Eddie faced the young prostitute with a growing awareness of what he had learned. She taunted him, called things after him, hooted hilariously as he raced down the tenement’s steps. The man in the tan suit was gone, but Eddie Champion knew now where the money came from. The Royal Leader was collecting payoffs. From bars, from whorehouses, probably from permanent and floating games of all kinds: numbers, dice, cards. It came to him in a flood of reality now, the answer to the things that had bothered him most. Not all of the chop victims had been whites. There had been some black men, too.
It was then that Eddie Champion broke the cardinal rule of the Secret Nation. He had gone to Bedford-Stuyvesant, in the heart of Brooklyn’s black slum, and—no questions asked—he had bought his gun. It was the first step in his plan to take over the Secret Nation, the first step in the gathering of weapons. The no-weapons law never had made sense to him. The Leader spoke of blood, constantly drumming the word into them, yet no blood was shed. Necks were broken, bodies were paralyzed, but no blood flowed, and the deaths were not dramatic enough or frequent enough. There should be blood, because blood was terror and the terror should not be secret, it should be out in the open. The Royal Leader had lost his hold on Eddie Champion; there was nothing mystical or magical about him. He was not the Saviour and the Remnant; he was a shrewd little old bastard who was making a fortune, and they were doing the work and Eddie Champion wanted his share.
The plan to kill this Everett kid was pretty clever and it was carefully figured out by the old man. This kid was a moderate, an idol of all those slobbering do-good, do-right, you-are-my-brother-I-am-your-friend jerks. His death—at the hands of a cop—would be the fuse, and the members of the Secret Nation were to be the torch. Out on the streets, talking it up, but quietly, just setting it in motion, in the right direction, they would trigger the violence that would serve the Leader’s purpose. Violence on the streets, open and declared warfare against the white police and the white merchants, and then the calming down and the cooling off. But the white men would want to get the hell out; some of them would be killed and some would be hurt and all of them would be scared to death and anxious to sell out. And the Royal Leader would have the cash and they would take whatever he offered and be glad to get it.
The thoughts seared across Eddie’s brain: the old rotten bastard. It was all for him. But not any more. Eddie had laid his groundwork carefully, selecting those he could see were getting restless, tired of waiting, wondering what the hell it was all about and when the real action would occur. He had let them talk, encouraging them to express some signs; then he had added his voice: “Yeah, hell, we always hearing about the blood flowing. Only two ways to show blood: with a razor or a gun.”
Then this goddam bastard Rafe Wheeler. Of all people, he was the last Eddie would have suspected of being a pigeon. He knew Rafe couldn’t be trusted to go along with him—not like some of the others Eddie had cultivated until finally they were open with each other. He figured Rafe for a dumb Southboy who thought the whole deal was de Lawd come to them for sure—but never working for the cops. Eddie held his hand against his sweating forehead, remembering his report to the Royal Leader. The Everett execution had gone smooth as silk, nice as butter; it was just like they’d had it figured. No one believed anything but what the crowd had chanted: “The cop killed Billy.”
Eddie tried to recall, exactly, what his Royal Whatsis had said when he’d given him the crap about Rafe Wheeler, but he could only remember the masklike expression, the small, unblinking eyes. “We was all shoving around, yelling about the cop. Rafe and I got splitted by the crowd and I fell down and crept real fast among all the legs and bodies, so no cop would get a hand on me. I never looked back, just kept moving steady until I was out of it, then just walked away fast. I figured Rafe did the same thing and thought surely he’d be here by now.”
The Royal Sister’s eyes had moved, slithered like snakes to her brother’s face, then back to Eddie. Eddie forced himself to dinch his newly lit cigarette; the air was heavy with smoke and she’d notice and maybe wonder why he smoked so much. He just had to stay cool. He had pulled the labels out of Rafe’s clothes, every scrap of paper from every pocket. Rafe would be some unknown dead colored boy found in a rooming house. The landlady would tell the cops just about what she had let them know she believed when they rented the room: two nigger queers shacking up. Probably had a falling-out.
The only cop who’d think different would look around and get himself another ten-buck stoolie. And that would be the end of it.
FOURTEEN:
THE PEOPLE IN THE County Clerk’s office looked as though they never sweated. They all seemed old and powdery and slow-moving and unconcerned. Christie felt the impatience she always experienced when surrounded by people who were calm and serene and unexcited and positive that the information being sought would, sooner or later, in one massive volume or another, appear. It was just a matter of locating the right ledger.
Her eyes stung and itched and she raised her face from the endless lines of handwriting. She tried to match the various scripts to the various clerks who sat poking among papers. The contentedly plump woman with the yellowish-gray hair must be responsible for the round, thick entries; the thin, emaciated, birdlike little man, hunched over his paper container of coffee, must have authored the comments written in the fine spidery hand.
This was the part of her job Detective Opara hated, the research. The slow, tedious, laborious task of tracing some piece of information through the endless city agencies. Each office clung possessively to some small fragment of detail, considering that fragment an entity unto itself. Reardon had instructed her to begin her research with 1960. She took the precaution of starting a few years before that date, but he was right this time. Apparently, the Church of the Kingdom Here and Now had not registered a certificate of incorporation prior to the sixties. In fact, the ledger before her was opened to a page dated October 1963 and still no registration was indicated.
They had listened to Reardon’s tight rundown on this Secret Nation thing without comment, taking a few pertinent notes, asking a few questions, accepting his specific assignments. Stoner Martin had told them, in a low, hoarse voice, about Patrolman Rafe Wheeler. Christie had stared at the dead boy in the morgue and thought she was looking at the man who had shot Billy Everett. “That’s how much alike Patrolman Wheeler and Eddie Champion are. Were,” Stoney amended. Christie wanted to get out into the field with the men, mix with the college students, pick up some information about this Eddie Champion. But Reardon had listened to her request with a blank stare, then handed her his scrawled notes: Do a background on this church angle.
It was ridiculous. Time-consuming. Pointless. And useless to argue. Christie turned the pages, carefully running her finger along the lines. She felt some slight gratification when the words she had been seeking for several hours finally appeared. Laboriously, Christie copied every word from the ledger: “Church of the Kingdom Here and Now, 626 West 122nd Street, Manhattan, New York. Type of structure: storefront, room 20ʹ x 30ʹ, lavatory and sink with running water in rear; owned by Wiselow Corporation; rental $75.00 per month; application in name of Church of the Kingdom Here and Now by Reverend Darrell Maxwell Littlejohn, Jr., pastor. Purpose: religious worship and instruction. Services: Sunday mornings 11:00–12 noon; Young Peoples’ Instruction: Sunday mornings 9:00–11:00 A.M.; Tuesday and Thursday evenings 7:30–8:30 P.M. Date of incorporation: November 13, 1963.” Christie added the ledger number and the page on which the information appeared. She closed her notebook with no sense of relief. This was only one task completed.
At the department of the Attorney General of the State of New York, Christie spent more time trying to locate the right office than she did in actual research. One after another, clerks referred her to different locations, different divisions, different assistants. Each assistant to an assistant attorney general in charge of some particular, singular legal technicality questioned her as to her
exact purpose and Christie felt a bewildering lack of specific direction. She was surrounded by highly competent people who were ready, able and eager to answer her questions, but she was unable to frame any intelligent inquiry. Mr. Reardon should have given this assignment to old Detective MacDuff. A man in his early sixties, with a fringe of gray hair circling his balding head, and endless patience, MacDuff had a capacity to take all the various scraps of research information and pull them together into a dull but informative report on any organization or any individual. He spent eighty percent of his working time in these municipal buildings, culling and sorting through official records. The other twenty percent of the time, he prepared his reports. He was a researcher, not a cop. Fine. For MacDuff. But Christie Opara was a detective and ...”
The fifth official was a tall, heavyset young man with a lazy, good-natured expression and a soft voice. He motioned Christie into his cubicle of an office and proceeded to give her a rundown on the entire operation of the Attorney General’s office. He was completely oblivious of her growing impatience. She lost the thread of his dissertation in the steaminess of the room, but the man, identified by a small metal plaque on the corner of his desk as Mr. Zakadarian, spoke with enthusiasm.
“So, Detective Opara, we can find the information you are seeking, which will be, of course, the following: Has the religious organization in question been certified as being legitimately entitled to tax exemptions under state law and has the religious organization in question ever sold any real property under its identification of incorporation? That would, of course, raise certain tax questions, depending on our findings. If you’ll just wait here a minute or so, I’ll run this down for you.”
Mr. Zakadarian returned twenty minutes later and Christie gratefully copied down the information he had obtained and thanked him profusely. It had saved her some real effort. Mr. Zakadarian shrugged. That’s what he was here for.
Christie rode the elevator up two floors, as directed by Mr. Zakadarian, and followed the signs that jutted from the wall until she located the Trust Estates Bureau of the Attorney General’s office. This time, prepared to make specific inquiry, she found it easier to locate the information that was available. It was contained in a series of ledgers, and she copied every entry pertaining to the Church of the Kingdom Here and Now. Apparently, over the last two years, the corporation had sold several valuable pieces of real estate in the heart of Harlem. Christie’s mind began to function again; if the church had sold property, it must first have purchased property, and that information would be located in the State Department of Real Estate.
At the State Department of Real Estate, a broad-faced, broad-hipped young Negro woman held one finger up at Christie to indicate that she would finish her telephone conversation in a minute. Her part of the conversation was more a series of small, annoyed sounds than words. She carefully replaced the receiver, then said to Christie, “Boy, they can be a pain, can’t they?” Christie smiled noncommitally, identified herself and started to speak.
The woman glanced at her shield, then smiled. “For real? Hey, Sarah, take a look at this girl.” Then to Christie, “Why, honey, you’re just a baby. You ought to go on one of those TV guess shows; they’d never guess what you are. My, you’re too little to be what that shield says. What’s the minimum height? You don’t look tall enough.”
Christie’s smile was stiff and automatic. Sarah, a morose blonde with a tiny red nose and thin lips, measured her with unimpressed eyes.
Christie followed the woman behind the typical municipal rubber-topped counter into the office, through a wire-mesh partition and into a windowless, airless room that was filled with metal shelves of familiar blue ledgers.
“Arranged alphabetical,” the young woman told her. “There’s a stepladder over there, slides around. You be careful now, it moves pretty easy. Don’t get your pretty dress dirty, honey. Everything covered with dust up there. There’s a table over there, where Frank is working.” Frank looked up without interest, and bent his head over his work again. “You make room for this little girl, Frank, when she needs it. And behave yourself, Frank. She’s the Law!”
Her laughter filled the room for several seconds after she had departed. Christie warily looked about the room and determined that the volume she needed was on the top shelf. Just like every witness or complainant, she thought—always on the top floor. The ladder was wooden and splintery. Christie’s shin was pierced by a sliver of wood: not enough to cause bleeding, just enough to send a narrow run up and down her stocking. The dirt from the ledger impressed itself against her light pink dress. She tried to brush it off and succeeded in smearing it in solidly.
For once, all pertinent information was in one place. A full page was devoted to each subject. Christie copied the information verbatim: a catalogue of real estate transactions conducted during the previous three years, during which time the corporate body of the Church of the Kingdom Here and Now had acquired and disposed of some four tenement buildings, three industrial sites (two laundromats, one wire-basket shop); acquired and apparently still held two tenement buildings that had been converted into furnished-room dwellings; seven bars and grills (“Check with State Liquor Authority,” she noted in the margin of her notes); five grocery stores; one bowling alley.
Christie climbed the ladder and carefully replaced the ledger. As she was leaving the small wire-encased room, Frank raised his face, and his voice was amazingly deep and unexpected from so small a man. “Don’t go locking up any innocent people,” he said, and roared with great gulps of laughter. Christie smiled politely and thought someone really should let Frank out now and then.
At the Metropolitan Office of the Division of Taxation for the State Commission, Christie measured the value of the interested smile of the heavyset clerk, returned it full blast, and was able to obtain photostatic copies of the certification for tax-exemption purposes approved in the name of the Church of the Kingdom Here and Now.
“You tell your boss to send you around more often and not that old lady MacDuff. I could give you loads of valuable information,” the clerk advised her, his eyes dancing over her body.
Christie whispered, “I bet you could.” She tucked the photostats into her notebook and ticked off the Division of Taxation.
Back at the squad office, Christie resolved for the hundredth time that in the future she would take more careful notes. The cryptic little half-words, which had seemed so comprehensible as she wrote them, lost in the transcription. She never had to take notes when she interviewed someone; her mind could hold and fasten onto the substance of a conversation, her special insight could see through the welter of words and locate the true substance. But official documents, dryly stated in the morass of legal terminology, would have to be translated and evaluated by Mr. Reardon. His was the legal mind. She raised her hands from the typewriter, flexed her fingers and glanced around. Pat O’Hanlon was whispering on the telephone. Probably talking to his wife; his pad was filling with stars and triangles. Sam Farrell had left as Christie arrived, announcing he was heading up to the Bronx. Probably going home, Christie thought. Marty Ginsburg was making up a list of orders for hamburgers and coffee, so apparently everyone else was staying on. Christie had skipped lunch and had no appetite for supper.
Arthur Treadwell was bent over a stack of 3-by-5 index cards, and he looked at her with fatherly concern. “Christie, you have Marty get you something more than coffee. My God, girl, you’re getting so thin you have to stand in the same place twice to cast one shadow.”
“She’s in training,” Marty said. “We’re going to get her so flat that when we got our eye on a place and can’t risk a forced entry, we’ll slide her right under the door.” He cast a speculative eye over Christie’s thin body. “Hell, I think she’s ready now.”
The fan on the wall near the ceiling had developed a hum that was interrupted periodically by a metallic click. The rhythm began to filter through the room, adding to the discomfort and irritation Chr
istie felt. She found herself counting; at the count of six, the hum was interrupted by the click. Christie got up and yanked the plug from the wall.
O’Hanlon, finished with his telephone call and doodling, leaped to the fan. “Come on, Christie, put the fan back on. Stop acting like a woman.”
“It just makes a racket and blows the hot air around. Pat, pull it out—it’s giving me a headache.”
Pat O’Hanlon hesitated for a moment, then pulled the plug. “Women. Women. They rule you from the moment you’re born.” He launched into his familiar recitation, which no one listened to. “They feed you and tell you what’s good for you and what to do and what not to do. Then you get put into a classroom with them over you, telling you what to do. Then you lose your mind over some pretty face and next thing you know she’s picking out a ring and telling you what date suits her and where she wants to go on her honeymoon. And where she wants to live and what she wants you to do. And then, God help us, you have kids and one of them turns out to be a girl and she begins telling you what to do from the first word out of her mouth. No justice. A man’s job should be his refuge. But no. You’ve even invaded this part of the world. A woman has no right being a cop. A man can’t even have a little cool air blowing on him, some woman has to tell him to pull the plug.”
Casey Reardon came into the office at 7:00 P.M. The first thing he said was “For God’s sake, somebody put the fan on in this room.” Ginsburg and Treadwell, at Reardon’s signal, followed him into his office, returned and informed Christie the boss wanted to see her.
The cold air made her feel chilled and light-headed. Her dress stuck to her back as she leaned into the green leather chair. Reardon, his jacket and tie off, glanced through her report, then reached for his glasses and went back to the first page. He frowned and squinted over the words, then searched in his desk for a pad and pen. He shook his head, began taking notes, then stopped and looked up at Christie.
The Witness Page 10