by S. W. Capps
“You won’t have to wait long.” Toole appeared from nowhere, smile rivaling his boss’. “I just talked to Avalon P.D.” He glanced at a note, Wilhelm looking hopeful. “Nineteen-year-old girl was working the nightshift at McDermott’s. Somebody robbed the place, then led her away at knifepoint. No one’s heard from her since.” He looked to the sparkling van. “Button her up, Don, and get the hell out of here.” He turned to Katie. “And Miss Powers, now that you’ve decided to ‘grace us’ with your presence, you and Bub can join him. You’ll be the lead at noon—live from the fucking scene!” He handed her the note. “The rest of you have wasted enough time. Go get your assignments.”
Stacy smiled at Katie, then made his way inside with the others. From the corner of his eye, he saw Wilhelm and Toole high-five.
***
“You’ve been here four months now?”
Stacy sat, watching his boss move back and forth through the tiny office. Other than when he anchored, Toole never sat—he had too much energy. “Yes, sir.”
“It’s Larry. Sir makes me feel old.” He smiled. Stacy didn’t.
The news director went back to the file, his close-set eyes scanning the text. He was conducting reviews of every employee, and Stacy’s number was up. The reporter surveyed the room. Toole’s desk was as neat as Wilhelm’s, notes divided into piles, files an exercise in symmetry. Hard to believe this was once Terrance Meeks’ office.
“My predecessor had some nice things to say about you.” Stacy squirmed in his seat, Toole taking a hit of his KOOL. “I’ll read it to you. ‘Good instincts. Strong voice. Excellent writer.’” He looked up, smoke clouding his yellow-green eyes. “I agree with every comment but the last.”
Stacy moved forward. “What’s wrong with my writing?” The question came out more challenge than query.
Toole raised a hand, smoke trailing like the remnants of a candle. “Nothing, per se. Especially when compared to your coworkers’. But you can do better.” He reached for a script. “This is your lead-in from last night. ‘The winter weather has led to a blood shortage in Texoma. As Bill Stacy reports, health officials are asking area residents for help.’”
“Yeah…” Stacy’s skin prickled. “…so what?”
“My point exactly.” The news director snuffed out his cig. “If I’m one of the poor bastards in our coverage area, sitting in my Barcalounger, thinking about my shitty job, my wife’s affinity for other men, why should I give a fuck about your story?” Stacy had no answer, Toole setting the script down. “This lead-in’s gutless. It gives the viewer no reason to stay tuned. To care about the information you spent the better part of a day collecting for him.” He grabbed a pen and scribbled something down. “Read this.”
Stacy cleared his throat. “‘Better not have a serious accident in Texomaland. As Bill Stacy reports, there may not be enough blood to save your life.’” He handed the script back, gut twisting with indecision. “So…” He chose his words carefully. “…you want us to scare our viewers into paying attention?”
Toole shoved the page back in the folder, grabbing another KOOL. “What do you think of me?” Stacy didn’t answer. “I’ll tell you what you think. You think I’m brash, vain, pompous, and egotistical.” He struck a match, inhaling smoke. “And you’re right. Those qualities put me on the fast track as a reporter. They got me out of this hellhole in six months, out of Joplin in eight. They took me all the way to the big time as a reporter. And they’ll do the same for me as a news director.” He blew an asp-like trail. “Now you can buy into the program and come along for the ride, end up in New York, L.A., Chicago, wherever you want. Or you can keep doing it your way and spend the next ten years in Avalon, Oklahoma.”
Stacy had no intention of staying here that long. “I… want to get better, sir.”
“Larry.” Smoke curled from his nose. “Then I’m going to ask you to do things. Get involved with your stories. Become part of what you’re covering. If there’s a flood, put on waders and stand chest-deep in water. If there’s a fire, get close enough to singe your eyebrows. If someone spurns an interview, ambush him. And if that doesn’t work, set up your camera and pound on the door. You might get the footage of a lifetime.” He paused for another hit. “And one more thing—never trust a cop. His job is to keep information from you. Your job is to get it in spite of him.”
Stacy sighed. Grandstanding? Ambush interviews? This wasn’t what he signed up for. Then again, Toole’s record spoke for itself. And if he wanted to keep his job—at least for now—he’d better comply. He knew one thing. There was no way his future included ten years in Avalon, Oklahoma. “I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will. And as a sign of faith, I’m giving you the primo assignment today.” He snatched an article from the corkboard. “One of the local yokels petitioned the city to change his street name back to 3rd Avenue. Doesn’t like writing Martin Luther King, Jr. on his envelopes, he says.” Stacy had seen the article in the Herald. “He’s tired of getting the runaround, so he called in some friends.”
“Friends?”
“The KKK. They’re holding a rally outside the courthouse at five. Sheets. Hoods. The whole nine yards. I want you and Julius to interview the old man, the city manager, some people in the black community. Then we’ll go live at six…” His smile widened. “…from the heart of the fucking rally!”
Stacy hesitated. “Sir…I mean, Larry…I hope you don’t mind me asking this, but why are we covering this story?” Toole looked puzzled. “I mean, aren’t we just playing into their hands, you know, giving them a forum for their…views?”
Toole flicked ash. “I’ve covered nine Ku Klux Klan rallies over the years. From little towns in Missouri to the steps of the Texas capitol. You know the best thing about the Klan?” Stacy shook his head. “You never know what they’re going to do. Suppose this little gathering turns ugly. Maybe a fight breaks out. Or the ‘sheets’ square off with Avalon’s finest. Is it a story then?”
Stacy nodded, albeit reluctantly. But he had one more question. “You said Julius and I…is that really a smart idea?”
Toole blew a smoke ring. “I think it’s brilliant.”
***
“Martin Luther King, Jr. was a damn Communist!” The man in the snow-white robe screamed into a bullhorn, trying his best to insight the crowd. It wasn’t working—the eight people on hand looked bored. “It’s time the white man stood up to the establishment. Time we say no to our minority-ruled leaders. Time we take back what’s rightfully ours!”
His face grew redder with each statement. Behind him, twenty Klansmen stood in a half-circle, robes starched, hats resembling dunce caps. They’d driven up from Alabama, their confederate-flagged pickups parked in the alley behind City Hall. To the left, a line of stern-faced policemen held batons. To the right, a row of potbellied sheriff’s deputies watched and listened. News crews from Channels 2, 7, and 8 jockeyed for position on the frozen lawn, along with Nate Shefler from KAVN and Billy Nemetz of the Avalon Herald.
Stacy sat in the live truck, shuttling tape for his six o’clock package. He’d gotten the bites Toole requested, plus an extra from Judge Brinkman on the right to assemble. “Ready to send, Don?” Brannuck nodded, swapping out patch cords at record speed. In the deep catacombs of the ENGINEERS room, he’d seldom experienced stress. Now it weighed on him like a steel overcoat.
Stacy climbed from the van, summoning Julius. They moved to the courthouse, Brannuck setting up lights. Toole would introduce the piece, then bring Stacy on live for a follow-up with the Klan leader. The man had agreed to the live-TV format, a perfect way to advance ‘the cause’ without expunction.
“Two minutes,” Brannuck warned, handing Stacy a microphone. The reporter inserted his IFB, Julius framing the shot with Stacy in the foreground, Klansmen in the distance.
“Mic check, Bill,” he heard the director in his ear. Stacy recited a line of text. “Thank you.” Nodding, he waved the Klan rep over, the man yielding the bu
llhorn to a short fat Kluxer with three missing teeth. The pair had ridden from Huntsville to Avalon together, the eight-hour trip giving them time to discuss ‘the revolution’.
“How do you do, sir?” The man removed his hat. Without the hood, he wasn’t very imposing. Ethan ‘Butch’ Stark was 5’ 8” with sad eyes and a creampuff nose, his flesh the color of a newborn piglet’s. Stacy clipped a mic to his robe. “When they toss it from the studio, I’ll introduce you, then ask a few questions. Half-a-minute’s all we get.” The man nodded, putting his hat back on.
“Ten seconds,” Brannuck hollered, checking his signal for the umpteenth time. As Julius zoomed, Stacy held his breath. Rocket blast. Narrator. Then Toole, reciting the lead-in with the passion of a preacher.
“Roll video,” the director whispered. The piece ran for ninety seconds, the out-cue, “…still underway at this hour.” When Stacy heard it, he lowered his notes.
“Joining us now live from the Dexter County Courthouse is Great 8 reporter Bill Stacy. Bill, I understand things are a bit tense.”
That wasn’t the toss Stacy’d written! “I’m not sure tense is the right word, Larry. But there are a number of law enforcement agents here to make sure things don’t get out of hand.” He turned to the man on his right. “Ku Klux Klan leader ‘Butch’ Stark is with us tonight. Mr. Stark, are you disappointed in the turnout?”
“No, I am not!” He looked into camera. “We have hundreds of brothers in Dexter County, thousands across Texomaland. Unfortunately, not everyone—”
“Why are you here?” Stacy cut him off. “We know about the alleged street name dispute, but why are you really here?”
The man narrowed his gaze. “We’re here to educate the people of Avalon. To open their eyes to the atrocities bein’ perpetrated on the white man in America.”
“What exactly are those atrocities, sir?”
“The coloreds are takin’ our jobs, our tax money, even our women. And the politicians are lettin’ ’em. We’re tired of bein’ ignored. Tired of bein’—”
“Thank you, Mr. Stark. I’m afraid we’re out of time.”
“What do you mean?”
Stacy turned. “The rally is scheduled to end at seven. Attendees are asked to leave the square in an orderly manner. Larry.”
Stacy stared, Julius holding his shot. After a pause, Brannuck yelled, “Clear!”
“What kinda shit was that?” the Klansman carped.
Stacy looked at him, gut twisting. Another bully, this one—like so many others—finding strength in numbers. “We do a half-hour newscast, Mr. Stark. I think we gave you ample time.”
“Ample time, my ass!”
Julius took Stacy’s microphone, then reached for the Klansman’s.
“Don’t touch me, nigger!”
Stacy instinctively stepped forward. “You better watch your mouth!”
The little man sized up the hulking reporter, then summoned his followers. They moved in like flies on dung, reaching beneath their robes to produce tire irons and chains. “Think ya can take on twenty of us?”
“He won’t have ta.” Stacy wheeled to see Marv Bridges pointing a shotgun, deputies and police officers closing in behind him. “Ya make one wrong move an’ them pretty little white sheets’re gonna get awful red.”
The man stared up both barrels, then looked back at Stacy, his mouth twisting in an ugly knot. “You an’ me ain’t really so different, are we?” They stared at one another, a million thoughts swirling through Stacy’s brain.
“That’s enough, Stark,” Bridges intervened. “This meetin’s over.”
“Permit says we got ’til seven, chief.”
“I don’t give two shits what your permit says.” Bridges cut his eyes to the street. “I suggest you an’ your skirt-wearin’ pals go find the rock ya’ll climbed out from under. ’Less, a’ course, ya’d like ta stick around an’ visit our friendly little jail.”
“On what grounds?”
“Well…” Bridges spat tobacco. “…I’m sure we can come up with somethin’.”
Stark glared at him, then turned to his friends and nodded. One by one, they shuffled off to the alley, floating like ghosts on an ebony sea. Stark looked over his shoulder one last time. “’Member what I said, boy. An’ ’member somethin’ else. We ain’t done, you an’ me.”
“Move!” Bridges barked.
Grinning like a possum, he slunk into the night.
***
Stacy watched the ten o’clock news in disbelief, his exchange with ‘Butch’ Stark airing in its entirety. Although the on-air feed was killed immediately after the interview, Julius’ camera continued to roll. Brannuck discovered the tape when he returned to the station, handing it off to Toole.
“Eureka!” he yelled as if striking oil. After clearing four minutes at the top of the newscast, Toole introduced the ‘exclusive’ video. The scene was indeed riveting. Even Stacy found himself glued to his set, the footage making him bristle all over again. Especially the part where Stark claimed they were somehow alike.
Ridiculous! Stacy didn’t hate black people. Didn’t judge anyone on the color of his skin. He stared at the TV, eyes moving to his own reflection in the glass. Was it ridiculous? If forced to admit it, he didn’t necessarily trust blacks. Was even a little scared of them. He took a drink, the beer going down hard. It was true, at least partially. He did have those feelings. But only because the kids who picked on him when he was young were black. He had reason to be afraid…didn’t he?
Someone knocked at the door.
He started to get up but changed his mind, in no mood for visitors. The knock came again, harder this time. “All right.” He walked over and peered through the eyehole. “Julius?”
“We need to talk!” Stacy opened the door, the cameraman barging in.
“Okay…let’s talk.”
“I don’t need you or anybody else stickin’ up for me.” His voice was higher than usual, his glasses fogged with sweat.
“Sticking up for you?” Stacy killed the television. “What are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talkin’ ’bout. I don’t need you comin’ to my rescue. I can fight my own battles.”
Stacy watched his expression turn from anger to hurt. “I know you can…it’s just, I didn’t like what the guy was saying—”
“You think I like what he was sayin’?” The anger was back—at new levels. “Think I like bein’ treated like a second-class citizen? Nobody does. But that’s what it’s like. Blacks on one side of town, whites on the other. I know. I lived my whole life in this state. And I’ll tell you somethin’ else.” His stare was buck-knife-sharp. “It doesn’t take a knight from the Ku Klux Klan to use the word nigger either!”
Stacy wasn’t sure what to say, but he had to say something. “Look, Julius…I may not have grown up black, but I did grow up poor—”
“That ain’t the same! Nobody ever made their mind up ’bout you before you even met. And the shit dude was spewin’, that’s what white people think, isn’t it?” Stacy shook his head. “Well, I got news for you. I never asked for special treatment. Don’t believe in it! Don’t want it!” He paused for a breath. “But I’ll tell you somethin’ else I don’t want. I don’t want people bein’ nice to my face and talkin’ shit behind my back.”
“Julius, I never—”
“I’m not talkin’ ’bout you. But I hear things. And I got eyes. I know I’m the only brother at Channel 8. I also know I’ve been here a month and not one person has asked me over to his house…or to a party…or to grab a beer after work.” He paused again. “Bet you didn’t have to wait that long.” Stacy stared at his coworker, then down at the floor. “Doesn’t always take a Klansman to make you feel worthless, does it?”
Without warning, the window exploded, glass flying everywhere.
“What the—?”
Julius scrambled to the door, Stacy on his heels. Throwing it open, they stared in horror at the despicable thing in front
of them—a wooden cross engulfed in flames.
Stacy turned to Julius, light dancing in the hollows of his cheeks. The man’s eyes refused to blink, refused to stray even one degree from the vile tempest before him. He looked harder than he had moments ago—older—the unbearable heat doing little to vanquish the chill. Finally, he walked to the planter and grabbed a hose.
It took more than a minute to extinguish the blaze. When the last flame flickered out, he stared at the smoking crucifix. Stacy, unable to look at the thing a second longer, stepped forward and kicked it over, the cross breaking into pieces. “I’ll call the police.”
“They ain’t comin’ back.” Julius coiled up the hose. “Besides...how do you think they got your address in the first place?”
Stacy stared at the smoldering wood. ‘Bill Stacy’ wasn’t in the phonebook. Stacy Zwardowski was. And only his coworkers and a few city officials knew his real name.
“Say what you want ’bout Larry Toole, but he’s right when it comes to cops—never trust anyone with a badge.” Julius moved up the walk, stopping in the halo of a streetlamp. “Better yet, never trust anyone.”
***
“You’re the talk of the town, Stacy!” Darryl steered through the darkness. It was four in the morning, no one up but cops, drug dealers, and journalists—they were all about to meet. “My wife had her Bunco group over, and that’s all they talked about. You and that KKK guy!”
The cameraman droned on, Stacy trying to ignore him. His clash with ‘Butch’ Stark had indeed brought attention. Billy Nemetz had interviewed him for the paper. Nate Shefler offered a guest DJ spot. And Channel 8 ran endless promos— “The Great 8 News Team. Fighting for a Better Texomaland!” Stacy couldn’t wait for things to return to normal—even if normal did include the occasional 3:00 a.m. wakeup call.
Toole had rousted him from sleep again, this time for a methamphetamine bust. Sheriff’s deputies had raided a compound near Ratliff City, finding two wired suspects and a lab rivaling Dr. Frankenstein’s. Stacy’s assignment was to get as much footage as possible and wait for the live truck.