The Black Mass of Brother Springer

by Charles Willeford

  "I have you down for the program tonight," Reverend Hutto said, as the meeting broke up. "Should I take you off?"

  "I don't see how I can be at two places at once," I replied. "And between now and eight o'clock I want to get our decision on paper so I can give it to the newspaper following my meeting with the representatives."

  "I just asked," Revered Hutto apologized.

  I returned to my desk in the basement and sat down. An elderly woman brought me a barbecued pork sandwich and a cardboard container of coffee.

  "I don't know if you has had your supper or not," the woman said, smiling, "but I never saw the time a man couldn't eat him a barbecue."

  "Thank you," I said kindly. "I certainly can eat a barbecued sandwich."

  I bit into the hot, greasy sandwich, and swallowed some coffee. My eyes picked up the dark green cover of the Jax telephone book on Dr. Heartwell's desk across the room. I crossed the room, snatched the telephone book and brought it back to my desk.

  I began to scribble rapidly on a ruled yellow tablet, writing down names and addresses picked at random as I riffled through the pages. I didn't owe these Negroes a damned thing, but I didn't owe Corwin & Company anything either. He'd get a roster all right, for his twelve hundred bucks, but wait until he tried to use it! I giggled delightedly, and quickly scribbled Eddie Price's name and address onto the third page of my hastily improvised roster.

  My finger had inadvertently stabbed into his name as I had flipped a page.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The meeting upstairs in the auditorium was going strong at seven-thirty. Time to go. A few minutes before the meeting began, Dr. Heartwell had offered me his Buick and Tommy as my chauffeur, but I had declined. Tommy was too belligerent, I told him, and I would be better off with a taxicab.

  Except for a dispatcher seated at Reverend Hutto's desk, the basement office was empty. I bent down, unlocked the safe, took the three stacks of folding money out of the corner, and stuffed them under my shirt. There were three canvas bags of coins inside the safe, but I could hardly carry them around with me.

  "Good night," I told the dispatcher as I started out the door. "Tell Dr. Heartwell that I'll see him in the morning."

  "Yes, sir," the man said.

  "Is everything going all right?"

  "Pretty good, Reverend Springer. Folks is stayin' pretty much to home in the evenin's, except for the meetin's."

  "That's good."

  Approximately one hundred men and a few women were outside in the street, listening to the loud speakers. Dr. David was speaking, and his barbed syllables, magnified by the speakers, demanded privation and fortitude from the listeners. Many men liked to stand outside and listen instead of crowding into seats inside. Outside they could smoke. Inside the church they couldn't. Across the street from the church I climbed into the first taxi in line. There were more than a dozen cabs parked along the curb, waiting for the meeting to end.

  I gave the driver the address of Price's Garage, and he drove away. The driver was a thick-bellied Negro, and a sausage roll of fat hung loosely over the back of his collar.

  "Do you know where it is?" I asked him.

  "I sure do, Reverend, over by Flagler Park."

  "That's right."

  I lit a cigarette and rode the rest of the way in silence. We passed the entrance to Flagler Park, and the driver continued right past the garage without stopping.

  "You passed it," I said. He slowed down and stopped.

  "I thought Price's Garage was in the next block."

  "No, it's back where that light—" I looked over my shoulder through the window. There were no lights on inside the garage, but there had been when we had zipped past. The driver put the gear in reverse.

  "I can back up," he said. "I don't see no policemen around."

  "No. Wait," I said. "Keep your motor going." I snapped the door locks on both doors. "Let me look a minute."

  Across the street there were three cars, new ones, parked along the curb bordering the park. Why? This was not a residential area, and if the owners were in the park, why hadn't they parked in the parking area at the entrance? I had noticed the parking lot when we had passed it, and it was practically empty. The black, gaping door to the garage was only three buildings away, and I strained my eyes through the back window looking for a sign of a light, or movement. A small door near the gas pump, and to the left of the garage itself, suddenly flew open, and the beam of a flashlight hit the back window, blinding me for a second.

  "There he is!" The high unnatural voice belonged to Eddie Price. "The son-of-a-bitch is in that cab!"

  "Move it out, man!" I screamed at the driver.

  Across the street, four men flew out of the parked cars and began to run toward my cab. Inside the darkened garage I could hear the pounding of running feet. Eddie Price kept the beam of the powerful flashlight trained on the back window, and called the men to hurry. But my driver sat stupefied, paralyzed.

  "Move out!" I screamed again. I leaned forward and dug my fingers and thumbs into the roll of fat around his neck. "I said move out!" As quickly as possible I rolled up the window on the street side, which was down, and the driver let out his clutch. Still in reverse, the cab jumped backwards. The driver then shifted into second, and the cab bucked and jigged forward for ten yards or so before the engine caught and roared. If he stalls now, I thought—a man was running alongside, trying to jerk open the door-handle on the street side—but we were off and running!

  The driver shifted into high, and the cab gained speed until he was doing sixty-five, and we were in a twenty-five mile zone. "Slow down," I told him. "Do you want to kill us?" He didn't pay any attention to me and sailed through a red light as though it wasn't there, narrowly avoiding a panel truck. I opened my hand, leaned forward and slapped the driver viciously across the ear. "Slow down, you goddamned rabbit!" I yelled.

  He eased up on the gas, dropped down to a crawl, pulled into a lighted gas station and stopped beneath an overhead sign of blazing neon tubing. Tears were rolling down his cheeks, and he whimpered and blubbered, his big fat body shaking convulsively. The station attendant came over to the cab and I rolled down the window.

  "We don't need gas," I smiled at the attendant. "The cab driver's a little sick." I handed the attendant a dime. "Maybe if he drinks a Coca Cola...?

  "Sure, Reverend," the attendant went over to the Coke machine.

  "Pull yourself together, Boy," I told the driver. "You aren't going to get hurt, and we aren't being followed either."

  "I'll be all right, I'll be all right." He wiped his face, and gradually caught his breath. I accepted the Coke from the attendant, gave it to the driver.

  "Now, drink this."

  He downed the Coca Cola in one long gurgling pull without taking the bottle away from his lips. I lighted a cigarette and handed it to him. "All right, now, Boy?"

  "I reckon. Whooeee!" He laughed and his fear had vanished. "Who-all was after us, Reverend?"

  "Members of the Citizen's Committee," I said. "They don't like Negroes, or anybody who does."

  "Way they acted, they don't like nobody!" He laughed again, got out of the cab to put the Coke bottle in the rack, and slid under the wheel again, puffing away on the cigarette I had given him.

  "Do you think you can drive now?"

  "Yes, sir! Where to this time?"

  I gave him Dr. Fred Jensen's home address. As we crossed the bridge over the St. John's River, I apologized. "I didn't mean to smack your head so hard, but at the time it seemed like a good idea."

  "That's all right, Reverend."

  "I was supposed to attend a peaceful meeting concerning the bus boycott, and if I hadn't thought it would be, I wouldn't have risked your neck or mine otherwise."

  "I just goes to where they tells me to go." He replied simply. I considered this a wise philosophy for a cab driver.

  When we pulled up in front of the duplex where Dr. Jensen lived, I saw that a light was on in his living room,
and I kept my seat.

  "How much do you make in a night?" I asked.

  "Six dollars, about. Sometimes eight, and maybe ten. It all depends. Since the bus boycott I been doing better. I work the six-to-six shift at night, and daytime's better. Next week I go on days."

  I gave the driver a ten-dollar bill. "Take the rest of the night off. Go on home and get some sleep. I don't want you driving around any more tonight. Will you do that?"

  "If you say so, Reverend." He tucked the bill into his watch pocket.

  "I say so, and I mean it too."

  "All right."

  "Good." I got out of the cab and shook hands with the driver. "And if you don't go home, I've got ways of finding out"

  "I'm glad to go home, Reverend!" he protested.

  Before I climbed the steps to Dr. Jensen's front porch I waited until the cab was out of sight. I peered through the window. Dr. Jensen, wearing a white flannel nightshirt, was seated on the long couch, bending over an open Bible on the coffee table. He wore a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, and there was a glass of milk on the table beside the Bible. Merita wasn't in the room. I rapped softly on the door with one knuckle, waited, and Dr. Jensen opened the door.

  "Good evening, Dr. Jensen," I said, brushing past him and entering the living room without waiting for an invitation. He closed the door and followed me in, his bare feet silent on the worn, rose-colored carpet. I leaned over the Bible, tapped the open pages with the tips of my fingers, straightened up, and smiled. "An admirable trait," I said. "No man can ever do wrong who reads the Holy Bible before he retires."

  "The Bible is a source of great comfort to a troubled man." His voice quavered. The lines leading down from the wings of his broad nose to the corners of his thick lips were deeper than I had ever noticed. His eyelids drooped wearily over yellow, pink-rimmed eyes, but as he returned my frank, inquisitive stare, I could detect a firmness to the set of his jaw that had never been there before.

  "Where is Mrs. Jensen?" I inquired.

  "Locked in her bedroom." He wet his lips. "And That's where she's going to stay," he added, again licking his lips.

  "I see. I came to take her with me. I've been praying for guidance, and the Lord told me that now was the time. I talked with Merita this afternoon, but somehow—"

  "I too have been praying for guidance, Reverend Springer!" Dr. Jensen cut me off in mid-sentence. "And I've been reading the Good Book for wisdom as well! All day long I've been sorely troubled, and I haven't been able to keep anything on my stomach. I've been torn by doubts and fears, but the Lord has shown me the way."

  "And what has He shown you?" I asked reasonably.

  "Genesis, thirty-two, twenty-four!" 'And Jacob was left alone; and there wrestled a man with him until the breaking of the day!' "That is the passage God revealed to me in the Good Book, and I have found comfort and decision in these words!"

  "I see. And your decision was to lock Merita in her bedroom to await my coming?"

  "Not at all," Dr. Jensen shook his head vigorously. "Not by any means, Reverend Springer! I do not doubt that an angel appeared to you, Reverend, for you are a good and holy man, and sincere in your faith. But you were visited by a false angel! An evil angel who would lead you into sin! An angel who was clever enough to deceive you, Reverend, and I too was taken in by this angel's words. But you should have been like Jacob; you should have wrestled with this angel! You should have thrown him to the ground, and wrung the truth from him, as I have done!" He sank wearily onto the couch and covered his face with his hands.

  "You mean I should have wrestled with an angel of the Lord?"

  "It was not an angel of the Lord!" Dr. Jensen dropped his hands to the couch and wet his lips again. He rolled his eyes apprehensively, and dropped his voice to a whisper. "It was a dark angel from the devil! A devil who would have had you sin with my wife! And I cannot let you do this, for it would lead you away from the path of Heaven and down the road to Hell!"

  "You're overwrought," I said soothingly. "Do you think I'd believe the words of a false angel?"

  "It's in the Good Book!" Dr. Jensen said excitedly. "I have pored through the pages of my Holy Bible all day, and God has revealed the answer in Genesis!"

  "You're a vain man, Dr. Jensen," I said, "and you have looked through the Bible to find a way to keep Merita for yourself. I can show you many contradictory verses in the Bible. But as your minister and spiritual adviser, I know what is best. And although I will perish as a result, as the good angel told me, I'm taking Merita away with me right now!"

  "No!" he screamed. "It's a sin, a sin!" With these anguished words the old dentist launched a surprise attack, jumping up from the couch and coming for me with outstretched hands, great veins standing out like ropes in his throat. He was a heavy man, and I easily dodged his rush, circled the couch, retreated into the dining room, and put the dinner table between us. He stumbled after me, anxious to get his hands around my throat. I pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen, and hurriedly shoved the kitchen table in front of the door. Dr. Jensen pounded on the door with both fists and shouted crazily.

  "I will wrestle with the dark angel, and I will cast him down! All night I shall wrestle with him until the light of day shines upon his face!"

  If he stopped to think a moment, all he had to do was to pull the door inward toward the dining room, and he could get through, table or no table. The door swung both ways. In the dark kitchen I searched rapidly through the drawers bordering the sink, looking for a suitable weapon. Had Jensen been calm, I would have taken the time to talk him around to my way of thinking, but in his present state, he was hardly reasonable. My fingers found a heavy wooden potato masher. I hefted it in my hand, and it weighed approximately three pounds. Edging along the sink, I braced my back, put a foot on the edge of the kitchen table and shoved hard. It cleared the door with a squealing scrape. Dr. Jensen stumbled in blindly, and I brought the potato masher down hard on the top of his head. He fell to his knees, shaking his head and mumbling, and tried to get up again, but his feet had gotten entangled in the skirts of his long nightshirt. I stepped behind him, and with a short, sidearm blow, I hit him again at the base of the skull. He dived forward, face downward upon the floor.

  I watched, the masher poised above my head, but he didn't move a muscle. There was a pounding on a door down the hallway, and then the door rattled as someone shook the handle. Merita. I stepped over Dr. Jensen's unconscious body, and rushed down the hall to the rattling door.

  "Merita," I said. "It's all right. It's me, Deut. Where are the keys?"

  "I don't know," she cried excitedly. "What's going on?"

  "Hold on," I replied, "I'll be back in a minute."

  I switched on lights as I searched, first in the bathroom, in a linen closet, and then in Dr. Jensen's bedroom at the far end of the hall. His clothing was neatly arranged on a black walnut valet beneath the window, and in a shallow tray on top of the rack, I found his wallet, pen-knife, cufflinks, change, and the ring of keys I wanted.

  I unlocked Merita's door, and she flew into my arms, hugging me tightly around the neck. She was fully dressed in a tight black skirt and an even tighter white sweater.

  "No time for that," I pulled her arms away. "We'd better get going."

  Her eyes were round with excitement. "Where? To your house, or—?"

  "New York!" I said.

  Merita squealed happily in reply, picked up a battered but serviceable suitcase, and handed it to me. "I've been waiting," she said triumphantly. "I knew you'd come for me."

  I handed Merita the ring of keys. "Where's the old man's Buick?"

  "In the garage. We can get to the garage from the kitchen."

  "Better not," I said. "We'll go around from the front door, and you'd better drive."

  A few minutes later we were riding down the street, Merita at the wheel, and me beside her. I had calmed down considerably, and I inhaled deeply on a fresh cigarette.

  "You'd better go by my house," I to
ld her. "I don't have much, but there are a few notes I want to keep, and an essay on D. H. Lawrence's Plumed Serpent I don't want to leave behind."

  Obediently, Merita turned left when we reached my block, but we didn't stop. There were more than a dozen cars parked around my church, and the empty lot contained a milling mass of men, all white men!

  "Keep going!" I said quickly, but unnecessarily, because Merita had already floorboarded the gas pedal. "One more stop," I said, "and then we'll take the highway. But first pull up at the entrance to Dr. Heartwell's church."

  We covered the familiar six blocks before I could fathom my reasons. The crowd outside was an overflow that blocked the entire sidewalk and most of the street. Merita had to stop in the center of the road. I leaned out the window and shouted above the blare of the loud speakers.

  "They're burning my church!" I called shrilly.

  "It's Reverend Springer," a voice yelled in reply. "Listen to him!"

  "They're burning down my church," I shouted again. "The Church of God's Flock!" As if to punctuate my sentence, there was a muffled explosion, and a bright red glow lit the night six blocks away. "Now they're dynamiting the church," I yelled. "Stop them! Stop them! Don't let them destroy the house of God!"

  There had been a surge toward the car as I had yelled. But the press of bodies now broke into tight knots of running and shouting men as the crowd dispersed down the block in small, wedge-shaped groups. Another group of excited men and women poured through the wide doors of the church and down the steps. I shouted again, but another explosion cancelled my words. The black mass flowing out of the meeting followed the running figures who were already leading the way to my church.

  "Drive on, Merita," I said. "There's nothing else to do."

  At White Springs, we ditched the Buick in a thick grove of pepper trees. We waited for the midnight bus to Atlanta at an independent filling station which had been closed for the night, but displayed the Greyhound sign. The bus was crowded when it pulled in, and Merita was forced to stand in the aisle. Fortunately, I found a seat right behind the driver, and managed to get a few fitful hours of off-and-on sleep before we reached Atlanta. The long Georgia night seemed to be filled with black, lonely pines, and isolated patches of light, as the bus stopped intermittently to load and unload passengers in places I had never heard of before.