“All right,” said Thomas finishing his beer. “The game’s at Bunson’s place, right?”
Brady and Reid shared a look, just a glance, really. Thomas could tell it was partner telepathy, the way two cops who rode together had of knowing what the other is thinking.
“No, that’s the other game,” said Brady. “The company’s better at our game. They let anybody in at the Brunson game. We’re exclusive, elite.”
“Come on, partner, don’t shit the kid,” said Reid. “There are no darkies at our game, Riley, just regular cops.”
Thomas was glad Sarah was gone at this moment. She would have glared at him and dared him to accept the invitation or worse she would have unloaded on both men.
“Sure, I’m in,” said Thomas.
“Good man,” said Reid. “Wednesdays, nine sharp.”
“Hey, look who’s checking you out Riley,” said Brady. He nodded his head in the direction of a woman with red hair who was keeping company with three men at a table across the room.
The men were all talking but the red head was looking at Thomas. She smiled and raised her glass a little. Thomas instinctively waived to her.
“’Ol Bedtime Barb,” said Reid laughing.
“Who?” asked Thomas.
“You don’t want to know,” said Reid. “Shit, with that nice little thing you got, you don’t need to know.” And then the two cops laughed again.
Thomas looked at the two smiling faces on either side of him. It was as if they were forcing him to join some covert group. Race had become a divisive issue within the force over the last few years. Black cops had been added over the objections of veteran officers. Some White cops even refused to serve and had quit or retired. Thomas’ father had been one of the resisters. He’d said many times that you could not trust a Negro with a gun.
Many of the new Black cops had been harassed and threatened; one was even shot at on duty under suspicious circumstances.
Another happy night in Alabama.
But in the end, integration had come in small numbers and old thinkers had moved on. But a cold war had started in the department and there was no end in sight.
“I’d better see where my girl has gone,” said Thomas and he excused himself, feeling a small wave of relief as he slipped from between the two men. They were scary those two, especially Reid, with his stark blue eyes and square jaw. Something about the handsomeness of his face belied the malevolence Thomas felt from him, which made Reid seem even more evil.
Thomas entered the dark alley and found Sarah standing in the shadows smoking a joint. It was one of the few things he did not like about her.
Marijuana was the current way to give your country the finger. Sarah had asked him to try some but he had resisted. He hated the smell of it as much as he hated his mother’s Winstons.
“Sarah, why do you... there’s a bar full of cops in there,” he said grabbing the joint from her fingers.
“Hey!”
Thomas dropped the vile thing on the alley floor and stomped on it. Sarah cursed and picked it up, putting the extinguished roach in her purse.
“Lighten up,” she said. “I bet all of them have tried it.”
“That’s beside the point,” said Thomas. “They don’t do it in public at a cop bar.”
“I can’t believe I stayed in there as long as I did,” she said. “Those fucking racists are the reason why things are so bad.”
“They’re good guys,” said Thomas.
“I don’t know if you ever heard this, but Black people don’t like being called niggers.”
“But there are no Negroes in there, Sarah.”
“I’m sorry, that makes it okay.” She said sarcastically, shaking her head. “They’re worthless, all of them.”
Thomas didn’t like the way she shook her head at him all the time, like a mother whose kid has put his hand where it didn’t belong. He was a little tired of it and prize or no, she needed to understand.
“Sarah, my father and grandfather were men just like the ones in that bar, he began.
“Yeah, I know,” she cut him off which is why I work so hard with you—“
“Can you ever let me finish a sentence?” he asked with mild anger. Sarah stopped, looking a little guilty. “Sure, the men in my family weren’t the smartest men on the block,” Thomas continued. “But they kept me in clothes and they kept food on the table. They protected me and taught me right from wrong. I told you I was willing to work on changing how I think about things, but you’re gonna have to excuse me if it takes a while for me to condemn everybody I love.”
Sarah looked at him and might have had more argument in her but Thomas saw that logic had taken hold. She had a bad temper but she was always a woman of reason.
“But you’re trying, right?” she asked almost like a little girl.
“For you, yes, I am. Every day.”
“Good because our parents can’t continue to control our future,” she said. “We have to reject all their ideas in society and rebuild a new one.”
“When did freedom and nobility go out of style?”
”When we denied them to other people,” said Sarah flatly.
Thomas embraced her. “I love it when you talk like a commie. Makes me horny.”
Thomas kissed her, cutting off her laugh. He grabbed her ass. He felt her fumbling at his zipper and his eyes widened.
“Here?” he asked in a low voice.
“Yes,” she said smiling. “It’ll be fun.”
They moved further into the shadows, preparing to complete the sinful deed in their heads.
Thomas grabbed at her chest through her blouse and he felt his penis pushing against his zipper. He felt her hand pull down the zipper and make contact. He reached for her pants.
Before he met Sarah, he would have never dreamed of having sex in public like this. She was changing everything about him, he thought, and some of it felt real good.
Suddenly, there was a loud commotion from the bar. Sarah heard it too. She stopped and turned toward the back door.
They quickly began to put their clothing back in order. Sarah might smoke a joint in an alley but she didn’t want to get caught doing this.
Ned burst into the alley. It took him a second to find the couple and his face never registered the compromising position they were in. Ned looked troubled and Thomas saw something else in his eyes: fear.
“Partner, we got trouble! All shifts are called in,” said Ned.
“All shifts-- what is it?” Thomas asked walking back into the light holding Sarah’s hand.
“The niggers,” said Ned. “They’re burning Detroit to the ground.”
9
THE OLD BLOOD
There was fire....
Flame consumed wood and fabric, reducing them to carbon and dotting the landscape with evil, twinkling eyes.
Shocked and teary-eyed citizens watched as their homes and businesses died like men ravaged by disease.
Smoke plumes lurched toward heaven and without a summer wind to move them; they hung in the sky, evidence of cruel intent.
The long-suffering Blacks rampaged, burning, looting and menacing anyone with white skin.
Whites were moved to violence, some in defense of home and livelihood and others because the riot offered the chance to vent long-held hatred of the dark people.
The simmering pot of race relations in Detroit had boiled over again after a party at a blind pig, gloriously named The United Community League For Civic Action, was raided by police.
The city fathers knew the Negroes were on edge and angry. But hell, they were always angry, always complaining about something.
What they didn’t understand was that the death of Shaun Thomas and the anonymous hooker had pushed nature beyond civilized boundary.
Within the Negro community, these killings were the latest un-avenged murders; slaughters by a White master whose viciousness had created centuries-old injustice.
And somewhere between t
he perceptions of Black and White, was the reality of man and his worst capacities. The connection to his savage evolutionary past overran the logic of civilized restraint.
The riot reminded many that whenever one man acted from the old blood; it awakened the same viciousness in the victim, and then comes death.
Krikor Messerlian, was sixty-eight years old the night the riots came. The genial man, whom everyone called George was driven into the street by the coming violence and looters at his beloved shop.
He fought to defend his little piece of America, using an old ceremonial saber. He wounded one of the looters but soon George fell to the assault and later died. He was the first person killed in the riot.
**********
Robert Jackson watched the news of the death of the old man on television and knew things would get worse. The first body was always the worst, he mused. It confirmed reality.
He watched the flickering black and white images with shock and anger. The violence agonized faces and the uniformed men arresting civilians struck an ugly and familiar cord deep inside him. He had left the war but it had come home right behind him, like a rotting corpse rising from the grave.
Robert sat that first night wanting to go out and do something. He did not want to loot or do violence. But neither did he want to persuade people to stop. He knew all too well why his people were angry. There was too much violence in their history, too much pain. Too much blood. Like overripe fruit hung too long in a tree, the city had fallen to earth and burst open.
Marcus tried to leave the house, to go out and join what he called the revolution but Robert and Abraham had physically restrained him.
“Let me go!” said Marcus. “Our people need me out there!”
“We need you alive,” said Abraham.
“Slow down little bro,” said Robert struggling to hold him.
“How could you?” Marcus said to Robert. “You know! How could you?”
The tears in his brother’s eyes made Robert understand why Marcus got involved in the Movement. They were only a few years apart in age, but those few years had seen a new attitude in Black America.
Robert in turn was different from his father. Abraham believed in religious-inspired non-violence. Marcus did not and Robert was in the middle. And so he stood facing the violent crisis and he was paralyzed, Jesus in one hand and a gun in the other.
Detroit burned all that night. During the day, the wounds of the assault were revealed in the light and the world was horrified. News services swarmed to Detroit, chronicling every bit of history they could.
Robert went to work that day. Many businesses had shut down but not his. His bosses were hard asses and did not want the “trouble” as they called it to stop their cash flow.
Robert had not received a call to stay home and so he’d gotten up and taken the bus in. Also, if he didn’t come in, his bosses might think he was involved in the trouble and take it out on him.
Robert had gotten the job driving a truck for the Faygo soda pop company. Faygo was a hometown favorite. They made lots of flavors in wonderful bright colors. When you shopped for it, it was like picking Crayolas to consume.
Robert walked toward the gate to the facility and saw the frightened look in the eyes of his foreman, a Polish guy in his forties who had an unpronounceable name. And Robert saw something else. Guns. The security guards held shotguns and the foreman had a bulge in his jacket that had to be a pistol. But Robert had seen plenty of guns in his day. He never broke stride as he walked up to the gate.
“We got no work today, Jackson,” said the foreman.
“What about pay?” asked Robert a little too quickly.
The foreman seemed to be insulted by this. “Since you showed, you’ll get credit for the day,” said the foreman. “Now go home to your family.” Robert walked off, not looking back.
On the trip back home, Robert saw the destruction that had been wrought. Someone had knifed his beloved city and left it to die.
Robert got home well before nightfall. Marcus was safely home and still upset but not as much as the previous day. Robert regarded this with some suspicion but said nothing. Instead, he joined the family who was glued to the TV for the rest of the evening.
As the sun slipped from the sky, Robert felt the dread rise from Detroit’s still smoldering bones. Light faded and it looked like life itself leaving the body of man. Still, as the sun fell, Robert hoped the worse was over.
It was not.
The deaths continued. People were shot in acts of random violence or gunned down for looting by police. Even a firefighter, and a Black cop in uniform were killed in the chaos.
Robert realized the source of his suspicions about Marcus in the days to come. His brother was sneaking out in the wee hours to join in the rioting.
Robert decided not to challenge him, to let Marcus find whatever he was looking for. When he was Marcus’ age, there was nothing that could keep him from street life. It was part of becoming a man, he reasoned.
What Marcus did out in the streets, Robert would never know, but each time Marcus went out, Robert prayed that his brother would return with the dawn.
**********
Marcus bonded with his brethren devoted to the cause of destruction. If there was no freedom, then no one would have the city, they would burn it all down.
They were near Woodward Avenue on the third night of the riots, watching a real estate office. Although there was no evidence to support it, they all agreed that whoever owned it was not Black and was probably discriminating against Blacks.
Marcus and his cohorts moved toward the building, hiding in the shadows and looking for an opportunity to cross the large expanse of Woodward.
Suddenly, they heard vehicles coming. They ducked back into darkness. The vehicles came close and soon it was clear that it was not the police.
Marcus’ eyes widened as he saw military men, not national guardsmen who were already in the city but infantrymen from the U.S. Army roll by.
“Muthafucka,” said one man.
“They gonna kill us all,” said another.
And now Marcus, for all of his anger, was afraid. Did they really want to die in a revolution? How could they resist tanks, rifles and trained soldiers? For the first time, the futility of the movement occurred to him.
But every revolution had heroic casualties, men and women who gave their lives for the cause to rally others around them. It was time for Black people to awaken and take their share of America and if it meant he had to die, then so be it.
Marcus and his crew moved away from the real estate office. The soldiers had spooked them too badly. They went back into the neighborhoods and turned their attentions to helping anyone who might be in danger.
On a street not far away, in the middle of chaos, a man tried to disperse an angry mob. But not just any man, this one wore a baseball uniform.
Willie Horton, one of the first Blacks on the Detroit Tigers’ baseball team, stood astride a decimated car and yelled at the rioting crowd.
“Damn, it’s really him,” said someone.
“He’s a fool,” said Marcus. “Gonna get himself killed.”
Marcus stared at the tall, muscular Detroit native as he pleaded with the people to stop what they were doing, telling them that they were only burning and stealing their own lives.
Marcus moved away from the famous athlete and turned his eyes back to the night.
**********
Officer Thomas Riley stood on aching feet. He had been on those feet for more than twenty-four hours. As far as he knew, every cop and reserve in the city was patrolling somewhere.
Thomas, Ned and about ten other officers had suppressed a large group of Blacks near downtown. They made over thirty arrests. There were so many people and so few resources that many of the arrestees were hauled away on a flatbed truck.
Thomas had fought with a Black man who’d reached for his service revolver. Thomas hit the man in the face with his nightstick, breaking
his nose. He could still hear the wet crack of it in his head. The image of Barney, the giant soon followed.
What bothered Thomas was not the violence he’d done but how easy it had been to do it.
As he watched the city burn and people steal the lives of others from their homes and stores, he heard the voices of his father and grandfather and how they felt about the dark people. And against his promise to Sarah, he believed every word, believed that they were as wretched as they’d said.
Ned sweated in his uniform as he hustled men into a truck. Ned was usually happy when he hassled prisoners but not this night. He looked tired and a little afraid. There were many more Blacks than cops and only guns and badges separated them.
“Heard a mixed unit had an incident at a hotel,” said Ned. A mixed unit was National Guard and local cops.
“How bad?” asked Thomas, as he watched the last of the arrestees get onboard.
“A massacre is what I heard,” said Ned. “Some niggers in a hotel with some White girls. Probably kidnapped and raped them, I imagine. Anyways, they’re all dead.”
“All of them?” Thomas’ voice rose. “The women, too?”
“Didn’t hear nothing about that. Just that the men bought it.” Ned took off his hat and wiped his brow.
Ned’s eyes darted off and Thomas, ever the alert partner, turned to see what had grabbed his attention.
Two Black uniformed officers were working the crowd. The department had called in all officers and they made no exceptions. One of the cops was tall and very dark the other was light-skinned and looked almost White.
“Look at that,” said Ned. “You think they can be trusted at a time like this?”
“They’re cops,” said Thomas moving closer to his partner. “They wear the uniform.” He heard himself say the words but he didn’t know if he really meant them.
“I’d keep ‘em all locked up and take their guns,” said Ned, putting his hat back on.
Dark Town Redemption Page 8