DARK TOWN
REDEMPTION
GARY HARDWICK
HARDBOOKS
dark town redemption
copyright 2010 © gary hardwick
all rights reserved.
Published by Hardbooks at Smashwords
ISBN Number 0972480412
HardBooks Publishing
www.garyhardwick.com
First Edition
Cover Design: Gary Hardwick
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and events except where indicated are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely unintentional and coincidental. Without limiting the right under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior express permission of the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
ALSO BY GARY HARDWICK
COLD MEDINA
DOUBLE DEAD
SUPREME JUSTICE
COLOR OF JUSTICE
THE EXECUTIONERS’ GAME
SEXLIFE
SLAM THE TRICK
For my late brother,
Steve Brent Hardwick.
Redemption, too soon.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The two protagonists in this novel, Robert Jackson and Thomas Riley and their families, are fictional. I also imagined The Vanguard, a violent Black militant group. Additionally, I created the events that befall Marcus Jackson after the Detroit Riots and the aftermath that affects the Riley and Jackson clans.
What is true is that in 1967, the summer of love, there was a riot in Detroit, Michigan that resulted in the deaths of 43 people.
Also true is that in the next year, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert F. Kennedy were both assassinated, two devastating losses that tested the will of America.
The Vietnam War really happened and many veterans, Black and White came home to protest and hostility.
And of course the music of Motown is real and is still as wonderful, rhythmic and influential as it was some fifty years ago.
My story is set against the backdrop of these real events and I have sought to capture some of their power, beauty and magic to help make sense of the times.
The 1960’s were the defining years of pre-millennium America. The sins of the young nation tested its resolve and character. Kings and princes fell to murderous intent and old ideas were burned to ashes in the all too real fires of change.
The final true thing in my story is that during this chaos, there was baseball, swinging at the speed of history and humanity.
This book’s title speaks of a deliverance from the destructive notions that bound generations in fear and ignorance. It is a redemption that changed a city, which changed a nation-- that changed the world.
gh (2010)
“For in the final analysis, our most basic
common link is that we all inhabit this small
planet, we all breathe the same air, we all cherish
our children’s futures and we are all mortal.”
- John F. Kennedy
"Our objective is complete freedom, justice
and equality by any means necessary."
- Malcolm X
“Baseball is the resplendent metaphor for life.”
- Joe Black
PROLOGUE
June 21, 1943.
The two men ran down the block away from the car that had given out on them. They could hear the mob behind them as they rounded a corner close to Hastings Street.
It was late evening and the summer sun was falling in the west. Night was coming and that was not good.
They were in Paradise Valley but it seemed like anything but that this day. There was trouble in Detroit, bad trouble that had even chased the news of the war from the headlines.
People were dying.
“Keep up!” said the older of the two. “If they catch us....”
“Don’t worry about me,” said the smaller man, just a teenager, really. “I’m too fast for them.”
They rounded another corner and the big man stopped short. He looked in the distance and saw roving mobs of men holding clubs and pipes.
“More of ‘em,” he said, his Irish accent was pronounced. He grabbed the smaller man by the shoulder and pulled him into an alley.
The evening light dimmed further as they enter the narrow passage. It stank of urine and garbage. There were two big wooden racks of garbage cans on the back of a tenement house.
The two men slipped behind the racks and crouched down. It was a tight fit but they could not be seen from the street.
Suddenly, they heard the sounds of the men who were chasing them. It grew louder as they approached, filled with chatter, curses and laughter, which nonetheless felt evil.
“Quiet,” said the big man.
Shadows crept up the dimming light from the street as the pursuing men stopped nearby. Someone called out, asking if anyone had seen two men run by.
“No way they went through there,” said a voice.
“They had to,” said another man. “If they’da doubled back, we’da seen ‘em.
“I told you they ran up Church and went around us, man,” said yet another man with a raspy voice. The he added: “dammit.”
Suddenly, footsteps entered the dark alley and the two hiding men tensed. The big one searched for a weapon but saw nothing he could use. Soon, several men were in the alley looking around, muttering.
Then the crouching men heard the unmistakable sound of zippers, then men urinating in the alley. The piss ran in their direction and pooled around their shoes.
“Hey! They saying army soldiers is comin’ this way!” yelled a man from the street. “We gotta get outta here!”
The men in the alley zipped their pants and moved away quickly. Distantly, the crouching men could hear even more men running away.
They waited for what seemed an eternity. The big man shifted then peeked around the wooden rack and saw nothing but dimming light and darkness.
He stood and came out. He sighed in relief. “Come on, he said. Let’s go.”
“Back to the car?” asked the smaller man.
“No, the other said. “They’ve taken it by now or set it on fire.”
Without warning, something flew from the darkness in the area beyond their hiding place. The smaller man felt it zip by his face a slight wind trailing its heft.
The object landed flush on the side of the big man’s head, tearing the side of his face and toppling him over. Blood sprayed into the air as he hit the ground with a thud.
Two men emerged from the shadows carrying baseball bats. The one who had thrown the brick was smiling.
“Knew they was close,” said one of the men.
“Run,” said the big man to the other. “Run!”
The smaller man took off as the big man got up and rammed himself into the men with the baseball bats.
The smaller man ran from the dark alley into the coming night hearing the sound of his friend being beaten behind him.
He stopped and turned and saw one of the men smash his friend in the side of the head. He teetered for a moment and then fell to the ground. The attackers kept hitting him.
The small man screamed something and then felt his body moving back toward the alley and certain death.
“Halt!” said a voice from a loudspeaker. “U.S. Army, stand down!”
Coming down the street, the small man saw an army jeep speeding his way.
“Here!” he said waving his hands. “We’re here!” He turned to go back and h
elp his friend and saw the two men running off carrying their now bloodstained weapons.
The small man ran back to his friend and stopped short. He fell to his knees next to the lifeless corpse, blood staining his pants.
Light flooded the area as the Army jeep roared up behind him, casting long shadows against the old buildings.
PART ONE
WAR’S REDEMPTION
April 1967 – December 1967
“Our country is challenged at home
and abroad... it is our will that is
being tried and not our strength.”
- Lyndon B. Johnson
1
HAIPHONG
Sergeant Robert Jackson crouched a little as he waited for it to happen. They were winning this one but they had to hold on or else they’d all be dead.
The jungle wind in this part of Vietnam was unseasonably warm on his face and the sky was the pale blue of a very sick man. It was also a little hotter and stickier than usual and the smells of the bush, animal shit and rotting carcasses pricked at the inside of his nostrils.
The ground seemed to swell beneath his combat boots as he shifted his footing so as not to become too stiff while waiting. He tried to ignore his senses as he kept his mind on defense. Death was never far away in war and that could be a distraction from his current job.
Robert waved to Private Foster who gave him the okay sign. Just a nod really, but filled with confidence. Robert needed that right now. Robert nodded back in kind and he could feel the connection between him and the other man. They were set.
Foster wound up and pitched an arcing curveball to the batter. He swung and hit a screaming line drive over the head of the third baseman. Robert quickly sprang into action. He raced to meet the ball and realized at the last moment that he might overrun it. He slowed his progress and timed it just right. He barely had to leap as the ball slammed into his glove, making that wonderful smacking noise.
“You’re out!” Someone said.
There were cheers as Robert pulled out the ball and threw it back into the infield. The two base runners on second and third went back to their bases in respect of Robert’s arm. He had thrown a man out at second trying to stretch a single into a double. No one wanted the embarrassment of being tagged out by a long-distance throw.
There were now two out, with two on base and Robert’s team was leading four runs to two.
“One more, baby!” Robert said to Foster who was smiling broadly. Foster had pitched the whole game and wanted desperately to go the distance. Robert hoped it would not be at the expense of winning the game.
They were a few clicks outside of Haiphong, a nasty little city that one soldier dubbed “Hell’s Waiting Room.” They’d been between assignments for two weeks and since the Hanoi bombing was going well, Robert didn’t expect a mission anytime soon. So they camped out here and soon the days turned to pleasant distraction.
Robert, as leader of the platoon, decided to let off some steam and he knew no way better than baseball to put a soldier at ease.
There were forty-two men in the platoon, which was a part of the Marine Corps Combined Action Program or CAP. The CAP program strategically placed Marines in villages all over South Vietnam for offensive and defensive measures.
Robert’s squad was unofficially called The Cleaners, a platoon that was given the most dangerous missions that came up. They secured red villages, exterminating hostiles; they did recon for major assaults and his absolute favorite, mine detection.
Sergeant Robert Jackson was the leader of The Cleaners, one of the few Negroes given a multi-racial command. He knew that it was a dubious honor but he took it very seriously. He’d been in charge for almost a year and had not lost a single man. He was proud of that.
What he did not like was the Army’s tolerance of prejudice and outright bigotry. Many Black soldiers had to leave platoons because the White soldiers, who outnumbered them, brought American racism to Vietnam along with their M-16’s and shaving kits. Robert had heard horror stories of the hazing of Black soldiers and rumors that some may have been killed on the battlefield.
The White soldiers were not safe either. Some Black soldiers saw the war as a chance for retribution for the injustices committed back home. Several mysterious deaths had been recorded and there were stories of White soldiers who’d gone into the jungle with their Black brothers and never returned.
Robert had been promoted after his old outfit fought a terrible battle at Cu Chi. Cu Chi with its vast network of tunnels, was a sniper’s dream. Enemy soldiers could be picked off strategically while the killer, hidden in a tunnel, was invisible to his prey, like a murderous ghost.
But they had driven the Cong out eventually. Toward the end of it, a group of enemy soldiers were retreating with a box filled with explosives. They had a good head start and were running hard.
Soldiers were taking shots at the fleeing men when Robert pulled a grenade and threw it about a hundred and fifty feet. It exploded just in front of the running soldiers. They dropped the box and it ignited. The red-yellow explosion swelled into a fireball that shot into the pale sky and dug a massive crater into the ground. The bodies of the men holding the crate were ripped into tiny pieces.
Robert would think later that the throw was about the distance from shallow left field to home plate at Tiger Stadium.
“Look alive!” Robert yelled as Percy Turner, a huge Black soldier from Texas, came up to bat. Percy was a natural athlete and Robert had wanted him on his team, but it didn’t seem fair, as he and Percy were the two best players in the platoon.
Percy had already tagged Foster for a home run earlier in the game. If he did it now, they would lose by a run.
“He ain’t nobody!” said Robert.
But that wasn’t true. Several pro teams were scouting Percy before he went off to war. Robert’s hometown team, the Detroit Tigers, had scouted Robert in high school. Robert had a good tryout but didn’t make the cut. With life in the streets looming before him, the Army had seemed like a better choice.
Foster wound up and pitched a perfect strike to Percy. They cheered but Percy never swung at the first pitch. Percy liked to assess the pitcher’s speed and attitude and feel out his current weakness. Percy smiled a little satisfied smile and then dug his feet into the batter’s box.
Foster pitched him a crappy breaking ball and Percy hammered it into right field. It would have surely been a home run had the ball not been already hooking away from the plate when it was hit. Percy smacked it foul and Robert breathed easier.
Foster seemed to be relieved as well as the ball was thrown back to him. Robert gave Foster a reassuring smile and moved his arm in a slow circular motion, signaling to Foster to throw him an off-speed pitch. Foster nodded.
This was the moment that Robert savored, the time when fate came into power. The game was life and life was the game, he thought. Would Percy or Foster be the hero? Would his team live or die? Only God knew.
Foster settled in and then delivered the pitch. Percy took a mighty swing but hit nothing but the dank jungle air.
“Out!” yelled someone, and Robert broke into a broad grin. Robert ran in as the other members of the team congratulated Foster. Robert hugged the gangly White kid. The losing team all filed out and they all shook hands and talked trash in the spirit of sportsmanship.
Robert glanced at Percy who had just stood at the plate for a moment not believing he’d struck out. Then Percy, good-natured soul that he was, smiled and walked over to congratulate Foster.
“Good game, man,” he said in his Texas drawl. “You got me good that time.”
Robert watched as his men bonded through the game. The platoon was about fifty/fifty Black and White with two men claiming Puerto Rican heritage. There was some friction in the beginning but it soon went away when they realized that any man could be called upon to save his brother’s life. No perception of color could change that. Death was the fairest man in the world. He did not discriminate.
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Robert Jackson did not have much love for White men. But he saw military service as a calling that was higher than petty feelings like prejudice. In Vietnam, there were only the living and the dead and any man who dealt in bias during war was a fool who endangered his life and the lives of his brothers.
Robert looked away from the field and saw one such fool. Peter Cole was a racist. He casually used racial slurs and was bounced from one platoon to another until he landed in The Cleaners. Cole was a soldier from the outskirts of Florida. He was a tough, mean little bastard who had once killed a Vietnamese villager because he “looked at him funny.”
Cole didn’t like having “a Colored commander” as Cole had once called Robert, but the man was so close to a dishonorable discharge that Cole had kept his mouth shut for the most part.
The Marine Corps didn’t discourage racism but they hated insubordination and losing battles, so Robert was stuck with Cole and his attitude.
But the worst thing about Cole was that he was not a baseball player. Didn’t like the game, he’d said. It was a queer’s game. Football was a man’s game, he’d say to anyone who cared to listen.
Robert would have rather been called a nigger. Any man who didn’t like baseball was evil and deserving of contempt, he thought.
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