Standing at the Scratch Line (39 page)

King laughed. “Cap’n Mack tries to cheat everybody. He don’t single out coloreds. He figger, if you ain’t up on yo’ business, you shouldn’t be in it. It be like that old sayin’, ‘A fool and his money is soon parted.’ So, he figger why shouldn’t he be the one to get that money.” He shouldered another bag of grain.

Serena was incensed. “How could you be friendly to a man who cheats ignorant colored folk out of their honest gain?”

“Anybody who stay ignorant in this world deserve what they get. People don’t need book learnin’ to know when they’s bein’ cheated. At some point, people got to stand up. If’en they don’t, that’s on them. I notice, Mr. Mack don’t be cheatin’ you.”

“He tried!”

“But you caught him, didn’t you, and you got yo’ fair return. He don’t cheat them that knows what they supposed to get.” King continued carrying the sacks of grain to the wagon.

“Do you think that’s the right way to act?”

“Don’t matter what I think. The world is the way it’s gon’ be. It’s ruled by the powerful. The weak and the meek ain’t got shit! The Bible must be talkin’ about a grave when it say, ‘The meek gon’ inherit the Earth.’ ”

Their discussion was interrupted by a distant roll of thunder. One of the mules snorted in fear and tried to rear up despite the restraining braces of the wagon harness. Serena struggled with the reins for a minute to regain control. “Whoa, Jethro. It’s alright. It’s alright.”

“Look like you got a skittish critter,” King commented as he loaded the last of the sacks aboard the wagon. “You want me to ride along with you, in case he try to bolt?”

“That would be mighty Christian of you.”

King whistled for his horse and the big bay came trotting out of the barn. He loosely tethered his horse to the rear of the wagon and clambered aboard. Serena offered him the reins and he snapped them crisply across the backs of the mules and guided them out onto the road.

As far as Serena was concerned, the ride home to her farm was far too short. She was enraptured with King’s tales of New York City and its multistoried buildings and miles of neon lights. When they reached the edge of her property, under a large, spread-limbed sycamore, King got on his horse. Serena had explained to him that her father was extremely old-fashioned and would not take kindly to a strange man riding home with his oldest daughter.

They made arrangements to meet at Stedman’s blacksmith shop later that week and King rode off toward town. Serena watched him gallop off before she reined the mules toward home. She was bubbling with excitement. Here was the man she had been seeking, a world traveler, someone who appreciated the big-city life, someone who would carry her away from all the pain and fatigue of farmwork.

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“We’s lookin’ for backin’, that’s why we come to you. Everybody know you’s independent and don’t owe nobody nothin’ and we know that folks’ll think two, three times before they mess with you.” The man finished talking and pushed his hat on the back of his head and waited for King’s answer. His two companions, who were sitting on either side of him, leaned forward also to hear King’s response.

King looked across the green felt table at the three men and did not answer immediately. He was puffing on a Cuban cigar with a long ash, which he flicked into a nearby ashtray. The single light that hung directly above the table in a conical shade did little to create a positive impression of the three men, but positive impressions were not King’s concern. He had been investigating the bootleg business because there was big money in it, but he had no contacts outside the United States or with any open-sea shipping lines. Without those connections, he was limited to buying from other bootleggers or pirating their shipments. He had been stymied. Eventually he heard through the grapevine that some small-time bootleggers wanted to expand their operations, but they needed capital and protection.

“Just so I understand what you layin’ out,” King began in measured tones. “You want to run whiskey and other liquor in from Mexico? You say you got connections in Mexico? You need some up-front investment money to really make it worthwhile? You gon’ take all the risks in smugglin’ and pay two-to-one on every dollar invested? Then you still want protection from me while you distribute the stock? Is that it?”

“Yes, suh,” responded a man called Dirty Red. He moved into the light, revealing patterns of reddish brown freckles on light brown skin. “We ’spect we gon’ be competin’ with some white folks who’s runnin’ liquor and we knows they ain’t gon’ take lightly to it. We gon’ need some muscle to stand up to them. Like Pete said, that’s why we came to you. Them white boys won’t stand fo’ no colored independents.”

Little did they know that this was the type of reasoning that appealed most to King. The oppressive limits unfairly placed on black people always infuriated him. As far as he was concerned, colored criminals had just as much right to operate as their white counterparts. Running liquor had become a very lucrative business. He saw no reason that only white people should make such money. “I could handle all yo’ money worries, but it don’t seem like a good deal to me, gentlemen.” King tapped his cigar again. “I appreciates you comin’ to me and offerin’ me a chance to get in on the ground flo’, but two-to-one ain’t worth it.”

There was a moment of silence. Then the man who hadn’t spoken pushed back from the table. “Mr. Tremain, how much do you want?” The brim of his hat caused his face to be in shadow.

“I want what’s fair,” King answered easily. He knew that the men were concerned that a larger fish might steal their idea. “You boys gon’ bring the booze back here and sell it for ten, fifteen times what you paid. Then you want protection too? Two-to-one ain’t right. I ain’t interested in takin’ over yo’ business. I just wants fair return. I got a line on a coastal steamer that I’ll throw in the deal, if you let me come in as a full partner.”

The man who had pushed away from table spoke. “How we know you can provide real protection? You ain’t got no army! You—”

Pete interrupted. “Cool down, Tyson, we is here askin’. We ain’t here demandin’!”

King smiled. “There ain’t no proof I can give you, but—just one but: ain’t nobody ever took somethin’ from me that I didn’t want to give up and lived.”

“How we know that?” Tyson challenged.

“Do you want to try to take something from me?” King had not raised his voice but the threat was so clear that Tyson’s companions stumbled over themselves to diffuse the situation.

Dirty Red held up his hands. “We don’t want no trouble.”

“Uh, we got a bit of a misunderstandin’ here,” Pete offered.

“Let yo’ friend answer the question,” King said in the same quiet tone.

Tyson answered, “Ain’t no problem. I don’t want nothin’ you got. I just wanna do business.”

“Then let’s do business,” King agreed with a smile.

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After their meeting at the mill, King came to visit or sent word to Serena once or twice every week. She used Amos as her messenger since the one-room schoolhouse that he attended was located at the edge of Nellum’s Crossing on the same pine-forested ridge as the Church of the Cross and Stedman’s Blacksmith Works. King and Serena often met on sunny days in a glade of magnolias and sycamores at the north end of her family’s property. During these visits generally she was the one who talked and he listened. Every once in a while he would stir to ask her a question, seeking further clarification or expressing his own laconic opinion. Despite her mother’s failing condition, this was the happiest period of time that Serena had experienced since she was a child. Every visit seemed ideal.

Serena talked a lot about her interests and the deteriorating relationship she was experiencing with her father. She felt free to talk with King about things she had shared with no one else. He always listened attentively and asked good questions. She had begun to look forward to their meetings.

The first time that King came to the house was because she had left word for him at the blacksmith’s to bring laudanum as soon as possible. Her mother needed more of the painkilling medicine and King knew where to get it quickly. His sole purpose in coming to the house was to bring the laudanum and check on Serena. She hadn’t responded to any of his messages. When King knocked on the door of her house late one Thursday afternoon, her father answered. King politely asked to see Serena. Her father refused, demanding to know why King had the audacity to call upon his daughter without her father’s permission.

“I am asking your permission now to see your daughter,” King acquiesced calmly.

“The answer is no!” her father declared. “I want my daughter married to a good, God-fearing Christian man. Not some flashy, street-life do-nothing!”

“Don’t put on airs with me,” King warned softly. “I know where you sleep! I know all about yo’ other life.”

Serena walked out the door. “Other life? What do you mean?”

“Get back in the house!” her father ordered.

“I want to hear what King is—”

Her father slapped her. “Get back in the house—” He too was interrupted. King had ascended the stairs in one leap and swung her father forcefully into the wall of the cabin. Her father fell to the floor dazed.

King handed her the bottle of laudanum. “I’s sorry about coming like this, but you didn’t answer none of my messages.”

“I know, my mother has really been ill. I’ve been sitting with her night and day. I want to know what you meant by ‘other life.’ ”

Her father pushed himself to his knees and staggered to his feet. King offered his hand. “I ain’t looking for trouble with you, Mr. Baddeaux. I was just defendin’ Serena.”

“Get off my property!” her father shouted, clenching his fists as if he was ready to fight.

King observed him with an easy smile. “Hold your horses, Mr. Baddeaux. I ain’t looking for trouble with you. I wants to get on the good foot with you. In fact, I wants to make amends fo’ what jes’ happened, but I intends to finish what I have to say to Serena. If that brings trouble, so be it.” There was a clear warning tone in King’s voice.