“Greenwich Village isn’t a town, Harley. It’s just a little part of a big city. New York. And my father says there’s places there where a Negro can’t even walk without some gang jumping on him. My father’s from down south. And he says, up here, it’s no better. It’s only that people talk different, not that they are different.”
“If you’re strong enough, it doesn’t matter what people say. Or even how they think.”
“Are you saying you’re ready to—?”
“Not yet, I’m not, Kitty. You think I’ve been stalling you. Not wanting to . . . I mean, like going to Cleveland. That’s not because I don’t want to work. I work. I work hard. But working in a mill, that means, every day you get up in the morning, you never know if you’re going to have a job to go to. It’s not anything you own.”
“Like your own business?”
“Exactly like that. And that, that’s where I’m going.”
“In Locke City? What could you possibly—?”
“Someday I’m going to be where Mr. Beaumont is, Kitty.”
“A gangster!”
“A businessman.”
“Some business,” she said scornfully. “Gambling dens and whorehouses and—”
“Those are just rumors. Mr. Beaumont, he’s in real estate. If you knew how much of the county he owns, you’d be shocked.”
“And that’s what you want? For yourself, I mean?”
“For us. I want it for us. You think if we lived in a big house like Mr. Beaumont’s, you think if I had all kinds of people working for me, people would say anything about you and me?”
“Of course they would! This is still—”
“Mr. Beaumont, he’s in a wheelchair. He can’t even stand on his own two feet. You ever hear of anyone calling him a crip, or a gimp?”
“I never did.”
“Right! Maybe they did when he was a kid, before he . . . before he made himself something. But now he’s a man that’s got everybody’s respect. Everybody wants to be Mr. Beaumont’s friend. You wouldn’t believe the people who come to his house. Like they’re visiting a king!”
“And you’re going to be a king, someday, Harley?”
“You’re going to be a doctor, aren’t you?”
Holden watched as the kerchief-covered head moved closer to the silhouetted flattop. He waited for the sex sounds, but they never came.
* * *
1959 October 04 Sunday 22:02
* * *
Dett drove slowly past a weak red neon VACANCY sign into a graded dirt clearing that housed a ramshackle collection of individual cabins. He parked the Impala in a patch of shadow and got out, a single suitcase in his hand. He walked toward a flat-roofed building with bilious lemony light spilling from its single window.
“Checkout’s at noon,” a wizened man in a stained blue vest worn over a faded-to-gray shirt said, placing a key on the countertop and palming the bill sitting there in the same motion. He studiously avoided eye contact.
Dett went back to the Impala, drove past Unit 11, into the unpaved darkness just beyond the parking lot. After taking a single suitcase from the trunk, he walked back to the empty cottage, turned the key, and let himself in.
* * *
1959 October 05 Monday 01:24
* * *
“He’s back.”
“Log him in, Dave.”
“I already did, Mack. I wonder what that cop wants this time.”
“Money,” the older man said.
“How can you know that?”
“See how he’s moving? Not parking where he did before. Not watching the house. He’s going around back.”
“Maybe he’s just scouting.”
“We know there’s nothing back there—not one car or person since we’ve been sitting here. Shouldn’t take him more than a couple of minutes to find out the same thing.”
“So?”
“So,” Mack said, “if he’s gone more than that, he’s doing business.”
* * *
1959 October 05 Monday 01:29
* * *
“He’s not going to hurt you,” Ruth said to Lola, as she fastened the last of the straps on the leather harness. The girl was on all fours, positioned on a raised platform that had been covered with a deep shag carpet, backed with a heavy layer of foam. “But I’ll be right outside the door. If there’s anything, anything, that gets you upset, all you have to do is say something.”
“You’re not going to—?”
“Those bitches never stop gossiping, do they? No, there’s not going to be any gag in your mouth. That’s a different trick. The men who like that, they know who to ask for. Like Brenda. She’s the one who told you, isn’t she?”
“She was just trying to—”
“—scare you out of this session,” Ruth finished for her. “You know why? Because she wants it for herself. When you’re all done, you’ll be hoping your card comes up next time, you’ll see.”
“Okay . . .”
“I’m going to put this on real loose,” Ruth said, gently draping a black muslin hood over the girl’s head. “You can breathe right through it, see?”
“I . . . Yes.”
“I’m going to turn out the lights as I leave. You won’t see him come in. And you won’t hear him, either. He’s not going to say a word.”
“Do I have to—?”
“No, you don’t have to say anything, either. I told you, he’s not that kind of trick. All you have to remember is to relax. Don’t tighten up. You cleaned yourself out, with what I gave you to take, yes?”
“Yes.”
“All right, Lola. You be good, now,” Ruth said. She patted the girl gently on her framed-and-displayed bottom, and left the room.
* * *
1959 October 05 Monday 01:54
* * *
“Can’t sleep, Beau?”
“I tried, honey. But even with my eyes closed, I kept seeing things. Things I should be doing.”
“What you should be doing is sleeping. It’s almost two o’clock in the—”
“I thought I’d work on my charts, Cyn.”
“You and those charts,” she snorted, affectionately. “It’s a good thing we’ve got so much room on the walls here.”
“You want to help?”
“What could I do, Beau? I don’t know any of the—”
“You help just by being here, Cyn. With me. Every time I have something to figure out, you just being there, it helps me. Makes things clear. Come on, what do you say?”
“I’ll make us some coffee,” Cynthia said, smiling.
* * *
1959 October 05 Monday 02:12
* * *
As Dett was eating directly from a white carton of chicken chow mein, chewing each mouthful slowly, Rufus was prowling Room 809 of the Claremont Hotel. In his hand was a flashlight, its face taped so that only a sliver of the beam shone through. He had left the door slightly ajar. Every other guest on this floor already in his room, he recited, comforting himself. This hour, they all asleep. Any man get off that elevator at two o’clock in the morning, got to be Mr. Dett. And got to be drunk, too.
Outside the room, two men waited, both dressed in what would pass for the maintenance coveralls issued by the hotel. If a white man, any white man, emerged from the elevator, one of them would alert Rufus. Then they would walk toward the man, waving their arms in silent, heated argument, blocking his view and delaying his passage. They were large, bulky men, so similar in appearance they could pass for brothers. Anyone getting off the elevator was not going to just stroll past them. And the back staircase was only seconds away, in the opposite direction.
Papers and numbers, Rufus thought, gingerly probing the contents of the chest of drawers. No. He shifted his attention to the desk, but again came up empty. The flashlight’s softly focused light played over the largest suitcase, the one Rosa Mae had said contained the mojo. Hoodoo bullshit, Rufus said to himself, like Silk thinking Mr. Dett’s real name is Mr. Sc
ratch. But he didn’t open it.
Where’s the other suitcase? And that little case, too?
But a search of the closet drew a blank.
Never mind, Rufus assured himself. I already got what I came for.
* * *
1959 October 05 Monday 02:16
* * *
“He’s always at the top, isn’t he?” Cynthia said, pointing to a large rectangular piece of white oaktag, taped to the wall lengthwise. On its glossy surface was a collection of names, written in black grease pencil. Each name was circled, connected by lines to the others. The effect was as neat and orderly as a school presentation.
“Ernest Hoffman? Sure, honey. And he’s always going to be. I remember a word I read once. I don’t remember the book or anything, but that word, it always stayed with me. ‘Kingmaker.’ You see how strong that word is? There’s been four different governors of this state since the war. Only Jake Moore has managed to hold two terms, and he’s up again, soon. They come and go, but Hoffman, he’s always there. He’s the man who calls the shots.”
“Because he owns the newspaper?”
“That’s just a piece of it, honey. There’s a lot of papers around the state. Here, we’ve got the Compass. But only the Union Messenger goes statewide. Most people, they take two papers, the local and Hoffman’s. Plus, he’s got the radio stations, three of them. I’m pretty sure he owns Channel 29, too.
“And, see over there,” Beaumont said, pointing to the extreme left side of his chart, “besides everything else, he’s got the unions in his pocket. You know why? The same reason he’s got the governor. Because he decides who gets to be president of the locals. A kingmaker.”
“But he doesn’t touch anything of ours. Or of anyone else you have on that chart, Beau.”
“Oh, he touches it, all right, Cyn. Maybe not with his own hands, but he pulls the strings, and everybody dances to the tune he calls. The man who controls the vote controls everything, one way or the other. We own a few cops; Hoffman, he owns the police budget, see? You know what it means, to control where a new plant opens up, where a road gets built, what a garbageman’s salary is, which town gets a new school?”
“Everything.”
“Everything,” Beaumont echoed. “Shalare,” he said, pointing to another chart, “he’s trying to buy his way in, but he’s not playing for the same stakes. Shalare can pay a state senator to vote a certain way, that’s all. But that same senator, he ever crosses Ernest Hoffman, well, he’s not a senator anymore. That means his son loses his job, too. His nephew doesn’t get a promotion. His daughter’s husband doesn’t get to run for a judgeship. He’s all done.
“You see what I’m saying, girl. That’s real power. So, if a man wants to run for . . . even president of the United States, why, he’d have to come to Ernest Hoffman first. And he’d better come with his hat in his hand.”
“How did he get so powerful, Beau? There’s plenty of people with money. . . .”
“It was his father’s money, first, and his father’s before him. See where it says not just ‘Ernest Hoffman,’ but ‘Ernest Hoffman III’? Like he really was a king—King Ernest the Third. His grandfather owned the big mines over in Stilton. That’s where it started.
“His father was the one who brought in the state police toput down the strikes. Crushed the union forever, people thought. But now, today, that union is back in power, a real force. What a comeback, huh? Only Hoffman, he owns it. It belongs to him. The president, McCormick? He’s so deep in Hoffman’s pocket that he probably thinks he’s back down in the mine shaft.
“You know what a man like Ernest Hoffman could do, if he wanted, Cyn? It’s his trucks that move goods; it’s his factories that keep people working; it’s his . . . his everything. During the war, why do you think they built that huge munitions plant down in Morgan County? Because, with Hoffman at the helm, the government had an ironclad guarantee that there wouldn’t be any union nonsense getting in the way. In New York, on the docks, they had to deal with Luciano to keep things moving—in these parts, it’s Ernest Hoffman. You see what I mean, honey? The real government isn’t sitting in the statehouse. It never is.”
“But it could be? Is that what you’re saying, Beau?”
“I thought about this a lot,” the man in the wheelchair said. “Some nights, when I can’t sleep, it’s all I think about. What you just said, it’s the secret to . . . everything. Like a magic key, that unlocks any door.”
“I don’t under—”
“Remember when you said it could be, girl? That’s what they think. Even what they believe, like in church. Let’s say you’re a politician, and you want to clean up Locke City, okay? Here’s your plan. First, you start small. You go along to get along. You take the money, you look the other way, you wait your turn. Then, one day, you’re in charge. The mayor, say. Now what do you do? You clean house. Top to bottom. The chief of police, the municipal judges, the commissioner of public works . . . You sweep them all out, then you bring in your own people. Honest men, every one of them. You make Locke City into the straightest town this side of heaven. And you know what that does, Cyn?”
“I can’t even imagine.”
“It kills the town. It kills Locke City like somebody put a bullet into the heart of every man, woman, and child who lives here. This town, it rose from the ashes once. When they closed down the mills, that should have been it. The only reason Locke City’s not a deserted village right this minute is because of the same things this great ‘reformer’ would be wiping out.”
Beaumont contemplated the tip of his burning cigarette—he couldn’t remember having lit one. “And that’s when the truth comes out, Cyn. Under pressure. The harder things get, the closer to the truth they are.”
“If things happened like you say, people would see it, wouldn’t they? They’d turn on him. And vote him out of—”
“The town couldn’t wait for that to happen. It wouldn’t survive. Takes too long for people to wake up, most of them. But not people like us. We know. A man who takes our money, our support, to get where he is, it’s because we expect things from him. We have a deal. And if he doesn’t keep up his end, all the new police chiefs in the world won’t help him.”
“People like us . . .”
“I don’t make the mistake the others make,” Beaumont said. “I know I’m no better than Dioguardi. Or Shalare. Or anyone else in our game. I may be smarter; I may have a tighter crew; I may be dug in deeper; but I’m the same as them. And you know what that means, hon?”
“No, Beau.”
“It means Ernest Hoffman, he’s the same as me,” Beaumont said, his voice steeled with utter conviction. “I’m a boss; he’s a bigger boss. He sees everything I see, but he’s standing on top of a much higher mountain, so he sees more. Maybe all the way across the country.”
“Why is he so important now?” Cynthia asked. “Because of the election next year you keep talking about? If you’re right, what difference does it make who wins? Locke City will still be the same.”
“It matters who wins because the power flows down through every political machine in every city in America, Cyn. I don’t care about history; I care about right now. And the reason Hoffman’s so important is because of this whole ‘truce’ thing. Shalare wants to meet with me. He says he’s already got Dioguardi signed up. We’re all supposed to be pals, put our weight into making sure the election goes the right way. Who could call for such a thing but Ernest the Third?”
“So you’re going to meet with him? Shalare?”
“Sure. And I’m going to make the truce, too.”
“Then why did you send for . . . that man?”
“Because it’s all lies, Cyn,” the man in the wheelchair said, coldly. “Every word out of every mouth is a lie now. When this is over, there’s only going to be one man in charge. In Locke City, I mean. And you know who gets to pick him?”
“Ernest Hoffman.”
“Yes. Ernest the Third himself. That’s
why he counts. That’s why he matters. We can’t have gang war in Locke City. The only way to have peace is for Hoffman to pick a boss. He only has to say the word, and the Italians would tell Dioguardi to pack his bags. Shalare, I’m not so sure. But there’s other ways, and Hoffman, he’ll know them.”
“Why would he pick one over the other? Just to keep us from fighting?”
“Because it’s more efficient. Things work better when there’s one man in charge. You make a plan, you don’t have to worry about someone else making a different one. That’s all I think about now: how I can get Ernest Hoffman to see that it’s our organization he wants to run Locke City after the election’s over.”
“Have you ever met him? Hoffman?”
“Never once,” Beaumont said. “But I’ve been studying him for years.”
“That’s why you brought him in!”
“What do you mean, honey?”
“Dett. That man, he’s here to do something about Ernest Hoffman, isn’t he?”
“Not what you think,” Beaumont said. “But once I meet with Shalare, we’ll see if this Walker Dett’s really worth what he costs.”
* * *
1959 October 05 Monday 02:19
* * *
“I had to tell him something,” Ruth said.
Detective First Grade Sherman Layne leaned against the wall of Ruth’s office, expressionless, arms folded across his broad chest. Look at him, Ruth thought. Like a big piece of rock, covered with a thin layer of rubber.
“You didn’t see him,” she said, a rush of indescribable fears creating a vortex in her chest. “He’d do it.”
“Set this whole place on fire?”
“With everyone in it,” she said.
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