“Don’t know what you’re talking about. No package I know about. No. This is about Bronko.”
“Why are you telling me? He works for you.” She frowned. “Bronko in trouble?” There was silence.
“Bronko’s dead.” She sat bolt upright, staring at the clock face in the darkness. This time yesterday he was leaving her bed. “Bronko is dead?”
The sheriff’s voice was chilly. “Yes. And we have to talk. I’ll be there in an hour. Make some coffee.”
Ted Mendelsohn got up early that Monday. The clamor and reverberation of the organizing meeting and its riotous ending had robbed him of any hope for rest. The image of Bronko’s hand pulling out his gun had kept appearing as he stared into the dark, longing for sleep. His skin felt chilled in the damp dawn and he pulled on an old sweatshirt. A somber Rennie was in the kitchen, pouring water into the ancient percolator. She put it on the stove and sat down heavily in the single kitchen chair. The old woman looked at Mendelsohn over her cracked glasses.
“You ever see anything like that?” Her voice was sorrowful and quiet. “All my years ain’t never seed a man shot dead right in front of me. Tore up. Like a big rag doll. Layin’ dead not six feet from my Sharon.” Tears clouded her glasses and she took them off, drying her eyes with a stove towel. “What that child gonna remember, Ted? And Jimmy Mack could just as easy been layin’ dead, too.” Her chin lifted and an uninvited smile suddenly brightened her damp eyes. “But you ever hear speechifying like that? Lordy! ‘You were there! No one ever have to tell you. You were there!’ That boy possessed, Ted! You saw it. I saw it. And Godamighty, Eula saw it. Man she loves most in the world ’bout to die. And he almos’ got taken away by that Bronko. Passes understanding.” She got heavily to her feet. “You want some coffee?”
“No coffee for me. I have to meet Jimmy at the Freedom House before the walkout starts.” Mendelsohn took the trembling woman into his arms. “Sometimes man proposes and God disposes, Rennie. We both saw man’s best and worst last night. And sometimes it does pass understanding.” He released her and she patted his chest in embarrassment. Mendelsohn paused at the door. “I don’t imagine Sharon’s going to remember much about last night, Rennie. It happened so fast.”
She nodded. “Hope that’s so. You tell James he did good last night.”
At the Freedom House, he read the Clarion: NEGRO LABOR ORGANIZER SAVED BY HEROIC ACTION OF LOCAL WHITE SHERIFF’S DEPUTY. Wordlessly, Mendelsohn held it up to Jimmy, his stomach growling, and picked up the telephone to call New York. “How the hell do I explain all this to Max?”
Jimmy said, “Before you call in your story, you ought to know a few things. That ‘local white hero’ who shot Bronko was one of the two who beat Dale and me at the station house. He’s the guy who ordered Bronko to throw us out of there when they were done.”
“Why are you telling me this?” “Because Bronko was the only witness to the beatings, and Lonergan knew it. And those two hated each other’s guts. I saw it that night after the beatings. My guess is he was probably worried that this nigger cop would use it against him given the opportunity.”
Mendelsohn remained silent, holding the receiver. Jimmy finished his coffee. “Now the opportunity is gone. The black rogue cop is dead, and Law-and-Order Lonergan is alive and very well.” He cocked his head and regarded the reporter. “Probably in for a promotion. You find that interesting?”
“Yes. But Bronko was this close to killing you. And Lonergan saved your life, Jimmy.”
Jimmy stood up and stretched. “And two nights ago that pecker-head would have burned me alive if he had the chance.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Dale and I watched the whole Klan cross burning from the attic. The guy who brought the gasoline to burn down the Freedom House was Officer Lonergan. If somebody hadn’t shot up Lonergan’s truck, Dale and I would have been lost in the ashes.”
Mendelsohn stared at Mack. “And you call that interesting?”
“Yeah. What’s even more interesting is that, if Lonergan finds out there were two witnesses who saw him light the fire, he’s going to come looking for them.” The astonishment on Mendelsohn’s face made Jimmy grin. “You ever heard of the Mississippi whoo-who bird, Ted? Interesting bird. He flies in ever diminishing circles till he disappears up his own asshole.”
Mendelsohn had held the receiver in his hand for a long while, and now he carefully placed it back on the hook. A question surfaced that he had hardly acknowledged. “You don’t seem particularly happy that Bronko was killed.”
Jimmy frowned. “I’m not. He was just a colored man doing a shitty job to get along. A man like me has a certain sympathy for that. If you’re black and born in Mississippi, you know that man. He’s you. Back then. Now. Maybe tomorrow. You don’t get happy when he’s shot dead like a dog.” A wry grin started on his serious young face. “Besides, we only had one black cop in the whole Delta. Some black folks took a lot of pride in that, though they were embarrassed when he killed blacks for the Man. And now we’re back to square one. There’s no black cop in this Delta. Just white cops, like Lonergan, who can kill blacks for the Man.”
“And you think he will?”
“I think he will try.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Lonergan closed the cruiser door and turned to Butler. He slapped his partner’s thigh and chortled. “I wasn’t out of bed yet when the phone rang.” He grinned. “It was Roland Burroughs himself! Your mayor!”
Butler turned off the ignition. “You’re shittin’ me?”
“No. Wanted me to know that my resolute action at the Communist meeting was exactly what this police force has been needing. Best public relations thing that’s happened to Shiloh in forty years. Wants me come to the White Citizens Council meeting Thursday night. His guest. Thinks the gentlemen at the Shiloh Club would enjoy meeting a Shiloh policeman who’s not afraid to do what’s got to be done.” He threw back his head and laughed. “Finally gonna let one of the Klan meet the country club boys!”
Butler grinned. “Leave your white sheet at home, buddy. He knows you got it. His guest! Those white glove types don’t invite us lower-order grunts for drinks ’less there’s a reason. What’s the reason?
“If it ain’t admiration, maybe it’s politics, partner. Be nice to me. I could be your next boss!”
“Dropping that Bronko bastard sure turned you on, pal. They gonna make you Pope?”
“You can kiss my ring, Butler.”
“And you can kiss my ass, Lonergan. When’s your truck gonna be fixed up? I don’t plan on being your chauffeur.”
Lonergan stretched luxuriously and lit a Camel from the crumpled pack in his breast pocket. “Preacher called, said he checked the trucks at Kilbrew’s and they’ll be ready tomorrow morning. The holy man is still pissed off that we didn’t take down that Communist whorehouse. Wants to know who shot out our tires for the Devil. I told him that it was probably Bronko. He said it was too many shots for one sniper. That was the preacher’s specialty in the Bulge in ’45. At least two guns, he said.”
“So what does the old bastard want us to do?”
“Burn out the Freedom House and all those Satan vipers, he said.
Burn ’em out or they’re gonna kill us. Find ’em.” He stared at Butler as he blew out a long stream of cigarette smoke. “The preacher’s a mean prick. We don’t want to be on his shit list, partner.”
“And?”
“And maybe we should find who ruined his party.”
The sun was just starting to touch the tops of the trees behind the deserted Fatback’s Platter when Dennis Haley parked in the clearing behind Nefertiti’s cottage. He scanned the yard and noted it was safely out of sight from the highway. He paused, listening to the cooing of a mourning dove back in the woods, then walked to the door and turned the knob. Hearing the rush of the shower, he grinned and stepped inside. He folded his long frame into the one easy chair and turned it to face the bathroom door. He was l
ighting a cigar when Nefertiti, with only a towel wrapped around her hair, stopped abruptly at the bathroom door.
Looking past the flame of his match, Haley lazily let his eyes move across the shining and sumptuous burnt sienna landscape of the woman.
She answered his stare without blinking, standing motionless. “You almost done, Dennis?” Her voice was flat. “Learned a long time ago that a boy with a hard-on can’t be kept waitin’ too long. Looks like you been waitin’ too long.”
“You can tell from over there?” He put his cigar on the edge of the table and opened his arms wide. “I think you ought to be a lot closer ’fore you rush to judgment.” His smile was fixed, but his voice was commanding. “I mean now, Nefertiti.”
She remained standing, but began to dry her hair with the towel, then slowly moved the towel, caressing the drops of water from her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. When she was done she moved past him and stretched out on the bed, her eyes locked on his. “You just walk in the door? That’s it?”
“That’s it, Nefertiti. I just walk in the door. And you welcome me. Simple.”
“Funny,” she said. “I took you for the sheriff, not my handy man.” Her mocking voice crooned:
“Why, he shakes my ashes, greases my griddle,
chimes my butter and he strokes my fiddle,
my man is such a handy man. . . .”
His voice was angry now. “I think you should remember that. The sheriff. The honky who lets you operate on this lily pad, case you forgot. Your handy man is now very dead, Nefertiti. Too dumb to live. No hard-on at all. So you may just have to settle for a fine white stallion who appreciates what you’ve got, you black bitch.”
“Someone like the sheriff.”
“Spitting image.” Without another word he unfastened his holster, placed it next to the cigar on the table, and began to undress.
“You gonna tell me what happened to Stanley?” The gaze from the bed was steady.
“Lesson for you, Nefertiti. He didn’t have the sense to do what I told him. And it got him killed.” He dropped his clothes on the floor and poured two glasses of whisky as he watched her in the mirror. “Your handy man thought he was a black Polack Wyatt Earp, riding into town and confronting the bad guys, all against my orders. Pulled his gun on Jimmy Mack, who was making a speech at the mass meeting.”
Her eyes were wide. “Bronko was going to shoot him?”
“The Newsweek reporter thought so and came running to have me stop it. I sent my best cop, Lonergan, inside to get the dumb bastard out, and the next thing I knew Bronko was dead and the FBI was all over my back. You know what I’m going to have to deal with now? Christ!” He approached the bed carrying the drinks. “Your handy man was hired to cover my ass, Nefertiti, not to lay my woman. And now I’ve got to find a new messenger who won’t mess with what’s mine.”
She emptied her glass. “Like me.”
He raised his glass in an elaborate toast. “Like my sepia Queen of the Nile.” She was silent as he sat heavily on the edge of the bed. His deep voice throbbed in the stuffy room. “So this is how the drill is going to go from now on. I’m gonna have Harold Butler start handling the door here at Fatback’s and then bringing me the rent.”
“You’re crazy. Everybody knows he’s Klan, Dennis. You think he’s not going to have trouble at our door?”
“Butler can take care of himself.” He knelt on the bed, staring down at her as he opened his arms wide. “And he’ll take care of me, too. Unlike your handy man, he won’t even try to get in this bed, Nefertiti. Unlike your sheriff, he can’t stand niggers.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Billy’s broom was sweeping the dregs of the night before across the curb when the cruiser pulled up and stopped. Billy leaned comfortably on the handle and benevolently waved the two officers toward the open door of Billy’s Chili. “My goodness, two of Mississippi’s finest, coming for breakfast at my modest establishment. How in the world can I show my appreciation, gentlemen?”
“You learn to talk like that when you were in Italy, boy?” Butler asked. “Don’t sound like wop talk. Sound like wop talk to you, Lonergan?”
Lonergan grinned. “Sounds more like uppity-nigger talk, Butler. Course we never been in Italy, fighting to get laid with white Eyetalian women, like Billy here. So could be. Is it true her old man shot off your fingers on the way out the door, Billy?”
Billy laughed and held open the door. “Certainly good to see you relaxed and happy, officers.” Smiling, he led them to a booth facing the grill. “I understand you had a heroic confrontation last night. Saved Deputy Bronko from being killed by an unarmed black man named Jimmy Mack by killing Bronko yourself.” The two police sat down in silence. “Must have taken some moxie to do that. You fellas call that a ‘fire fight’? When we weren’t laying white Eyetalian women at Anzio, we used to call those uncomfortable shoot-outs ‘fire fights.’”
He moved behind the stove, flipping hotcakes and turning sausages in the pan. “At any rate, Billy’s Chili is happy to offer a free breakfast to the brave man who gunned down Deputy Bronko, a colored man who was not a patron of these premises. My clientele just didn’t like having the place get a bad reputation by letting in just anybody. You might say we discriminated against that black officer. Hope that wasn’t breaking any law. Could that be why you’re here this morning?”
Butler said, “Deputy Lonergan, here, is the hero, boy. He gets the free breakfast. And I get the free breakfast because I’m hungry. That sound like a good plan?”
Billy laughed. “Certainly does. Put up your feet and stay a while. I got these hotcakes and pork sausage on the grill.” He paused. “No offense, you gentlemen enjoy pig sausages? Not everybody likes pigs.”
Butler turned to Lonergan. “You take offense, Lonergan?”
Lonergan’s smile faded. “We’ll have the sausages, Billy.”
Billy and the two settled in the small booth toward the rear. Butler poured coffee into the saucer, waiting for it to cool as Lonergan’s eyes settled on the gun, hanging in plain sight, over the hood of the stove. He pushed his hot cakes away and walked over to examine the weapon.
“A carbine! Damn, that’s a fine little gun. Don’t see many carbines down here.” He returned to the table. “Know you gotta have a license for that carbine, Billy.”
“Yes sir, Deputy Lonergan. Certainly do. Got it in ’46 when I returned to Indianola after my extreme exertions caused by layin’ white Eyetalian women on the Anzio beachhead. On certain other occasions I used that little carbine in the hills behind the beachhead and got attached to it. I have the license with my discharge papers in the back room. You like to see it?”
“I certainly would. Right now.”
Billy turned in his seat and called to the closed door. “Z, baby, would you bring in my gun license please? We have a guest here who’s eager to see it.” A slender, blue-eyed, olive skinned woman with luxuriant black hair framing her oval face brought the small certificate to the table and paused behind Billy’s chair. When she smiled, she revealed small, bright teeth behind her full, pink lips. Billy hid a smile behind his coffee cup as he watched the two police stare at his wife. He’d seen this reaction before. “Z, say hello to Deputy Lonergan and Deputy Butler. I don’t think they’ve met you yet.”
“Buon giorno, Signori,” Z smiled. “I mean good morning, gentleman.” She turned to Billy. “Gentleman?”
Billy chuckled. “Gentlemen.” He pushed back his chair and put his arms around Z. “My Italian wife is just getting comfortable with English. But she’s learning faster than I learned Italian at Anzio.”
Butler was the first to speak. His voice was shrill. “This white woman with the nigger hair is your wife?”
Billy regarded him with a humorous detachment. “According to Chaplain Amos Grenville, Commander, U.S. Navy, who married us at the Anzio City Hall on August 22, 1944, this white woman with the nigger hair is my legal and beloved wife. Would you care to see the papers?”
Butler scraped back his chair and headed for the door. “Screw you both! I’ve seen enough filth for one morning.” The door slammed behind him.
Lonergan remained seated, his eyes fixed on Billy’s wife. “You called her Z, Billy. What does Z stand for?”
“It was her name in the Partisan group we worked with behind the beachhead. I’d heard about this sharpshooter in the hills that was picking off Germans, only name I heard was Z. Didn’t find out it was a woman for ten days. Didn’t find out it was a beautiful woman named Natalia till I met her when we secured the beach. Got married a week before our outfit shipped out for Normandy. It’s taken a long time to get her here.” He squeezed her shoulder. “But she’s a keeper.”
Lonergan said “A sharpshooter. You like the carbine, Z?”
She smiled. “Yes. A nice light gun. But I like a longer rifle for the sharpshooting. Yes?”
Lonergan said sharply “Tell me where you were last Wednesday night, Z.”
Her eyes wide, she turned to Billy. “Where?”
Billy smiled. “Wednesday night Z worked with me till we closed up about two. We must have had thirty, thirty-five people here saw us working. Why do you ask?”
Lonergan gathered his hat and stood to go. “There’s been some sharpshooting out near the Communist house, Billy. Shot the shit out of my truck. You hear anything about that?”
“No, Deputy Lonergan. All I heard about was poor Bronko. A lot of action for Indianola. Natives must have been restless.”
“And you’d let me know if you hear anything? ” “What a question. I’m sure you know the answer. Say goodbye to Deputy Lonergan, Z.”
With her arm entwined in Billy’s, she followed the officer to the door. “Arrividerci, signor. Goodbye.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lonergan pulled in opposite the Freedom House, and parked across from where his truck had stood on the night of the firing. “We were right there, Butler. Preacher’s truck was right behind us.” They stepped onto the baking road, shading their eyes from the noon sun. The lawn of the Freedom House was dotted with groups of black kids with their teachers. On the porch they could see the journalist, Mendelsohn, talking intently with Jimmy Mack. When Mack spotted their cruiser, he and Mendelsohn disappeared inside. Lonergan walked slowly around the cruiser.
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