Three Days Before the Shooting ... (88 page)

“Here,” Wilhite said, pushing his plate forward, “try some; they’re not the best but they’ll do.”

Nibbling silently on the bone, he watched Wilhite enjoying his food, the gold edge of an open-faced crown catching the light as he stripped the meat delicately from a bone.

“Look, A.Z.,” he said, “I’m sorry about the way things turned out today and I guess I said too much about the members too.”

“No,” he said, “you were right; I shouldn’t have thought about using that address—even though I might have to do it as a last resort. And you told the truth about how the members feel about the boy. I know that it’s been years since most of them stopped expecting him to bring up the big fish that would feed the multitude. In fact, they only want him to explain what caused him to cut bait and run.”

Suddenly Wilhite’s napkin flew to his mouth as he lowered his head over his plate and laughed.

“A.Z.,” he sputtered, “every time I think you’re down in the whale’s belly I bat my eyes and, praise the Lord, there you are, laughing on the shore!

“Well, A.Z., maybe you always expected too much from that child. Maybe the best he’s ever to do was done when he got your hopes and expectations aroused over the possibility that he would become a great preacher and leader….”
^*

“No, it wasn’t him alone; it was the idea, the hope, maybe even the gamble. Anyway, I couldn’t have been
completely
mistaken in my hopes, because look where he is today.”

“You said something there, A.Z. I don’t know what he was doing all the time we lost sight of him, but he’s caught his tens of thousands and what’s more, they don’t even seem to know that they’ve been hooked.”

“Yes, you have to give the little devil his due,” Hickman said. “He’s really gone through some changes. Just the same, I’ve got to catch him because if I fail, it won’t be enough that the members might let me off the hook and forgive me for all the waste of time and emotion, I still have to be true to myself and to my promise to the Lord.”

“You will, A.Z., and when you do there’s one thing I hope you’ll do for me….”

“What’s that?”

“I hope that after all these years you’ll tell me where on earth you got that baby. I’ve wondered about it and kept my peace for all these years, but now that things have come this far I’d like to know….”

Hickman raised his head, seeing a wistful half smile on Wilhite’s face, the serious, almost pleading expression of his eyes, and put down his fork.

“You deserve to know,” he said. “You were almost as close to him as I was and you went along with me on the basis of faith and friendship. But, Wilhite, it just ain’t my story to tell….”

Wilhite waved his hand. “Now, I’m not pressing you,” he said, “but, A.Z., when this is settled with I want you to
think
about telling me. Just think about it, that’s all I ask.”

“Very well, I’ll think about it, but right now we’d better come up with a plan, otherwise I’m going to be in serious trouble. Our people tend to treat us preachers with a strictness that they never would think of applying to a politician or a protest leader. It’s a weakness, as far as I’m concerned; one of our worst weaknesses. We don’t demand nearly as much from even those few white politicians who use us as a left-handed source of power.”

“Yes, A.Z.,” Wilhite said, “and maybe that’s why among the original band of members no one except old Sister Caroline Prothoroe feels really bitter about the boy. The others accepted the fact that he turned politician a long time ago and let him off the hook. But after all these years that old woman still insists that he’s nothing but a backsliding minister. That’s why she’s never forgiven him for what he’s done.”

“I know, and I hope I’m not being unfair, but I think that as far as Sister Caroline is concerned the boy could go to hell unredeemed; her main interest in our being up here is that it’s an opportunity for me to get some word concerning her brother.”

“What brother?”

“You remember her brother, Aubrey McMillen.”

“You mean the one they used to call ‘Race Hoss’ McMillen?”

“Yes, that’s what we used to call him. His real name is Aubrey.”

“That’s right, A.Z., that fellow hasn’t been home in years! And you mean he lives here in Washington?”

“That’s what she thinks. She asked me to try to persuade him to come to see her before she dies. He’s been living here ever since he and a white fellow got chased out of Kentucky over something they did that had to do with fixing a horse race. I promised her to see him, but if our boy keeps giving us the runaround, I don’t see how I’m going to do—”

Suddenly he stopped, staring into his plate of ribs as he slapped his thigh with his palm.

“Look, Wilhite,” he said, “I just had an idea.”

“I’m glad it’s that,” Wilhite said, “because you look like you just saw a cockroach in your greens.”

Hickman stood up, reaching for his coat and calling to the waitress, “Miss, may I have our check, please?”

“Where’re you going, A.Z.?”

“I’ve got a hunch and I’m going to play it. Now put aside those meatless bones and let’s get out of here.”

Paying and tipping the waitress, they went outside into the heat of the night.

“A.Z.,” Deacon Wilhite said, “where are you thinking about going at this hour?”

“We’re going to find Aubrey McMillen.”

“But why, man? With all we have to do in the morning?”

“But that’s just it, Wilhite. I have to keep my promise to Sister Caroline and it just came to me that with liars like McMillen usually being such good observers, and that since he was around when the boy was a baby and has lived up here as long as he—”

“Oh, so that’s it; you think he might have seen him operating up here and recognized him?”

“That’s it, and isn’t it possible? I’m pretty sure a lot of our people have recognized him and have been watching him and kept quiet—so why not Aubrey? Maybe he can tell us how to reach him….”

“I can think of a few reasons,” Wilhite said. “For one thing, he never paid attention to anything except women and horses—but since you’ve made up your mind, let’s go. I don’t suppose you forgot the address?”

“No, Sister Caroline saw to that.”

Taking a cab, they found the address in the middle of a quiet dark block, the silent three-story building located behind a shallow yard bordered by a
hedge, and thanks to a glowing fanlight they had no difficulty in seeing the number 1369 above the entrance.

“A.Z.,” Deacon Wilhite said, “if I were back in my old days policy playing and hadn’t been dreaming right I think I’d have some reservations about going in there.”

“Yes, but now you’re a deacon, so come on. I don’t like to disturb a man at such an hour, but maybe when Aubrey hears why we’ve come he’ll understand….”

Then, taking a step inside, he stopped short and caused Wilhite to stumble against him before he could thrust out his hand in warning but not in time to prevent Wilhite from stumbling against him.

He had expected an empty vestibule with a row of apartment bells. Instead, he was looking upon a hall that was filled with men and women dressed in nightclothes. Crowding the dim stairs which led to the floors above, they pressed in a neck-craning mass around the brightly lit doorway of a room located a few feet down the hall to his right. A strong odor of whiskey was in the air, and seeing the crowd so intensely preoccupied by something happening inside he froze, signaling again for Wilhite to wait. Whereupon a shout from inside the room caused the crowd to move back and he was surprised to see the backlighted form of a white man appear in the doorway.

The man wore a narrow-brimmed straw hat, and as he gestured toward the crowd Hickman saw the cloth of his gray suit of synthetic silk rippling metallically in the light and then, hearing the man asking in an exasperated voice, “Didn’t I tell you people to clear this hall?” he thought,
detective!
and watched the man come forward.

“That was over fifteen minutes ago,” the man said, “and here I come back and you’re still hanging around. Now this time I mean it—MOVE! Get back upstairs or I’ll place the lot of you under arrest!”

“A.Z.,” said Wilhite, behind him, “is that a policeman?”

But as he turned, saying “yes,” a shrill, feminine voice knifed down from the shadow of the stairs:

“You do it, mister! You just go ahead and do it!”

And now looking up through the dim light to the top of the stairwell he saw a tiny, dark-skinned woman who was blazing down at the white man out of a pair of extremely crossed eyes. Standing beneath a bare electric bulb, she wore a coarse haired, oversized auburn wig, an assortment of bunched curls, loops, and dangling sidepieces which sat awkwardly atop a narrow, intense face. The wig gave her the air of a mad duchess and as she stared down imperiously at the white man she screamed, “Why don’t you go on and get started? We all know that you’re just burning to get brutal with us. So why don’t you go ahead? It’s your trade, isn’t it—brutalizing folks like us? So go
ahead and arrest us! ARREST US! We know you won’t be satisfied until you’ve done something violent to somebody. But, mister, before you start your head-whipping let me tell you one doggone thing: We
live
here, you hear that? This is our
home!
We pay taxes and we pay rent and we have the right to know what’s been happening to our neighbors. And what’s more, we don’t need
you
coming in here interfering with our rights. This is a
community
!”

“Look, lady,” the white man said, “if you don’t want the law on your premises all you have to do is to keep them orderly. Meanwhile, there’s an investigation going on inside there and I have my orders. So now get back to your rooms because I want this hall
cleared!”

Turning now, he took a step backwards, bumping into Wilhite as he whispered, “Move out, Deacon, this is no place for us….”

But it was too late; already the white man was looking his way.

“All right, big fellow,” the white man said, “that goes for you and that fellow behind you.
Nobody
is leaving here without the chief’s permission.”

Sighing inwardly, he stepped forward, seeing the crowd turn to stare and feeling Wilhite moving in beside him, and now, as they advanced into the light, he saw a look of surprise come over the white man’s face.

“Saaaay,” the white man said, “where did you come from? I didn’t see you in here before….”

“That’s right, Officer,” he said, “We’ve just arrived….”

“You just arrived from
where?”
the white man said.

“From the Hotel Longworth.”

Frowning, the white man looked him up and down. “The
Longworth?
“What are you, one of the doormen?”

Before he could reply, the woman screamed down from the stairs, “Now there he goes again. Did you people hear that? Just because he sees a fine, big, strapping professional-looking black man he’s got to make him into a
doorman
!”

Thinking,
Here’s a woman with absolutely no sense of propriety
, he quickly found his voice: “No, sir, I’m not a doorman, I’m a guest …”

But before he could finish, someone called out angrily from the dark end of the crowd, and he saw the detective turn to look, shouting, “Are you people going to clear this hall?”

As he watched, the crowd gave ground, grumbling as it retreated a few steps, only to halt as the detective turned back to face him.

“All right, so you’re a guest at the Longworth,” the white man said. “Now explain why you men are coming home at this hour.”

“But, Officer,” he said, watching the white man’s eyes, “we don’t live here. In fact, we’ve never been here before.”

The eyes cut back to the tenants.

“Then where
do
you live?” the detective said, watching the crowd again.

He said, “We’re from Waycross, Georgia, Officer. We’re only up here for a visit.”

The detective’s head snapped back, staring up into his eyes. “Then why are you coming
here
at this time of night?”

“We came here because we have a message for a man who lives at this address; a Mr. Aubrey McMillen….”

“Ahaaah,” the white man said, “so it’s McMillen, is it? I suspected he’d have something to do with it. And I suppose you expect to take back his reply inside a bottle—is that it?”

As he studied the detective’s self-satisfied expression, the strong odor of whiskey suddenly took on a vague but troubling significance.

“I don’t understand,” he said, “Inside a
bottle?”

“Oh, I think you do,” the white man said. “We’re on to McMillen, so don’t waste time pretending that you fellows are not his customers.”

“Customers,” he said, “customers for what?”

There was no answer. The detective was looking searchingly into Wilhite’s face then back to himself, his white face taking on a knowing expression as suddenly he dropped his head, and slouched his shoulders and thrust his thumbs into his belt.
What on earth does he think he’s doing? He
thought. Then the white man spoke in a voice that had become a thick-throated, inept imitation of Amos and Andy doing an imitation of a black, streetwise hipster.