by Larry Karp
The four walked to the left rear corner of the building. Green pointed. “Coal chute.” He bent, pulled at the wooden cover; it came away in his hand. He waved it at the group. “Looks like somebody was in too much of a hurry to fix it back right.”
Alan stared through the opening in the wall, at the metal slide running down and into a nearly-full coal bin.
“Big enough for a man to get through. An’ look.” Green wiped his hand over the chute, then held up the palm. Ireland pointed the flashlight, shaded the beam with his free hand.
“No coal dust,” Brun said.
Green laughed. “Shiny as a nigger’s heel.”
“How’d they get out, though?”
“No trouble there,” said Ireland. “You can’t get into the school after hours, but you can always get out. The doors lock from the outside, but there’s a bar on the inside, you push it and the door’ll open. When those guys were done, they could’ve gone up the basement stairs, into the hallway, and right out the back door.”
Green made an exaggerated bow to Alan. “There you go, young mister. Show us the way. Take you’self a li’l ride.”
Alan swung himself onto the upper edge of the chute.
“Don’t bang your feet,” Green hissed. “Quiet.”
Alan balanced himself from behind, wiggled his legs and body straight, then let go of the edge. He hit the coal standing, staggered to the side of the bin, and vaulted over it to the floor. A moment later, Green came down the slide, and jumped out of the bin. Alan looked back and up the chute.
“It’s just you and me, boy,” Green said. “Your friend with his heart pills better not be takin’ no joy rides, an’ Mr. Ireland’s gonna go make sure he can get to the phone if he has to.” Green pulled Ireland’s flashlight out of his pocket. “Now, let’s start lookin’.”
“I don’t even know what I’m looking for,” Alan said.
Green began to shine the flashlight around the room. “Something that just don’t look like it belongs where it is.”
Alan walked back to the coal bin. Could they have put it under the coal? Not likely. Would’ve been a hard, dirty job, and then the coal would take out a lot of the blast, wouldn’t it? The boy walked to the furnace, saw it was not lit, and carefully opened the door. Green suddenly appeared behind him, shone the light into the furnace. Nothing but ashes.
Alan got down on his knees to peer under the boiler. He swung his hand back and forth beneath it, but felt nothing. As he wondered where to look next, Green pulled at his shoulder. “Over here.”
He followed Green halfway across the room, to the foot of a wooden column more than two feet thick, one of a row supporting a huge horizontal beam that ran the width of the basement. Green directed his flashlight to the base of the column. “See there?”
Alan squatted, squinched his eyes. “I don’t see anything.”
“Shee-it, boy. Lord wasted his almighty time givin’ you eyes.” Green grabbed Alan’s hand, stubbed the index finger into the floor at the base of the beam. “Now, you gonna tell me you don’t see nothin’ there but dirt?”
Alan looked closely. “Just a little sawdust.”
“An’ where you think that sawdust come from, huh?” Green played the light around the lowest part of the beam. “That sawdust be tellin’ you where be the sawdust. See the li’l saw-line on the post? Here, hold me the light on it.”
Alan watched Green pull a knife from his pocket, flip open a nasty-looking blade, then carefully apply the length of the cutting edge to the side of the column. A twist of Green’s wrist, and Alan heard the creak of a nail being pulled. The colored man reached across the column, twisted the knife again, then came away with a small wooden object in his left hand. “Look at what we got here, boy. Thin li’l piece of fir, same wood as the post, there. A cover.”
Green dropped the wood, pulled the flashlight from Alan’s hand, knelt to shine light into the recess. “Um-hm! Okay, quick now. See that red stick, wires goin’ to a li’l alarm clock?”
Alan squatted to peer into the cavity. “Twenty minutes after nineteen? What kind of clock is that?”
“Twenty-four-hour clock, prob’ly army surplus. These guys knows what they’s doin’. An’ see? The li’l alarm hand’s set to go off right at a quarter till twenty. That's a quarter till eight.”
“So we’ve got less than half an hour.”
Green played the flashlight over the device. “We be okay. It ain’t sweatin’.”
“Huh? The dynamite isn’t sweating?”
Green laughed. “Yeah, you is, and me too, but not it. Dynamite gets old, the nitro breaks down and sweats through to the outside. That happens, you don’t dare fool with it, it can go off in your hand. But this stuff’s okay.” He scrambled to his feet, pulled at the boy’s wrist. “Come on. Let’s check the other posts.”
***
In less than five minutes, Green and Alan had pried covers from two more support columns. Then, Green led the boy to the steps going up to the school, sat, wiped at his face with a handkerchief. “Auditorium’s right above here, and that big beam’s what’s holdin’ it. The three of them charges’re gonna go off right at the same time, and when that happen, there goes forty feet of support, and the whole room come down.”
“But they’re all still set,” Alan said. “Aren’t you going to disconnect the wires?”
By the flashlight’s beam, Alan saw a tight smile bend Green’s lips. “Boy, you better learn, sometimes it ain’t the smartest idea to try an’ do somethin’ in a big hurry. Won’t take me but a minute to disarm them Dinah sticks, but it can be just a li’l tricky. So I’m gonna sit down here an’ have me a smoke, make my fingers nice and calm. An’ you’s gonna go up there, find Mr. Ireland, an’ tell him it’s all under control.”
“But don’t you need help? I can hold the flashlight for you.”
While Alan talked, Green lit a cigarette, drew deeply, blew smoke toward the boy. “I be fine now,” the colored man said. “I can put the light on the floor an’ see all I got to.”
“But—”
Green jumped to his feet. “Damn you, boy! Here I am, tryin’ to get myself cool in the head, and you just go on and on at me like an ol’ woman. What I got to do to get you to shut up your mouth an’ go tell Mr. Ireland he ain’t got no worries no more? Go on, now. Git!”
Alan was off, up the stairs like a shot. Green, a grin all over his face, watched him the whole way. As the boy reached for the bar to open the basement door, the colored man called, “Move, kid.” Alan stumbled, fell forward into the hall, then scrambled to his feet, and took off running. The door slammed shut.
Green chuckled, sat back on the step, took a couple of puffs at his cigarette, then dropped the butt to the ground near his foot, and carefully ground it out. “Okay,” he told himself. “Time to get this job done.”
He was on the floor in front of the first column, flashlight perfectly adjusted, when he heard, “Go down flat on your face, quick, else I gonna crease your head with this tire iron I got in my hand.”
Green followed the order. “There be dynamite down here,” he called out of the corner of his mouth.”
“Well, I ain’t got no trouble seein’ that. Good thing I heared the door to down here slam and figured I better take me a look.”
“You the janitor?”
“Uh-huh. Bad luck for you.”
“Listen, it’s gonna be bad luck for a lot of people, you and me included, if you don’t let me get the wires off this stuff. It’s gonna go off—”
“Mister, stop flappin’ your lip. Just keep your hands out front of you, an’ get up on your knees. Slow-like.”
Green did as he was told. “Listen, janitor. You gotta listen at me—”
“Long as I be holdin’ this tire iron, you gotta listen at me.” Now. Put your hands up toppa your head, then stand on up. We goin’ to take a walk upstairs, you can tell your story to the coppers in the lobby there. I bet th
ey be real interested.”
“But—”
“Mister, one more word outa you, and you won’t be talkin’ no more, maybe not ever. Hear?”
Shit, Green thought. He glanced at the explosive in the column, then started to work his way to his feet. The man behind him scooped up the flashlight, and directed its beam toward the stairs.
Chapter Twenty
Tuesday, April 17
Evening
They opened the doors to the Hubbard High auditorium just before seven. Abe Rosenthal watched people file in and start taking seats. Whites came through the left door, blacks through the right, and seats filled progressively from both sides inward. A Sedalia police officer stood at each door, and every person who entered the room got a careful up-and-down. “Looks as if we could have a full house,” Rosenthal said to Lillian Fox, who was making a final tuning check on the piano. “And there are as many whites as colored.”
Miss Fox considered that since whites in Sedalia outnumbered colored ten to one, Mr. Rosenthal’s observation didn’t mean very much. But she just nodded and smiled.
Rosenthal’s eye caught a mixed group, four whites and two colored, walking in together and seating themselves as a virtual island near the center of the room. Old Isaac Stark and Tom Ireland entered the pew first, followed by Luella Rohrbaugh and that Campbell character from California. Rosenthal again wondered what their connection could possibly be. At Campbell’s left, the Klein girl pushed her body against a boy Rosenthal had never seen. The conductor shook his head. “I’m going back to make sure the chorus is all set,” he said to Miss Fox.
She smiled again. No amount of preparation was ever too much for Mr. Rosenthal.
Bess Vinson strolled in on Mickey Thurman’s arm. They started toward the de facto colored section, but as she swept the room with her eyes, she caught side of Brun in the tiny patch of integrated seats, and changed direction on a dime. Thurman muttered a useless protest, then followed after her.
Bess leaned into the pew to jab a finger into Brun’s shoulder. “Just so you know,” a snarl. “I’ll be watching you, every minute. And if you so much as show that journal or even mention it, I’ll be up there right next to you. I’ll tell them who I am, and how you clipped that journal out of my stepmother’s hand. And then I’ll call in those cops from out in the hall.”
Brun turned his head away from her. Bess put her hands on her hips. “Think I’m kidding, don’tcha?” When that brought only silence, she added, “Mess with me, you gonna be mighty sorry.” Without taking her eyes off Brun, she wheeled around, led Thurman across the aisle and settled into a seat.
***
Otto Klein heard the front door open, peered over the top of his newspaper. Rowena? What the hell was she doing here this early? The paper fluttered to the floor.
Mrs. Klein gave him a quick up-and-down. “Otto, what’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Bah. Just wasn’t expecting you so soon, that’s all.”
She heard his voice quaver, wondered why.
“So many of the Ladies Auxiliary are going to that ceremony at Hubbard, we finished up our meeting early…Otto, you’ve gone so pale. Are you all right.”
“He grabbed at the newspaper. “Damn, woman, yes. I’m fine. Stop looking at me like that.”
“Well, I’m sorry. I was just concerned for you. Where’s Eileen?”
“I haven’t seen her. I thought…”
You didn’t think anything, Mrs. Klein said to herself. It didn’t even occur to you to wonder where your daughter was. She walked to the closet, hung up her jacket, then started toward the kitchen.
“Rowena…”
He sounded like he was choking on the word. She turned. “What? Otto, what is it?”
“Listen, if anybody asks you, I been down in the basement since six o’clock. Playing poker.”
Her hands went to her hips. “Playing poker since six o’clock? What ever are you talking about? Who’s going to ask where you—”
“Shut up, and do like I say. I been down there since six o’clock, playing poker with Rafe Anderson, Luther Cartwright, Johnny Farnsworth, and Clay. You got that?”
She started to ask another question, but the look on his face stopped her. She wheeled around, then took off into the kitchen, heels clicking on the linoleum.
A moment later, she was back, waving a slip of paper. “Eileen left us a note. I guess you didn’t see it.”
“Nah.” A grunt.
“She says Mrs. Rohrbaugh offered to stand her to dinner, then they’re going to the ceremony at Hubbard. Isn’t that nice of Mrs. Rohrbaugh to take such an interest—”
“She’s going where?” Eyes bulging, body poised like a snake ready to spring.
Mrs. Klein took a step backward.
“Eileen’s at that ceremony? Is that what you said?”
“Well, yes. But really, Otto. I know you don’t care for the colored, but a lot of very fine people are going to be there.”
All color drained from his face. His mouth twisted, lips quivered.
“Otto!” She ran to him, grabbed his shirt-front. “You’ve done something, haven’t you, you and those friends of yours? What’s going to happen at that ceremony?”
Klein tried to pull away, but she held fast. “Otto, what have you done?”
“That school is going up in pieces,” he howled, then shot a glance toward his wrist. “In just about twenty minutes.”
They stared into each other’s eyes, two white masks with gaping mouths. Klein gave his wife a savage shove; she fell, half her husband’s shirt clutched in her fist. Klein flew to the front door, threw it open, tore outside. The door banged against the wall, knocking the picture of Christ to the floor.
Mrs. Klein flung the rag to the floor as if it were contaminated. Then she scrambled to her feet, trying not to scream. She’d need all her breath to get to Hubbard High School in time. And if she didn’t make it, she’d kill Otto, stab him with a kitchen knife, again and again and again, wouldn’t stop until they came and carried her off.
***
By seven twenty-five, only scattered empty seats remained in the Hubbard auditorium. Brun glanced at the program, forced himself not to curse aloud. “Stout-Hearted Men.” “Drink To Me Only With Thine Eyes.” “The Lost Chord.” “The Green Cathedral.” Scott Joplin would have puked. How the hell do these jays figure they’re honoring the greatest colored composer in American history by having a chorus of white businessmen sing a bunch of the sappiest snow-white tunes ever written? And how about a middle-aged lady pianist playing “Maple Leaf Rag,” when they could have had Scott Joplin’s only white pupil?
A hum through the audience brought him back. A big man in a police uniform, built like a tree trunk, with a no-nonsense look on his round face, walked down the middle aisle to the stage. He took the microphone from its stand, scanned the crowd through horn-rimmed spectacles. Luella leaned toward Brun. “Ed Neighbors,” she said. “The chief of police. I wonder what’s going on.”
Neighbors cleared his throat. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I’ll only take a moment of your time. Is there a Mr. Sanford Brunson Campbell in the audience?”
“He must have known you’d be here,” Luella whispered.
Brun got to his feet, waved a hand. “Over here.”
Neighbors caught his eye. “Okay. Mr. Campbell, would you be so good as to step outside for a moment. I need a word with you.”
Brun shrugged at Luella. She stood to let him pass. Ireland scrambled after him. “I’ll go with you.”
“I’m coming, too.” Luella gripped her purse in both hands. “I’ve seen this matter through so far, and I’m not going to stop now.”
As the three started up the aisle, Bess Vinson glared at Brun. “Bastard!” she hissed at Thurman. “He probably called in the cops on me. If they try and make me leave, they’re gonna have themselves one holy fuss, I promise you that.”
<
br /> A blood vessel on Thurman’s temple began to pulsate. “You know what, Bess? I’m gettin’ a little sorry I went in on this business with you.”
Like pouring gasoline on a fire. “Oh, you are, huh? Well then, I’ll tell you what. I’ll take care of the rest by myself, and when I get my hands on that money, I’ll just keep it all. How do you like that, Chicken Liver?”
Without waiting for a reply, she was on her feet, stalking up the aisle toward the door. Thurman sighed long and hard. She just would walk away with that five grand, wouldn’t she? But the idea had been his, and he wasn’t about to turn his back on twenty-five hundred dollars. He jumped up, followed after her.
From his aisle seat in the back row, Rudi Blesh watched Campbell, Ireland, and an old woman go through the doorway, with a colored woman and man on their heels…wait a minute. One reason Blesh did so well at interviews was his knack for remembering names and faces. He couldn’t put a name to that man, but he’d seen him, all right, vacuuming the floor in Ellie Radcliffe’s reception room. What was he doing here at this ceremony, with a woman who looked like she was going to blow fire through her nostrils? Something was very rotten in Denmark. Blesh got up and walked to the door.
***
Klein burst into the dilapidated shack on Moniteau, arms flailing, eyes wild. “Listen, we gotta call this off.”
Clayton looked at him as if he’d said they all had flap their arms and go flying out the window. “Call it off? Otto, what the hell you talking about? We can’t call it off now, it’s too late.”
“My daughter,” Klein screamed. “Eileen. She’s in there. Johnny, you gotta disconnect the timer, quick.”
Farnsworth shook his head. “I ain’t got long enough now to even get in there, let alone shut off the charge. Christ Almighty, Otto, wasn’t your daughter supposed to be watchin’ Milton Berle? Ain’t that what you said? You’re nuts if you think I’m gonna get myself blown into pieces because you were too fuckin’ dumb to keep your eye on your daughter.”
He staggered back as Klein punched his face. “Damn you, Johnny. I’ll go do it myself.”