“And you think your hate is justified?” Tony paused. “Yes. But hate is wrong.”
“Even if justified?” Lincoln asked.
“Sure.” Tony was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Lincoln always did that to him sooner or later.
“I have another question for you, then.” Lincoln regarded his pipe. “Have you considered why they hate us?”
“That's a good question,” Tony said. “To tell you the truth, I've never thought about it before. I guess it's because they can't make us do what they want anymore, use us for their own benefit and treat us any way they want.”
“You think white people want us to be slaves again?”
“No, at least not like it used to be. I think that they want to keep us beneath them, powerless and poor. And we won't stay. We demand equality and that pisses them off.”
“But that does not justify hate, does it? I mean, it's not logical to hate because you can't subjugate a person.”
“I know, it doesn't make sense, but that's how they are, how we are, human beings that is. We sort of enjoy hurting each other.”
“Is that it, you think? Or is it something deeper?” Lincoln looked angrily at his salad as if it had offended him. ''I've been teaching a course on racism in the jury system, and it occurred to me that people grow up with a basic morality in them. Even when exercising racist beliefs on black defendants, many white jurors think they're doing the right thing.”
“That don't make a difference to all those brothers in the joint.” Tony smiled a little.
“The important thing is, whites think of themselves as moral people. The results of my test made me think deeply about race relations. Have you seen Gone With the Wind?
“Yes, many times,” Tony said. He couldn't wait to hear what that question would lead to. “Why?”
“Well, in the movie, you remember, Scarlett O'Hara's father tells her to protect Tara because land is the only thing that lasts. The earth is the one thing that defies the passing of time. I suggest to you that there is another: history. It binds one generation to the next. It is the fabric of human existence, the soul of our self-realization. The greatest sin of slavery was the robbery of our history. A person with no history is lost within himself, left to the feeble, thin perceptions of the individual. “
“History then is the land of a culture,” Tony interrupted.
“Exactly, exactly.” Lincoln reached for his pipe, but changed his mind. “You see, more than money is inherited with each generation. History also passes. Morality, conscience, self-knowledge go along also-and so does the legacy of slavery, its evil, shame, and guilt.”
“I have experienced that guilt,” Tony said. “But it seems to get thinner each generation.”
“Perhaps, but because we think of ourselves as moral, whites have had to justify their own morality to themselves. Though they may not have perpetrated slavery or discrimination, they undeniably have its benefits, and they have the burden as well. It tears at the fabric of their morality and self-esteem. So blacks, especially males, become the repository of white self-loathing. We are suddenly the cause of all societal ills: crime, drugs, fear, death. Thereby, in their minds, we deserve to be hated.”
“Because they want to feel good about themselves?” Tony asked.
“Yes, yes. We as humans must be good, so blacks must be hated to purge the sin of immorality. Fascinating, eh?” Lincoln reclined in his chair.
“It's very hard for me to think of prejudiced white people as good,” Tony said.
“Try thinking of them as human first.”
“So, I should accept the Handyman's race as an inevitable event. I shouldn't be pissed off by it?” Tony asked.
“No. You just shouldn't be pissed because he's white.” Lincoln looked at his watch. “Time's up.” he said. He always said that at the end of their meetings as if it were a class. “I have an afternoon lecture.”
Tony picked up the tab and they said their good-byes on the sun-washed sidewalk of Second Avenue. The air was thick with the clinging humidity of the early summer.
Lincoln started away, then approached Tony, standing close to him and looking him straight in the eyes.
“I know you're troubled, Tony,” said Lincoln. “You have the same look you used to get when you ran out of money in school and you thought your whole life would crumble. Or that time after the GM incident when the reporters were camping outside of your house.”
Tony was silent. He thought of lying, but decided against it. It was hard to lie to Lincoln. “Yes, I am troubled. That is ... it's the case and . . . other things.”
“Then I'm worried. Because I've seen you upset before, but never have I seen you despair. As a friend and a doctor I suggest you get to the bottom of whatever it is. Share it with your wife, or a colleague. That will help.”
Tony was pleased that his friend cared enough to push the subject. “I will,” he said. “I will.”
Tony walked to his car. He got in and pulled out the letter from Irene Simon and read it again.
4
The Brotherhood
The crowd wanted blood. Outside Detroit's City-County Building, a thousand people massed together, stopping traffic on Woodward and Larned, which bounded the corner of the building. The throng swelled at the steps of the building's entrance. Uniformed cops patrolled the area, mingling inside the crowd; mounted police kept to the rear and the perimeter.
It was a lawful gathering, but the cops had not expected so many people. The group varied in age and background. Doctors, professors, and children mingled with the unemployed and homeless. Expensive Italian suits stood next to common garb which stood next to African dashikis. It was a diverse crowd, but everyone had two things in common: they were all angry, and they were all black.
Tony and Jim stood in the back of the crowd. Tony had a good view of things and could clearly see the speaker, Daishaya Mbutu, the leader of the Brotherhood, a local militant group.
Tony and Jim had run into a dead end on the Union hit and the other murders. They were clean, professional, and quick. And as usual, no one saw anything.
Tony's department had been tipped that Mbutu was going to disclose vital information on the Handyman case in his speech. Jim felt that it was a publicity stunt by the Brotherhood, but after talking it over with Fuller, Tony had decided to come to the rally. They had very few leads on the case and at this point he would take anything he could get.
Tony's head was throbbing. He must have read the letter from Irene Simon twenty times since receiving it. The letter was a waking nightmare, every bit as deadly as The Dream. It was occupying a vast region of his mind, as it conjured up demons and deeds of the past. Now, he was afraid to sleep, fearful of what his conscience might release.
“I feel like an asshole being here,” Jim said. “This guy isn't going to say anything.”
“We'll see,” Tony said.
“I hate this damned Muboto.”
“It's Mbutu,” Tony said. “He commands a lot of respect in the neighborhoods, so he could know something.”
Tony watched as Daishaya Mbutu spat venom. He stood out clearly against the Brotherhood backdrop, a large picture of two black fists, breaking the shackles on their wrists on a field of red and green.
Mbutu was well over six feet tall and commanded attention. His skin shined in its darkness as he spoke. His long dreadlocks draped the shoulders of his African shirt and his eyes were a deep brown, fired by the emotion behind them.
“... and Mayor Yancy,” Mbutu said. “Our leader. He tells us to just be cool about the white Handyman. 'Be cool,' he says. 'We got it under control. The police is gonna take care of everythang,'“ he mocked. “Be cool, while white men kill black brothers like animals. Be cool while black babies are shot in drug wars. Be cool while your houses fall down and the garbage piles up in the alley. Be cool while we stick it to you right, up, your, ass!”
' The crowd erupted in laughter and applause.
The sound of the cro
wd was a muted roar to Tony. He was looking into the distance and saw himself running into the GM building....
The crowd cheered again. A group of men jostled each other and for a moment it looked like a fight would start.
“Tony!” Jim said.
Tony watched as some of the uniforms went to the disturbance area. The men stopped whatever they were doing. 'The uniformed commander looked at Tony. The fight might be enough to disperse the meeting. But Tony knew that would only make matters worse. Tony returned the commander's gaze and shook his head.
“He still hasn't said anything,” said Jim. “Let's get out of here.”
“Not yet,” said Tony. “Let's hear the man out.”
“... and you know the Jews are in this with Yancy,” said Mbutu. “Hell, the Jews are in everything that harms black people!” There was more applause. Mbutu had his own brand of anti-Semitism, which he always called his “aggressive truth.” In his mind, Jews were the cause of many of the ills of black folk and he took every chance to bash them for it.
“Listen to the mayor,” Mbutu said. “Laughing at you. Sittin' in the white-owned Renaissance Center, in a white-owned restaurant, with a white waitress, drinkin' a White Russian and laughing at the stupid-ass, dumb-ass, black-ass people of Detroit!”
The crowd exploded with its approval. The officers looked for signs of trouble.
Mbutu quieted the crowd. “You all know my philosophy. Only a few black people benefited from the civil rights movement. And these house niggers promote themselves and subjugate the weak. The result is poor blacks now have to fight a black and white oppressor and claim freedom from everyone who would take it away.”
Tony drifted again. He was closing in on Simon ... he saw his victims, all black, piled in a corner ....
“The Handyman is a blessing,” Mbutu said. “He's cast a light on the continuous ineptitude of our leaders. The enemy is black, he is white, he is whatever he has to be to keep you down! Now, I know that some of you are thinking, Mr. Mbutu, the murderer just killed some lousy dope dealers. But this is deeper than dope! A man's worth to the world is not defined by his occupation, and nothing becomes legal until white men find a way to keep all the money to themselves. The value of life is limitless, and the value of black life is unimaginable! Every black person is precious!” The crowd erupted again.
“We are going into the fourth century of racism in this country,” Mbutu continued. “Four hundred bloody, desolate years, and still white men are killing black men at will. The only difference now is that there are other black men helping them to do it!”
The crowd was eerily silent. The air was electric with emotion and tension. Tony marveled at the spell Mbutu cast.
He was good, Tony thought, and dangerous.
“The Brotherhood will not tolerate this senseless slaughter of black men,” Mbutu said. “We will fight the white oppressor and his black lieutenants. We will patrol the streets, help the helpless, and turn this killer back across Eight Mile where he came from!”
“I’ll be damned,” said Jim. “This fucker's gonna start his own police force. Hey, man-” Jim looked at Tony who was lost in thought. “Tony--”
“Wha-- yes. “
“You OK?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“This asshole is going to start a vigilante force.”
“Like hell he is,” Tony said. “We'll just have to have a talk with him before he does.”
“Now you talkin'.”
Tony was concerned that Mbutu's actions could find many of his vigilantes in the path of a bullet. More importantly, if Mbutu's people managed to catch the Handyman, it would be embarrassing for the department and the mayor. That was not going to happen.
“My people will pass out fliers to any men who want to join our cause to catch this killer,” Mbutu said.
Several men went into the crowd and began to pass out fliers. There were some takers but not many.
“Let us end by reciting our oath,” Mbutu said. He started and many in the crowd joined in.
I am the justice of my people.
God help me in my quest for freedom,
And God help those who oppose me.
Mbutu descended the podium to wild applause as his followers took down the Brotherhood banner. The shackled black hands wavered and folded as the banner fell.
Mbutu entered the crowd which parted like the waters of the Red Sea and closed around him like a lover's embrace. He shook hands and gave various handshakes to people.
The officers eased a little. The event was going to be over soon.
Tony watched the crowd before him fade into images of the dark GM building ... he was running up to Simon ... taking his gun away ... struggling with him ... Simon's bloody face, falling out the window into a dark abyss ... Irene Simon's letter rose from the blackness....
“This is for the people!” yelled a small black man as he lunged at Mbutu. The man pulled a gun and Mbutu's two big bodyguards moved into action.
Tony came back from his thoughts. Jim's call to him echoed faintly in his head. Tony looked up to see every other officer on their way to the disturbance.
“Damn!” he cursed then followed.
A shot went off.
People scattered and now Tony could clearly see the shooter being held by one of Mbutu's bodyguards and the other holding the gun up high over the shooter's head. The gun had discharged into the air and no one was hit.
Mbutu was whisked away in a car. The bodyguards were beating the man as the police came and pulled them away. Tony ran into the middle of the commotion, his Beretta drawn. “Everyone back away!” he yelled.
Jim was already there, separating the shooter and Mbutu's guards.
Two uniforms cuffed the would-be assassin and pushed Mbutu's bodyguards away. One of the officers took the gun away from the bodyguards.
“Take them all in,” Jim said. “All of them.”
The officers complied. Mbutu's bodyguards went peacefully.
' “I’ll get Mbutu in,” Jim said to Tony. “We'll need him as a witness.”
Tony was silent. He was thinking that if the others hadn't responded so quickly, Mbutu or others might be dead.
“Tony, you all right, man?” Jim asked.
“Yeah. Yeah, I'm OK.” Tony walked away. He put his gun away and heard the rustle of Irene Simon's letter in his jacket pocket.
5
Prince's Court
T- Bone waited in the dimly lit room with K-9, Steve Mayo, and a big, muscular roller named Chick. Chick was a little light in the brain but physically imposing, and T-Bone liked to bring a big, mean-looking son of a bitch to meetings to intimidate the other side.
T-Bone picked Mayo to spearhead production and distribution of the new drug. He was the least bright of the Big Three, but he was the most ruthless, and T-Bone would need his strength to start in the new business. He could supply the brains himself.
They waited for the Prince in a burned-out building on Grand River Avenue that had once been a department store.
T-Bone stood on a mannequin platform, tapping his foot. He didn't like to be kept waiting by anyone.
Mayo had brought two large flashlights which illuminated the room. K-9 stood in the shadows, looking off into the darkness.
They heard voices echo off the burned walls and feet crunching debris. Chick and Mayo pulled out their guns. K-9 cowered in a corner behind the gunmen. T-Bone moved neatly into the shadows.
“OK, my brothas,” the Prince said. “We are here.”
Donna and the Professor followed the Prince, who stepped lively and smiled as he entered. The Professor pulled a large trunk on wheels.
“You late, muthafucka,” said Mayo, putting his gun back. Chick kept his gun out, on T-Bone's signal.
“I don't like to wait,” said T-Bone.
The Prince and his people strained to get a look at him.
“I am sorry,” said the Prince. He walked over and offered his hand. Chick blocked his way.
“We ain't here to talk,” said T-Bone. “Let's get this shit on quick.”
The Prince grinned, showing his gold teeth. “I like that. I like that. Straight to bizness. OK, my brotha, let's do it.”
The Prince turned to the Professor and Donna. “This is Ron. We call him the Professor 'cause he smart, you dig? And this is Donna.”
Mayo's face brightened as he looked at Donna. Her face wasn't much, but she had on a tight, black dress that showed her true talents. Her chest was large and stood straight up. Her hips were narrow and even in the darkness, you could see that her legs were near perfect. She returned his look and he would have sworn that she poked her tongue through her lips slightly.
The Professor sat the trunk on its side and opened it. T-Bone instructed Mayo to check it out. The white man was big, but looked like a user to T-Bone. The Professor had a familiar devastation behind his eyes. Even in the dark he could spot an addict. And T-Bone didn't trust anyone who let drugs get control of them.
The inside of the trunk was a small lab. Chemicals and containers sat inside, tied down by ropes. A small battery was also inside. The Professor took out a small zipper lock plastic bag and held it up. It contained about forty crystals, which glimmered dully in the light.
“This is the shit, my brotha,” said the Prince.
“Don't look like much,” said T-Bone.
“Looks are deceiving,” said the Professor.
“Oh, you talk?” smiled T-Bone.
“Man can do it all.” The Prince laughed.
“I'll take it from here,” said the Professor.
T-Bone was beginning to see the game. The Prince got the connections with blacks in the cities and the white guy played dumb until the time was right. Always, the white man was in control of drugs. Always.
“Our product is a crystalline cocaine,” began the Professor. “It uses only one-tenth the cocaine used to make crack.”
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