alt.sherlock.holmes

by Gini Koch

“We, um, that is, we’re looking for Joseph Hendrix. For a friend. His aunt. Down in Alphabet City. Is he here? Can we talk to him?”

  The group exchanged looks, and then a man with a voice like gravel spoke up. “Can’t help you with that.”

  Sherlock stepped in and tried to get us into trouble.

  “Do you want to start a race war?”

  I had to stop myself from running out the door. I stared, mouth agape.

  “Man, are you for real? What are you talking about?”

  “That’s what they say in the papers. You’re trying to start a race war. You’ve armed yourselves, your groups are getting into shootouts with the police in Oakland and ending up with burnt-out offices everywhere. We thought we’d come uptown and see what the truth was. So tell us: do you want a race war?”

  The self-appointed spokesman’s face fell. “Man, we want the same thing every black man wants. Yellow, white, red man and brown man, too. We want equality. A decent place to live. Decent food to eat. Jobs. An end to the random oppression of our people. We want to protect our children from the police, who are supposed to protect them but manage to be their biggest threat. We respect Dr. King, may he rest in peace, but we also take on the teachings of Brother Malcolm X, that we must defend ourselves and our rights by any means necessary. We don’t need any more brothers blown up or shot, and we’re tired of waiting on jobs and education, and getting stopped and beat up for no reason at all.”

  “Why the guns, then? Why not a policy of nonviolence, like Martin Luther King or Gandhi?”

  “Man, they been trying that since the end of the war. Know what we got? Plessy v. Ferguson. Separate but equal. Jim Crow laws. Little girls blown up going to church. Southern eyes looking at strange fruit. We got the Civil Rights act now; Dr. King paid for it with his blood, for all the good that it does. We respect nonviolence, but we prepare for violence. Violence that we did not start, and that our bodies have borne for centuries. We will have our rights by any means necessary. We sharpen the mind as well as the sword. We know our rights, every woman and man here studies the law. We’re studying and educating ourselves, because we have been denied these things in the past. Law. History. We frighten you because we have guns, books, and the mind to use each of them.”

  It went on like this for a while—Sherlock arguing, digging into the practicality of what they were doing, what they wanted to do. I had to admit that it actually sounded much more reasonable than I expected, even if I was still frightened, all these men in their makeshift uniforms with guns right there on the wall. Their stone cold faces were dark and betrayed no emotion. They were talking about providing free breakfast and health clinics, social services for the most needy that the City wouldn’t provide. I didn’t see a junkie in sight. Guns a-plenty, but no dope. Something was different.

  Sherlock enjoyed himself, as he bantered with the Black Panthers. I was scared the whole time that one of the men would pick up his guns and fill us full of holes. I lost track of time until Sherlock was satisfied with his queries. We left, eventually, with flyers about the Ten Point Program and a self-printed Black Panther newspaper.

  WE WALKED BACK in silence, Sherlock smiling with a bemused look on his face, the Panther newspaper folded under his arm. I was still angry but banked my fire—I didn’t want to call any more attention to ourselves than we already had, just by the color of our faces. I couldn’t believe that he’d just go up and have an argument with a bunch of men with guns, who insisted they’d go after their rights by violence if necessary. One of their leaders had been shot in a gun battle with the police just days after King was killed.

  I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I kept my voice low.

  “What on Earth were you doing, Sherlock?”

  “What do you mean, John?”

  “We went up there to talk about Mrs. Hendrix’s nephew. You wanted to debate morality and politics.”

  “No, John, I went up there to see what I could about these Black Panthers, and partly as a favor to Mrs. Hendrix to see if I could find out anything about her nephew. I didn’t think that I would be of much use getting information out of that group, so I thought that I would have a discussion with them, which should tell us—or Mrs. Hendrix—if she should be worried.

  “Here’s what I observed, John. I observed some type of sergeant-at-arms keeping watch over the guns that were so prominently displayed on the walls, even when every other person crowded around the honkeys in the front who came to argue with them. I could see that those guns gleamed. They were cleaned, oiled, and polished. Well taken care of. None of the serial numbers were filed off, as you’d expect if they were being used in crimes. We didn’t get very close, but although the weapons weren’t all the same—it’s obvious that they bought what they could rather than equipping an army with matching weapons—the barrels hadn’t been swapped to confuse rifling or anything. Military bearing on the leadership, John. I’d have expected you to notice that.

  “Remember when we walked in the door? There were teams of people who knew how to work together, all focused on their tasks. Compare it with the Factory. This was a disciplined enterprise. An actual factory. Not a gang flophouse. I don’t understand this, John. It isn’t like you. This outburst is strange. You’re normally very open-minded.”

  “I’m not a racist, Sherlock. Of course I want equal rights for everyone. I stitched up black, white, and yellow men in country. Not because I thought yellow men were evil, like they told me in training.”

  I stomped along for a few minutes while Sherlock walked in silence. “I got robbed in Harlem the night I came back from Vietnam.”

  “Not by these people, John. You have got to separate the individual from the class. They are no more responsible for your misfortune than you or I are responsible for blowing up that church and killing those four girls in Alabama. Possibly less so, come to think of it. Hmm.”

  Sherlock pulled out his notebook and scribbled a few notes. It was maddening, but he had a point, I supposed. I just didn’t see why they had to have all those guns.

  “DID YOU SEE Joseph?” Mrs. Hendrix looked worried, still.

  I looked at her and she saw the answer in my face. “You haven’t heard from him either, ma’am?”

  She shook her head, looking down at her spotless apron and muttering to herself.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Hendrix. He wasn’t there. We talked to them at length about their programs.” I looked at Sherlock. “And their guns.”

  “The way they talk on the television. So angry! I don’t know why they have to be like that. Militant.”

  Sherlock didn’t agree. “They are their own army, Mrs. Hendrix. In their eyes, they have to be the army, the police, the hospitals and schools for the community, because the world they were born into has completely failed them.”

  Sherlock held out the papers they’d given us. A newspaper and some handbills, one of which listed the ten-point program that the Black Panther Party for Self Defense put as their demands.

  Mrs. Hendrix sighed. “You know how it is. We colored people have to fit in somehow. You don’t never know what’s going to happen. You don’t know what it’s like. People look at you, know they’re better than you, even if they’re not. Invisible when you want to be seen, and standing out when someone’s looking for whoever done something wrong.” She shifted through the papers, at a loss for words. Sherlock pointed to the newspaper.

  “Here’s what we did see, Mrs. Hendrix. The news shows us the Black Panthers using their guns and rioting in the streets; or, as I’ve noticed, more often give the police an interview in front of the shot-up, burnt-out shop fronts. What we saw was organization. Stacks of literature. Writers writing. A very civil argument about the place of women in the Party—many of the women weren’t satisfied making coffee, but wanted to be on the front lines.

  “Guns, yes. All in a rack, with one person standing guard. I asked about the guns and was informed that they were there for their own self-defense. That the police had come aft
er them and that they were issued arms as part of a regulated militia—all in keeping with the aims of the Second Amendment. I don’t think the pigs—sorry, the police—see it that way, of course.

  “They claim a few things: that they have a zero tolerance policy for drugs; that the guns are only issued as needed, for official business; that everyone is given comprehensive weapons training; that their guns only ever go out fully loaded. I don’t know about any of that, but they certainly had clear rules on how and where weapons could be carried openly, specifically visible at all times, without a round in the chamber, and not pointed at anyone. They even quoted the section number and actual text of each law. It was impressive.”

  “So what about Joseph?”

  Sherlock turned to go, and stopped at the door. “I don’t know what to tell you, Mrs. Hendrix. The people I saw don’t match what J. Edgar Hoover or the New York Times headlines say about the Black Panthers. I don’t think that your nephew is safe, exactly, but I wouldn’t say that it’s the Black Panthers that are a threat to him. He only suffers from the circumstances of his birth.” His face looked troubled, like he wasn’t sure what to say next. “There was something about one of them...” He shook his head. “Something just wasn’t quite right, but I can’t put my finger on it.

  “We’ll keep looking. I’m interested in these Black Panthers.”

  six

  THE FIRST REAL CASE

  MRS. HENDRIX KNOCKED on the door the next morning, late, and Sherlock answered it, disgustingly alert for the hour. “Excuse me, Mr. Holmes? I thought you might want some coffee and these leftover rolls from yesterday. There’s a bean pie in there, too, if you’re interested. Someone came in asking for you. I didn’t know what to do, so I took his name and number. I hope that’s all right.”

  “Did he say what it was about?”

  “Didn’t say. Just seemed... upset about something.”

  “Tell me everything you can recall about him.”

  “White fella. Not too many white folks come in to the bakery, you know. They like to buy from whites. He looked around for a while, looked at the pies and the rolls, and then he asked if this was the bakery that Sherlock Holmes worked out of. I was so surprised, you know, at him pulling your name out of the hat. I thought at first he might be the Health Department or something. Dressed normal. Not too pressed. I don’t think he was rich. Tweed jacket. Bow tie. Not poor, but not rich or stuffy.”

  “John! Do you hear our Mrs. Hendrix here? She’s a marvel. You, Mrs. Hendrix, might be the most observant person I’ve ever met except myself. Please, come in and sit down.”

  “No, no, I don’t have time. There’s a pile of dough proofing and I’ve got to make three birthday cakes and a whole mess of cupcakes. He was—oh, I don’t know—middle height, brown hair, a little greasy. Needed a cut. Seemed nice enough. Didn’t sound like a New Yorker.”

  “Sorry. I know you need to go. Why did you say he seemed like he was upset about something? What did he do, exactly?”

  “Well, he was nervous, like he felt like he didn’t belong. That was normal. Then when he was talking it was like he didn’t want to talk to me. Like he’d made up his mind he could talk to you but didn’t want to bring anyone else into it.”

  Sherlock raised his voice slightly, irritated. “But what did he do, Mrs. Hendrix? What was it he did that made you think those things? Please.”

  “Oh, okay. Well, he was wringing his hands, kept putting them together then apart. Tapping on the glass, and talking to himself when he was looking at the other stuff in there. That’s why I thought he might be from the Health Department. Like he was quoting regulations or something, trying to find some reason to fine me or shut me down. He kept stopping, then starting to say something else, once he started to ask for you. I can’t remember all what, now. There’s the number. You give him a call, now, and let me go make some bread.”

  Sherlock looked at the note, scrawled on one of the white bags used in the bakery. He took it over to the window, turning it this way and that in the light. “Damn, I wish he’d just left it on the counter. I can’t tell which of these creases are hers and which are his. Well, he’s obviously left-handed, and in a rush. See where the ink is smudged there? Even with a ball-point pen it takes a bit of time to dry. Lefties have to curl their hands around but if they’re in a hurry they’ll smudge the ink. He’s nervous—his writing is inconsistent.”

  I was awake, but in my skivvies, so I’d just listened behind the door to Mrs. Hendrix’s description. I couldn’t make heads or tails of what Sherlock was doing. “What’s going on, darling?”

  He looked at me, annoyance flashing across his face just for a moment. He was excited. As excited as I’d seen him, since we’d met Valerie.

  “It’s something interesting, John. A puzzle. Something to distract us now that the Factory people have turned boring and I’m limiting my intake of your delightful tablets, as you recall. So. Want to find out what this is about? It’s most probably some simple, ridiculous story, but maybe it’ll keep us occupied for a few hours. Let’s find out, see what we can see.”

  Sherlock—

  Harlem! My, my! Best to keep a clear picture of who your friends are. You never know who you can trust.

  —Mycroft

  SHERLOCK PRACTICALLY BUZZED with excitement as we went down to the phone on the corner to make the call. He was wired. The phone booth was missing several of its Plexiglass panes, and the ones that remained were gouged with unreadable graffiti.

  “What do you think, John? Should we get our own telephone? Mrs. Hendrix needs hers and we can’t keep coming down to the corner. First of all, I only have so many dimes, and second, some of the youngsters in the neighborhood seem to have nothing better to do than to smash the booth up and tear the receiver from its mooring.” He picked up the receiver and dialed.

  “Oh, hello there, is that ‘Bill’? This is Sherlock Holmes calling. You left a message for us at the bakery on Avenue B? Yes. Yes, I understand. All right. Sure. In an hour? Not a problem. There’s an all-day breakfast place just down the street from the Chelsea. Oh, you know it? Great. In an hour or so, then? All right. See you there.”

  The remnants of the aluminum door shrieked as Sherlock pulled it open. “He wants to meet.”

  “Near the Chelsea. I heard. We’ll have to hurry if you want to get there in time.”

  BILL WAS MEDIUM height, thin, with wavy brown hair and sallow skin. About as nondescript as they come, but that didn’t stop Sherlock.

  “Bill? Hello. Sherlock. Is it mathematics or physics? I can’t quite tell, but I’m sure it’s one. This is my friend and... colleague, Dr. Watson. I presume it’s Dr. Bill, but you’re not bothered by titles. What seems to be the problem? Anti-war activities spilling over into your personal life? You may have some reminiscing to do with my friend Dr. Watson here, about Vietnam. Lost your notebook? I suppose your friend in the bathroom hasn’t taken it?”

  ‘Bill’ looked up at Sherlock with his mouth open for a full five seconds.

  “Mind if we sit?” I asked. “I could really go for a cup of coffee. Don’t bother about him. That’s what he does. He’ll explain it all away in a minute.”

  Sherlock’s eyes flashed and his brow wrinkled as he looked at me. If I didn’t know him I would swear that he was angry, but the storm disappeared from his face almost as quickly as it had brewed.

  “It’s pretty straightforward, really. You’re a professor—I could hear your voice hitch when you said ‘Bill’ to me when I called. You’d started to say ‘Doctor’ but caught yourself. The silence was a little embarrassing to you as you moved on to Bill. You weren’t hiding your identity, though, just trying to avoid casual familiarity. Your hands and jacket sleeves are smudged, but with graphite, not with ink. Pencils, of course, are the tools of the academic, physics and mathematics specifically, assuming you aren’t using your doctorate to teach elementary school. So much writing and rewriting; only, eventually, going over the work in ink when it�
��s finalized. You’ve got a peace pin on, so I suspect that you’re involved in the anti-war initiative, and you have a pencil out that you’ve been fidgeting with, and you keep reaching to your breast pocket, like you’re going to write something down, but no notebook, which is why I ask why you’re nervous, whether or not it has to do with your anti-war activities, and if you’ve lost your notebook. A second place is set, and here’s the waitress with the coffee for the mysterious other person who seems to have disappeared. We’ll have the same, thanks. Black. Oh, and the sweetened condensed milk in your coffee is, if I’m not mistaken, a distinctly Vietnamese way of drinking coffee.”

  Bill blinked at Sherlock’s revelations. “I did a Fulbright a couple of years back, went to Vietnam, where I picked up the habit. Vietnamese coffee never tastes right here.”

  “You need a really dark roast, and it’s not a bad idea to add some chicory, to get a little bit of a burnt flavor, like you were roasting coffee over a fire by yourself. Sorry. I thought it would be useful to know about a country we were at war with. Even if it’s a fake war. It’s real enough to those with the bullets. You were saying.”

  Bill stared at Sherlock with the look I’d come to see all too often. “Yes, I’ve lost my notebook, and you’re right. Physics is what I studied, actually, but it involves a lot of math and I’ve been doing more and more math so, yeah, lots of pencils. I was going to go to the five-and-dime after this meeting and get another notebook, but I ran out of time. So, okay, you’ve impressed me. Figured some things out right away. That’s good. I wonder if you could help me now, though, with something a little bit odd?”

  Sherlock smiled, and it was like he was settling into a chair that he’d had for many years. This is what he does, I realized. This is who he is.

  “Tell us everything. All the details... Oh, Joseph! Fancy meeting you here.”