”
Rick waved the internship award in the air like he was swatting flies in response to the heartfelt applause his classmates gave him.
Tank made gagging noises that got Rick’s attention. “I think I’m going to throw up,” Tank said to T.R. He could hardly contain himself putting his hand over his mouth faking like he was going to vomit.
Rick ignored the taunt and left the stage, still scanning the audience for Ann. Instead, he spotted his mother in the back of the auditorium. Her face beamed through tears as she clapped. A big grin broke across his face, and he acknowledged her with a nod to the scholarship and intern award clutched in his hand.
Coach Marshal approached the microphone and raised his arms to cut the applause short. Rick rolled his eyes and returned to his seat.
“And now for the award we’ve all been waiting for, the Best Athlete award. I don’t think there’s any mystery who we’re talking about here, so Tank, why don’t you come on up.”
Coach reached under the podium to retrieve a trophy that could pass as a double for the Heisman. Tank waved his index finger, signaling the number one sign as he bounded onto the stage.
“Congratulations, son, you earned it,” Coach Marshal said. Tank shook hands with Coach and waved the trophy over his head with his other hand. The student body broke out in thunderous applause for their record-setting, triple-threat running back. He was the pride of Bankstowne.
Coach Marshal raised his arms again to quiet the students. “Settle down. That’s not all. I received a telegram this morning from New York announcing Tank Johnson has been selected first team halfback on the Parade Magazine High School All-American team. And not ten minutes later, Coach Jim Turner called from the University of North Carolina to inform me he also wanted Tank to be an All-American on his team.”
The student response rattled the auditorium windows as Tank hugged Coach Marshal and danced around the stage waving his trophy. The rest of the school’s first undefeated football team in Bankstowne’s history came up on stage and joined in the celebration. Coach Marshal pulled a powder blue and white North Carolina jersey with Tank’s number thirty four on it from under the podium and presented it to him.
“Good luck, wear it with pride, and make us all proud,” Coach Marshal said. “Your old black and gold number thirty-four jersey will be hung in the trophy case in the main entrance to the school. It’s been a pleasure coaching you. You’re now officially a North Carolina Tar Heel.”
The team swarmed around Coach Marshal and Tank at center stage, chanting, “Two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate? Tank, Tank, Tank!”
Rick forced himself to politely applaud the one person in the world he hated the most. It was hard to admit that Tank was a great football player, as a person, however, Rick could honestly say he was the biggest jerk he’d ever known.
Dismissed from the awards ceremony, Rick quickly made his way to the back of the auditorium for a congratulatory hug from Mary Beth. Her eyes were still red from her tears of joy.
“I’m so proud of you, and your father is too. You know he would have been here if he could have gotten off work.”
“It’s okay, Momma. I know he doesn’t think much of my being a writer. But he’ll understand one day that it’s an important profession.”
“Give him time,” Mary Beth said. “He’ll come around. Come on, let’s go home and I’ll fix your favorite supper to celebrate. How does meatloaf, mashed potatoes, English peas, and banana pudding for desert sound?”
Wil worked his way through the crowd and gave Rick a big slap on the back. “Way to go, big brother. You almost upstaged that jerk Tank. Now let’s go home. I’m starving for some of that banana pudding.”
Chapter 10
“The railroad became the lifeline to both North and South during the Civil War, moving troops and supplies quickly to the battlefields.”
A new start
Ann dropped out of school because Sam Johnson insisted she and her family leave Bankstowne before the Spring semester started. She didn’t enroll in high school in Winston-Salem, because she was pregnant. School policy didn’t allow pregnant girls who were showing to remain in school. She and Red were to go to work immediately at the Sam’s S & T Distributing Company in Winston-Salem.
Red had reconciled Ann’s pregnancy in his alcohol-crippled brain and accepted the move without resistance. They told no one where they were moving to; it was part of the deal Red had accepted in exchange for not filing rape charges against Tank. Sam wanted them hidden away where they couldn’t cause any trouble.
There were many perks in addition to the jobs and house. Financial support during Ann’s pregnancy and hospital expenses were taken care of by Sam when the baby came. He could afford to be generous and took no chances.
Sam never questioned whether it was Tanks baby. He knew how reckless his son was; he’d cleaned up Tank’s messes all his life. Nothing was going to stand in the way of his new enterprise and scheme to put Tank in the General Assembly and eventually into the governor’s mansion.
Ann had no work experience but was a bright student and learned quickly. Red kept his promise to stop drinking when they moved. Even he was aware of the toll it had taken on him. His memory was faulty and pushing a broom was all he was capable of doing. Without his liquor, he withdrew from the family, smoked too much, and watched TV every day after work until bedtime. Since Red never owned a car, a company car picked him and Ann up every morning. They never spoke more than to say good morning to each other.
The GMC van bounced over a railroad crossing next to the warehouse at exactly eight o’clock. A squat metal building with no windows sat in the middle of a ring of trees with a loa
ding dock on the west side. A spur line off the main track lay beside the loading dock. Located in an unpopulated wooded section in the south edge of town, they were isolated with only one road in and out.
A scruffy, tobacco chewing man emerged from the front door and walked out to meet their chauffeured car. Ronnie Gaines, a no-nonsense, rough-around-the-edges former tobacco farm worker was the warehouse foreman.
He slipped and fell from one of the high beams and broke his shoulder while hanging sticks of strung tobacco in the top of a curing barn. The accident disabled him from the strenuous work of pulling, stringing, and hanging tobacco leaves. When Sam Johnson gave him a chance to work in his S & T warehouse, he became a loyal employee. Gaines made sure cases of cigarettes were removed from the delivery trucks to the warehouse without being damaged. He cast the same eagle eye over the forklift and loading crews when the cases were moved from the warehouse into boxcars quickly without damages.
The loading crew was all illegal Hispanic immigrants that stayed in a back room in the warehouse when not loading or unloading cases of cigarettes. A dark-skinned man dressed in a silk pin-striped suit with oily black, slicked-back hair watched every move inside and outside of the warehouse.
The front office was small and stuffy from a gas heater in the corner of the room. Ann entered cautiously, not knowing how she would be received or if the other workers knew why she was there. She was determined to work hard and keep her mouth shut, waiting for the right opportunity to make Tank Johnson pay for what he did to her.
Gaines escorted Ann and Red inside without introducing himself. He led them over to the office manager’s desk where a plain woman in her late fifties with graying cropped hair was smoking a cigarette.
“This here is Marie Wilson. Mr. Johnson said you can help her with filing, fixing coffee, or whatever she wants you to do. She runs the office and I run the warehouse. We come to work at eight, take a thirty-minute dinner break, and go home at 4:30. I guess that’s about all you need to know from me. If you have any questions, ask Marie. She can fill you in. I’ll be checking on you.” Gaines winked at Ann then motioned to Red. “You come with me. I’ll have to figure out something for you to do.”
The gangly foreman gave Ann a slow once over from head to toe, smiled, and then shuffled out of the office dragging his run-over-at-the-heel brogans with Red one step behind him.
“His name’s Ronnie,” Marie said. “Don’t pay no attention to him. He thinks he’s God’s gift to women. When he finds out you’re pregnant, he won’t come sniffing around no more. By the way, when’s the baby due?” Marie asked. “You don’t look very far along.”
Stunned by such a rude and personal question, Ann shot back angrily. “How did you know I’m pregnant?”
“Oh honey, calm down. There ain’t nothing goes on round here I don’t know about. Everybody Mr. Johnson sends here has a story or owes him a big favor. He pays better than anybody in Winston-Salem, and nobody gives a damn about what kind of business he’s running here,” Marie said, taking one last deep drag on the Pall Mall stub she could barely pinch between her thumb and index finger.
“That young buck son of his knock you up?” she said. “You ain’t the first one that hellion son of his knocked up. I heard the last one moved back to New York with a pocket full of hush money.”
Speechless at her first encounter with her new boss, Ann struggled with a response. It wasn’t any of her business if she was pregnant or who the father was. Better judgment told Ann to play along, to make friends with this person. She could be helpful in finding out about Sam’s secretive business.
“July fourth,” Ann said.
“What?” Marie lit a new cigarette from the stub of her old one before snuffing it out in the overflowing ashtray on her desk.
“July fourth. That’s when I’m due. Some Independence Day, huh?” Ann said. She paused for a few seconds then asked, “What did you mean about the kind of business Mr. Johnson was running here?”
“Pretty simple really. Not very legal, though. North Carolina don’t tax cigarettes but a couple of cents a pack. He has somebody paid off over at the Reynolds plant to lump his orders in with the legal wholesalers. The law don’t watch too close when he buys cigarettes by the truckload from Reynolds and ships ’em on that railroad where he’s some kind of big shot.
“My guess is those Mexicans Joey keeps hidden are illegal. They don’t speak English, so they ain’t going to talk to nobody. They live in the shadows, afraid of getting deported. They assemble the big boxes and pack them with small boxes containing cartons of cigarettes. An assembly line seals and labels the boxes headed to their destination. Most of them are sent to somebody up in New York where their taxes are ten times higher than ours. Some go to the Midwest. Anywhere he can make a profit. Honey, you’re looking at a tobacco goldmine here.” Marie looked Ann straight in her eyes. “You didn’t hear a thing I just said, okay?”
“Right. Not a word.”
“You look like a smart girl. Just do your job and don’t ask too many questions. We’ll get along just fine. And if Ronnie bothers you, just let me know. I’ll handle him. Well, now that all the pleasantries are out of the way, why don’t you make us some coffee while I figure out what to do with you?”
Ann started for the coffee maker, stopped, and turned around toward Alice. “There is just one question I’d like to ask.”
“Last one. Shoot.”
“Who was that man standing back there, just staring at us the whole time Ronnie was talking? He looked creepy.”
“Oh, that was Joseph Cordeleone. We just call him Joey. You don’t want to get to know him. He really runs this place even though Ronnie thinks he’s the warehouse foreman. Everything that goes on here goes straight to Sam Johnson. Joey’s the resident Mafia man.” Marie laughed, which launched her into a coughing spasm. She drank down the last half of a bottle of Coke that had gone flat sitting on her desk but never put down her cigarette. “He and I don’t get along too good, because I ain’t afraid of him or Sam Johnson.”
Chapter 11
“After the Civil War, railroads were the king of transportation, extended by the transcontinental railroad connecting the east to the west.”
Spring 1959
Life at the Nestlebaum house in Winston-Salem was a stark contrast to what it was back in Bankstowne. Red kept his promise to stop drinking, but it had already damaged his liver and he had become senile. For his own safety and the employees at the warehouse, he was forced to take disability. Although he no longer worked for Sam Johnson and was no danger to him, Red still received his paycheck every month. Most of his days were spent sitting in his favorite recliner watching TV. Occasionally he showed some attention to little Ricky when he chattered at Red in a language only he understood.
They lived more comfortably and could afford new furniture and a used car Ann could drive to work now. She enjoyed the independence from her domineering father, which allowed her to develop a closer bond with her mother. Little Ricky was the center of their lives, but Ann had allowed herself to enter a relationship with a young man she met at work.
They sat together as a family in their living room. Red watched TV with Jo Lee while Ann and Alice played with Ricky.
“Momma, you don’t have those stomach pains anymore, do you?” Ann said.
Alice shook her head. “Going on three years without much pain.”
“Since we moved,” Ann said.
“That’s right.”
“Think the move had anything to do with it?”
“That or this little fellow.” She picked up Ricky, who’d been playing with a set of blocks between the two of them.
At first they disagreed over naming her baby Ricky, but that had faded quickly with the loving disposition he showed toward Alice. She didn’t seem to mind taking care of little Ricky while An
n worked her way into more responsibility at the warehouse.
“I love little Ricky more than my own life. I wish your daddy’s mind was clear enough to remember him from one day to the next. But you paid the highest price, and I’m sorry I let you down that day. I just didn’t have the strength to face your father. Heaven knows what he would have done. I hate myself for letting him sell your soul to Sam Johnson.
Ann smiled. “Based on your health and the calm around the house, I’d say it wasn’t all bad.”
“That Sam Johnson, though. He’s the real snake, making millions from his illegal cigarette business, and nobody cares.” Alice broke into a coughing spasm, requiring her to handoff Ricky to Ann. Even though she’d switched to filtered cigarettes, she couldn’t get rid of her cough.
“Don’t blame yourself, Momma. You only did what you had to do. You couldn’t fight Daddy and Sam Johnson too.”
“I’ll blame who I please,” Alice said after she’d recovered from her coughing. “That Sam Johnson raised his boy wrong.” She glanced at Red sitting in his recliner, the TV’s images reflected in his glazed eyes. “I’m so thankful you and your sister turned out as well as you did.”
“But you’re wrong about one thing. Somebody cares. I’ve learned how to run that office, and Marie confides in me all the time. I know all about the double set of books, the millions of cigarettes he sells illegally, and how he hides the huge profits. I know everything that goes on in Sam Johnson’s twisted world.”