Three Days Before the Shooting ... (103 page)

Reaching the waiting elevator, Hickman stood aside with the guard as the group pressed in, thinking,
Wilhite warned me that it was a mistake to come directly here, and he was right. Phoning would have been better because if she hadn’t seen us she might have made the connection—well, maybe not, since my voice is still my voice. But it’s my fault for wanting so badly to see the man once again in the flesh. So between that and trying to save time we’re losing it…. Still falling behind … as through all the long years … still falling behind…
.

Waiting until the members were all inside the car, he squeezed in behind the guard. Then, facing the door, he reached out and grasped its frame and assumed a spread-eagled stance as the car descended.

And now, reaching the lobby, the door glided open and he was surprised to find himself looking straight into a pair of watery blue eyes that stared from a sunburned face which smelled strongly of a visit to a barber shop. The man’s eyes were but inches away, and as he pulled back he saw that they belonged to a heavy-set man who wore a gold badge, and beyond the man’s shoulders he saw four guards who stood in a row, and realized that the man was deliberately blocking his path.

But now, raising his palm, the man stepped backward and said, “Hold it right there! And you, Nelson,” he growled at the guard in the elevator, “how did so many of them get up there? What the hell’s been happening?”

And feeling the guard’s hand on his shoulder, Hickman lowered his arms and felt him squeeze past and out of the car.

“Captain,” the guard said, “when I got there they were standing around in the reception room….”

“Doing what?”

“Just standing there and saying nothing, so all I can report is that Miss Pryor called down and said that when she told them they couldn’t see the Senator they refused to leave.”

“But how did they get up there in the first place?”

“On the elevator. They were with the Reverend here, and after checking his identification and finding it okay we allowed them through. I’ll admit that it did seem a little odd that they would want to see the Senator, but after all they are a church group and we had no reason to stop them….”

“Now that was smart,” the captain said. “You passed them and they proceeded up there and gave Miss Pryor a rough time—is that what you’re telling me?”

“That’s what she said; but when I got there they were quiet, barely whispering among themselves. Then she busted out of her office and when she ordered me to get rid of them they came along peacefully. Made no trouble whatsoever.”

“All right,” the captain said, beckoning to Hickman. “Have your people come out one at a time so I can take a look at them.”

“Do as he says,” Hickman said over his shoulder, and to the captain, “There was nothing more than a misunderstanding….”

“Just have them step out of there and line up over there,” the captain said, pointing to a spot near the wall.

And now, stepping to the side, Hickman nodded to Deacon Wilhite and stood looking each of his group in the eye as they stepped into the lobby.

With luggage in hand the group stood waiting as the captain stood back and began looking them over.

“How many do we have?” he called to the guards behind him.

“An even fifty,” a guard called back; “I just made the count.”

“And exactly just what did she say they were doing?”

“Nothing in particular,” the guard Nelson said. “They just refused to leave.”

“So what does she want done with them?”

[TROMBONE]

“A
LL SHE SAID WAS
get them out of the reception room.”

“And that was it?”

“Yes, sir; that’s all she said.”

“These secretaries are a pain in the butt,” the captain said, “and especially the Senator’s. Last time it was a worm in an apple, and now this!”

And as he gazed at the new source of trouble he turned abruptly to Hickman.

“Just what,” he snapped, “are you folks doing with all that
luggage?”

“Our plane was late,” Hickman said, “so rather than miss our appointment we came here directly from the airport….”

“Airport?
Did you just arrive in the city?”

“Yes, sir, we did.”

“From where?”

“From Atlanta …”

“From
Atlanta!
And you came all that distance to see Senator Sunraider?”

“Yes, sir; we did.”

“Now isn’t
that
interesting,” the captain roared as he wheeled toward the guards, “a flock of … of … A flock like this flies all that distance to bug the Senator, and
you
let them get up to his offices! I wouldn’t believe it, but it sure gives this thing a different complexion!”

And turning to Hickman he roared, “Okay, mister preacher, since you-all come from Georgia I’d better have a closer look at you. So have your people line up against that wall over there.”

“Good Lord, Reverend,” Sister Gipson groaned, “after all that time in the air we end up getting
no-wheres!”

“What was that?” the captain barked as he whirled to face her.

“That’s right,” Sister Gipson said, “because up here we’re being treated no better than back in Georgia.”

“You should have thought about that before you flew up here causing trouble! Now get over there with the rest of the girls and form me a line standing shoulder to shoulder!

“And you-all,” he barked as he turned toward the brothers, “get over there and join them!”

“Do as he says,” Hickman said. And as the members moved toward the wall and began placing their luggage on the floor before them he kept an eye on the captain.

From his accent this fellow sounds Southern, he thought, but he’s surely no
gentleman. And now that he’s feeling his power we’d better make use of our self-control….

And as he watched the captain dramatizing his sense of superiority by approaching each of the members with a stare which was meant to intimidate he reacted with a feeling of disgust and irony—until, seeing him reach Brother Jefferson and stare down at his trombone case, he tensed with a frown.

“What have you in there?” the captain said.

“It’s a slide trombone,” Brother Jefferson said.

“A trom-bone? So you’re a musician!”

“No, sir,” Brother Jefferson said. “It belongs to our pastor.”

Turning abruptly, the captain called, “Reverend, are you the owner of this instrument?”

“Yes, sir,” Hickman said, “it’s mine.”

“But aren’t you a preacher?”

“That’s true, but I’m also a musician….”

“And you play the trombone?”

“Yes, sir; for many years, both before and after….”

“… Before and after—what does
that
mean?”

“I meant before and after I entered my ministry.”

And seeing the captain take the hands-on-hips stance of a general, he thought, So now it’s coming….

“You sure you don’t have something other than a trombone in there?” the captain said. “Maybe a machine gun?”

“A
machine
gun? Well now, if that’s what you think, maybe you’d better have a look and see for yourself…. But Captain, I’m telling you in front …”

“… You’re telling me
what?”

“That you’ll have to be satisfied with looking.”

“Oh, yeah? And how do you figure that?”

“Because I’m not even
about
to prove to you that I know how to play that instrument. The case is unlocked, so go ahead and satisfy yourself.”

And bristling with anger the captain snatched up the case.

“I’ll do just that, and since you came here creating a disturbance I’m having every damned one of you searched—bags, baggage, and picnic baskets!”

Watching the captain kneel and begin opening his trombone case, Hickman surged with annoyance. Because evidently the captain was of the type who would regard his trombone as nothing more than an absurd device he used in exploiting what many whites disdained as a heathenish form of religion. But whatever the captain might think, his trombone had long been the agency through which he gave lyrical expression to his emotions, hopes, and spiritual gropings. And from his boyhood it had been the magical instrument through which he had sought to achieve a sense of himself, and in seeking to master its capacity for giving expression to moods, ideas, and inspirational moments he
had come to recognize and express the spiritual dimension of his innermost being. Thus, over the years his trombone had become the instrumental extension of his God-given voice and the agency through which he had become skilled in defining and projecting his dreams, hopes, and yearnings. And this whether they took the form of the blues, the spirituals, or improvised jazz. And through the broad sweep of its range, tone, and timbre he had learned the secret of moving his listeners beyond the deceptive limitations of words and into those misty regions of existence wherein all things, whether sacred or profane, time-bound or timeless, were constantly mingled. Thus for years his trombone had served as his rod and his staff, and like Jacob’s ladder an earthly vehicle of spiritual transcendence. And in watching its transcendental aura being profaned he could barely resist snatching it out of the captain’s white hands.

“And what’s this thing you have in here with it?” the white man said as he fingered a round rubber object.

“That’s a matter of the user and how he employs it. Attached to a stick it’s a tool for suction….”

“…
Suction? He
ll, this damned thing is a
toilet
plunger!”

“That’s right, but not on a bandstand….”

“So what’s it doing in here?”

“Now
that,”
Hickman said as he seized the opportunity for striking back at the captain, “is because of a miracle….”

“A
what?”

“That’s right, a miracle which occurred long ago during a big public dance in New Orleans. And it came to pass after one of the musicians made the mistake of misplacing his mute. Which for the musician was terribly upsetting, because he was famous for the voice-like effects which his mute provided his playing. Therefore the idea of disappointing his listeners became so disturbing that it sent him speeding on a trip to the men’s room. But he was still upset, and when he saw one of those you’re holding standing beside the toilet a miracle took place….”

“Now wait!”

“That’s right, but only after the musician underwent a fierce inner struggle. He couldn’t figure why he was doing such a thing, but being desperate to maintain his fine reputation and artistic standards, he removed the rubber cup from its wooden stick and washed it. And then, still puzzled by his sudden urge to handle something so filthy, he dried it, stuck it in his pocket, and returned to the bandstand. But it wasn’t until he’d pressed its flexible end to the bell of his horn that he began to understand just why his hands had moved so much faster in the men’s room than his mind was able. But when his time came to improvise on one of his favorite tunes, he arose in the spotlight with his horn in one hand and the toilet plunger in the other, he started to sweat and tremble. And no wonder, because when folks on the dance floor saw him they began laughing so hard that he felt like a fool. But being a professional he bowed and signaled the drummer to
accelerate the rhythm and come to his aid. And once he got blowing and muting his horn with that plunger the sound it produced was so thrilling that he brought down the house.”

“Amen,” one of the members shouted. “Amen!”

“‘Amen’ is right,” Hickman said, “because now folks were applauding with pleasure and dancing like mad. So with that an ordinary toilet plunger moved from bathroom to bandstand and became a musical instrument of spiritual dimensions….”

“Now look here,” the captain said, “are you trying to kid me?”

“No, sir, I’m just describing one of the many miracles that happen and go fairly unnoticed. As when a simple tin can becomes a fine vase when it’s filled with beautiful flowers. By the way, you weren’t always a captain, or were you?”

Looking up with his face suddenly crimson, the captain glared.

“I’m
asking the questions,” he growled, “and don’t you forget it!”

And holding the trombone’s slide in one clumsy hand and its bell in the other, the white man drew erect.

“What the hell,” he growled. “Is this all there is to this thing?”

And seeing the captain frown as though examining a dangerous weapon, Hickman lost patience.

“Yes, sir,” he said, “that’s all except for the mouthpiece, the lips, the lungs, and musicianship that’s needed to sound it. You’ll find the mouthpiece in the little compartment at the end of the case. And don’t get upset by the fluid you see in the bottle that’s with it, it’s only the oil I use in lubricating the slide.”

Bending again, the captain took a brief look. And now, pulling erect, he thrust the ungainly trombone toward Brother Jefferson.

“Never mind,” he said with a glare at Hickman. “Forget it.”

“Does that mean you’re letting us go?” Hickman said.

“No, not even as far as you could tilt Lincoln’s monument!”

And turning to the guards behind him the captain growled, “You, Kim-brough, get on with it! Open the rest of those bags. And Macklin, you and Traver give him a hand. And you, Nelson, start searching their bodies!”

“Not the women,” Nelson said with alarm. “You don’t really mean that, do you, Captain?”

With a stare at Hickman the captain grinned.

“The hell I don’t! In a situation like this they could be dangerous gun molls, so get on with it!”

And now, seeing the captain approach, Hickman raised his arms and remained silent lest he trigger the brothers’ resistance. And with a blank expression he watched as the group began quietly submitting.

In spite of the captain’s insults the sisters appeared amused that anyone should consider them dangerous, and for the first time he saw a release of tension which was usually concealed by their quiet immobility. It was as though being subjected to a familiar pattern of their lives had released their self-protective
capacity for irony; which, supported by their religion, had made their lives endurable. So now they were responding to the absurdity of being searched for weapons by exchanging sly winks and looks of astonishment.