“Whooee! And he turned it down?”
“Yep. But I guess in the end they made some kind of trade about something, and let it go at second degree.” He looked at his cigar. “Miss Bee thinks it's got to do with calling witnesses.”
To my right, the redstone spire of Trinity Church's bell tower floated above the peak of the hill. “Is Miss Bee your source, Carl?”
“No comment.” He grinned. “Now. What were you and Bubba Percy up to in the john at Pogo's?”
“You’re asking? It looked to me like you, Bubba, and Jack Molina were all-for-one as Brookside's main-men musketeers. Bubba said y’all were gonna have a little heart-to-heart with the Lewis side about, well, let's call it mutual damage control.”
He took off his glasses to look at me. “That's right. We are. Dirty campaigns have a way of obscuring the real issues. Sometimes the voters can get more upset about personal things than the things they should get upset about.” He put the glasses back on. “You know what I mean?”
“I think so.…Between us, Carl,” I turned toward him, blinking at the sun-glitter on his glasses, “what do you really think of Andrew Brookside?”
The mayor patted the typed speech on the seat between us. “What I really think is that the man could be president someday.”
“But what do you think of him personally?”
“I don’t.”
Trinity Church was built in the Gilded Age, when they built big, because it hadn’t crossed the builders’ minds that the country could ever run short of rock, wood, glass, metal, labor, or money; much less short of well-to-do Christians to fill the pews and pay the upkeep. Now, of course, Paul Madison spends half his time trying to scrape together enough raffle tickets to repair the glass, and mortar the rocks, and replace the wood; he spends the other half of his time trying to scrape together more of a congregation than could all sit in the choir stalls. In winter, Trinity was unheatable. Tonight, despite all the whirring fans, and the opening of the stained-glass rows of double-windows—Trinity was uncoolable. But not just because of the weather. And not just because it was jam-packed with two hundred concerned citizens of the left and the right, and two hundred Haver students, plus the speakers, plus reporters, plus a fourth of HPD's night shift. It was uncoolable because of the subject matter under discussion. “The Klan in Carolina: Pawns of Power?”
The American Social-Communist Party Workers (who at the last minute had been declined permission to speak—I heard Brookside had nixed them) were picketing outside on the steps, and pulled no punches. Their signs said, “Kapitalism=the Klan!” When our group arrived, there was no one else out there to argue with them. The two mounted patrolmen chatted with each other while their horses shook their heads. Ralph had two more cops in the vestibule and the rest ostentatiously in evidence in the chapel itself—the bulk of them between the speakers and the audience.
An exhibit of hundreds of large photographs in the vaulted vestibule pulled no punches either. A white mob burning a black man to death, 1919. White men, women, and children grinning up at the body of a lynched black man, 1935. Bloody Freedom Riders beside a firebombed bus, 1961. Twelve thousand hooded Klansmen marching through Raleigh, 1966. Confederate Knights and neo-Nazis celebrating Hitler's birthday at a Piedmont military training camp, 1983. The Greensboro police watching Klansmen gun down CPW marchers. The body of Cooper Hall being loaded into a Hillston ambulance. Below, displayed in cases, were exhibits of evidence supplied by the FBI—whips, billy clubs, incendiary bombs.
When we walked past the photographs, John Emory's jaw locked. Nancy swallowed hard, said, “Those are little kids watching them burn that man!” and she headed off to the bathroom. Alice and Justin were there looking at the exhibit too. We talked awhile and made plans to meet afterwards. As it happened, everybody's plans were radically changed.
The conference had started at five with “studies seminars” led by local professors, and lawyers from the ACLU and the NAACP. But this evening at 7:00 the big public event began with speeches by a black state legislator and the widow of a well-known civil rights worker murdered by the Klan. Plus, Professor J.T. Molina of the Hall Committee was moderating a panel of three representatives from anti-Klan organizations (the Center for Constitutional Rights, Klanwatch, and the Anti-Defamation League of B’nai B’rith), along with three representatives from “white rights” organizations (WAPA—the White American Political Organization; NAAWP— the National Association for the Advancement of White People; and a “religious order” calling itself “The Aryan Nations”). Plus Brodie Cheek. Plus Mayor Yarborough. Plus Andrew Brookside, the keynote speaker, who wasn’t due to speak until 8:30, and still hadn’t arrived at 7:45. Brodie Cheek was talking now about how there were a lot more dangerous deviants in America than dangerous Klansmen.
I’d already heard enough of the reverend's views, and stepped out to the church vestibule, where Nancy White grabbed my arm. “Chief, I wish you’d just go sit down and keep still.”
John Emory crossed his arms over his perfectly pressed uniform. I noticed a thin chain of gold around his wrist; no doubt his new partner's influence. She meanwhile had both her tie and her hat on; also a first. John shook his head at her. “I wish you’d go sit down, Nancy. Or go home. If you hadn’t lied to the mayor, you wouldn’t even be here.”
“Roid, get out of my face you chauvinist pig. The mayor never asked me if I was pregnant, and it's none of his business to boot. Besides, I’m not even showing.”
“Really? Then if I were you, I’d go on a diet.”
“Yeah, well, if I was you, I’d stop starching my shorts.”
My protective shadows kept this going as they paced the stone floor with me. Through the enormous open doors I could see the length of the crowded aisle to the platform set up in front of an ornate rood screen. Above the speakers’ heads hung a bronze crucifix bigger than life-size. On either side of Christ hung a life-sized photograph—one of the Jewish storekeeper Leo Frank being lynched near Atlanta in 1915, and one of George Hall being led into Superior Court in chains last month.
I’d said to Paul Madison when I’d arrived that I thought all these pictures were a little rough, and his answer was, “Too many people think the Klan is just a tasteless joke. These pictures aren’t funny.” Looking like a blond choirboy, Paul stood off to the side next to the vestry door now, listening to the speakers. On the dais, the black legislator was shaking his arm at the WAPA official. “Don’t you dare sit here and tell us you don’t believe in violence! On the Brodie Cheek show, on television, you said, quote, ‘I keep the Good Book in one hand and a good gun in the other!’ Deny that you said that! You’re a Nazi!”
Yells from the audience, pro and con.
The WAPA guy, who was wearing a business suit instead of his usual combat outfit, shouted back, “Our Founding Fathers gave me the right to bear arms! And all you liberal wimps selling this country down the river can’t take my rights away!”
More yells from the audience. Jack Molina jumped to his feet, in shirt sleeves and tie. His thin body quivering, he shouted every-body down. “Quiet! Could we please get back to order! Thank you! We’re getting away from the question. The question Mr. Smithley was supposed to be addressing is: is the power establishment in this state still using racism to drive a wedge between poor whites and blacks—just as earlier they stopped the populist movement and the labor movement—in order to keep their political and economic control? That's what we’re here to discuss.”
Mr. Smithley of the NAAWP bellowed, “The power establishment in this whole country has always been a bunch of socialists, atheists, and New York Jews!”
“Oh, Jesus,” I said to Emory. “I’m going across the street and get a cup of coffee at the doughnut shop.”
“I’ll go,” he and Nancy said simultaneously.
“We’ll all go,” I compromised.
It was beautiful outside, and cooler. Even this late, the sun had just set; the sky streaked with orange and purple. Janet
Malley, Communist candidate for the city council fifteen years running now, was a broad-beamed, wild-haired woman my age, with a smile much sweeter than her language. From Trinity's stone steps she was haranguing a small group of curious bystanders down below her on the sidewalk, while a dozen of her fellow party members shook their signs at them. Janet stopped talking when she saw me. Flanked by John and Nancy, I gave her a wave, and she yelled, “Sellout!” at me. “Why don’t you line those fucking Nazis up against a wall, Cuddy Mangum, instead of trying to talk to them?!”
“Evening, Janet. I’m not trying to talk to them. I’m getting a doughnut.”
“And tell Jack Molina from me, he's a fucking Judas!”
I waved again. “I’ll pass it along.”
Looking back at her from the other sidewalk, I noticed a green van go slowly down the street. I didn’t think much of it until five minutes later, it went by again, while Nancy, John and I were drinking our coffee by the window of the doughnut shop. Then I saw the long gray Jaguar pull up in front of the church. I could see Brookside's bright hair in the back seat. His chauffeur was hurrying around to open his door when I heard the van again. It tore around the corner fast, tires squealing.
“Goddamn it!” I yelled.
I was out of the shop and halfway back across the street before John and Nancy could move. The rear doors of the van burst open. Flaring objects arced out toward the picketers, and seconds later there was smoke everywhere. Men in camouflage fatigues were leaping down from the back of the van. Swinging sticks, they charged up the steps toward Janet's group. Behind me, Nancy and John were pounding across the street. The mounted patrolmen were fighting to get their horses through the moil of screaming bystanders, while acrid smoke fumed all over the place so that it was impossible to see.
Brookside was out of the Jaguar now. Standing there. I ran past the chauffeur, knocking him down. Just as I reached Brookside, I felt a hard, sharp blow at my chest, and stumbled forward. Then I heard the powww of a gunshot.
“WATCH OUT!” Brookside yelled. He turned, flinging his arm out at me.
Nancy and John were all over us now.
I heard more shots. And saw Brookside jerk upwards, then fall twisting, half his body back inside the car. His chest was bright red. I was scrambling toward Nancy. “GET DOWN! GET DOWN!”
I saw her head slam back against the side of the Jaguar; her hands jerked to her side, blood poured through her fingers.
John had his gun out, and was firing almost straight up. “Up there!” he screamed.
I threw myself on top of Nancy, pulling her head under my arms. Both the mounted patrols were now firing up at the opened window in the tower. I could hear the bells up there clanging together. The church doors flew open, two cops ran out into the chaos, one yanked out his walkie-talkie and shouted into it.
I took off, running up the steps to the church. John made a grab for me but missed. “Chief, stop! Come back. Dammit, Chief!”
Bodies were flailing at each other blindly in the smoke, most of them running down toward the sidewalk. I hurled people aside, pushing my way into the building. The door to the bell-tower stairs was in the rear of the chapel by the confessional. I couldn’t get it open. I kicked at it, then picked up an iron candelabrum almost as tall as I was, and used the heavy base to ram the door open. In my side vision, I saw people shoving their way out of the pews, some of them shrieking. Ralph Fisher and his men pressed back at them. I saw Justin running down the center aisle. Already racing up the stairs, I could hear Jack Molina's voice. “Sit back down. Everybody, please keep your seats.” I could hear sirens coming.
The steep stone steps of the tower circled up in a gyre. I figured I’d hear him coming down before I met him. I never doubted for an instant who he was.
By the time I made it to the top, I was gagging. The square landing was empty, but the bells still shook. He wasn’t there. The duffel bag was. A baseball cap. Empty beer cans. I looked up over my head. In the dark, above the bells, was a small open window on the back wall. A coil of bell rope was lashed to an iron rail, then dropped over the window's side. I crawled up through the scaffolding, shoved myself out the opening. The roof was immense, and now that the sunset was fading, it was shadowy. But I saw Winston Russell. Saw him just as he slipped, inching down the slanted slate. The rifle slid off his shoulder and clattered crazily away, flipping over the edge to the ground below.
Clutching for it, he howled, “Fuck!” then jumped to his feet, and ran along the length of the rain gutter.
I lost sight of him as I dropped from the rope, fell flat onto the spine of the roof, got up, straddled the spine, and ran, arms out for balance, as fast as I could. If I hadn’t been wearing sneakers, I probably would have died.
Sliding down the steep slant, with the old slate tiles cracking beneath me, I worked my way along the edge ’til I saw a fire-escape landing five feet below. I jumped onto it, scrambled down all the ladders to a large stained-glass window that was completely smashed in. Yanking my gun from its holster, I crashed through the opening.
I was in the Trinity vestry, a small room beside the altar where the priests put on their vestments and store the implements of the mass.
Winston Russell stood by the long table in the middle of the room. He had a switchblade in his right hand, and his left arm around Paul Madison's neck.
chapter 25
He was tall, as tall as I am, but built heavier, although since I’d seen him last, prison and hiding-out had trimmed away the bulk and turned the rest to muscle. His arms were sweaty, sunburnt, and scraped raw, his jeans smeared with dirt and dust; sweat trickled from his scalp through his close-cropped reddish hair into his eyes. The eyes were round, large, white-blue as a shark's. When he saw me, he lurched back with a grunt, the tendons of his arms tightening against Paul's neck. The top of Paul's head barely reached Winston's shoulder.
“Okay, Winston. Step away, and let him go!” I braced the .38 revolver on my forearm.
“Mangum!” Winston jerked Paul tight against him, then growled in his low twang. “I got you down there.”
“No, you missed.”
(Later, Etham Foster was to pull the slug from the 30.06 out of the metal padding of the vest, an eighth of an inch from my heart.)
He sneered, “I didn’t miss the cunt you’re calling a cop.”
Hate raced up me so fast and hot my skin burned. Everything in me wanted to kill him. I made myself breathe. “I said, let him go.”
His face purplish, Paul rasped in a choked whisper. “Get out, Cuddy. He doesn’t know what he's doing.”
I said, “Stand still, Paul. This is the man that killed Cooper. And Willie Slidell. This is Winston Russell. His partner Purley's made a full confession.”
A spasm shook through Winston's body. Then he smiled; he had small even white teeth, and the scariest smile I’ve ever seen. “That blubberhead moron came crying home to you, huh, Mangum?”
“That's right. We’ve got Purley, and we’ve got the money too. Put down the knife. You’re under arrest.”
He laughed out loud.
I was thinking: Paul must have heard the window crash, and rushed in to see what was wrong. Winston had grabbed him, then probably locked the door. So I couldn’t count on anybody else knowing we were in here. Out in the chapel, I could hear shouts, sirens, the noise of running footsteps, but not toward us.
I stepped forward, steadying the gun.
Paul's eyes were much calmer than Winston's, or mine either. He said, “Cuddy, don’t shoot him.”
Winston laughed again. He locked his arm under Paul's chin, then quickly slashed a deep line down his cheek, and another side-ways, cutting a cross in the flesh. Blood splattered all over Paul's face, and dripped down Winston's hand.
I yelled, “You fucking shit!”
Paul's mouth opened wide from the pain, then he tightened it, breathing through his nose. His hands stayed motionless at his sides. His eyes stayed on mine, clear and light. “Cuddy, don
’t,” he said quietly. “Let him give himself up.”
“Shut up, faggot!” Winston turned the knife sideways, and slowly slid it across the surface of Paul's throat. A bright red curve of blood followed the blade. Paul panted, but he still didn’t cry out.
Winston kept smiling. “You get the picture, Mangum? Drop the gun right now, or I slit this asshole's throat.” We stared at each other, as he raised the switchblade again, his hand spasming, “I mean it, prick! Don’t fuck with me!”
I nodded. “Okay, Winston.” Without taking my eyes from his, I slowly held out my arm, then tossed the gun on the floor, where he’d have to come around the vestry table to get it. Very fast, he grabbed Paul by the hair, slamming his head down on the table hard, then he sprang for the gun.
In a smear of blood, Paul slid off the table, dragging with him a red stole with a gold cross. He crumpled to the floor under it.
With the steel muzzle pointed at my head, Winston pocketed the knife while he backed across the room to the broken window. He stepped through it onto the fire-escape landing. “This time I won’t miss,” he snarled, flicking sweat from his eyes. “Right where Bobby got it. Rot in hell, Captain.”
He smiled and pulled the trigger.
It clicked.
Frantic, he squeezed the trigger again, over and over as fast as he could. His eyes whitened.
“Don’t you remember?” I smiled as I moved forward. “I don’t like loaded guns.”
When I lunged for him, he hurled the gun; the butt hit me right above the eye. The pain knocked me down. Scrambling to my feet, I wiped the blood out of my eye, and went after him. Halfway down the fire escape, he jumped to the ground. I jumped straight from the landing. I was about thirty feet behind him through the Trinity cloister, around the soup kitchen, across the long parking lot. I could see him vaulting over the stone wall into the old cemetery. The damn bulletproof vest felt like a heavy lead slab plastered by sweat to my chest. I’d carried heavier, hotter weight farther and faster in the Army, but—it struck me, as I fought for breath—I’d been a teenager then.
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