Darktown

by Thomas Mullen

  “I was wondering if you were going to stop by,” Boggs said.

  “I’ve been meaning to. Been a bit hairy lately. But I didn’t want you to think I’d forgotten. I appreciate all you did to help me out.”

  Lucius didn’t appreciate the way Rake had phrased that, you help me out. He said, “There’s a lot I’m still not straight on.”

  Rake explained again what had happened at Silas Prescott’s house that night, the confession and the shooting. All he said beyond that, however, was that the deceased Silas Prescott would never be charged with Lily’s murder. Lucius wanted to object, wanted to say the least they could do was officially clear Otis’s name, but he knew that wasn’t true: there was always less they could do. And that’s exactly what white people would do.

  His heart had broken for Lily so many times, but it did again. And it broke for his father, and for himself. They had both wanted to believe that Congressman Prescott was an ally. An important white politician who had seen the merit of their arguments against Jim Crow. A convert to their cause who would work the halls of power for them, strive with them to achieve their goals. When in fact the extent of his regard for Negroes seemed to be that he liked sleeping with the cute young ones. He knew what speeches to make to win enough of their votes, now that they were permitted to vote. But he was no better than the rural legislators who openly invited white mobs to keep them in line with nooses and guns. He took advantage of a Negro girl, and a generation later his son did the same thing, and both times, when those girls became problems, they did what they had to do to remove them.

  Boggs hadn’t told his father the truth about Prescott, and he probably never would. It was a moot point anyway: word was that the congressman would not run for reelection, succumbing to grief.

  “Well, I’m glad to hear things have worked out for you,” Lucius said, barely even trying to conceal his bitterness. He dared stray into dangerous territory with, “I heard you got a new partner.”

  “Yeah. He’s a good fellow. Teaching me a lot.”

  “Good. Thanks for dropping by. You take care.”

  He had taken a few steps down the walkway when Rake called out, “Wait.” Boggs turned.

  Rake took a few steps toward him, glancing around, clearly afraid someone would see a white man talking to a Negro like an equal, or some rough approximation.

  “You’ve heard that Dunlow’s missing, I’m sure.”

  Boggs tried to keep his face blank.

  “The last time I saw him,” Rake continued, “he was drinking in the morning and ranting about you and Smith. There any chance he came looking for one of you?”

  Boggs had practiced in front of his mirror what he would say, many times. “If he had, do you think I’d be standing here right now? He probably drove into a wall somewhere.”

  “Then there’d be a wreck, and a body.”

  “Then he up and left town.”

  “Doesn’t sound like him. Seemed like he was about ready to restart the War Between the States that day, not run off.”

  “Who knows, then. Don’t ask me to explain the behavior of a man like that.”

  Rake looked down for a moment, then back at Boggs. “You should know, in case you haven’t heard this yourself. But plenty of white cops figure something happened between you and Smith and Dunlow. Fellows I’m not so fond of myself. They say there’s no way Dunlow would have turned tail, that he would have come after you. And that something happened.”

  Lucius paused only a moment. “First they had us for Poe, and now they have us for Dunlow? I can’t wait to see what unsolved murder they pin on the colored cops next.”

  “I know it,” Rake said, and sighed. He seemed convinced.

  Lucius felt perhaps too much relief then, because he pushed too far with, “Maybe it was whoever on the force was behind Ellsworth. Sharpe and Clayton, or whoever it was that we can’t touch? Maybe they got tired of Dunlow for the same reason they got tired of Underhill. Or maybe it was whoever it was you worked out some deal with to stay on the force.”

  Rake scowled. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? What ‘deal,’ what have you heard?”

  “Nothing. Forget it. We all had to strike crazy bargains to get where we are, right? You and Dunlow. Me and Smith. Me and you. Who knows what bargain Dunlow struck with whom?”

  Boggs hoped Rake wouldn’t wonder why he wasn’t making eye contact anymore. Hoped he wouldn’t wonder why he was staring at the ground and then turning, walking away as if fleeing before any more questions.

  38

  RAKE COULDN’T SLEEP again, even though he’d just finished a grueling shift with his new partner. A man had stabbed his brother to death in front of the dead man’s wife and two young children, Rake arriving minutes later, everyone screaming but the dead man. Blood everywhere, expressions on faces that he feared he would never forget.

  After lying in bed for thirty minutes, he got up, dressed, and went for a walk.

  The killer tonight had surrendered immediately. He hadn’t even fled the scene, had simply been waiting outside for the police. Hands slick with blood, he explained that he’d done what needed to be done, that his brother had lent him money once and never shut up about it, the man had shamed him over and over, he was all proud of himself for having a pretty wife and cute kids and a good-paying job, he needed to be taken down a notch. Derangement could be so matter-of-fact sometimes.

  It was past three in the morning as Rake walked in the middle of the street, the silence as thick as the humidity.

  He was still reacting to the evening’s horrors, he knew, and the two little boys screaming, but somehow the experience merged in his mind with Dunlow. He knew Dunlow was dead. There was no way the man had simply run off, and Boggs’s theory that someone in APD had decided Dunlow was a nuisance seemed wrong. Dunlow hadn’t been involved in the Ellsworth saga at all; he had wanted to be involved, as he would have liked the extra money, but Underhill had held him at arm’s length. The Rust Division men who’d broken Rake’s finger had confirmed it. Dunlow was dirty and racist and a horrible cop, but he hadn’t been involved in the Ellsworth murder other than letting Underhill off without a ticket that night. There was no reason he would have been killed in connection with that crime.

  Rake did not like the thought that Boggs or Smith had killed him, but it had been there in his head for days now. He had wanted to see how Boggs would react to Dunlow’s name, and the Negro’s reaction had felt staged.

  Now that Dunlow seemed to be dead, Rake felt a guilt he’d never expected. Had he killed Dunlow somehow? Had he driven his partner to do something stupid? He’d reviewed the events of the last few weeks in his mind so many times now, and the attenuating fear and stress was mixing everything up, confusing him, timelines getting fuzzy, cause blurring with effect.

  He stopped when he heard glass shatter. It had come from his left, far enough away to have been barely audible, and he wondered if he’d imagined it. Then he heard it again.

  Few things are as disorienting as being lost in a thought and then realizing that something of great import is trying to interrupt. It’s hard to notice what’s happening, hard to step away from the insular inertia of one’s self. The job had been helping Rake get better at this, though, as the outside world’s unexpected action tended to invade monotony at least once each night. When he saw a figure darting to his left, he turned and was about to follow it when he saw something else, to his right. A brightness. He turned toward it, losing the figure so he could better take in the fire. It was Mr. Calvin’s house. From the distance he could just make out its silhouette, but he could certainly see the yellow blaze running up one of its walls. So bright he couldn’t look at it directly, the glowing yellow and the angry oranges and it was spreading so fast. When he blinked he saw the round blue burns inside his eyelids.

  There was no car in their driveway. No screams, at least not
yet. For a moment Rake stood there.

  Then he turned and looked for the figure. He didn’t see it but he heard the scuff of a shoe on pavement, so he ran. There it was, darting a few houses ahead of him, cutting now into a backyard.

  He could have yelled, “Stop, police!” and if he’d been in a different neighborhood, perhaps he would have.

  He ran because it was easy and sudden and the longer he ran, the more he wondered if he was running in the wrong direction. The driveway was empty, but the house?

  Chasing the figure, Rake nearly tripped over a shovel that someone’s back light warned him about just in time. Then he saw the man, trapped by the fact that a neighbor had decided to put up a fence. The man was moving to his side now, hoping to find some new escape. He sped past some shrubs and Rake was just behind him, the two of them emerging in another yard and then Rake sprang forward like the free safety he’d once been, a perfect tackle as he grasped the man’s ankles and held on.

  Before the man could get up, Rake was on top of him. He knelt on the small of his back and grabbed his right wrist, pulling it behind him.

  “Let me up!” Sounded young. Rake wasn’t surprised. Not a man but a teenager.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, kid? You want the electric chair?”

  “Nobody’s even home, we checked!”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  No reply. The kid was panting and so was Rake.

  With his free hand, Rake patted the kid down. He couldn’t reach everything since the kid was pinned down, but he felt reassured enough.

  “I’m going to roll you over real slow. Don’t even think about getting up.”

  Rake stood and took a step to the side so he’d have space if the kid pulled anything. Then he prodded the kid’s shoulder with one of his feet and told him to roll over onto his back.

  It was dark out, but the nearly full moon provided just enough illumination for Rake to see himself gazing back in time. The bone structure and eyes were unmistakable.

  “You’re a Dunlow, aren’t you?”

  “Yessir. Lionel Junior. Folks call me Buddy.” He’d seemed nearly as tall as Rake when he’d been running. He was thin but not scrawny, the cords of his neck taut and his white T-shirt bulging softly beneath his chest. “How’d you know?”

  “I work with your father.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  Rake sighed and shook his head.

  “He’s working on some secret mission, ain’t he? Something they needed to send only the most special cops on?”

  Rake heard footsteps coming from the next yard, quiet whispers against tall grass.

  “That may be,” Rake said. “I’m not told such things.”

  “Me and my brother are doing what we need to do. He asked us to before, but we didn’t get to it. Maybe he’s upset at us for not doing it sooner, and this way he’ll finally come back and—”

  “Shut up, Buddy!”

  Rake saw another new figure a few feet away. It was too far to see a face, but the voice sounded like another Dunlow, older than this one, thicker looking. And holding a knife.

  “Son, you can either put that blade back in your pocket right now, or underhand it to me real slow.”

  “You ain’t taking my brother,” the kid said, not moving. “Our old man’s gone but you ain’t taking him, too.”

  “I never said I was taking anybody. Are you two morons? Trying to kill someone?”

  “No, sir,” the older one said. He folded and pocketed the knife. “We checked the windows that no one was home. We waited for the right time. We know what we’re doing.”

  “Yeah, you’re goddamned criminal masterminds.” Rake was not surprised that no sirens were calling, no neighbors yelling. He looked at the younger one. “Get up. Go the hell home, and mind your business from now on.”

  The younger one stood and walked, with a limp, over to his brother. Rake stared at them and they looked back, dark shapes without faces. Rake was tempted to ask them if they’d come to an understanding but he bit his tongue. It was only going to get harder for these two.

  Then the two Dunlows backed away, swallowed by the overgrowth of summer gardens.

  Rake was closer to his own house than to the Calvins’, so he ran home first. Cassie and the kids were still asleep, blissfully unaware. He picked up the kitchen phone and called the fire department. He didn’t identify himself as a cop, didn’t identify himself at all. He asked for a fire truck—and an ambulance, which he hoped wasn’t necessary—and they assured him one was on the way.

  It would be a very slow truck, he knew. He hurried back outside and ran to the burning building. The flames had made quite some progress over the last few minutes. Fire was very good at its job. The entire building was consumed now, black funneling upward in the thick air until it disappeared into the matching night. None of the Calvins had emerged. No one was screaming and there was no sign of life. He hoped the Dunlow boys had been right.

  From the road, a good ten feet from the edge of the yard, the heat felt like an angry hand against his breastbone, warning him back. His eyes went dry, his throat tightened.

  It was a corner lot. The house to its right was closer, and the bushes between them were at risk of catching. He ran to that house and tried the front door, but it was locked. He pounded on it and yelled, “Police! There’s a fire next door, you need to evacuate!”

  Something from inside the fire popped, or the fire popped as it expanded, or maybe it was his nerves as he ran to the neighbors’ back door. It was unlocked. He turned on the lights and ran to the stairs, repeating his warning as loud as he could. He saw kids’ pictures on the walls. He ran up the steps, yelling still, and found a bedroom, the bed empty. So was the bed in the other room. He found the parents’ room and that, too, was abandoned.

  He ran to the next house and found it empty as well.

  Outside again, the burning house was a black skeleton already, no longer enclosing its angry soul. Rake walked backward so he could see the fire churn as he headed home. When he was far enough away to no longer feel the heat on his skin, he turned and made his way home through the quiet night.

  39

  IT HAD BEEN weeks since they’d found her, so the weeds in the dumping grounds may have been an inch or so higher, but other than that it looked the same. Crabgrass rose shoulder-high in places, waist-high in others. Trash was strewn everywhere, some in bags and some loose, some of it freshly laid on top, and some nearly subsumed into the earth itself. The only real differences between that first night and now was that the sun was out and there wasn’t a body here anymore.

  Tommy Smith parked the pickup truck that he’d borrowed from a friend. In shotgun was Champ Jennings, who had been one of the first officers at the scene the night they’d found her, and, conveniently, was the strongest man in the precinct.

  The redbrick wall of an apartment building in front of them offered a bit of shade at that midmorning hour, though it would be taking that shade back shortly. They would have been smart to get an earlier start, but cops who pulled night shifts weren’t much for morning yard work. They grabbed machetes and hedge clippers from the bed of the truck. Then they got to work on their city beautification project. First was the swinging, as they chopped away at the highest weeds and got them down to a manageable, possibly mowable height. Smith realized immediately that this would be a much harder job than he’d been hoping it would be.

  “I don’t think my machete’s sharp enough,” he said.

  Champ laughed. “I don’t think your shoulder’s sharp enough, boy.”

  Smith swung harder, then Champ laughed again. “Hold up, hold up.” Champ was a farm boy, and after Smith steadied his blade, Champ stepped forward and demonstrated. “Hit it this way, down like.” Smith watched as the big man split the sheaths in a smooth stroke. “That, and add thirty pou
nds of muscle, and you should be fine.”

  They alternated between hacking at the growth and pulling out pieces of trash, stuffing the loose garbage into paper bags they’d brought and tossing them into the truck.

  They wore gloves, long-sleeved shirts, and boots to protect themselves from snakes and thorns and poison ivy, not to mention the general nastiness of days- and week-old trash. Every now and then Smith caught a whiff of nearby honeysuckle but mostly he smelled the almost sweet ripeness of refuse. Within an hour the sun was leaning on them hard and Smith’s shoulders were on fire. Eventually Boggs arrived, fresh from some church event and wearing nicer clothes than the task demanded.

  Stray dogs came and went, some to watch, others to use the dumping grounds for their own waste-disposal purposes. Smith, digging out an old tire that had become encased in vines and roots, shook his shovel and hollered at the mutts, who trotted off.

  Two neighbors joined them for a spell, Samaritans intrigued by the chance to show some solidarity. Could this dumping ground really become a park? Could this spot actually be used for picnics or a playground, or were such thoughts laughable? Was it even worth it to try?

  Smith was wiping his brow when he heard a scraping noise. He looked to the right and saw a young man, maybe eighteen, dragging a metal garbage pail toward them.

  “No!” Smith yelled, the same tone he’d used to shoo the mutts.

  The man stopped and took in the surprising scene before him.

  “What am I supposed to do with this, then?” he asked.

  “Leave it on the curb. Collection for this neighborhood is Tuesday morning.”

  “Yeah, same day as Jesus comes back to save us all, right? When’s that ever happened?”

  Smith walked over to the man, who was slight and thin and sweating himself from dragging his trash around the building. He reached into his pocket and handed the man one of his cards.

  “We spoke to the Sanitation Department. They’ll be here every Tuesday. If they’re not, you call me. Officer Tommy Smith. All right?”