Nickel City Storm Warning (Gideon Rimes Book 3)

by Gary Earl Ross

  “Slavery,” he declares in one podcast, “was benign. Sure, there were cruel masters who forgot their Christianity and caused pain. But they were the exception, not the rule. If the masters were so bad, why would a hundred thousand Negro soldiers fight for the Confederacy? Most of those old-looking photographs of slaves with whip scars ‘cross their backs were staged, beginning in the 1940s.”

  “I been asked,” he says in another installment, “why Germany’s got no monuments to Hitler and Goering and other leaders of the Reich while America has to fight to keep its southern heritage intact. The answer is simple, my friends. Germany is ashamed of its history. We’re damned proud of ours.”

  The episode that forces you to stop listening makes your blood run cold: “Shooting up a synagogue full of old Jews or a church full of old Negroes is a waste of ammunition. They’re past their childbearing years, past being a threat. Killing them only lines the pockets of undertakers, Jew and Negro alike. You don’t wipe out rats by shooting them when they’re fat and old and out scavenging for food. You wipe them out by cornering them in their nests and killing them when they’re young, before they breed.”

  The next morning you read that Joseph D. Cropper was stabbed to death outside a Richmond hospital and an off-duty police officer on his way to visit his dying mother wounded and arrested Carl Lee Stoneman—possibly Stony in the pages from Cropper.

  You decide it’s time you got your gun back from Dr. Clay.

  24

  At six-fifteen, Zulema opened the door for our group of ten and locked it behind us. She introduced us all to the cook, bartender, and two servers who would be working tonight and to Will Johannes, who’d come alone and already had copies of In the Mouth of the Wolf on display. While Ramos began to set up the security station by the door, complete with NO WEAPONS signs, Drea and Will discussed coordinating the signing after the reading. Before he joined Ramos, Betty Park gave Pete a quick kiss on the lips. Then I led Phoenix, Bobby, Kayla, Sam, and Betty to the table they would occupy in the back room. Bishop followed and put a reserved sign on a place for Drea. Sliding her own chair nearer the closed back door, she sat. Beneath her mint green pantsuit was the overnighted armor sheath her husband had brought to the hotel at five-thirty. Her jacket hid the Colt on her hip.

  There would be no seat for me or Pete. Once everyone was inside and the door was locked, Ramos would remain in front to secure the bin that held whatever we confiscated as Bishop watched the back. Pete and I would float, keeping an eye on the audience as well as both doors and the front windows.

  I moved into the corridor between the two halves of the storefront, pressed the power pack button, and called for a comms check while I could watch everyone respond. Pete and Ramos acknowledged in sequence, and Bishop finished the loop. “Drea’s power pack is off,” she said.

  “Copy that,” I said.

  “G, your lady friend from the News is here,” Pete said.

  Lady friend? “Copy that,” I said, glad Phoenix had no earbud.

  I returned to the front and saw Amanda Corso at one of the windows, holding up her press card. Beside her was the big bearded photographer Buddy Dobbins with two cameras around his neck and a folded tripod in hand. In the diverse cluster of people behind them, I noticed Randall Torrance and Chelsea Carpenter talking to Rory and Edie Gramm. Everyone outside was dressed for a night in the high seventies—short sleeves, short pants, lightweight slacks and skirts. I was already hot in my jacket and vest. I opened the door and stepped out long enough to motion Corso and Dobbins past me and call Rory and Randall. When all six were inside, I closed and locked the door.

  “Thanks, Gideon,” Rory said. “We would have waited in line with the others.”

  “There wasn’t a line yet,” I said. “Besides, it would be a shame if two conference planners couldn’t get a seat.”

  After Ramos scanned each with a wand—for practice, I assured them—I asked if a corner back table would give Dobbins a good enough view of the room for pictures. He said it would. I seated all six together, selling the idea by suggesting Corso interview Rory and Randall to enhance her feature. She agreed but wanted to say hi to Drea first. As Dobbins set up his tripod in the corner and Randall sat whispering something that made Carpenter laugh, Corso started toward the front table. Phoenix looked up and saw her coming. Both their mouths tightened. So much for whether they would recognize each other. But Rory and his wife were right behind Corso. He introduced Edie to Phoenix and Bobby, unaware he was lessening the tension.

  By seven the cluster had become a double-file line. We opened the front door to begin admitting people. I stood near the bar, directing things enough to establish I was in charge. My jacket was open enough for my holster to be visible. Some were surprised when Pete or Ramos wanded them. Others took the security measure in stride, emptying their pockets of metal without objection. Pete handed out claim stubs for every item Ramos tagged, labeled, and put into the plastic bin on the floor. They collected a few pocket knives, a spring baton, three pepper spray cylinders, a butterfly knife, a spike-tipped ring, a mini-stun gun, and a working pen that concealed a two-inch stiletto blade. Meanwhile, the lines that formed at the book display table and the bar grew long enough to make most people head straight for the back room, where they rearranged chairs to squeeze in. By seven-twenty PAUSA had exceeded capacity, with every seat filled front and back. I followed Zulema and Johannes outside, where she apologized that no one else could be admitted but said anyone who wished to remain was welcome to listen to the program on the outside speaker. Johannes reminded everyone Drea would do another reading and signing at his Elmwood bookstore tomorrow afternoon.

  Then we went back inside and locked the door. Pete remained in the front room, where speakers guaranteed those who couldn’t see Drea could hear her. I sidled to the point where the corridor opened onto the back room. That way I could see the front and back doors as well as keep an eye on the people closest to Drea.

  Twenty minutes later, after a mike check, Zulema thanked everyone for coming and promised food orders would come out shortly. She read a brief bio to introduce the speaker. Amid applause, Drea, in a loose white top and tan slacks, took a copy of her book to the lectern and thanked everyone again. Then she read her account of the night her life changed. After the first few paragraphs, the only sounds in the room—the whirring of the ceiling fan, the occasional vibration of a plate set on a table, slight bodily shifts—were overpowered by the gentle but firm voice flowing through the speakers. The crowd was transfixed, drawn into the horror in spite of the pain. Drea’s eyes filled before she finished, and other eyes glistened as well. Dragging a bare forearm across the bridge of her nose, she steadied herself with a long breath and closed the book. Her beat was echoed by the silence in the room. Then, as if in relief, applause erupted, accompanied by cheers, and continued for a full minute.

  Wiping her own eyes, Zulema returned to the lectern and took a deep breath before saying that after Drea took a moment to collect herself, she’d answer questions. “Meanwhile, finish your food! I haven’t seen you pick up a fork for at least five minutes!” The scattered laughter that followed sounded almost grateful.

  “Comms check,” I said softly. “By name.”

  “Kim,” Pete said. “Lotta people out here got tears rolling down their cheeks, G. Even the bookstore guy and people who can’t see her around the corner.”

  “Ramos. Copy that, chief. The bartender’s giving out napkins like Halloween candy.”

  “Bishop.” Her voice quavered. “I wish one of those sons of bitches would try that door.”

  “How’s Betty?” Pete asked. His voice held a note of concern I wasn’t used to hearing.

  “Wiping her eyes like everybody else,” I said. “Okay, team, it was tough to hear, but don’t drop your guard because you’re glad it’s over.”

  “Copy that,” each said in turn.

  Drea rejoined Zulema in front, and hands shot up. The first question came from a small
woman in a wide flower print skirt, who stood when Zulema pointed to her.

  “The book ended before your daughter got married but I read somewhere you went to London for the wedding. How is she, and are you still worried for her safety?”

  Drea smiled. “She still feels the pain of losing her dad, but Miranda’s moving on with her life. She avoids social media, lives in a very secure building in a city of nine million, and never shares her travel plans. My son-in-law’s name was fictionalized in the book, to give them added privacy, and Miranda no longer uses her given name. She finished her doctorate at an institution I won’t reveal and now works—I will not say where—under a completely different identity. Best of all, they’re expecting their first child.”

  When the applause subsided, Zulema pointed to a bushy-haired man in a tropical shirt under a linen sports jacket.

  “Have police made any progress in finding the men who invaded your home?”

  Drea shook her head. “I used to talk to Lieutenant Wesley in Fairfax two or three times a week. She kept me up to date with what her department and the Maryland state police were doing. Things got more frenetic when the Richmond homicide and the Virginia state police joined the party after what happened to Jody Cropper. But the joint investigation went nowhere. Now Wesley and I touch base about once a month.”

  “Gotta be infuriating,” the man said, shaking his head as he sat down.

  “If they’re off the grid, they have an angel who can afford to keep them hidden,” Drea said. “A person of means who secretly supports white supremacy. That’s infuriating.”

  Zulema pointed to a woman in green, who stood, brushing glossy gray hair back from her face. “I heard you sold the television rights.”

  “Yes, to Hulu.” Drea waited for the smattering of applause to fade before leaning closer to the microphone. “Let me answer your next two questions before you ask. First, I have no idea what they’re doing. Buying the rights means they’re the only ones who can film the book. It’s not a guarantee they will. Second, no, I will not watch it if they do.”

  The next speaker was near the center of the room, a thirtysomething man in an open-collared white shirt and khaki pants. He had brown hair combed to one side and large black-framed glasses. “In more than one interview, you’ve said you’re tempted to write a book called Racism for Dummies.”

  Drea laughed, as did many in the audience.

  Unsmiling, the man waited for the laughter to end. “Will we see that book soon?”

  “I say that a lot when I’m frustrated,” Drea said. “What the average person knows about racism in America can be ticked off on one hand. Lincoln freed the slaves. Indians were put on reservations. The South had separate water fountains. Some guy named King had a dream.” She gestured to Sam, who passed her a glass of water. She took a drink before resuming. “Everybody knows about the Civil War but many people deny it was fought over slavery. After Lincoln was shot, Andrew Johnson canceled the order to give forty acres and a mule to freed slaves to give them a foothold in the economy. FDR’s New Deal helped families buy homes but not Blacks house-shopping in white neighborhoods. Is that why we’re hearing about the wealth gap? And there’s so much more. Boarding schools where Native American children torn from their families were physically and sexually abused in an effort to kill the Indian inside. The Chinese Exclusion Act, which speaks for itself. Internment camps where Japanese-American citizens spent World War II without being charged with a crime. Lynching, from the single incident to wholesale slaughter in Black towns. American eugenics programs that inspired Nazi Germany.” She paused, as if catching her breath, and drank more water. “It’s hard sometimes not to be frustrated when you’re Black in America.”

  “Amen to that!” someone in the audience said, provoking another round of laughter.

  “Why mention race at all? you ask,” Drea said. “Aren’t you overreacting, being too sensitive? Is it overreacting when YouTube shows us everything from Blacks shot during traffic stops to college kids who think blackface is funny to whites stomping around ERs demanding white doctors for Mom or Gramps in the middle of a heart attack?” When she sucked her teeth, hard, the microphone sharpened and amplified the sound. “Give me a cardiologist, damn it! I don’t care what color they are or whether they pee standing or sitting, as long as they know their way around my heart.”

  Again, there was laughter, this time mixed with applause.

  Still standing, the questioner waited for enough silence to ask a follow-up. “But is that ignorance or something else?” Something about his tone was different this time. There was a note of challenge Drea seemed to miss.

  “Ignorance but more,” she said. “An arrogance born of privilege. Long ago one of my husband’s Puerto Rican colleagues told us about playing chess in a park with his nephew from San Juan. He was trying to teach the boy how to play and at one point said, ‘Jaque mate.’ Spanish for checkmate. A woman walking her dog made a point of stopping to say, ‘This is America. We speak English here.’ She had no idea the man she was talking to had a prosthetic left leg, having swapped his real one for a Purple Heart in Vietnam.”

  There was a buzz of reaction. I caught sight of Bobby, angled so he could look at the speaker. His lips were parted in what seemed to me distress.

  “Once encounters like this were isolated and became anecdotes shared with family and friends,” Drea continued. “Now smartphone cameras capture these expressions of white privilege for all the world to see. The man who feels entitled to confront Black people in an apartment complex and demand to know why they’re there. The teenage boys who presume the right to tear a hijab off the head of their Muslim classmate. The woman nobody deputized screaming at a Latino truck driver to show her his papers. Technology has pushed privilege into even more unexpected places. Pick your favorite recent blockbuster movie with a diverse cast, say something based on a comic book or with Star Wars in the title. Bounce around the internet long enough and you’ll find a pirate version with people of color or women or LGBT characters edited out—you know, the people finally making it to lead roles. You can’t help thinking, In the Twenty-first Century? Two hundred years ago this was ignorance. Now it’s arrogance clinging to stupidity. Maybe we can embarrass it out of existence.”

  “Maybe it’s not stupidity!” the man called out sharply, voice raised enough to silence the nascent chuckles and applause. All eyes turned to him. “Maybe it’s an underappreciated effort to get out of Clown World!”

  Similarly dressed, two men to his right and two to his left rose and slid something out of their pants pockets. Each unfolded and pulled over his head what looked like a white rubber clown mask. Each mask sported a bulbous red nose, wild synthetic hair—blue, green, yellow, or orange—and a bright red mouth forming a smile, a frown, a surprised O, or a line that revealed vampire fangs. Each forehead bore a different painted flag—Stars and Stripes, Stars and Bars, a swastika above the number eighty-eight, a KKK blood drop cross.

  Rory Gramm shot to his feet. “Gideon, that’s C.J. Lansing!”

  As I began to move through the crowd, I saw my godfather get to his feet, Phoenix rising beside him, as if to steady him as he pointed at the cluster of men. “Gideon, the clown on the right!” As I processed Bobby’s shout, Pete’s voice crackled in my ear: “G, I’m—”

  “Hold positions! Might be a diversion. Bishop, give me a read on Drea.”

  “Stunned but okay,” Bishop said. “The door is still secure.”

  I reached Lansing and his clowns before I heard my team respond. The men made no move toward me or to surround me. Even if I had five pairs of plasticuffs instead of three, I would need my gun to make them comply with any order I gave. Too risky in this crowd. Too public. Tripod still up, Dobbins snapped pictures as Corso scribbled notes. Phones came out of purses and pockets.

  “Sir, you need to leave,” I said. “Right now, you and your clown posse.”

  “Insane!” Lansing’s laugh was almost a cackle. His lips pull
ed back to reveal large incisors flanked by unusually small teeth. “Look, my fellow nine-percenters! The armed HNIC we saw at the door. Wassup, dawg!” He held up a hand as if about to slap my palm.

  I glared at him. The eyes behind his black glasses looked like chips of green ice.

  “You gon’ leave me hangin’, dawg?” he said. “You here to harass us for exercising our first amendment rights?” He surveyed the crowd. “You all see we’re unarmed!” he shouted. “You see us standing still. We never threatened this Gideon dude, this thug hired by liberal money men to stop us from calling the lying bitch at the microphone a lying bitch.”

  As chatter and tension rose around me, I slid my right hand inside my jacket. I needed them to go before things got out of hand. Maybe I could scare him. Yeah, right—damn it.

  “Ooh! G-Money is reaching for his gun!” Lansing bellowed, silencing the crowd. “He could shoot us, me brethren. Shoot us dead in front of all these people. All these cameras.” He pivoted, looking into face after face. “You’ll witness a murder. You, you, and you too. Will blind devotion to a liberal agenda let you speak truth on the witness stand? Or will you leave it to your cell phones to tell the tale, that this silverback gorilla shot us when we didn’t even threaten him?”

  “Temporary insanity, and we’d back him up, fucker!” That voice sounded like Sam.

  “You’re trespassing!” Zulema’s voice, coming through the speakers. “Go, now!”

  My eyes never shifted from Lansing. “Pete,” I said calmly, “call Captain Richmond. Tell him we need transport for five men we’re arresting for trespass, menacing, disorderly conduct, and incitement to riot.”

  “Who the fuck is—oh!” Lansing and the clowns couldn’t hear Pete’s lowered voice in my ear. “Richmond Ave is around the corner. Gotcha. But if they don’t go, I will call this in.”