Rules of '48

by Jack Cady

  What Lester didn't count on was a colored cop named Moses who was smart as his name. When white cops claimed it time to start cracking heads, Moses told them, "Lemmie see who's missing." It took him a half an hour to get the story. "Might-a known it was Ozzie," he said, "Ozzie was gonna come to something like that."

  So Lester was slated for questioning, but nobody's pants were on fire. Leave it for Monday. Invoices in the dead man's truck gave the country boy's name. His license plate said Whitley county. It was no trouble to find out who the dead man was, and where from, even if Ozzie had stole his billfold. Meanwhile, get the word out on Ozzie; send it to Hamilton and Cincinnati, Knoxville, Memphis and Atlanta as the logical places.

  But Lester didn't know all that. He sat in his rooms watching the near-silent street. As morning progressed, the street livened as folks strolled to church; everybody pretending nothin' had happened. And, if something had happened, nobody knew nothin' about it. Lester watched Howard walk to church beside his handsome mother, so handsome she made a sober man think wistful. Howard looked like he protected her; despite Howard was skinny and weighed little more than a mouse.

  Lester had plenty of time to think, and didn't know what to think. He first thought of his job. Wade was not gonna be happy. Louisville wasn't that big of a town. Gossip would run around and around, and gossip might hurt the auction.

  Lester thought of the dead man. If he hadn't seen the man it might be different. But, Lester had seen all that blood streaming black as night beneath the distant glow of streetlight. And, the look in those eyes, like the man was puzzled. Back during the war Lester saw wounded men who looked the same. Even in a damn war men could not believe it when something serious came along. Before serious hurt happened, they believed it could happen. But, after it happened, they couldn't understand.

  So Lester should have been glad the man was gone, because with that man it was kill-or-be-killed. Lester found that he was not glad, but maybe, later, would be. If only he hadn't seen the man's eyes.

  * * *

  Howard's mother was sad. Worse, his mother was mad. She wasn't mad at him, but he kept close-mouthed. "We stand above this trash," she told him.

  At the time Howard did not know what she meant, because he did not fully understand what had happened. Even after she told him, all he knew was that Ozzie killed a white man. He made no connection with the country boy.

  The walk to church was so quiet. When the preacher started, he started sad then gradually warmed: words about what you sow is what you reap; words gradually getting angry. Then there was song and the anger died away.

  Sometime during the afternoon, horsing around with other young men his age, Howard learned enough to know it was the country boy that Ozzie killed. He wondered, vaguely, what Jim would say to that.

  * * *

  Sunday school and Lutheran church. The preacher talked about Daniel in the lion's den, and how Mr. J. Edgar Hoover compared: how Mr. Hoover walked through hordes of communists mean as lions, or something like that. Behind Jim, in the very last row of the balcony, Mr. James, the church's colored-gentleman-janitor sat listening. He seemed to frown a good bit.

  It turned into the biggest Sunday Jim had ever known, because Jim, who had never heard of Marx, Engels, Lenin or Trotsky, knew himself for a communist. To Jim, being a communist meant that he and Howard could go to the park together.

  What was big was the realization that the Reverend Mr. Robertson, even though trying to speak civilized, sounded just like the loud mouths at the barber shop; and the Reverend Mr. Robertson was so full of crap it drizzled out his socks; and the Reverend Mr. Robertson's feet of clay were covered with it.

  * * *

  Blue could holler and cry just so long, and when the hollering quit, the crying turned to dry sob. It left her so tired she slept and slept. When she woke up in afternoon the room still held Ozzie's stuff. She pretended he would return . . . he was such a particular man about his things. She folded his clothes, straightened the room, and sat at the window watching and waiting. She pretended he would come home any minute, and knew he would not.

  * * *

  Ozzie had Jolly's pistol and the white man's pistol. He had near sixty dollars, which would take a man a long way. He told himself he was smart enough not to get caught. All night he walked, following the railroad. When a freight slowed, headed south, he found an empty coal car. It was the last damn thing a man would want, rubbing up against coal dust, but not even a railroad cop would think of looking for him there.

  Monday, September 15th

  Scuffling

  With summer slacked off and Indian summer threatening, Louisville perked up after dog days of August. In the cooling days of September business sang on high notes as the new model cars went on display. Sales of major appliances continued to boom. Tugboats chugged up and down the river, barging coal and cars; lots of Hudson autos shipping all the way to Mexico.

  White newspapers reported white-folk news, The Defender reported colored-folk news, and all papers were sort-of aware that, in Washington D.C., the House UnAmerican Activities Committee strutted its political ambitions.

  "Communists," the newspapers reported in connection with House UnAmerican and its vaunted leader, Mr. J. Parnell Thomas.

  "Opportunists," Lucky said about Parnell Thomas, John Rankin, and Richard Nixon. "Grandstanders." He said this under his breath, reading the newspaper at breakfast, while Rachel was in another room.

  "Murder," the newspapers reported in connection with the country boy; and, in the case of The Courier-Journal, conveyed, through undertones, that a very bad colored lad gave good Negroes a nasty name. The victim was a "a businessman from downstate." The word 'respectable' was not used, since reporters were close to the action. They, and the cops, figured the fool had no business doing Saturday night where he 'done-did-Saturday night'. Looking for a dark skin girl, no doubt.

  * * *

  So, when Lester walked through the doors of the auction Wade had already read the newspaper. He would have told you that he could care damn-less about politicians.

  But, about Lester, he had decided what to do. As Wade saw it he had two choices: fire Lester, or defend Lester. It's to Wade's credit that he chose the latter. Of course, Wade was such a bulldog, and so certain of himself, the choice came natural. He may have scoffed about 'theory' and 'psychology', but he knew human nature. People could forgive a ton of stuff, if, by forgiving, they could make a buck, and Lester was valuable.

  Besides, Wade had an auction scheduled for Wednesday night, and the sale was only halfway set up.

  "You have anything to do with it?" Wade actually sounded interested.

  "He come looking," Lester said. "A bad man did him in. I gotta figure cops. But boss, all I did was sit."

  "Then let's get crackin'," Wade said. "We gotta finish this set up."

  * * *

  The cop showed up around ten a.m., and he already had most of the story. He dressed like a civilian and didn't act cop-like.

  "Bad blood between you," he said to Lester, and it wasn't a question. The cop was thin-faced as a man in a Hopper painting, and nearly as gray. He looked to be thirtyish; was balding, and cold in his speech. He looked like a man dying of T.B.

  "I threw him out," Wade told the cop about the country boy. "If the sad bastard came back I was gonna get a restraining order."

  "Stay out of this until I ask," the cop told Wade. "I'm talking to your man, here." The cop betrayed himself with his speech. Sure as shootin', and in spite of his looks, this cop was a liberal. There were lots of them around, though precious few were cops.

  "The man was shot right-side from the back. Where did this man Ozzie get the gun?"

  Lester told the story about Jolly, there being no sense hiding that, not now. Wade kept his big mouth shut, but listened close. He never before figured colored folk could live lives more dramatic than his. He probably figured, during off hours, they sat around playing banjos.

  "He'll have two guns," L
ester told the cop about Ozzie. "He'll have the dead man's gun, most surely." Lester talked quiet and nervous, as befitted.

  "You're sure the man had a gun."

  "Corbin," Wade said.

  "That doesn't prove it," the cop said, "but I take your meaning." He turned back to Lester. "There'll be an inquest. You may be called."

  And then the cop left. What seemed like a big deal had turned into nothing a-tall. Lester didn't get his expected beating. Wade didn't even know he'd expected one. Lester couldn't say he was disappointed, but he told himself he was truly amazed; most genuine.

  "I'm sucking horehound," Wade mentioned. "Saturday was a bull-bitch. Voice was ready to crack."

  * * *

  Mixed auctions need a unifying tone. This auction had modern furniture, automobile parts, hotel furniture, plus small lots of this-and-that. An unskilled auctioneer would set it up by lots, and the overall impression would be like a rag shop filled with junk.

  Skilled auctioneers know how to make things look their best. The job is not unlike drawing a picture. If you have snazzy modern stuff, and dull hotel stuff, you pick by color. Reds with browns, blues with grays, and background with uncolorful but functional stuff. Thus, pin-stripe box springs and mattresses stand along the walls, instead of lying in stacks. Before them, stand dressers with lamps. Run some extension cords. Light some of the lamps.

  The best stuff goes to the front of the store. Second best to the back, and junk all the back near the alley. Keep mixing and placing, then replacing, until the sale looks right. Hit the best of the stuff with furniture polish, and get it to glow. Like Lucky, Wade and Lester know that brightness sells. Clean stuff up, make it shine. Even junk looks sort of spiffy.

  As for auto parts, make them look ready-for-use. Sort the oil filters so they run by part numbers, instead of stacking them hodge podge. Lean tires against the wall, don't stack. The largest tires go to the back, then grade out to smallest. If you have room, place tires side by side, like they are rolling toward the customer. An auction needs to transmit movement, as well as color.

  By the time Jim got out of school, and to the auction house, the sale was in place and ready to number.

  "Take care of it," Wade told Lester. "I've got some scuffling to do."

  Small businesses fail for a number of reasons, but the main reasons come from lack of imagination or drive. Too many people rent a storefront, put in an inventory, hang out a sign and wait. When nothing happens they go broke. That old garbage about "location, location, location" describes the needs of the unimaginative.

  A good small business can make money even if it is run from the bottom of a mine. It depends on the drive of the proprietor. If one sells antiques, for heaven's sake, have the gumption to team up with interior decorators. If one sells carpet remnants, go looking for builders of subdivisions. If one sells groceries, set up delivery service and discounts to orphanages and old folks' homes. If you 'wait to see what happens', nothing will happen, or something bad.

  When auctioneers scuffle they make appointments with estate attorneys. They befriend judges of bankruptcy courts. They read the 'business opportunities' in newspaper classified, because eighty percent of those 'opportunities' are businesses going busted. Any small business can make it, even selling nothing but rutabagas; but nobody can sit on their wide, wide bottoms.

  When Wade departed Jim wandered left, wandered right, and couldn't get in the mood for work. He concentrated on his science teacher, Miss Stacy Hall. Then he hummed some "Sleepy Time Gal." Then he watched his sister coming in from school, acting all official, and getting ready to polish furniture. That finally got him in gear. He'd better help Lester, or Miss Pushy would find him work more ornery. Like wash the windows.

  "Uh, huh," said Lester, and hummed a little hum. "Uh-uh, huh, who is she?" Lester passed Jim a marking pencil and tags to tie to merchandise. Lester listed numbers, matching them to sources of the lots.

  "Who?"

  "I see that look you got about you. Don't be telling some sinful lie." Lester, naturally happy, and now off the hook, felt prancy.

  "That Howard," Jim said, "he's sentimental."

  "Think of that."

  "He's mooshy."

  "Kids," Lester said, and Lester was a happy man. "When your age I fell for older women. Reckon Howie's making that mistake?"

  Jim, hurt because of a flash of reality, stayed quiet. Miss Stacey Hall was not gonna wait. Miss Stacey Hall would marry some dumb sumbitch and never know how happy she could of been. Then, "When I see Howard come Wednesday, I'll ask."

  "When you see Howard, come Wednesday, Howard will have a tale to tell." Lester's voice sounded real quiet, and a little puzzled. He sounded like a man who didn't know whether to speak or shut up. "That country boy," he said lamely, "the one who messed with the auction. Hit a run of real bad luck."

  Monday & Tuesday,

  September 15th & 16th

  Lucky Fends Off

  Some folks on Jackson St., and all of them men, stepped up to shake Lester's hand. Other folks, and most of them women, muttered about Satan in their midst. After all, nothin' bad would have happened if Lester hadn't brought trouble to the street. Opinion split out fifty-fifty.

  And, if Lester thought badness would go away, right away, Lester was dreaming. Cops knew Ozzie for the bad man, but felt frustrated because no heads got busted.

  It seemed like a patrol car constantly cruised Jackson St. If any colored men were dumb enough to hold down street corners, cops were on them like sorghum. Men got kicked around some, and men got grilled like catfish, but nobody got killed or even beat up too bad. Still, a white man was dead. Somebody had to pay.

  By Tuesday evening the cops had pretty well worked it through their systems, although street-corner society did not start up for a week. Jackson St. men, who had bulled the cops in elegant ways, were proud that the cops bought some of it. Jackson St. men had gone through a real hard time but everybody 'come out in one piece'. Jackson St. men bragged, but only in private.

  Lucky, on the other hand, walked a mighty thin high wire. On Tuesday morning, stolen stuff from the country boy's truck showed up with every soul who walked through the doorway. Lucky had two regrets. The first regret was that he ran a hockshop. The second? Howard was in school. Howard could have learned something.

  There were ways of handling the mess.

  "C'mon, John," he would say, "you're a smart man, and not that hard up. You need to save that radio, in case you need to gift a woman."

  That worked, one time out of twenty.

  "Sol, my man, I wish I could help, but I'm overstocked." Lucky would run a finger up alongside his nose, like he thought deep, and then smiled like a man making a big discovery. "Take that over to Market St." (And he would name a couple of junk dealers, neither one of them Fudd.) "Guys who buy will pay more than guys who hock."

  That worked about 50 percent.

  "Doggonit, Lucy, the man who gave you that got it from a man who took it." Lucky peered through the front windows, like he feared a cop. "I recommend you take it to the hockshop on Fifth St."

  That worked with most of the ladies.

  And finally, "Samuel, my friend, don't con an old con artist. Take the stuff out of the neighborhood. You don't want a name for bringing trouble to Jackson St."

  That always worked. Men walked away muttering, and bringing down curses on Hebe pawn brokers all the way back to Father Abraham. On the other hand, Lucky had moved the stuff away from the neighborhood, protecting himself and the neighborhood.

  Meantime, Albert had his own crisis. He had cops sitting on Sapphire Top Spot as close as ham to the bone. He had a woman who could start wailing any minute, and Blue's good looks didn't make up for Blue's hollering. Plus, it was now no secret that Albert owned a .38, and how good was that for cops or business?

  Albert told himself he was too old for this kinda shit, so he closed shop. Let Blue get through the worst of it. Let the cops get fed up with looking at closed doors of Sa
pphire Top Spot. He would reopen when the air cleared.

  Wednesday, September 17th

  Pause Between Acts

  Heading for work and a real long day, what with a sale that night, Lester pulled over before Charlie Weaver's place. The new windows shone clean and sparkly. A bulky Diamond T van stood at the curb, equipped with hydraulic tailgate. Two men steadied a ten hole ice cream freezer, lowering the gate little by little as they eased one end of the freezer toward the street. The men let the equipment slide to them, slow and gentle. A second ten holer already sat on the sidewalk.

  Leaning against the side of the building, parts of a backbar were painted like a circus poster; twirly red, mostly, with gold and orange. It looked like one bear of a high class way to sell ice cream.

  And this, in a town, where even the teeniest drugstore had a soda fountain. What in the ever-loving-candy-stripe world made anybody think you could make it selling ice cream? It wasn't like White Castle. White Castle did good because people couldn't pick up a quick burger anywhere else. But ice cream? Hard to walk a block without finding somebody selling ice cream.

  "And sitting smack beside a cemetery," he told the truck (but he was really talking to Charlie). "And opening up at end of summer, not beginning. He'll bust by New Year's."

  At least there was no pink Lincoln parked. A shiny black Roadmaster sat at the curb. The car carried New Hampshire plates. Why all these northerners all of a sudden?

  "White folks?" he said to the truck (but he was still talking to Charlie), and couldn't really say (even to himself, or to Charlie) exactly what he meant. He drove thinking about Wade and the country boy, and how Wade was a country boy himself. What was the difference? Indiana, where Wade came from? Kentucky?