“So do you have any track on young Brad?”
“Bradley? Not quite. Lera have been encouraging the younger, northern members to work in the ghettos to fulminate despondency and to get the blacks to strike and make a nuisance of themselves. About a month now.”
“And...?”
“After the first week, Lera members started disappearing, mainly at night when they were on their own. Surprise, surprise.”
“Any leads?”
“Pick a white guy with a confederate flag on his vehicle and that’s your suspect list.”
Silence. This was not looking good at all and I reckoned I’d be bringing bad news back to Edgar and Irene.
“Still, if you hear anything, let me know.”
“Sure will, Phil. And can you do the same for me?”
“Yeah, for old times’ sake, sure.”
We caught up more on what had been in our lives and, at the point when we got to reminisce about Norma O’Donald and trigger happy Duane, Phil stood up and called it quits - both of us knowing there was nothing more to be said after that.
Phil had pointed out most Lera activity was centered around Independence Heights, a ragtag of a suburb, trying to hide just west of the interstate, dripping with poverty and economic injustice.
Armed only with a black-and-white photo of Brad, I wandered my way around the neighborhood, hoping to bump into someone who would acknowledge recognition. My problem was reversed: almost everyone I met admitted to having spoken to Brad in the last week or two and I was regaled with stories of how he was helping them make better lives for themselves.
My guess was all white guys looked the same to them because there was no way Brad could have helped all these people in only seven days. He had already vanished at this point and was unlikely to be dragging his heels all over town without a care in the world. A simple test of the veracity of the witness.
This also meant it would be harder to find any concrete news on Brad because everybody was lying.
WHAT THIS DID give me was a reasonable picture of the community that Brad was trying to help. With his east coast liberal concern, Brad was right to be appalled at the fate of these people. Although I was never a civil rights campaigner, I still believed every sucker deserved an even break, so black or white they could pay me. Now as a white middle aged man I’m even less interested in the plight of those less fortunate than myself, but I still think we are born equal saps and that is how it should remain.
I have helped the rich and powerful and I’ve helped people who can barely rub two coins together to call their own, but I’ve never thought one person was better than another because of the color of their skin. They are all part of my gravy train and that’s the way it should be.
Anyhow, this community had spent decades living in the dirt, cleaning white folks’ houses, shining their shoes, tidying their gardens. You get the picture. And there was a point in their lives, especially of the younger blacks, when they decided for themselves this was no longer good enough - that they should have higher career aspirations than eating shit all their lives. Quite right too.
And Brad and the band from Lera had turned up at just the perfect time to harness those thoughts into direct action. They were talking about marching on the state capital to demand change.
There was also talk, in more hushed tones, of a more personal direct action: of torching the houses of the whites who had raped their daughters or had attacked their churches. This aggressive group were outliers from the church community itself and comprised the young male population. What wasn’t clear was whether Brad was working with them to attack the Klansmen or to encourage them to stay within the law. No-one was that holy, but Brad always received a good write up.
With nothing concrete to hang my hat on, I made my way to the other side of the tracks to talk to some Klansmen. I wandered down the street, east, away from Independence Heights and over the interstate. Like most residential areas right next to major transport, this was not the glamorous end of town, but it differed from the Heights in one particular way: not a single black face on the streets. It was as if God had thrown the population down like cards and split the red suits from the black.
I figured the best approach would be to go to the nearest bar with a confederate flag visible and see what I could see. Not a great plan, but you must tread real careful when you are mixing with guys who’ll string you up just for coughing.
A BOTTLE OF local beer in my hand, I sipped its cold contents. And waited, because it’s not just in the Westerns that the piano stops playing when a stranger walks into the bar.
Sure enough, after a minute, two rednecks asked me what I was doing in these parts.
“Just having myself a drink before I get on my way.”
“Well, why don’t you get on your ways now, city boy?” Clearly Chuck, or whatever his name was, had noticed my Northern accent and wasn’t happy about it. No-one likes a stranger in hick bars down south.
“Just having a cold one and looking for a guy.”
“What’re you looking for him for, you streak of pussy-curse blood?”
“He’s gone missing and his parents are worried about him, a nice white boy in the depths of the Lone Star State.”
“No white boy need be worried about being in my country,” added Chuck’s friend.
“Well, this one’s gone and got himself missing and I’m trying to find him.” I took a sip of my beer. “His name’s Brad Phelps. Come across him?”
Now the chances of them saying yes stood at a million to one, and they didn’t nod their heads and give me a set of directions to him. But they looked at each other shiftily, as though they knew more than they said. And that was enough for me.
“Why don’t you drink your beer and get out of here, you with all your questions.” Chuck’s tone had grown darker and I made certain my free hand rested in my pants pocket, along with my gun.
“No problem. Just passing by,” I said, low key, and I swigged the last dregs of booze from the bottle, turned and walked out the bar. I could feel all eyes on me as I did this and I made sure I didn’t turn my head to check that I was right. I got the sense some of the patrons would have used any excuse to deal with this inquisitive stranger.
As I walked away from the bar, I reminded myself how Phil had to be coaxed into giving me information about my own case, so I headed back to visit him and see if I could prise anything out of him.
He smiled when he saw me enter his makeshift office at the back of the precinct. You could tell he was not what you’d call welcomed by the local cops because his desk was parked right by the john.
25
HIS OFFICE CONSTITUTED a desk, two chairs and a phone about ten feet away from the john door. His back, at least, was facing the door and there was a partition between himself and the next desk, occupied by a cop not old enough to shave, let alone discharge a weapon in the line of duty.
“How goes it?”
“Just fine thanks, Phil. Been enjoying the hospitality of the local communities.”
“Made any new friends?”
“Well, let’s say east of the tracks everyone was my friend, but not so west of the interstate.”
“No, you sure wouldn’t, would you?”
“Nice people though. Good and patriotic, which isn’t a bad thing in these dark days of Asian conflict.”
“Yeah, you could say that, Jake.”
“So, what have you heard about Brad, then? They wouldn’t have passed me onto you if your investigations and my case didn’t match closely.”
Smile. “Brad was last seen eight days ago coming out of a redneck bar near the corner of Berry Road and Airline Drive.”
“That’s close to where I was this afternoon. Could have been the same place for all I know.”
“Did you get to talkin’?”
“The patrons were more eager to see me leave than buy them a drink.”
“You don’t say.”
“Well, they weren’t happy
I was there and then, when I mentioned Brad, they were less happy still.”
“You don’t say.”
“Got any names of any suspects?”
“For the Phelps disappearance? Not specifically, no. But if you really want to know what’s going on with the Klansmen, you can rub your nose in the business of Gordon Dickinson.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me until you’ve come back safely. We reckon he’s the local Grand Wizard, so watch your step with him otherwise we’ll be digging your body out of the desert some time soon. And neither of us wants that, now, do we?”
“We sure as fuck don’t,” I said as I winked at Phil and walked out to face the grand wizard of old Houston town.
I HEADED BACK to the bar, The True American. This time I headed straight to the bar and didn’t bother asking for a drink because it was not what I wanted. Chuck and his pal were still there, I saw, which meant they’d been drinking for many, many hours and were to be avoided at all costs.
Chuck nudged his neighbor, and they were about to stand up and give me hassle when I sauntered up to the bar and asked for Mr. Gordon Dickinson’s whereabouts. The barman, who predictably was drying a glass with a cloth, nodded at me and stared directly into my eyes, all the while cleaning the glass.
Finally the glass gleamed and he put the thing down on the bar, still staring.
“Who wants him?”
“I’m looking for a missing boy, Brad Phelps. Do you know where I can find Gordon Dickinson?”
“Yep, reckon I do.” Beat.
“So where is he?”
The barman pointed into a corner with his head and, in the shadows, sat a man wearing a Stetson and a white suit with an open-neck shirt.
I nodded back to the barman and sauntered over to Dickinson. He sat at a table with two others, both of whom stood up to prevent me from reaching him.
“Now then, let’s be civil to our guest. Sit yourself down, boy.”
“Thank you, sir,” I responded and sat myself down opposite Dickinson.
“I hear you’re seeking the nigger lover, Bradley Phelps.”
“I’m looking for Brad, yes.”
“You know he was helping the blacks, don’t you?”
“So I hear, but I don’t care about that. I’m just trying to help his parents, who are worried about him.”
“Well you should care. If we dilute our racial purity then we will be left with nothing but browns and that sure as hell ain’t good.”
“Some say he came to no good. Have you heard anything about that?”
“Me sir? No sir. I do not get involved in any kind of criminal activity, sir.”
“I notice the bulge in your jacket, though. Are you packing?”
“Well, I may not perform criminal acts, but that doesn’t stop others from trying to perpetrate criminal acts on my person.”
I nodded.
“So you only have a gun to protect yourself?”
“Oh yes, sir. Protect myself from vermin criminal elements, sir. Anyone who wants to stop me from living my life the way I choose. Anyone who wants to stop the white race from propagating this fine land. Anyone who wants to stop the American way of life in its tracks. I’ll use my gun on those cocksuckers any day of the week.”
I nodded again because there’s not much you can say to a man like that when all you want to know is if he’s lynched a boy for helping some poor Negroes.
DICKINSON CARRIED ON ruminating on the plight of the white man facing the rising tide of black blood and miscegenated progeny for several minutes, but he bored me and not answering any of my questions.
His evasion counted as implicit proof that Dickinson, or more likely some of his men, had done away with Brad or held him somewhere. Something like that. My throat felt dry, so I wished Gordon a fond farewell and left The True American for the night.
At about three in the morning, I awoke from my sleep with a start due to an incredible crackling sound and bright light. I couldn’t figure it out.
Then I looked out of my motel window and understood. There, dug into the ground, stood a ten foot high cross, made of two pieces of very solid timber. And it was on fire, flickering yellows and oranges bursting out of its arms and heading into the night’s sky.
By the time I had registered this event, clearly I was the last, what seemed to be all the guests huddled on the road, nightclothes covered by coats. Most of them had the good sense to cover their mouths with either their hands or kerchiefs because the taste of soot is really gritty.
26
I THREW ON my jacket, put on shoes and socks and left my room. As the fire was on the outside and not inside the building, I felt no need to rush. There was no imminent danger and there would be a long day ahead.
To punctuate this belief, as soon as I joined the throng, staring at that cross, the cops turned up with lights flashing, quickly followed by Phil in his own car.
“What happened?”
“Dunno, Phil. When I woke up, this was the view from my window.”
“Well, you came to Texas to see what you could see.”
“Sure did.”
“And now you’ve seen it.”
“Sure have.”
“Seen enough?”
“Not yet. I need to see Brad Phelps before I can go back.”
“Who did you speak with this afternoon after our chat?”
“Gordon Dickinson.”
“So do you think this is related to that meeting?”
“What do you think, Phil?”
“I don’t believe in coincidences, for sure.”
“The motel looks full. Could someone else be the target?”
“Of course, someone else could have interviewed the Grand Wizard and a few hours later, there’s a burning cross in their front yard. Of course.”
He looked at me like I was a fool and I searched inside myself and agreed. This was a message for me. The good news: they didn’t want to kill me because I’d be dead by now if they did.
No, this message was too big to fit on a greetings card. I guessed they wanted me out of town. Trouble was I couldn’t think of an easy way to do that without getting to Brad first.
And this was the problem. I had no better idea of his whereabouts now than I did when I first came to town. The sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach told me he was dead, but I knew I had to find the body or find the boy - I hadn’t mentioned it, but I’d receive a double bonus from the Phelps to bring him back, dead or alive. An extra week’s pay.
“You’ll have to come in for questioning, okay, Jake?”
“Yeah. Anything to help, officer.”
A fire crew had just about extinguished the cross’ flames and the motel residents were preparing to go back inside to catch some more shut-eye.
“Can it wait until the morning though? I could do with more sleep ... and a change of clothes.”
“Sure, Jake. Sure.”
“Thanks.”
“You know where to find me. Just make sure you come over in the morning. Twelve and no later.”
“Right. No problems.”
Despite myself, I had trouble getting back to sleep. Partly, this was just because my night had been interrupted, but the bigger part was because it also started to get a bit too real for me. It’s one thing to be talking to a local crime lord and nigger hater about shooting anyone who fails to meet his exacting Aryan standards. It’s another to know they’ve already worked out where I was staying - in only a handful of hours - and were very serious about wanting me out of the way.
This was their polite notice for my departure; the next time would be more assertive and would involve a lot more pain, I guessed. But the fact they’d erect a cross and ignite it - just for a message - showed me I was on the right track which meant I was close to Brad and close to my money.
I CAUGHT TWO or three hours catnap but stayed awake afterwards, so I got up, ate breakfast and made my way over to Phil’s luxurious police accommodation.
/> When he said he wanted to question me, I was okay about that. If the Klan had made me a target, the FBI was the organisation I’d want batting for me. Only, Phil was not doing the questioning. Detective Wayne Dickinson was the man in charge of the interview.
“Where were you yesterday afternoon?”
“Why, officer, I was working a case. As Mr. McNamara would have told you, I am a private investigator. You have spoken to Phil McNamara of the FBI, right?”
“Don’t get fresh with me, boy. And I’m the one asking the questions.”
“Sure thing. And I’ve just answered. Working a case.”
“What case was that?”
“You know that’s privileged information.”
“Who were you looking for?”
“That would be privileged information again, if I was looking for somebody or not. You will need to get a judge to see just cause to get anything more out of me about my client’s case. We both know that.”
“Someone burned a cross outside your motel and you don’t appear to want to help us catch who did it.”
“As I told FBI Agent McNamara, I was inside asleep when the thing was combusted so you will need to find an actual eye witness if you want to catch the perps. What’s your name again?”
“Detective Dickinson, boy.”
“Detective, it was the middle of the night and we were asleep. Maybe the town drunk saw something but it certainly wasn’t me. The first I knew anything was when I woke to see the damn thing alight outside my window. You’re not related to Gordon Dickinson, are you?”
“We’re cousins. What’s it to you?”
“Nothing, nothing.”
“The trouble with you east coast liberal types is you come down here expecting everything to be handed to you on a velvety cushion. But we don’t like people snooping round our neighborhoods, especially when they refuse to help officers following criminal investigations. So crawl back under whatever shit-stickin’ rock you came from in your fancy New York suit and tie.”
The Case Page 14