Blood on the Leaves

by Jeff Stetson

  Vanzant crumpled the article and surveyed his staff. “That grandstandin’ son of a bitch ought to be fired. He’s a damn disgrace to the uniform. Tryin’ to make political hay out of a situation this volatile.” He shook his fist. “You know they got people followin’ the cops on that list wherever they go, even harassin’ their wives and children?” He folded his arms behind his head and expanded his chest. “We gotta get out in front of this. Nip it in the bud before Matheson has fan clubs poppin’ up all over the country.”

  Reynolds watched Winslow remove slices of cucumber from a Tupperware container.

  Sinclair reviewed her paperwork. “We’ve got a few local congressmen drafting legislation to prohibit these types of efforts if they jeopardize law enforcement or create a danger to public safety.”

  Vanzant shoved a wad of tobacco into his mouth. “Fat chance of that seein’ the light of day,” he uttered with disgust. “Our friends at the ACLU have probably already filed a lawsuit to block it. Oughta put their useless names on a list and see how they like it.” Vanzant rose from his chair and slowly moved to a narrow window, where he stood staring outside, hands on hips. “I wanna know the minute this happens anywhere else. I don’t care what the issue is—if anybody starts to copy-cat Matheson, I want to be notified immediately.”

  Reynolds knew enough about Vanzant’s style and body language to recognize that the meeting had ended and that his boss wasn’t likely to turn away from the window until everyone left. Sinclair was the first to go, followed quickly by Winslow. Reynolds remained a moment, pondering these developments. Once again Macbeth’s witches had risen from the earth, except this time they spoke with southern accents. If their sensibilities weren’t exactly an-eye-for-an-eye Old Testament, at the very least they reflected a Wild West frontier form of law and order, where a black code of honor replaced the blue code of silence.

  The struggle for civil rights had migrated north. It remained to be seen how long it would continue before troops were called out to permanently quell the disturbance. Reynolds exited the office, and Vanzant returned to his desk.

  CHAPTER 15

  EARVIN COOPER DIDN’T need the services of any cop, particularly a black one—not for advice and certainly not for protection.

  “If you see or hear anything suspicious, you give us a call,” the black officer said. He’d tried to be helpful and courteous, but he’d been greeted more warmly in the past by rabid pit bulls.

  “Don’t need you or anybody else to fight my battle,” Cooper grunted before taking a step away from his front door. “You got any advice, save it for the lost soul fool enough to trespass on my property.” Cooper slammed the screen door and marched toward his garage. He stopped at the officer’s voice.

  “Mr. Cooper?” the policeman said.

  Cooper turned, his hands on his hips, defiant. He stood five feet five on a good day. In high school he’d played middle linebacker with a ferocity that had crushed opponents. He continued to see much of the world as a football field, where yielding an inch could mean the difference between victory and defeat.

  “You didn’t seem surprised to be on the list.” The officer approached Cooper but remained at arm’s length. “What’d you do to get on it?”

  Cooper analyzed the black man who wore a uniform of authority. He made no effort to conceal his contempt as he cleared his throat and spit on the lawn. “You don’t really want to know the answer to that, now, do ya?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared at the officer.

  The policeman nodded slightly. “Take care of yourself, Mr. Cooper.” The officer proceeded to his patrol car and made a point of backing into a small flowerbed before he spun out of the driveway.

  Cooper entered his garage and headed to the back wall, where he unlocked a metal cabinet. He removed a box the size of a small coffin and pried open the lid. He inspected his collection of guns and rifles, then removed several containers of ammunition and was beginning to organize his arsenal when his wife entered.

  “Earvin, what that policeman want?” Ruth Cooper glanced at the weapons spread out on the cement floor and raised an eyebrow in quiet surrender. She knew enough not to ask about his guns. They’d made a pact many years ago: He wouldn’t keep them in the house, and she wouldn’t interfere with his visitation rights.

  “There’s a burglar in the neighborhood—just wanted to warn everybody.” He didn’t look at her while he loaded the first gun.

  “A burglar?” she asked in disbelief. “Ain’t nobody got nothin’ to steal ’round here. That why you foolin’ with this nonsense again? I don’t want none of these in my home.”

  “It’s my home, too, Ruth, and I ain’t foolin’ with nothin’. Just go back inside; make sure the doors and windows are locked.”

  “It’s gonna be hot tonight,” she protested. “I ain’t gonna be able to sleep with the windows closed.”

  “Put on the damn fan.”

  “Makes too much noise.”

  “So does your mouth, but you don’t seem to mind that.” He stopped fidgeting with his guns and aimed his uneasiness at her. “You got a choice: Stay awake ’cause it’s too hot or stay awake ’cause it’s too noisy. Now, what’s it gonna be?”

  She made a sucking sound to indicate her disapproval. He grunted once, then arched his shoulders. After forty years of marriage they’d mastered the art of finding practical shortcuts to annoy each other while avoiding confrontations that might jeopardize their happy union.

  Ruth took the potentially negative situation and turned it into a positive with the same skill she used to discover innovative recipes for leftovers. “Well, if I’m not gonna sleep tonight,” she said with uncommon emphasis on her southern diction, “might as well soak extra long in that lavender water you like so much.”

  Cooper turned and faced her with renewed interest.

  “Wouldn’t hurt if you took some extra time tonight and made yourself smell ’specially good, too,” she said flirtatiously.

  He watched her leave the garage with her dress demonstrating a bit more sway than customary. He loaded a second gun and grinned widely.

  CHAPTER 16

  MILLER FINISHED HIS third bottle of beer and opened a fourth. Reynolds added a splash of cranberry to a glass of orange juice and sipped it while he studied the faces of his opponents.

  “He’s exactly the last thing we need stirring up trouble and acting like one of those drug-dealin’ gangbangers going around frightening decent, hardworking people,” declared an agitated Thornton Starr, the host of this evening’s poker game.

  “Be careful, Doc, you’re talking about Todd’s clients,” cautioned Winston McKay, a real estate broker who had made his fortune buying below-market homes from whites fleeing integration, then selling them to his fellow blacks at exorbitant profits.

  “No decent black attorney would represent them,” explained Thornton. He puffed on his Cuban cigar blowing smoke at Miller.

  “That’s ’cause you’ve got all the black lawyers in town handling your malpractice suits,” Miller struck back. He put two cards facedown on the table and dealt himself two more.

  “Only malpractice claim ever brought against me was from a crack baby’s mama, and that got thrown out of court. I only deliver ’em; I can’t stop junkies from poisoning their children while they’re still in the womb,” Thornton said with a deliberate drawl that helped accentuate his disgust.

  “I say Matheson ought to be congratulated for what he’s doing,” suggested Winston. “This country always wants to sweep the dirt under the carpet. It’s about time someone had the guts to look under the rug and prove the house is still dirty.”

  “I suppose you’re one of those fools who believe in reparations for slavery,” scolded Thornton.

  “Government finds money for every other group. It’s not like we haven’t earned it.” Winston drank the remainder of his cognac.

  “That’s the problem with black folks,” said Thornton. “Always looking to dredge up ou
r suffering as if anybody gave a fuck. Spend all their time begging for reparations when they ought to be finding a way to get a pay raise at work. I’ll take one card,” he said as an aside. “And you can forget about our so-called leaders trying to solve any real problems. Show me a civil rights leader earning less than six figures annually and I’ll show you a piss-poor businessman. If you can’t get rich pimping the poor, you better trade your M.B.A. for a divinity degree.” He relit his cigar. “Hell, even an atheist can make a fortune if he pastors a church.”

  “I’d forgotten how cynical this group was,” observed Miller.

  “Not to mention racist,” added Reynolds.

  “I’m not racist,” Thornton said defensively. “I just don’t like people who act like niggers—don’t care what color they are or how many degrees they’ve obtained.”

  “Maybe Matheson put the wrong people on his list,” advised Miller. “Might’ve been better off going after the enemy within.”

  “I’ll take two,” announced Winston.

  Miller dealt him the cards, then drank the rest of his beer.

  “Better get ready to see his own damn name at the top of somebody’s agenda. Must think he’s teaching at one of those Ivy League schools in New England, where they like their faculty radical and their coeds naked and multicultural. He’s lucky these redneck crackers haven’t lynched his black ass. No offense, Todd,” apologized Thornton, who puffed twice on his cigar.

  “None taken,” assured Miller. “Some of my closest relatives are redneck crackers and have never given it a second thought.”

  “They’re not the only ones don’t use their minds,” continued Thornton. “Black folk run around like a bunch of headless chickens.”

  “Maybe that’s because our leaders have been assassinated,” proposed Winston.

  “Or bought off,” submitted Reynolds.

  “And what happens when one of our leaders gets murdered? Instead of doing something constructive, every year we take off the whole month of February and listen to his relatives talk about him.” Thornton put out his cigar. “When the Kennedys get assassinated, you see their children runnin’ around giving don’t-ask-what-your-country-can-do-for-you speeches? Hell, no. They act like they got some sense and move on with their lives.

  “Now, you tell me, just ’cause a man’s a plumber, does that mean when he dies I’m supposed to ask his son to finish fixing my pipes? If your daddy’s a martyr, that doesn’t give you the right to open up a franchise in his name and start charging fees for yourself. Lord, there’s something terribly wrong with the way we market martyrdom and wallow publicly in our collective pain and struggle.” He moved some chips to the side. “I’ll buy Coretta a damn red dress myself if she’d promise to smile more often and get out on the dance floor.” Thornton lit a new cigar.

  “I think I’ve had too much to drink,” commented Miller. “Thornton’s starting to make sense; I know that can’t be right.”

  “None of you want to admit it, especially Todd over there,” pointed Thornton, “but the trouble facing my people is mostly self-induced and group-inflicted.”

  “What’s this ‘my people’ stuff?” Miller asked as he dealt Reynolds three cards. “You’ve married more white women than I’ve dated.”

  “And I’ve divorced every one of ’em,” clarified Thornton. “I may stray, but I always come back home.” He studied his cards and held them close to his chest.

  “Now, that’s the Thornton I know,” said a relieved Reynolds. “Doesn’t make a lick of sense and is incredibly proud of it.”

  “Go ahead and joke,” pouted Thornton.

  Reynolds looked around the table at the others. “Am I joking?” he asked with great sincerity.

  Thornton tossed five blue chips and three red ones into the pot. “Y’all can match that or do the smart thing and fold while you still got chump change in your wallets.”

  “I think you’re bluffing again.” Reynolds confidently threw his chips into the center of the table. “I’ll see that and raise you.” He picked up several green chips and individually dropped them. “One, two, three, four, and five big green ones!”

  “I’m out,” said Miller, who tossed his cards onto the table. “I’ve learned the hard way a prosecutor doesn’t take a risk unless he’s got a winning hand.”

  Winston placed his cards down. “Too rich for my blood.”

  Thornton studied Reynolds, then looked at Miller. “Something tells me you two been working together all night, and I’m about to put an end to your unholy alliance.” He reached across the table and retrieved some additional poker chips from a wooden case. “I’m gonna see those five green and raise you ten more.” He puffed away until his face disappeared behind a cloud of smoke.

  Reynolds was tempted to pursue the matter, but after rechecking his cards he surrendered. “If you need the money that much, go ahead and take it.”

  “Don’t ever try to fool a pediatrician, especially one who’s been in practice for thirty years.” Thornton placed both hands around the pile of chips and pulled it toward himself with a grin partially blocked by the cigar that dangled from his mouth, dropping ashes onto the table. “Been readin’ faces since they first peeked out the uterus, and seen every expression known to man.”

  Miller scratched the bottom of his foot. As usual, all the guests were forced to remove their shoes before entering the doctor’s home, in a fruitless effort to keep the cream-colored Berber carpets clean. “I think I’m allergic to your rug.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s not an allergy,” assured Thornton. “One of the dogs has fleas.”

  “You let dogs roam around the house with fleas, but your friends have to take off their shoes?” asked Winston.

  “I know where my dogs have been,” answered Thornton. “You gentlemen want to get in another hand before the pizzas arrive? Winston will lend you some money.”

  “Can’t afford the interest he’d charge,” said Reynolds.

  “You can take out a second mortgage—use it for collateral,” offered an accommodating Winston.

  “Don’t take this personal, Winston,” advised Reynolds, “but I don’t trust you.”

  The men laughed. Thornton filled Winston’s glass with more brandy. He handed a cold bottle of beer to Miller. Reynolds passed on a refill of juice. “Seriously, James,” said Thornton, “this problem with Matheson must be making your life miserable.”

  “Why’s that?” Reynolds asked uneasily.

  “’Cause he’s making it difficult for every successful black man, and that has to be doubly true for someone in law enforcement, especially at a time when everyone’s loyalties are questioned. Hell, I still get asked what I think about Islamic fundamentalists. I’m a damn Baptist; what these crackers think I think?” He looked at Miller and raised his glass in an apologetic toast. “Sorry, Todd.”

  Miller raised his bottle. “If you only knew what these crackers thought about me.” He swallowed some beer.

  “All I’m sayin’ is, we finally found someone to take our place on the bottom of the heap, and along comes this fool professor and focuses the attention right back on us.” Thornton took a quick puff. “Now I’ve got to pledge allegiance three times a day in public.”

  “Everybody knows you’re a patriot. You still got your flag on your Rolls, don’t you, Doc?” Winston asked good-naturedly.

  “Sure do,” answered Thornton. “And I’ll let you in on a little secret: I got me a Confederate one in the glove compartment, just in case of emergency. My motto is, be prepared and stay flexible.”

  “I think you’ve twisted flexibility just about as far as it’ll go,” remarked Reynolds. “Which may be our only hope.”

  “You know what your problem is, James?” asked Thornton. “You’re a black man with integrity, and that’s a mighty lonely place to be.” He looked at the men around the table with a twinkle in his eyes. “Or so I’ve been told.” Everyone except Reynolds laughed.

  “Now, as far as this mess
with Matheson,” continued Thornton, “it’s one thing we got to live down these ignorant punks weaned on criminal activity, but you can’t get no more educated than a Ph.D. He’s our best and brightest. If he goes wrong, what does that say about the rest of us to white folks who are just waiting to say, ‘I told you so’?”

  Reynolds looked at Miller. “Todd, when a white person screws up, do you feel personally embarrassed or responsible?”

  “Yes,” confessed Miller.

  “I forgot who I was asking,” corrected Reynolds. “You’re Caucasian twice removed.”

  “Don’t forget,” Winston joined in, “Matheson’s father is a pastor.”

  “That’s exactly my point,” Thornton shot back. “If he’s a bad seed, then none of us are ever gonna be trusted. He’s setting the race back another hundred years.”

  “Yeah,” said Winston, “but remember when you were young and went looking for a hot tenderoni? What was every full-blooded man’s dream?”

  The men looked at each other. Miller guessed, “That you’d have enough gas money to drive around and search?”

  “That you’d find a preacher’s daughter!” Winston proclaimed excitedly. “You knew she’d be so repressed all you had to do was touch her button and bam! You wouldn’t be able to walk straight for a whole week.”

  “Why are we listening to your boyhood fantasies?” asked Reynolds.

  “Wait a second,” interjected Thornton. “Winston’s onto something. Same principle applies to a preacher’s son, except a man reacts differently to being repressed.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Reynolds. “He studies hard and goes to medical school.”

  “You don’t want to listen, suit yourself,” Thornton said, annoyed. “But you won’t convince me you’re not paying a heavy price for that man’s actions. Before this is over, there’s gonna be a lot of nervous and angry people in this city, and that’s a combination killed more black folks than King Cotton.”