Dark Stain

by Appel, Benjamin

  Bill picked up a tabloid. There was nothing about Miller. There was another story about Darton’s valerian bombs and a big spread on the kidnapping: HARLEM MUGGERS LURE BEAUTIFUL WHITE GIRL. SUZY BUCKLES FEARED SEIZED BY MUGGERS SPECIALIZING IN SEX CRIMES. MOTHER PROSTRATED AT FATE OF ONLY DAUGHTER. He thumbed past the story, past a double spread of pictures to his headline, to his story: “Negro Stukas again raided Harlem’s Italian-owned bars last night, depositing lethal loads of stink bombs. The raid was timed as perfectly as any military operation. None of the raiders were apprehended. All returned, as far as is known, safely to their bases deep in the heart of Harlem … The city is waiting with bated breath for the next flight of ‘brown bombers’ … Authorities claim,” the concluding editorialized paragraph went on: “that this recent blitz stems from the mass meeting called by leading Negroes last Sunday to protest the fatal shooting of Fred Randolph, Negro, by Policeman Sam Miller, white. This meeting held in defiance of the Mayor’s warning that it would be inciting to riot, has apparently served as an open declaration of war against the white citizenry of Harlem. Since the Randolph shooting, Harlem has been as seething and unruly as any occupied country. A volunteer army of ‘brown bombers,’ a disgrace to America’s one and only Brown Bomber, has decided, authorities claim, to drive all whites out of Harlem. This army of stukas, panzers and roving guerillas calls itself the United Negro Committee. Impartial, public opinion is asking what next? Will police reinforcements be sufficient to stop this wave of anarchy? Is the kidnapping of Suzy Buckles, white, a portent of things to come?”

  Bill lit a-before-breakfast cigarette. One thing was sure. Heney’d have no cause to complain when he pulled into town. Bill flipped the pages to the kidnapping story. HARLEM MUGGERS LURE BEAUTIFUL WHITE GIRL. SUZY BUCKLES FEARED SEIZED BY MUGGERS SPECIALIZING IN SEX CRIMES. MOTHER PROSTRATED AT FATE OF ONLY DAUGHTER. He didn’t read the story, his eyes focusing on the adjoining page: AN EDITORIAL TO EVERY DECENT NEW YORKER.

  “Where is Suzy Buckles today? With one voice, the entire city is asking this question, law abiding Negroes as well as law abiding whites. Where is this beautiful young girl of twenty-four? Where is Suzy Buckles, grand-daughter of Captain Lemuel Steadmore, the famous abolitionist and devoted friend of the Negro people of ninety years ago. Like her grandfather, Suzy Buckles believed earnestly in freedom and justice for all men. Where is Suzy Buckles who left her lucrative position in a downtown office to volunteer her services free to the Harlem Equality League in the middle of black Harlem? Every decent New Yorker, black or white, Catholic, Jew or Protestant, has a right to ask this question?

  “Where is Suzy Buckles?

  “Where is this fair-skinned blond young girl? The entire city is asking this question in all soberness. These are the facts: Suzy Buckles was lured out of the offices of the Harlem Equality League by a mugger, a Negro who is a disgrace to every decent Negro man, woman and child. Today, we know nothing more of what happened after that fateful encounter. We know that Suzy volunteered her services to Mr. Hal Clair, Negro Harvard Phi Beta Kappa, in order to do her share in restoring racial peace in the greatest city in the world.

  “Where is Suzy Buckles? We must know! Yes, with pity for her prostrated mother, we must know! Is she alive today? Has she suffered a fate horrible beyond words? Have sex degenerates mutilated this beautiful girl? We must know! Is the case of Suzy Buckles another proof of anarchy in Harlem, of lawlessness, of radical and flagrant disregard of justice, of civil war instigated by powerful Negro politicians swollen with their new-found power?

  “Of these powerful Negro politicians we ask: Have the days of the white venal carpetbaggers and the black venal politicians returned to our nation? We ask what could Captain Lemuel Steadmore, the grandfather of Suzy Buckles, have to say if he were alive today? We are positive that Captain Steadmore did not fight for the abolition of slavery only to set up a regime of lawlessness, anarchy and sexual depravity. We ask these powerful Negro politicians: Is the kidnapping of this innocent and lovely white girl a warning to white New Yorkers to stay out of Harlem?

  “We, the people, demand an answer! This is a time of war! Our nation is fighting for its life! Soberly, we demand to know whether Harlem considers itself an American community within the city and the nation or a hotbed of anarchy and revolutionary violence? Soberly, we declare that the blame resides not only among the degenerates, the muggers, the gangsters of the Big Boy Bose ilk but also among those who consider themselves responsible leaders. To these leaders we say: Do you want the present war of liberation to be followed by a second so-called Reconstruction Period of robbery, rapine and ruin? History often repeats itself. Is there not a parallel between recent events in Harlem and the events that transpired after the Civil War? To these Negro leaders we say: Did not your All Harlem Negro Committee, chaired by Councilman Louis Vincent, Negro, and whose exclusive membership includes Negro Republicans, Negro Democrats, Negro American Laborites, and, for all we know, Negro Communists, summon a meeting in Harlem in competition with the huge I Am A Free Man celebration in Central Park held on that very same day? Have not violent leaflets and manifestoes appeared inciting to riot since this defiant meeting? Have not violent and unbridled crimes reminiscent of the so-called Reconstruction Period taken place since that ominous meeting? Stench bombs have been smashed inside white establishments! White storekeepers have been assaulted! White property has been destroyed! A white house of worship has been desecrated! A white girl has been lured to God alone knows where! We ask in all soberness: Is a second Reconstruction Period about to begin in Harlem with every white man a legitimate target for knives? With every white establishment and place of worship a legitimate target for stink bombs and other foul acts? With every white girl an object of bestial lust? These are the large sober issues that confront all decent citizens, Negro Americans as well as white Americans.

  “But let us not forget the small in the large. Let us not forget the question we propounded concerning Suzy Buckles, this misguided but earnest believer in justice for all men. Let us not forget the mother of Suzy Buckles, a widow supported by her only daughter. Every mother in this city and in the nation must grieve for Mrs. Buckles.

  “No, let us not forget the small in the large! We demand that the Police Department search every Negro house of prostitution in the city! We demand an end to Harlem’s vice, Harlem’s lawlessness! We demand the right of innocent white girls to be protected from muggers! We demand an end to this present-day Reconstruction Period in Harlem! An end to rebellion! An end to venal Negro politicians and their white venal allies! As God is our witness, we pray that this present-day Reconstruction Period in Harlem not be followed by a retribution that will punish the innocent with the guilty.”

  The newspaper dropped out of Bill’s fingers. Why, this was terrific! This wasn’t muggers. This was Hayden’s work. The Harlem Equality League was the same place where Miller had gone to work. This Buckles girl had been kidnapped out of the Harlem Equality League! Almost, Bill visualized the white naked shape of a woman; the shape was huge of breast and hip like the statue of a goddess but unlike a statue it wasn’t made of stone; it was made of flesh, the flesh of a white woman and the newspapers had erected it on the market-place where all the city would come and see. Hayden was clever, Hayden with his strict business, his strict cold turkey business. This kidnapping! There would be promotions in the organization as sure as fate. Smearing that nigger bellyaching bunch! Smearing all the niggers! Who was this Suzy Buckles? Her name was an American name; her grandfather had an American name but she must be a Red to be working for niggers. Serves her right if she was raped!

  He tore off his pyjamas and glided, naked, to the closet. He took a blue suit off its hanger, put it on the dresser, pulled open the dresser drawer, fished out a pair of shorts, grabbed and discarded a white shirt with a red pencil line for a light blue shirt. He got into the shorts, whipped the trousers on, zipped up the fly, slid into the shirt. He glanced over at Isabelle. She was sleeping,
her face pallid, the soft round hill of her hip under sheet and blanket, the blanket snug under her chin. A blanket, he reflected ironically; New York in May was too cold for the Carreau blue blood. He smiled at her in her sleep. She was like a river flower, he felt, a woman like a river flower, beautiful and perfect and full of river heat. He stared at her, softening inside; a son of hers would be something; the baby might be as blond as his own kid brother, Joe, or dark like Isabelle or a combination. But who the hell wanted a child to tie him down? She was tied to family and to church tight enough as it was. Her family name was still Carreau and not Johnson. Or rather Johnson-Trent. He didn’t even have his own name.

  He sighed, sensing himself as a shadow compared to the bulk and solidity of her family. The Carreaus never changed. All Isabelle wanted was to live as her ancestors had lived, to meet at the family celebrations and parties in New Orleans, in New Iberville, in all the French sugar towns of Louisiana, rooted, and never to be shaken by new ideas. A child would pull her further away from him; a child would inherit the family stories of the colonial Carreaus, the incense and confessional of the Carreau Church.

  Dressed, he tiptoed out of the hotel room into the corridor. In his tension, the corridor seemed a hundred miles long, Isabelle at one end, Hayden at the other. He took the elevator down to the street. Ahead of him, beyond the intersection of Clark Street and Columbia Heights, he saw the sky-high towers of Wall Street Manhattan, battlements of stone, perpendicular and magic-windowed like a fantastic city of some fantastic future.

  He walked down Columbia Heights between the brownstones and mechanically as if he had just arrived here, landed from some boat in the Harbor, he stared at each corner street sign, Pineapple Street; Orange Street; streets named after the warm fruits that had once come in ships bottoms to the piers below. At each street corner, the towers were framed between the brownstones, the Manhattan city, the powerhouse city. He neared the brownstone where he had an apartment under another name, unlocked the white painted inner door. Inside, there was a mirror above a walnut table. He climbed the stairs, inserted a second key into the lock. He entered, shut the door, and Hayden was in the living room.

  “Surprised?” Hayden said from the Morris chair. In his dark brown suit, white shirt, he was dressed for the towers across the river, for the forty-third floor of the organization’s offices.

  “Some. I usually get here first. I didn’t know you had a key, too.”

  “I have.”

  “Congratulations, Mr. Hayden.”

  “Congratulations?”

  “That Buckles girl development.”

  “That’s all very well,” Hayden said. “Aden is capable enough.” His voice was unenthusiastic, his eyes cold. It dawned on Bill that Hayden was worried. Hayden worried? Hayden? Bill’s heart pounded.

  “Is it about Miller?” he asked.

  “No. Why?”

  “I thought — ”

  “Miller, I presume, has been disposed of? Did you know that Buckles is Miller’s girl?”

  So that was it, Bill decided. “No,” he said.

  “Sit down,” Hayden exclaimed irritably. “Don’t stand there hovering like a doorman. Miller has been disposed of, hasn’t he?”

  Bill bit on his lips angrily.

  “I asked you a question?” Hayden said.

  “I suppose so. That nigger — ”

  “Spare me your usual invective this morning. However, it doesn’t matter very much whether Miller has been disposed of as yet or not.”

  “None of the papers I read said Buckles was his girl.”

  “That, too, is unimportant.”

  Bill stared, frightened. For Christ sake, what did matter then? His eyes lowered to Hayden’s crossed legs and lifted once more to the frowning face. “May I ask why?” he hazarded a question.

  “Governor Heney will answer you tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Tonight. He has notified me that you are to be present. I am to be present. Everyone in the organization who has had anything to do with the Harlem venture will be present.” Hayden clasped his hands together.

  “But I don’t understand. The Governor’ll be pleased. The press — ”

  “The Governor hasn’t flown north two days ahead of schedule to congratulate us.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “Last night.”

  “Then he didn’t see the press?”

  “We knew what the headlines would be last night. The girl was in our hands early in the afternoon.”

  “I don’t get it. We can start a riot almost any minute — ”

  “Ten o’clock tonight at the Hotel Pennston. Suite 23. I can inform you that the Governor is here as the representative of the national organization. He supersedes my authority.”

  “About Big Boy — Should I see him?”

  “Use your own judgment.”

  “But you’re my superior — ”

  “Use your own judgment.”

  “I prefer not to.”

  “What? Use your own judgment or don’t. As you choose.” And Hayden grinned at him as if enjoying a private joke.

  One half hour later, Bill was drinking a rye highball in a bar on Montague Street. He was the only customer. The bartender was reading a tabloid. “Have you a phone here?” Bill asked.

  The bartender’s small eyes lifted from the tabloid. “In the back.” He was a middle-aged man, immaculate in a fresh white jacket and apron, his lips tight and shrewd, a face that stated as exactly as a whiskey label what the contents were. This bartender was only sure of what he had seen himself; this bartender was uncertain of what he heard or read.

  “What’s the news?” Bill said.

  “War. It’s still on.”

  “What are they all dying for?”

  “Got to smack them Hitler guys.”

  “And let the Reds take over?”

  “It’s a poker game. We’re sitting in. So’s Hitler. So’s the Japs. So’s the Reds. Hitler’s got all the chips. We got to take them chips away.”

  “They find that girl up Harlem?”

  “No.”

  “Poor kid. It’s a crime.”

  “Yep.”

  “Those niggers’re getting out of hand.”

  “Yep.”

  “Every nigger wants a white girl.”

  “That I don’t know.”

  “It’s a crime even if she’s a Red.” He drained his glass. “Give me another one.”

  Over his second highball, Bill wondered if he should visit Big Boy today? See him? Phone him? Use your own judgment. Hayden’s advice ticked in him with a beat as regular as a watch. Now let’s see, he puzzled. Hayden had said that it didn’t matter whether Miller was alive or dead; so why run up to Harlem: he had seen Big Boy too often as it was. But what had upset Hayden? Was anything wrong? Should he see Darton? Maybe the meeting tonight was going to be a trial? His trial! Maybe the organization had discovered who had sent in the anonymous letter to the Harlem Equality League? Bill took a deep drink. That’s what he got for moving out of line! It was Darton’s fault! Had the girl been kidnapped because of his letter? No! But what could be wrong? Should he see Big Boy? Use your own judgment.

  He ordered a third drink, a rye straight, rushed it to his lips, ordered a fourth, a fifth. He glared at his drinking double in the mirror and boozily admitted that he didn’t know what to do. He had no judgment to use. All his life was before him in this bar, a highway clearly seen, the rye whiskies like milestones, and the highway ended at ten o’clock tonight. Christ, he thought maudlin and terrified. Why hadn’t Hayden given him some instructions this morning? It had always been instructions, always the instructions from the assistant exec. and the exec. above the assistant exec. and the national organization above the regional leaders.

  He poked his hat away from his forehead and raised his glass to the reflection in the mirror. He would show them all. He would use his own judgment, damn them! Who’d been a brain guy once before in this city of New
York, Jew York, Jew Cork Ireland? Who’d been a main chancer back in the depression days? Out of real estate collecting into the racket, into Kerrigan’s mob on his own terms, a brain guy and he’d never kept all his bucks in one wallet. When Kerrigan’d tried to outfox him, he’d outfoxed Kerrigan and gone into strikebreaking with his own organization, a real brain guy. And he would’ve still been on his own but for that tough break, teargassed by those damn Reds right into the hospital. Those days were gone to hell, he brooded; gone with Dixie and Madge, whores à la whore, gone with his kid brother Joe, and no use slobbering over anybody, not Joe, not Isabelle, nobody. He raised his glass to the reflection in the mirror.

  “Toasting the ladies, Mac?” the bartender said dryly.

  “No. The leader.”

  “What leader?”

  “Any leader. Skoal. Lechayem. Lechayem. No use leaving out the kikes. Lechayem.”

  “Lechayem,” said the bartender.

  “No more thinking out the angles for me,” he raved. “No more. That’s the leader’s job. Not mine. Let them have their big meeting tonight. Let them. They’ve sweated me since I’ve worked for them. Fifty bucks to start. A measly fifty. The hell with the angles. He can be dead or alive, who cares!”