And If I Die

by John Aubrey Anderson

The dog, because he was smarter than the chickens, trotted back to the porch and waited by the screen door. Mose let him in, and the dog curled up near the man’s chair while Mose walked into the kitchen.

  He was sixty-eight years old, and, to him, life was as fleeting as the gust of wind that had just blown across his porch. That was one of the reasons he invested more time praying than reflecting.

  Dawg continued his afternoon nap . . . wind and thunder bore down on the house . . . chickens and guinea hens started a stampede for the protection of the small barn. The old man pulled his chair closer to the front window and divided his time between praying and watching the effects of the wind. The trees would bend, and some smaller limbs might break, but unless the storm got really bad, the house and trees would be standing in the morning.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The people who tried to burn the city achieved little more than the destruction of their own neighborhoods. Burned-out buildings, looted stores, and broken glass were all that was left of the area around the intersection of 14th and U Streets. The woman standing at the office window watched the tendrils of smoke rising from the destruction and felt a sense of triumph . . . she lost nothing in the riots, and seeing evidence that people’s lives were in turmoil gave her pleasure.

  She used the resources available to her as a member of the House Committee on Intelligence to locate the man she needed, ferreting him out the same way she had the others. As soon as she secured his contact information, she sent him a message—she wanted a meeting. Her only stipulations were that the meeting’s location be remote and her identity be protected.

  Within twenty-four hours of receiving her message he was on his way to Philadelphia. He took the bus from Philadelphia to Baltimore where he bought an average-looking car. He set up housekeeping in a motel that rented rooms by the week.

  Early on a Monday afternoon he called the phone number she’d given him—the private line in her office. “You’ll receive a package at your office at one thirty tomorrow—be there. Tell your staff that you are the only one allowed to take it from the messenger.” He was off the phone within ten seconds.

  Tuesday afternoon found her standing at her office window, alternately checking her clock and watching smoke add itself to an already gray sky. Heavy showers had been coming and going for two days, helping to suppress the few lingering fires and knocking off most of that spring’s cherry blossoms. The congresswoman wasn’t looking at the cherry blossoms—she was waiting. The power residing in Estelle Bainbridge was far greater than that of an ordinary congresswoman, and she could’ve contacted the man sooner; she chose not to because the world was not ready to experience her full potential.

  At one twenty-five someone tapped on her door. “Come in, please.”

  A young woman opened the door and said, “The messenger you told us about is here, Estelle. He said he has to put the envelope in your hands.”

  The congresswoman winked at her staffer to show they both knew couriers took themselves too seriously. “Thank you, Sam. Ask him to step in here, please.”

  “Anything else?” Sam knew the answer.

  “Mm-hmm.” Estelle’s smile was warm. “Would you make sure I’m not disturbed?”

  Samantha Dutton smiled and nodded. She had been chosen from hundreds of applicants for the opportunity to serve as an intern on Congresswoman Bainbridge’s staff. The young woman had been in Washington four months, and she had discovered that Estelle Bainbridge was not only brilliant, she was one of the most gracious people the girl ever met—she had only one minor flaw.

  Jimmy Palmertree graduated from Dunbar High School in 1958. Dunbar was arguably the finest all-black secondary school in the nation, and the teachers there did two things for the bright young man: they nurtured his diligence and they encouraged his uncanny ability to “read” people.

  The day after graduation, Jimmy inaugurated his one-man courier service. His mother answered the phone, “Palmertree’s. We deliver the goods.” And that’s what Jimmy did. Customers left instructions for pickups, and Jimmy called his mother every half hour to see where he was going next. The aggressive young entrepreneur stayed safe by avoiding the bad neighborhoods, and he kept his business healthy by culling customers who wasted his time. Now, after only ten years, he’d bought a small house in the suburbs, he’d hired a girl to answer the phone, and he’d brought his cousin in to help deliver the goods.

  Black couriers in Washington attract no more attention than beige wall paint—and walls hear plenty. Jimmy saw Jimmy Stewart in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, and after ten years of moving along the edges of conversations in the halls of Congress, it was obvious to him that Washington had long since sent James Stewart and his integrity back to Indiana or Nebraska or wherever they’d come from. The gifted appraiser of moral fiber was confident that every politician in the city would sell his own children to move one step up the ladder of power.

  Being cheap walked hand in hand with being corrupt, and the tips Jimmy received when working in the vicinity of Capitol Hill were paltry compared to the rest of the city. The staffers didn’t want to spend their money tipping him, and the politicians invariably made a show of patting their pockets before saying, “I’ll catch you next time.” For pickups and deliveries on the Hill, his quoted rates included a 20 percent premium.

  When he stepped into the congresswoman’s office, the messenger’s heart stumbled.

  If Congresswoman Bainbridge was miserly or corrupt, it didn’t show on her face. The white woman was looking mighty fine in tailored slacks and a loose-fitting white blouse with a scoop neck—Grace Kelly with a traffic-stopping figure. When she stepped around her desk to take the envelope, he saw she was in her stocking feet.

  Fine and homey, thought the young messenger.

  “Afternoon, ma’am. I was told to put this in your hands.” The scoop in the blouse’s front was fairly deep, and he came to an immediate understanding with his eyes about where they were not allowed to linger.

  Grace Kelly said, “Hi, I’m Estelle Bainbridge.” She had a soft Southern drawl and a smile straight out of one of those toothpaste commercials. “Thanks for getting out in the rain to bring this. I was getting anxious.”

  Fine and homey and warmhearted, he thought . . . yet somewhere out on the rim of his consciousness, an alarm started to beep.

  Jimmy ignored the alarm and managed to mumble, “Yes, ma’am.” He wanted to say more, just to prolong the meeting, and struggled to force out, “Umm . . . we deliver the goods.”

  She supplemented the warm smile with a wink. “It looks like ‘delivering the goods’ keeps you in great shape.” She reached for her purse. “Would you be offended if I tipped you?”

  This country needs more women in politics. “That’s not necessary, Congresswoman.”

  “Well, aren’t you sweet.” She turned her back on the purse and propped herself against the desk. “You’re a believer, aren’t you?”

  “A believer?”

  She was concentrating on his eyes, smiling softly and toying absentmindedly with the top button of her blouse—right where the scoop reached the bottom of its curve. “You know . . . a Christian.”

  A yellow light began to pulse in time with the steady beep in Jimmy’s brain. “Yes, ma’am, I’m a Christian.”

  “I thought so.” The button accidentally came undone, but she didn’t seem to notice. “I was wondering . . . have you ever considered taking a job on the Hill?”

  “No, ma’am, never have.” He could feel sweat beading on his forehead, and the alarm changed to a steady squeal—the light was flashing red.

  This’d be a real good time for you to boogie on outta here, bro.

  “Please . . . call me Estelle.” More smile. “Would you care to sit down while I dig through my purse?”

  Jimmy’s first choice was to move into the office and live there for the rest of his life, but the squeal from the alarm was moving up the scale toward intolerable. “Thank you, ma’am, but I’m rain-we
t and sweaty.”

  Somethin’ ain’t right in here, boy! Don’t say nothin’, just cut ’n’ run! Do it, boy, do it now!

  “Nonsense.” She picked up the purse. “My folks were Arkansas sharecroppers, and Daddy said sweating kept his heart clean.”

  She brought her purse over and dropped it in the chair next to him . . . and Jimmy saw the move coming from ten days away. When she bent over the purse, the scoop of her blouse fell away from her chest, but Jimmy Palmertree had his back turned; he was walking over to take a closer look at an antique bookcase.

  If the lady was stung by his move, she didn’t betray it. She straightened and held out a ten-dollar bill. “This is yours. And thanks again.”

  Jimmy took the bill and she offered her hand . . . and he took it.

  When Jimmy’s mother died, he’d stayed at the funeral parlor all night, sitting with her body. When they got ready to close the casket, he’d held her hand one last time—it was cold and dry, like Congresswoman Bainbridge’s.

  The messenger jerked his hand away from the white woman and stared at it, rubbing his fingertips with his thumb. When he realized what he’d done, he looked up at the woman. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I—”

  The lady was picking at the second button of the blouse with a manicured fingernail; her smile was not from the girl-next-door collection. “You what?”

  A cold drop of sweat escaped from his temple and traced a cool path to his jawline. The squeal became a steam whistle. Last chance, boy . . . it’s run-or-ruin time!

  Jimmy was talking as he backed toward the door. “I . . . uh . . . I better be getting on down the road, ma’am . . . uh, much obliged.” He grabbed the door with an unsteady hand and jerked it open.

  The lady’s smile was gone.

  So was Jimmy.

  He pulled the door closed and leaned against it to catch his breath. The three young women in the reception area stopped what they were doing to stare at him. He tossed the ten-dollar bill in the direction of the nearest table, then wiped his hand on his shirt and left without saying anything to the office staff.

  The three women looked at each other and their eyebrows went up.

  “Well, well, well”—the one nearest the discarded money retrieved the bill and waved it at the others—“I guess we have to expect losses.”

  Her friends laughed.

  Jimmy left the building and went straight to a park bench. He bowed his head and prayed, Lord, that was w-a-a-a-y too close. I was thinking some bad thoughts in there, and I ask that You’d forgive me. And if it’s all the same to You, I don’t want another battle like that . . . I didn’t do too good . . . and I didn’t like it. If You’re gonna throw me into something else like that, I’d like some time to get my breath first.

  While he prayed, sweat dripped from the tip of his nose and splashed in a puddle of rainwater.

  While Jimmy prayed, Congresswoman Bainbridge studied the contents of the envelope. A single sheet—no greeting, no closing. The message was one paragraph long, typed in capitals. The man gave her the location of a pay phone and told her what time to be there. She looked at her watch, picked up her raincoat and umbrella, and left the office through her private entrance.

  When she got to the stipulated phone, he was watching from down the street. He called and told her to go to a different phone— on the other side of town. “Take a cab.” He followed and watched.

  He shadowed her through the streets for several hours, going from phone to phone by bus, by cab, and on foot. On the last call he told her he would call her office again on Wednesday. “Be ready to move around again.”

  He did that for several days, directing her from phone to phone in downtown Washington while he watched for those who might be following. She knew what he was doing, and she was patient.

  Early on Friday, because he felt assured that she was not trying to trap him, he closed the distance between himself and his prospective employer. He’d worked for women in the past, but this one was different; he wanted to see her up close.

  Midafternoon found him plagued by thoughts of how unremarkable the woman was. All people have traits that serve to distinguish them from their fellow humans. After following her for five hours, he decided that, other than her stunning good looks, she was the picture of an average woman.

  Late on Saturday, he sent her to Baltimore. “Rent a car at the airport and drive west on West Lexington. Park the car at the North Amity intersection and walk south. You’re looking for Boxer’s Tavern. Be there at midnight. Sit at a table with your back to the door. I’ll be close by.”

  The place he told her to park the car was in the middle of west Baltimore—black Baltimore; the recent riots had hit the area harder than Washington. The Baltimore Police Department had thousands of cops on the payroll, but not one of them, black or white, was brave enough— or foolish enough—to venture into the area alone at high noon. For a white woman alone at night, the odds of survival were infinitesimal.

  Drizzle had been falling all evening— cloud-covered skies promised more of the same. The woman stood in the shadows across the street from a small concrete-block building. She was unrecognizable—disguised in a seedy-looking army field jacket, baggy pants, a wig, and a drunk’s posture.

  A grime-encrusted neon sign told the surrounding darkness the dingy little hut across from her was Boxer’s Tavern. A block south of the bar, a trio of black men were hunched together beneath one of the few remaining streetlights, talking quietly and sharing a paper-wrapped bottle.

  The woman waited until the three winos were facing away from her, then shuffled slowly across the street. She stopped again under the bar’s awning and checked to see if she had been seen. A foul smell—somewhat moderated by the recent rains—testified that the bar was lacking a restroom. Lady patrons customarily sought privacy in the alley on the south side of the premises; gentlemen used the north.

  She pulled the floppy brim of her hat lower and stepped through the front door.

  There were two men in the bar, both black. The proprietor scowled at the woman; the stink of stale nicotine in the bar mixed with the odor from outside—the resulting stench was pleasant compared to the expression on the bartender’s face. The other man, a customer, was too drunk to know she was in the room.

  Boxer watched the woman take a seat at the only table in the room and shook his head disgustedly. The wig was arranged to hide the sides of her face, and the hat was pulled low, but a blind man could tell she was white. If those fools find her in here, they’ll burn this place ’til there ain’t nothin’ left of me but my teeth.

  He was getting ready to run her out when a second customer, a black man, came through the door and walked toward her; he was wearing thick glasses and a tattered Washington Senators baseball cap. The man’s clothes were dirty, but his hands were clean.

  Boxer didn’t know what was going on, and he didn’t care. Everyone who came into Boxer’s Tavern was welcome, as long as they were black—white folks brought nothing but grief. The big man jerked his head at the woman and growled at the man, “I don’t allow whites in here, or any nigger stupid enough to sit with ’em. Get out an’ take her with you.”

  The man placed a large paper sack on the floor and spoke as if in response to an offer of service. “Bring me a bottle of beer. Whatever’s warm.” He lowered himself into a chair opposite the woman without acknowledging her presence.

  Boxer got his nickname about the same time he quit fighting professionally—he was his own bouncer. He stepped around the end of the short bar and notched up the volume. “What’s the matter, boy—you hard of hearing?” He had three inches and fifty pounds on the man at the table.

  The man at the table said, “I’ll open the beer myself.” He pulled back his windbreaker to reach for his wallet and gave the bigger man a glimpse of a shoulder holster carrying a small automatic pistol.

  The ex-fighter rethought his position—Baltimore cops didn’t carry automatics, the feds wouldn’t hire a man who w
ore thick glasses, and the dude didn’t act like a pimp. He tried to save face by saying, “Come over here an’ get it. I don’t serve tables.”

  The Senators fan pointed his thick glasses at the barkeep; the lenses magnified the emptiness in his eyes. He patted a five-dollar bill that lay on the table and gave the bartender an out. “You carry it, and I’ll open it.”

  Boxer put the beer bottle on the table and picked up the five. The man in the windbreaker lifted his hand to reveal a small stack of bills. “There’s two hundred here.”

  The man in the apron straightened and stared at the money. “I got nothin’ in here worth that kinda money.”

  “Get a couple of beers, and you and your friend take a thirty-minute break.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Outside.”

  Boxer looked at the bills and rubbed his cheek. The bar was on its last legs; if it weren’t for his dope trade, he wouldn’t take in a hundred dollars a week. He bought the joint when he quit the ring—and here he was on the ropes again. It would be five years before the area recovered from the riots, and when it did he’d be surrounded by package stores. He was willing to do what the man asked, but he stalled because he wanted to hear the words that would be spoken in two hundred bucks’ worth of privacy. He jerked his thumb at the bar. “That guy can’t hear nothin’, an’ I don’t listen.”

  The windbreaker man shook his head. “All or nothing.”

  The bartender grimaced and told a partial truth. “My stash is in back of the bar, man, an’ I can’t be carryin’ it on me.”

  Another head shake. “We’re not here to steal anything.”

  The bartender had less than fifty dollars’ worth of weed behind the bar, and he believed the man at the table. He took the folded money and counted it, then looked at his watch. “It’s twelve fifteen. I’ll be back in here at one to close up.” He popped two beers open and used them to encourage the drunk to move outside.