Although Sweet Auburn was still the cultural and commercial capital of Negro Atlanta, over the last few years it had become more fashionable for well-off Negroes to move to the West Side, on the other side of downtown, near Morehouse and the other universities. This was putting a drain on Irwin Street Baptist, apparently.
“Wheat Street just added another wing,” Mrs. Boggs said. “And now they’re installing air-conditioning in the entire church.”
“I don’t need to hear about Wheat Street at my own dinner table, thank you,” the reverend snapped. “Let’s change the subject, please.”
Lucius normally had great tact, but Julie had noticed those graces tended to fail him around his father. And so, right when it seemed the old man was at his crankiest, Lucius said, “There’s something that we wanted to share with you tonight.”
His nervousness no doubt tipped them off, and the use of we put it in lights. She saw the looks in their eyes, and noticed that the reverend leaned back in his chair as if hoping to escape the reach of an incoming blow. She could only look at so many of those forced-polite expressions before she cast her eyes down at the table. Lucius took one of her hands in his and stood, so Julie did the same, which made her feel even yet more vulnerable. Without further preamble he said, “The other night I asked Julie if she’d be my wife, and I’m happy to announce that she accepted.”
She smiled, uncomfortably, trying to keep the smile there even during the silence that followed, the silence that could not possibly have been as long as it felt.
“Congratulations! That’s wonderful.” The voice that finally rang out was William’s, God bless him. Only twenty, the youngest of the Boggs sons had missed, either out of sheer goodness or youthful naïveté, the deep displeasure in his father’s eyes.
Reginald stood up, smiling now, and hugged Lucius. Then pecked his future sister-in-law on the cheek. “Congratulations.”
Reginald’s wife, Florence, was right behind him, hugging Julie extra tight. Then she explained the situation to her confused children: “Little Sage is going to be your cousin now,” and the oldest one, the boy, nodded slowly, trying to puzzle this out.
Mrs. Boggs did not dispense any hugs, as she’d chosen that moment to walk into the kitchen and discuss dessert with Roberta.
The reverend cleared his throat, turned to William, and asked him how his classes at Morehouse were going. Lucius held Julie’s hand again and she could feel how sweaty his palm was as they stood there, listening to the youngest Boggs man, who seemed uncomfortable at taking the spotlight from them but would not disobey his father. William started talking about his courses in public speaking and theology, and eventually Julie and Lucius sat back down.
Later, in the sitting room, Julie sat with Florence as the eldest Boggs grandchild showed off what he’d learned in piano lessons, which wasn’t much at all.
“He’s very talented,” Julie said, charitably, as the child played a series of notes that had never been intended to go together. Florence’s younger two and Sage were watching with almost fearful expressions, as if the piano were a torture device that would be applied to them next.
“Thank you. We started him on it when he was four.”
Was that a dig at Sage, who was the same age and had never touched a key before?
“They’re real good kids,” Julie said.
“I’m worried about them, though. Can you believe it with the schools going down to three hours? This is crazy.” Due to severe overcrowding and lack of funding, Atlanta’s few Negro schools were now operating on a rotation system, with children in class only three hours before they were dismissed and the next group came in. “How are they supposed to learn like that? I had to give up my own teaching job, because every third hour I need to bring one kid in or the other out. The NAACP is suing to make the city give our schools equal funds, but I’m not holding my breath.”
“It’s a shame.” Talk of politics worried Julie, as there were so many more players and acronyms that she didn’t know, and the Boggs family’s alliances weren’t always clear.
Then Florence scooted a bit closer to her on the sofa. She said in a low voice, “Girl, they didn’t treat me much better at first. You’ll wear them down eventually.”
Julie smiled, amazed at how badly she’d needed to hear that.
“The reverend and Felicia are very proud, is all,” Florence confided. “Sometimes, the ones who are proud of how far they’ve made it are the quickest to disapprove of others making that same climb.”
On the porch, Lucius and Reginald were smoking cigars in the dry autumn air. Smoking, like Reginald’s fondness for bourbon, was anathema to their clerical father, but Reginald seemed to revel in his objections. Lucius himself was prohibited by police code from touching alcohol, so his taste for tobacco had only grown since he’d taken his oath.
“A man needs at least some vice, am I right?” Reginald smiled. “And now that you’re officially giving up women, you’ll have to move up to the good cigars.”
“Not on my salary.”
“How’s work going?”
Lucius was never sure how to describe it to his friends and relatives. On the one hand, he was hailed as a hero to be one of the first Negro officers. They were role models, authority figures, Jackie Robinson with sidearms. On the other hand, white officers mocked and insulted and sometimes nearly killed them, laughing as they gunned their squad cars’ engines toward any Negro officers they saw crossing the street. The people they arrested hardly treated them better. No one being busted on possession of narcotics or assault or theft ever paused from his ranting to thank the officers for taking this important step for Negro rights.
“It’s okay,” Lucius said. “Just had a little incident with some moonshiners. White cops didn’t love how we handled it.”
Just before dinner, he’d received a call from Smith: Lou Crimmons, the man Woodrow Forrester’s widow had said was his best friend, had been killed that morning. Mere hours after Forrester’s murder. According to witness reports, Crimmons had been shot three times while walking down Hilliard Street at half past noon. Witnesses claimed a man wearing a hat tipped low and a bandanna over his mouth had pulled up, shot Crimmons, then jumped out to take something from the dead man’s coat before driving off. As these things went, the witnesses disagreed on everything else: the car (a black Ford or a dark blue Buick convertible with the top up), the shooter’s appearance (thick glasses versus no glasses, brown leather jacket versus gray coat), his hat (brown fedora? black derby?), his skin color (dark brown or medium toned). Oh, and the car’s tag numbers? No one had noticed them.
Boggs and Smith were nearly certain now that Crimmons was the man Forrester had spoken of, the friend who usually sold jars and joints but had taken sick, asking Forrester to sell in his place. Then Forrester gets caught by Boggs and Smith, and in exchange for his freedom he tells them about the upcoming shipment, which they disrupt half an hour later, and the next day Forrester is killed. Another day later, the man he’d been subbing for is killed, too.
“We should have interviewed Crimmons,” Smith had said to Boggs. “Shouldn’t have left it to the white cops.”
In truth, they had no say in the matter. They only worked the 6 p.m. to 2 a.m. shift, so they were the ones finding bodies or evidence of break-ins, and then they’d file their reports and clock out. McInnis never would have allowed them to interview friends and acquaintances of murder victims; that job was left to white detectives. No matter how well Boggs and Smith did their jobs, they felt sabotaged by white officers, who could arrest an innocent Negro they didn’t like, brutalize witnesses, and present skewed evidence to white juries.
Three bodies in three days was a particularly bad run, but hardly unprecedented. Boggs had seen quite a few bloodbaths where liquor got to flowing and tempers raged. He had arrived at cramped apartments after husbands or brothers or old friends had finally done what they’d long threatened to do, then turned the weapon on themselves, unwilling to live
in a world whose lines could so easily be crossed. Affairs interrupted, old scores settled, blood feuds magnified. Pride became even yet more important when people had little else, and it must be defended at all costs. The costs were huge.
When Boggs had taken this job, he had seen himself as a standard-bearer for his people, but sometimes he felt more like a pallbearer. It was all he could do to keep going, trying to do what he believed was the Lord’s work, despite his persistent doubts.
At least Smith got one piece of good news when he’d called: according to McInnis, the bullet that killed Wilbur Hayes, the black smuggler at the telephone factory, was a .30-30, likely fired from a Winchester rifle. So Smith was officially off the hook. But only officially. Unofficially, McInnis warned, Smith should assume that most of the white cops would still think he’d shot Hayes and stashed a rifle somewhere. He should consider himself watched.
As if he didn’t already.
Reverend Boggs, waving his hand disgustedly at the smoke, joined them on the porch, followed by William. “I’ve told you not to do that here, Reginald.”
“It’s a special occasion.”
Lucius never understood how Reginald could charm his way out of his father’s disfavor, whereas Lucius always struggled for some modicum of acceptance. Well, Father, I’ve grown tired of trying to win your approval. You’re the one who has to accept something for a change.
As Reginald asked William about his classes, Lucius found himself beside his father.
“I won’t lie and say I’m pleased with your choice,” the reverend said. “I was disappointed you didn’t follow me to the pulpit, but ultimately it was the right thing, since you certainly haven’t chosen a preacher’s wife.”
Lucius decided that letting his father’s slights pass would be better than escalating the matter. He didn’t want the night of the announcement to be remembered for a screaming match. He said, “I’m sure William will find a woman more worthy of your approval.”
“Look, Lucius, there are marrying women and other women. Can’t you tell which she is? You’ve had your fun, but it’s time to move on.”
Lucius did move on—off the porch and into the house, where, seething, he told Julie it was time to go.
“At least he didn’t threaten to disown you,” Julie told him a few minutes later. They were two blocks from her house now, Sage asleep in his arms, the boy’s head digging into his shoulder.
“You look good carrying him,” Julie smiled. “It’s nice, him having a daddy.”
“I might not look so good by the time we make it to your house. Ten blocks is pushing it, even for a strapping lad like myself.”
The walk to her house was mostly south, toward the tracks, and these last few blocks were the worst of it. Not much to look at by day—shotgun shacks and crumbling bungalows and two-story brick buildings that had been subdivided into more apartments than one would think possible—and by night the sheer darkness and shadowed outlines of those slouched buildings and the whispered and laughing voices that came seemingly without source caused in Lucius a distinct sense of alarm that his beloved lived here. He wished he could rush the engagement and marry her next week, not just because he was dying to have her but also because the thought of her living out here was constantly on his mind. The more he’d fallen for her, the more menacing the neighborhood seemed to become. This wasn’t just a place he visited. A piece of himself lived here now, and it wasn’t safe.
They passed three men sitting on a crumbling porch. Coins dropped onto piles and he smelled that at least one of their cigarettes was in fact marijuana. They were laughing as they gambled, paying no heed to the passing family.
Lucius stopped. He hardly looked intimidating with a child on his shoulder, and no uniform, but still he used his deeper cop register and said, “Take that inside, gentlemen.”
He paused only a moment, then resumed his walk. They muttered behind him, too quiet to make anything out.
“You don’t have to do that,” Julie said.
“I do.” You are a cop twenty-four hours a day, McInnis always told them.
In fact, there was a reason Boggs was particularly bothered about today’s murder of Forrester’s friend, Crimmons. The address of the shooting was only two blocks from Julie’s house, and it happened in broad daylight. He wondered if little Sage had heard the shots.
They reached her house, a cramped bungalow that, divided in half by a too-thin wall, her family shared with another. He offered to carry Sage inside and lay him in the tiny bed that sat beside hers, but she said her mother was likely indecent at this hour. She never wanted him in her house, he’d noticed.
“Lunch on Tuesday?” he asked after he gently transferred Sage into her arms, impressed at how effortlessly she carried him despite her smaller frame. Girl was stronger than she looked.
“I hope so; I need to check.”
Between his working six nights a week and her cleaning and serving for white people in a different part of town, her short lunch break was the only time they could meet, other than his one day off. Even then, he needed to borrow his father’s car, pick her up, and dash to a deli in Sweet Auburn. They spent most of that time driving.
He kissed her good night and waited until she’d closed and locked the door.
Free of Sage’s forty pounds, he pinwheeled his right arm and stretched his neck from one side to the other. He could again hear the stoned gamblers laughing, and he felt his blood rise.
Not in this neighborhood. Not anymore.
His decision made, he started walking toward them. Then he stopped when he saw, on the corner across the street, a solitary figure standing like a sentry.
Solitary in more ways than one. Bartholomew Kressler, one of Sweet Auburn’s stranger characters, was a madman of perhaps forty-five who insisted that he was a white man whose soul had been trapped in a Negro’s body. He had no occupation anyone knew of yet he was always finely dressed, pince-nez and all, though his clothes frequently needed mending after he got into fights with other Negroes, whom he uniformly insulted, asking who they thought they were to share the sidewalk with him, don’t you inferior beings have any manners? He had twice been arrested for sitting in the front of a bus and refusing to move despite the driver’s protests, as he claimed to be white, insisted his unseen whiteness gave him the prerogative to park his behind wherever he chose. Lucius had arrested him for public drunkenness twice.
Boggs crossed the street. “What brings you here, Bartholomew?”
“That’s Mr. Kressler to you, boy.” He spoke as formally as Boggs’s old Morehouse professors, and today he was wearing a white-on-blue windowpane blazer over gray slacks that could have used laundering.
“Easy there. I’m in no mood.”
“Of course not. Because you’re looking for the big nigger.”
“Excuse me?”
“The biggest one there is.” He watched Boggs for a moment, then his shoulders sagged and he wore a chagrined look. “Really, you are such a dim race. Do I have to spell it out for you?”
“Spell what?”
“Thunder Malley. You and your partner were looking for him yesterday on Hilliard Street, but you couldn’t find him.”
Hilliard Street was where Woodrow Forrester had lived. “You were there?”
“I was . . . in the alley across the street, pondering Kant’s theory of freedom. While I stood there, I saw you and your partner, and those other two black cops. And about an hour before you had arrived, I had seen something else. At five, perhaps five thirty? Thunder Malley.”
“What exactly did you see?”
“Thunder went into that building, with his little helper, the one with the reddish hair. They went in, and five minutes later they scurried off.”
No wonder the old lady across the street hadn’t wanted to admit what she saw. Thunder Malley, a six-six behemoth, was a loan shark and ran a protection racket. The Butler Street precinct had been watching him for years, but they had yet to turn up hard evidence
, as no one dared inform on him. They hadn’t thought he was involved in moonshine or drugs, but perhaps he was expanding his services.
“Mr. Kressler, sir, what did you hear?”
Bartholomew wrinkled his nose. “I would rather discuss this with white officers.”
Boggs held out his right hand as if modeling a watch. With his other hand he grabbed one of Bartholomew’s and held the two beside each other. Bartholomew’s skin was darker. “You see that, right? You understand who you are.”
“What you are referring to,” an outraged Bartholomew said as he reclaimed his wrist, “is the body to which I have been confined ever since the horrible experiment. It’s what I am on the inside that matters, and I expect the deference that is my due, boy.”
Boggs told himself to take a breath and not ruin this. “Sir, I can arrange to have you speak with our white sergeant if that makes you more comfortable.”
“It would, but where? In your black precinct?”
“He’d be happy to meet you wherever you’re most comfortable, Mr. Kressler.”
This is as crazy as he is, Boggs thought. They could never put this lunatic on a witness stand. But if he could provide details, that might lead to more evidence, or a witness who was actually sane.
“I suppose a conversation with your sergeant would be wise,” Bartholomew said, after giving the matter considerable thought. “I can certainly empathize with the poor fellow. We’re the only two white men who spend all our time in Darktown.”
7
AFTER DALE’S STARTLING admission about his night ride, Rake had waited one day before investigating. He’d wanted to wait even longer, in hope that his rage might pass so he could see things clearly, but he didn’t have time to wait for it to fully pass. It likely never would. Dale was his problem and would continue to be.
So, hoping he wasn’t making a terrible mistake, he called the Coventry sheriff’s office, explaining that he was an Atlanta cop hoping for more information about the shooting.
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