Dark Town Redemption

by Gary Hardwick

  Suddenly, the Black boy’s dark hand was near his face and it lifted yet another gun-- and fired.

  Thomas pulled himself into consciousness, the threads of the nightmare held him for just a second before they were gone. A dull throb rumbled in his head and his heart thundered.

  He’d been having this vision since the funeral of the dead boy. Sometimes it was Shaun who shot him, sometimes Cahan but always, he was killed.

  He got out of bed and was hardly aware of his body as he stepped into a warm shower moments later.

  Detroit had not healed. A scab had grown over the wounds of the previous year. Winter covered the city’s ugly face with ice and snow, making it easier for the mind to forget.

  But spring was coming in a few months. Thomas and every cop in Detroit had been told that another evil had seeped into the city after the riot. Militant Negro gangs, communist sympathizers and other “pinko” groups had come into Detroit to exploit its troubles.

  Racial animosity still lingered and this was a useful recruiting tool. No pro-Black group could be trusted and the police suspected that many otherwise legitimate organizations, including churches were harboring criminals and supporting violence.

  Of less concern to the police were the various “White Power” groups. They were to be watched also but only insofar as they could incite violence with other targeted groups.

  Thomas could feel the tension that hung behind the post-riot life. People were less friendly, more suspicious and seemed to move more quickly not wanting to linger when outside.

  And you didn’t have to look hard to find some of the Black militant groups. Most of the known ones were very vocal. They preached of revolution and freedom in the land of the free.

  The Panthers and Black Muslims were seen as viable alternatives to the SCLC, C.O.R.E., the NAACP and other nonviolent groups. Which way would the Negroes go?

  But these vocal militants were not the groups the police briefed Thomas on. There were more extreme subversive groups like, Mandingo, Dark War, The Vanguard, Black Cong and others. These were really terrorist organizations. Poverty, anger and resentment were their currency. They descended on the city, spreading the message that violence was the only choice left to the Black man in America.

  Thomas and the other officers were given as much info on these groups as the FBI could share without losing its secretive and superior nature. He had even attended a seminar conducted by an FBI special agent on how to infiltrate subversive organizations with street informants.

  Thomas finished his shower and dressed. The ghosts that haunted him were gone. He grabbed a cold piece of chicken from the fridge, kissed a still slumbering Sarah on the cheek and left for work.

  He drove toward downtown, pass the rubble and burned-out buildings and felt a familiar pain in his heart. Something had died and not just a neighborhood or even a city. Something of America was gone, he thought and he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  Later, Thomas stood at his locker in the ready room, getting changed for work. The room smelled of man-funk and cleaning solutions. That smell had offended him a year ago but now it was pleasant; it was home.

  Many officers wore their uniforms to work but Thomas liked to make a transformation at the precinct. It made him feel like he was a superhero, like Superman going into a phone booth.

  He and Sarah had postponed their wedding after the riot. They’d told everyone that it was just school and work that had gotten in the way; the truth was Sarah was getting a bad case of cold feet. Not the kind where she wondered if she was doing the right thing; it was the kind that centered on the man she was supposed to marry.

  Thomas had taken the news hard. He was no longer a rookie and looked forward to the rest of his life as a cop. As he took this first confident step, Sarah told him that she didn’t see any change in him, that he had not kept his promise to her.

  The riot had taken a lot out of Sarah. She had not run away from the ugliness like a lot of White people. She and her protestors had shifted away from the war and joined the civil rights groups in damning the Mayor, Governor and the President.

  She was out all day and came back in during curfew. She was on her feet for three days straight during one stretch and nearly passed out from exhaustion.

  When it was all over, when she had looked into the heart of America, into her own heart, Sarah considered the man she loved and had doubts.

  She had told Thomas that a man was made in childhood. Thomas had two generations of intolerance and ignorance in his home. How could he ever turn his life away from the things that had made him?

  Thomas wanted to tell her to go to hell, just dump her and fall into the bosom of the people around him. Sarah thought his friends were racists and bigots but those were just words, perceptions that could be seen different ways by different people. And hadn’t he asked her to be patient with him? Why wasn’t that an issue? How she pushed and prodded him to be what she wanted but had no stomach for her own change?

  He could find a girl who didn’t judge everything, have some kids and go on to his destiny. There were plenty of them out there. There was one girl who worked for the courts who had big tits and a cute face. She was always flirting with him and her father was a cop.

  But when Thomas looked into Sarah’s eyes, he saw the truth and the truth was that he was disjointed, out of sync with the changing world and holding on to notions that felt like they were crumbling into dust.

  If only he could get his head around it, he thought. He didn’t dislike Negroes. Mostly, he didn’t think about them. He did think they had some bad habits but he guessed it was just how they were. Hell, the Irish were no goddamned prize either. Just a couple of generations ago, they were the scum of the earth.

  But he could not deny that he felt superior to Negroes. Everything he saw told him he was. His people had been immigrants and many of them indentured servants. They were treated like cattle and discriminated against. They’d built America and had not complained about their treatment. And eventually, they claimed a share of the American dream.

  Why did the Negroes have to blame everyone for their problems?

  Because they were not as good, Cahan had said, not as smart as other races of men. They’d allowed themselves to be enslaved and so they got what they deserved in the dog-eat-dog world of mankind.

  Thomas took out his uniform and regarded it. The deepness of the blue always made him feel noble, and then the sharp bolt of guilt hit him again. He was unworthy of what he beheld. He’d gone to that funeral and watched them all cry while they put the young boy into the cold ground.

  He saw Marcus Jackson lying in a spreading pool of blood, his eyes open filled with shock and surprise. And then he saw Marcus from the dream, blood staining his evil smile.

  “Riley,” came the voice from behind him.

  Thomas jumped a little as he pulled up his pants and turned at the same time. He kept his balance but barely. When he’d completed the awkward turn, he saw the handsome face of Matt Reid. Next to him, was his ever-present other half, Don Brady. The two cops who were there that night.

  “Hey,” Thomas said, turning back around.

  Thomas had been avoiding the two since the night Marcus Jackson died. He even stopped going to the Whites-only poker game everyone loved so much. He’d tried to keep to himself as much as possible.

  “Got a minute?” asked Brady and it wasn’t really a request.

  “Just getting ready for my shift,” said Thomas weakly, still with his back turned.

  The couple shifted around Thomas on either side and he got that sense of being ganged up on again.

  “Did you hear?” asked Reid.

  “Hear what?” asked Thomas.

  Brady and Reid shared a look behind Thomas’ head, speaking in partner telepathy.

  “Some political agitators, and Colored troublemakers are stirring up the pot,” said Reid, his handsome face trying to scowl. “They’re pushing to open up some of the riot deaths.”

&
nbsp; Thomas could not stop the alarm that leapt into his heart. This had been one of his silent fears over the last few months.

  “And?” said Thomas coolly.

  “And there’s a rumor that the Jackson kid’s death might be part of it, too,” said Brady with a little fear in his voice. “Funny thing is, that wasn’t a riot death. So, we kinda been wondering why it’s on the table.”

  “My partner has a very bad way of beating around the bush,” said Reid. “We wanted to ask you if anyone has been nosing around, asking questions about that night.”

  “Not to me,” said Thomas who was almost fully dressed now.

  “You sure?” asked Reid.

  “Why wouldn’t I be sure?” said Thomas a little forcefully.

  “Of course you are,” said Reid. “Sorry. But you should know that we’ve been through these witch-hunts before. Politicians are willing to take down good cops to keep the natives happy, if you know what I mean.”

  “So, nobody’s saying anything about what happened on those nights, understand?” Brady was all aggression now. He was the Bad Cop to Reid’s bullshit angel.

  Thomas tucked his shirt into his pants and buckled his belt. “You guys want me to swear another oath or something? I swore to the public and now I can swear to you.” Sarcasm was not Thomas’ strong point but he felt that this statement had just the right amount of sting in it.

  “We want you to sign a bluepact with us,” said Brady flatly.

  Thomas’ face clouded. A bluepact was like a blood oath taken by cops whenever they crossed the line and wanted to assure loyalty. Essentially, the cops all admitted guilt in a form that could be used against any of them. All parties to the bluepact were given copies. If anyone broke the oath, endangering the others, that cop’s pact would be revealed and he’d go down as well.

  Cahan had signed a bluepact but never revealed its contents or its origin. Frank had never been party to one but he knew what it was and had once assured Thomas and Shaun that they were real.

  “No,” said Thomas.

  “Why the hell not?” said Brady who had a look of fear in his eyes.

  “It’s okay partner,” said Reid in his best Good Cop voice. “It is kind of an old school thing. But remember, we’re all in this together, Riley.” Thomas hated the way his name rolled off Reid’s tongue. It sounded like an insult.

  “No one tells tales in the brotherhood,” said Brady.

  Thomas closed his locker with a bang. “I don’t need you to tell me the code. I know it.”

  Thomas walked away from the two and passed Ned who was just coming in. Ned was already in uniform and said hello and they stopped to talk as Brady and Reid walked by, all smiles and slaps on the back.

  “What were you guys talking about?” asked Ned.

  “They’re worried about an investigation,” said Thomas. “Wanted me to sign a bluepact.”

  “Jesus, are you kidding?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t do it did you?” Ned looked shocked.

  “No,” said Thomas.

  “Good,” said Ned. “You don’t need that. Not after what they did.”

  Thomas and Ned walked out to the lot. The familiar sights of the job passed by him in blurry shadow. His head was filled with the stark reality of his current situation and most of it did not seem good.

  As they got into a police cruiser and pulled out of the lot, Thomas kept hearing Reid’s undeniable words and understood their truth. They were indeed all in this together.

  13

  THE CHAIR

  Robert drove the big Ford truck back onto the lot of the Faygo distribution warehouse with a sense of dread. Things were different now after the riot. People still wanted soda pop, but at the warehouse, the men who delivered it had fallen into distinct camps.

  The White men huddled together, whispering and turning away from former relationships with Black coworkers.

  The Black men, of which there had never been many, did their job but did not associate as they had. They stayed away from each other as though congregating in too many numbers would invite trouble.

  Robert ignored them all. He talked to the Whites, forcing them to acknowledge him and he kept close to the Black workers and followed them if they walked away.

  The new Robert Jackson was not playing by anyone’s rules. The new Robert was defiant.

  Robert returned the delivery truck and punched out from work. He collected his paycheck making sure that the missed days were accounted for. They were. His boss was a man of his word, he thought absently.

  He took the bus over to Twelfth Street as he had done many days after the riot. He did not know if he was fueling his rage or chasing ghosts of the war, but each time he walked through the riot-torn neighborhood, he felt better for it.

  No one at the Jackson house knew that Robert had attended another funeral, presiding over the death of his nonviolent promise, reclaiming the hardened soldier who called places like Sector 23 home. And they didn’t know these things because the change was not outward. Robert had simply closed his heart.

  What his family did notice was that he was surly, moody and often, just plain evil. This they attributed to grief. Denise knew it was more. It was guilt that drove her husband. He had not forgiven himself for the fight that drove Marcus into that fateful night.

  Abraham was particularly at odds with his remaining son during these days. There was only room for one man in the house and Robert was clearly challenging his father for that position. They had clashed often when Robert was a teenager. The Marines had helped them both make peace. Now the old battle lines were redrawn in a new war.

  Robert railed about the White man’s evil and such, but saved his most venomous tirades for the police and the city. It was worse than the Kennedy assassination, he’d say. Lies piled upon lies.

  Abraham wanted a spiritual solution to the loss. He promoted God and the local church and quoted Dr. King, but Robert would have none of it. He met his father’s peaceful assertions with declarations of action.

  Many days, Abraham couldn’t stand to be in the same room with his son and sometimes left as soon as the younger man came in.

  The one thing they still did regularly was attending baseball games, though they often didn’t say a word to each other.

  Abraham would get a ticket for Robert and they would meet near the dugout and watch from there. It had been a three-man tradition until Marcus was killed.

  Robert approached the flashpoint of the riot near Twelfth Street. It looked like a bomb hit it, buildings scarred with darkness, cars turned over exposing their bellies, old furniture scattered about and shells of houses with jagged tops jutting up like broken bones. There was sadness over the place that weighted you down, filling you with its gravity.

  Robert heard Jimmy Ruffin asking “What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?” from a parked car as he trudged through the debris on the street. He looked upon the ruins before him and knew the answer to Jimmy’s question. They fall to fatal ambition. They maim and kill and lose their souls in hopeless battle. The broken hearted had little brothers who were murdered.

  There was a lot of talk about rebuilding the city after the riots and the Mayor, who was a thirty-five year old Irishman; just a kid really, had sponsored a commission called New Detroit that had Negroes on it. So far, they had done nothing but talk.

  Jimmy Ruffin’s melancholy plea faded as he approached a group of people standing by the side of a vacant building, pointing and chatting loudly. There was always some kind of rally or protest going on and so Robert approached this one with little curiosity.

  “Some fucked up shit, ain’t it?” asked a lanky dark man about Robert’s age. “I used to live not far from here.”

  “Yeah, it was bad,” said Robert absently.

  “JoJo,” the man offered and extended his hand. Robert could hear the southern accents in his voice so common to Detroiters. This one was pure Mississippi.

  “Robert,” and he slapped five w
ith the man.

  They moved closer to the commotion and saw three Black kids putting the finishing touches on a mural on the wall of the building. It was a picture of the riots. Noble Black men and women fearlessly battled scared looking White cops. A little girl lay dead in the streets with an angel rising from her corpse.

  But it was not these images that got to Robert. It was the words emblazoned at the top of the mural.

  DIE FOR FREEDOM

  NOT FOR WAR

  “See, that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout,” said JoJo excitedly. “That’s it, right there, the whole damned thing.” He clapped his hands together loudly.

  Robert stared at the wall and felt himself draining of strength. He had been blind, so blind, he thought. He was so wrapped up in his own personal troubles, that he’d never considered the bigger picture of the war and the plight of his people and the lethal irony of it all.

  “Whitey sendin’ niggas off to die overseas to get more power to kill us at home,” said JoJo. “That right there, that’s it.”

  Robert didn’t respond. He just walked away from the crowd, a picture burying itself into his mind. He saw himself killing the enemy and the enemy at home killing his brother.

  He took the bus the rest of the way, regarding the ravaged streets and the hopeless faces of the dark people in it. Blackness was heavy, he thought, heavier than any White man could know.

  The smell of his mother’s cooking greeted him as he walked through the front door of the house. He suddenly realized that he had not eaten since lunch. He said hello to Abraham who responded and then ducked back under his newspaper.

  Robert found Denise in the kitchen helping out and this brought a smile to his face. There were still some things that settled him, he mused.

  “Dear Lord, we thank you for this meal and for family and the grace you have given us. Amen.” Abraham intoned an hour later at the dinner table.