Them

by Nathan McCall

  At some point, an errant pass sent a basketball bouncing hard off the lamp pole. It ricocheted, then rolled into the street and beneath Sandy’s car.

  A teenager retrieved the ball. He dribbled it fancily through his legs. Eyeing Sandy sitting in the car, he walked over and cupped a hand against a window.

  She sat still, stiff as a pole. The long stem of her slender neck stretched upward as she stared back at him.

  He spoke, rapid-fire, so fast she couldn’t understand. “Whasamatterlady? Yourcarwontcrank?”

  Sandy turned away and looked straight ahead.

  Voices called to him. “Milk! Give it up, man! Throw me the gotdamn ball!”

  The boy called Milk rapped a knuckle on the window. “Lady, youneedsomehelptocrankyourcar?”

  Somebody called again for the ball. The boy called Milk flung it back to the group. He stayed there, eyeing Sandy.

  “Umtryinahepthewhitelady, man! Cantyouseehercarwontcrank?!”

  Some of the boys resumed playing. Others, now curious, strutted toward the car. Some circled around front, near the hood; others drifted around back, inspecting the license plates.

  Sandy was growing scared now and, at the same time, embarrassed about her fear. She tried to calm herself. What was there to be afraid of?

  She heard the young men talking, whispering. “Maybe she need gas.”

  The boy called Milk walked around to the driver’s side window. “Heylady. Youneedgas?”

  Sandy ignored him. She heard someone say, “Ol white bitch. Cat got her tongue.”

  Sandy thought about the recent mugging. Then she decided she couldn’t just sit there. She had to move. Her house was only a few blocks away. She had to get home. She could come back tomorrow with Sean and get the car, but right now she had to go.

  Four boys mingled on her side of the car. They peered inside, studying the front seat, the back, the floors, like there was something specific they were searching for.

  Sandy inhaled deeply, to collect herself. She exhaled hard, then kicked off her shoes. She had to run. She had to get away.

  She slid to the passenger’s side, away from the boys. She grabbed the door handle and bolted out. She took off racing, barefoot, down the street, with voices calling to her from behind.

  “Hey lady! Lady!”

  She dashed, screaming, “Help! Somebody please help!!”

  The boys looked at each other and hunched their shoulders. A few chuckled and pointed at Sandy. “Whadda hell wrong wit hur?”

  One of the boys opened the car door and checked the front seat. “Look! She left her keys and pocketbook!”

  “Don’t mess wit it!” another warned. “Don’t touch nothin. You take that lady shit, the lawman be comin down. Les roll, man. Les git way from here.”

  They left, not even bothering to close the door. They drifted off, wondering where that crazy white lady learned to run so fast.

  Chapter 43

  On the way home, Sean drove in from the same end of Glen Iris that his wife had taken minutes earlier. Staring through the fuzzy haze of scotch, he approached the Purple Palace. He noticed the teenagers hanging out near the run-down, two-story apartment building across the street. One group played basketball while others stood around in a tight cluster and talked, their hands thrust deep in their pockets.

  Sean drove past the green Ford Taurus parked awkwardly near the curb. He went on for a half-block, then slammed on the brakes and wheeled around. That looked like Sandy’s car!

  He pulled in and parked on the wrong side of the street, his bumper nearly kissing the front end of the Taurus. He checked the license number. It was her car, all right. He noticed the passenger-side door flung open. He sat there, confused. What would Sandy be doing here?

  He leaned back in the seat. The liquor had settled in his bloodstream now. It raced around wildly inside his head. He rested his head over the top of the seat, so that his face pointed skyward. He closed his eyes. He needed to go home, to lie down.

  But what about Sandy? He had to find his wife.

  He reached in the glove compartment and got his gun. He stuffed it into his waistband and stumbled out of the car, scanning the cruddy landscape, with its decrepit buildings and narrow alleyways. He could hear the teenagers off in the distance, talking loud and bouncing a ball. There were grown-ups walking about, too, out getting revved up for Friday night. Some walked fast, leaning forward, pressing into the wind; others lumbered slowly along sidewalks, coming and going inside houses, standing around, talking—dark faces, out in the darkness, moving about like shadow ghosts.

  Where did all these people come from?

  Until now, Sean had glimpsed only snippets of this gritty world from his passing car. Now he was close up on it; actually, in it. He walked unsteadily to the driver’s side of Sandy’s car. He leaned down into the opened door and saw that her purse and keys were still inside. He picked up the purse and checked the ID. Even now, looking at his wife’s smile staring at him from the driver’s license, he could hardly believe she had stopped here. His mind ran the gauntlet of possibilities. He had to find her.

  He looked around, hoping to spot Sandy somewhere in the mix of people moving about. He hoped she might appear suddenly on the sidewalk, and in her breezy, naive way, announce that she had stopped to take a stroll.

  That was possible with Sandy, wasn’t it? That she would pick the most godforsaken patch of real estate in the neighborhood to stroll around and make a point. That was possible with his wife; the goodwill ambassador, out among the natives, spreading cheer.

  He had to find her and reel her in.

  Across the street from where he stood, a steady stream of washed-out-looking people flowed in and out of the Purple Palace. Off to his right, about two doors down, he picked up sudden flickers of light. He saw the outlines of two people standing in the shadows, dragging on cigarettes.

  He headed toward the Purple Palace. The front door was cracked. A single yellow bulb illuminated the area. A bent-up kitchen chair lay on its side. A banister with missing railings lined the porch. He guessed she had to be in there. If not, someone in there had seen her for sure.

  Two men approached and went into the house. Concentrating hard to steady his gait, Sean followed, looking as conspicuous as any white man climbing those steps at night. He went indoors and entered a long, dimly lit hallway, with rows of rooms split on either side. He detected a musty smell, a mix of stale air and food cooking on a stove somewhere in back of the house. A telephone rang loudly at the end of the hall. A man wrapped in a towel appeared, dripping wet, from a communal bathroom nearby. He picked up the phone.

  “Hullo…Naw, he ain’t here.” He hung up and disappeared.

  A woman in a slinky nightgown left one room and entered another. Music wafted faintly from some rooms. Muffled voices crept from beneath the doors.

  Two men carrying paper plates passed Sean in the hallway. They stared at him and quickened their pace, making their way out the door.

  His head reeling, Sean pressed slowly forward and approached a room where there were more voices. He leaned over close to the door and heard loud trash talk, punctuated by the faint overlay of music.

  Where was she? Where was his wife?

  A glassy-eyed woman appeared from the back and spotted the white man standing in the hallway with his ear stuck to a door.

  “You here for Clint, baby?”

  Sean looked at her but didn’t answer.

  “You here for Clint?”

  “I’m not—”

  “He ain’t here.”

  She was medium-brown, with chapped lips that were two shades darker than her face. Her eyes were yellow in the places that were supposed to be white. Her head was wrapped in a greasy scarf.

  “I’m not looking for Clint,” Sean heard himself say. “I don’t know Clint.”

  She squinted. “Whut you wont, den?”

  “My wife.”

  “Yo wife?! Ain’t nobody’s wife in here!”
/>   “I know she’s somewhere in this house.” Sean could hear himself. He could hear his slurred speech.

  The woman grew impatient, irritated. “Gwon bout your bidness now, fore I call Big Buck out chere.”

  She talked too loud. Sean wanted her to shut her mouth.

  His head was spinning. He felt slightly nauseous, and his head was spinning like crazy. He was antsy, too. He took a step toward the woman.

  “I gotta find my wife.”

  “Look, I ain’t—”

  “Move.” He nudged her aside. He went to the door of another room and shoved it open. There were three men there, huddled in front of a rickety wooden table. One man held a pipe to his mouth. The other two sat leaning forward, waiting their turn.

  “Close the gotdamn doe!!”

  Sean calmly shut the door and went down the hall, the scarf-wearing woman trailing behind.

  “Who you, the po-lice?”

  He ignored her.

  “I think you better git outta here!”

  He went to another door and turned the knob. The door was locked.

  The woman began shouting. “Buck! Buck! We gotta problem!”

  Sean moved toward the back of the house and stopped at the last room off to the right. He tapped lightly on the door. The door cracked and revealed a pair of dark, beady eyes.

  Sean pushed the door. It creaked open, and there stood Big Buck, a short, squat bruiser in a bolo hat. His fleshy face was gunmetal black. It bore the mark of a nasty slash—testimony to a knife fight in some long-forgotten seaport town. The slash, which ran from his left ear to his nose, served as a stern warning that Buck could take as well as he could give.

  He glared up at Sean. “Whatcha need, gray boy?”

  “I’m looking for my wife.”

  Buck clenched his teeth, which made that scar flex. “Yo wife?!”

  The woman in the greasy scarf leaned over Sean’s shoulder, speaking from behind. “I tole him she ain’t here, Buck.”

  Buck bit down on his lower lip. He took a short step forward, preparing to bust Sean’s mouth. He hesitated, seeing the man was white. A white man with a busted mouth might bring more unwanted heat to the Palace.

  “I think you best stop ri chere, gray boy. Gwon home fore you get yoself hurt.”

  Sean was drunk now, and too numb to be scared of anybody. He drew the gun and poked the barrel into Buck’s stomach, forcing the big man back into the room.

  “Where is she?”

  Buck appeared surprised, caught off guard. He took two more steps back so that Sean could see for himself that his wife wasn’t there.

  Sean scanned the place. The room looked like it had once been a large kitchen. It was lighted by a cheap gold chandelier, hung in what might have been a dining room. In the far corner was a sink with two faucets, flanked by scratched-up countertops. On the wall farthest from the door was a picture of a bucolic farm scene. A young white boy carrying a milk pail ran barefoot toward a spotted cow.

  Sean looked around some more. Cigarette smoke hovering thick in the air danced to music playing on a radio. Three women stood off to the side, talking with two men. One of the men nursed a drink. The other held a plate close to his face, shoveling a pile of collard greens.

  Two big, round card tables were set up side by side in the middle of the floor. Four people sat at each table, playing poker.

  When Sean came in, a few of the gamblers looked up from what they were doing. Others kept their eyes glued to the cards.

  Sean’s eyes swept over the seated cast. Sitting at one table was Henny Penn, whom Sean had seen around. Then he spotted his next-door neighbor. Even now Sean relived the panic he felt that day, when Tyrone clutched his throat.

  Tyrone looked at Sean and blinked, confused. He started to cuss, but Henny Penn beat him to it.

  “Who the goddamn hell is dis!” He was losing his money, mainly to Tyrone. He was in no mood for distractions.

  Big Buck shrugged. “I dunno. The man said he lookin for his ol lady.”

  Henny Penn turned to Sean, ignoring the gun. “Boy, can’t you see? Ain’t nobody here for you!”

  Sean leaned forward a bit. His head swirled so wildly now that he felt like he might puke.

  “I…I’m looking ffffoorrr my wwwiife! I know she’s—”

  Henny Penn cut him off. “I’m tellin ya, white boy, she ain’t here! Now git the hell out fore you piss me off!”

  Sean pointed the pistol at Henny. The liquor had set in stronger, and he wasn’t afraid.

  “I…I’mmm not gggooing annywwherrre without my wwwiife.”

  People stopped what they were doing and stared at him. Henny Penn stared, too, while easing a hand to the pouch resting between his legs. After Barlowe had ambushed him, he’d vowed to never be caught off guard again. Now wherever he went, he kept the pouch close by.

  Meanwhile, Tyrone pretended to keep his eyes glued to the cards while he did some calculating. Counting his own, he guessed there were at least five guns in that room; one pistol likely belonged to Henny. Tyrone didn’t trust him, especially not since Henny was losing money.

  Tyrone subtly slipped a hand inside his shirt, and waited.

  Barely moving his hands beneath the table, Henny unzipped the pouch and slid a finger around the trigger. With his free hand, he pointed at Sean. “Look, boy, I’ma tell you one mo time! You got that?! One time: go! I’m losin my money here, and you distractin me! Now take this shit somewhere else!”

  Sean pointed the pistol at him. “Donn’t mmooovve!”

  With Sean’s attention diverted, Big Buck flipped the light switch, throwing the room into darkness. Then the shooting started. Shots fired from several directions. Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam! Bam, bam! There were panicked screams and crashing chairs, as people dived to the floor, scrambling for cover. Bullets rained, followed by more screams and chaos rippling through the house. People in adjoining rooms got dressed, or flushed drugs or climbed through windows. Somebody grabbed a pot of collards off the stove.

  Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam! Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam!

  As fast as it had started, the shooting ended. An eerie quiet settled in. Those who were able beat a path out of the gambling room, scrambling out the back door, into the darkness. Others dashed out front, leaving the rest to fend for themselves.

  Minutes later, sirens sounded. Cops arrived and found the Purple Palace nearly deserted. In the gambling room, policemen came upon two men—one black, one white—sprawled near each other on the floor. Life oozed from them in dark pools of blood that merged into one thick puddle.

  As one of the men was loaded onto a stretcher, he gasped for breath. Medics who loaded the other man doubted he would survive the trip to the emergency room.

  Police fanned out along the block to interview witnesses. Among the people they talked to, nobody saw or knew a single thing.

  Barlowe was relaxing at Louise’s place when he first heard about the shooting. They had finished a fine dinner of meat loaf, peas and mashed potatoes and settled down to watch an old movie, when the news flashed across the TV screen. A reporter stood at the scene. He tried to appear somber, but he could barely contain his excitement as he raised the mike to his mouth:

  “Police are investigating an apparent drug deal gone sour, resulting in a violent shootout in the neighborhood that once was home to the Reverend Martin Luther King…”

  The Purple Palace appeared on TV. The camera cut to cops flowing in and out of the house.

  Barlowe and Louise got dressed and hurried over. Outside, spectators crowded along the walk, beyond the yellow tape ringing the scene.

  Barlowe approached a man he knew. “Whas goin on?”

  “A crazy white man bust into the Palace and started shootin up the place!”

  Somehow, Barlowe guessed Sean Gilmore was involved. When he spotted Sandy’s car being hitched to a tow truck, he knew for sure: The worst had happened.

  Chapter 44

  Days after the shooting, Tyrone sneaked
into the house through the back door. Barlowe had already left for work. Tyrone went to his room, pulled a suitcase from beneath the bed and snapped it open. He yanked open the dresser drawers and hurriedly began packing: underwear, toothbrush, shaver, shoes, socks. He picked one of his best suits from the closet, folded it and pressed it in the suitcase, too.

  He had to get away, go someplace far and chill, at least until things cooled down a bit. Who knew? He might go west to California. He had heard good things about California. He’d heard the ladies out there were fine and the people weren’t so uptight, like in the South.

  He moved with speed and efficiency, every now and then rushing into the living room to peep through the blinds. When he was done, he grabbed the suitcase and left the room. He stopped in the kitchen and returned to the bedroom. In his haste, he had left his gun on top of the dresser. He snatched up the gun and stuffed it in his belt.

  Outside, he set the gun on the table, where the birdcage stood. He opened the cage door. The pigeons sauntered forward, waiting for him to extend a finger. He stepped back and shook his head.

  “Naw, baby. You on your own now.”

  The pigeons cooed.

  “Gwon.” He shooed them off. “Gwon. Get way from here.”

  He picked up his suitcase and rushed out the door. He dashed, low-running through the backyard and out of sight.

  Barlowe came home from work that evening and instantly realized that Tyrone had come and gone. He hadn’t seen Tyrone since the night before the shootout. The days that followed had been trying, testy. Every time Barlowe went somewhere, people in the ward looked at him with questions burning in their eyes. Nobody asked outright. People simply told him how sorry they were about what had happened.

  “I’m sorry, too,” he told them. “I’m sorry, too.”

  In general, the shooting thrust the people of the Old Fourth Ward into a nervous fit. Gregory Barron called a press conference and demanded that police do more to protect neighborhood whites. Wendell Mabry countered with a press conference of his own, calling for whites to pack up and leave. Mayor Clifford Barnes imposed a curfew, to help cool emotions.