by Ron Levitsky
“Sure. Did Lester make it clear to you why I’m here?”
Before Wilkes had a chance to reply, a low moan sounded deep within one of the far walls. Rosen leaned forward, cocking his ear toward the sound, which grew in intensity, a harsh grating merging into a rumble. A loud shudder, then silence followed by a crack of light breaking the dark, the crack growing larger until he saw it was an elevator.
A policeman stepped out followed by a tall gangling man dressed in faded jeans, a torn checkered shirt, and a vest filled with punctures where fishing lures had hung. They walked to the table, the tall man staring down at the lawyers and grinning, so that the gaps in his brown teeth showed clearly.
“All right, Edison,” the policeman said, “just sit down and behave yourself. The nice men want to ask you some questions.”
Basehart sat across from Rosen, between Wilkes and Collinsby. He said, “Well, who brought the cards?” His voice was dry and gravelly, as if he needed a drink of water.
Collinsby said, “You remember me, Edison, I defended you two years ago on a drunk and disorderly. I’ll be representing you again, if that’s all right.”
“Sure, throw in any warm body. Hey, Cowpie, still slipping in manure piles during football practice?”
Collinsby blushed. “Now, Edison, that was a long time ago. Some things are best forgotten.” Nodding toward Rosen, “This gentleman is . . . an associate of mine. You know Mr. Wilkes, the Assistant Commonwealth’s Attorney? He has some questions for you.”
“Sure. Nothin’ I like better’n shootin’ the shit.”
Wilkes cleared his throat and looked down at an open file. “Good. Now, Mr. Basehart, I notice here that . . .”
“Wait a minute,” Rosen said, “aren’t you going to warn him that a stenographer is recording everything being said and that he doesn’t have to answer any questions?”
“Yeah!” Basehart shouted. “I got my rights!”
“Of course,” Wilkes replied. “I’m sorry. Uh, as I was saying, you’ve had several run-ins with the law—seven, counting this one.”
“Harassment, that’s all.”
“The last one involved assault on a Vietnamese man and damage to his store.”
“I don’t mind sayin’ I can’t stand the sight a’ those Slants. We was just fine, us fishin’ folk, till they come here. What right do they have fishin’ our waters and sellin’ for less ’cause all they eat is rice? Rice mixed with that stinkin’ fish sauce. Hell, it stinks up the whole river. Sure I hate ’em. Any real American would.”
“This ’real American’ business. Let’s talk about your organization—G.U.N.”
“Guardians of an Undefiled Nation,” Basehart said proudly.
“I understand you’re a general, the group’s leader.”
“Commander in chief. I give the orders.”
“Can you tell me an order you gave recently?”
Basehart shifted slightly. “Well . . . ’bout three weeks ago we went over to Cherryville where some niggers were causin’ some problems.”
Once again Wilkes looked at the sheaf of papers. “I see you’re referring to a Negro voter registration drive which you and your friends—”
“My soldiers.”
“—disrupted. You served three days in jail for disorderly conduct.”
“Harassment. Just like this.”
“You think I’m harassing you?”
“You work for the government. Everybody knows the Hebes control the government. Hebes ’n niggers ’n now Slants. Ain’t but a few real Americans left.”
Glancing at Rosen, Collinsby said, “Now, Edison, you’ve got no call to use that kind of language.”
Wilkes’s face had reddened. “You killed the Nguyen woman, didn’t you? Killed her for no other reason than your blind hate.”
“You’re crazy,” Basehart said.
“Your gun was found outside the victim’s apartment—your fingerprints. We can prove you fired a weapon.”
“I was nowhere near the Paddy last night! I was asleep in my store all last night.”
“No witnesses.”
Basehart leaned forward and showed his teeth. “That’s where I gotcha. My ol’ buddy was with me till five in the mornin’. Ask him—Billy Lee Pelham.”
“You told the police there were no witnesses.”
“Didn’t want to get Billy Lee involved. Besides, ain’t none a’ their business what I do and who I do it with.”
“This Mr. Pelham, is he a member of your organization?”
“A colonel.”
“I see. How do you explain your fingerprints found on the murder weapon?”
“Can’t. Don’t know.”
“That’s not a very good answer.”
“You’re so damn smart. Whaddya you think?”
“I think . . .!” Wilkes caught himself. “I think you’re in serious trouble, and if you don’t come up with a satisfactory explanation, I’m going to move for an indictment of first-degree murder. That carries the death penalty.”
The room grew quiet. Basehart looked into his lap while muttering something under his breath. His head sank slowly onto his chest, and Rosen noticed the prisoner smelled of liquor—more than that, it was the smell of decay. He was decaying, from the crusted bald spot on the top of his skull to the emaciated shoulder blades spreading like the wings of a vulture.
Collinsby cleared his throat while fumbling with the papers in his briefcase. He stretched his massive arms, nearly touching Basehart and Rosen. “Jimmy, I think it’d be best if my client doesn’t say anything further, until we have a talk. Then I’m sure we’ll all be able to work something out.”
Basehart jerked up his head. “Whaddya mean by that?”
“We have to talk, Edison. No need to get upset about anything.”
“Not get upset! You don’t believe me either. You’re all the same, you lawyers. You’re either kikes or bought off by kikes. I didn’t do it, I tell ya! Ask Billy Lee, he’ll tell ya!”
“Let me talk to him,” Collinsby said to Wilkes. “I’ll call you later.”
Wilkes nodded and walked out the door, followed by the stenographer.
After the door was shut, Rosen said, “You’re in serious trouble, Edison.”
“Who the hell’re you?”
“Just one of the mourners.”
“Huh?”
Collinsby leaned forward. “This is Mr. Rosen.” As if hypnotized, Basehart kept his eyes on the stranger. “He’s an attorney sent by the C.D.C.—the Committee for the Defense of the Constitution—to offer you his services free of charge. We’d be co-counsels on your behalf.”
Basehart’s limbs moved snakelike up and down the chair, while his eyes remained transfixed by the other man.
“Well, Edison, what do you think?” the lawyer persisted.
“He’s a Jew, ain’t he?”
“That has no bearing one way or the other. Mr. Rosen is a professional, who would never let any personal feelings interfere . . .”
“What’s a Jew doin’ here? Get him outta here.”
“Now, Edison, be reasonable.”
“Get him outta here I said! Do I havta call a cop? Get him outta here!”
Basehart suddenly grew silent under Rosen’s gaze, as his last outcry receded into the dark edges of the room.
Rosen said, “Lester, why don’t you let Mr. Basehart and me clarify a few things between us. You wouldn’t mind stepping out of the room for a few minutes.”
Basehart cut in, his voice trembling, “I t-t-told you . . .”
“You don’t have anything to worry about. Remember, we Jews only eat babies, never full-grown men.”
Collinsby looked from one man to the other. “You sure . . .?”
“Of course. It’ll be all right. Go ahead.”
As Collinsby rose, Basehart’s eyes darted to him, but the prisoner said nothing. Only when the door closed behind his lawyer did his gaze, like some insect, crawl from the floor up the chair and back to Rose
n. It was then Rosen noticed how red Basehart’s eyes were, with circles so deep they might have been etched into the skin.
“Have they been treating you all right? They’re feeding you properly, letting you exercise, not interrupting your sleep?”
Basehart looked down at his hands where his middle finger picked at a hangnail on his thumb. For a minute neither man spoke.
“From what I hear, Edison, it’s not like you to be so quiet.” Rosen leaned forward in his chair. “Bet you could tell me a few good jokes.”
Shrugging, Basehart said quietly, “You wouldn’t like ’em.”
“No?”
The prisoner stretched his legs and said, “Well, maybe so. Maybe you’d learn somethin’ ‘bout stickin’ your long nose where it don’t belong. Y’know, you Hebes sure got a lotta nerve. You think that all you had to do was walk in here, like this was Florida or somethin’, ’n I’m gonna crawl over ’n kiss your goddamn feet. Well, it’ll be a cold day in hell when I need a kike’s help. What I could use is a man like Hitler. He’d know what to do with your kind. Why I bet . . .”
Rosen’s fist lashed out, catching Basehart flush on the jaw and knocking him off his chair. “G . . . damn it, I . . . bleedin’!” came a muffled cry from the floor, as Rosen walked around and perched on the table directly above Basehart, who screwed one eye up while holding his jaw with both hands. A little blood trickled between his fingers.
Flexing his hand Rosen said, “I guess you’ve been saying crap like that for so long, you think it doesn’t bother people. Maybe now you’ll remember.”
“H-Hebe,” Basehart chattered, his hands balled into fists held tightly over his face.
“That’s good, Edison, that’s real good. Let your hate work itself out. Then maybe we can talk.”
Basehart mumbled something incomprehensible then, moving his hands from his mouth, said, “Talk? Talk with you . . . I’ll kill you first.”
“Oh, you’ll talk with me, Edison, or you’ll fry just like a fly hitting that light bulb up there. And don’t worry about me getting so upset I’ll walk out on you. When I was a kid I used to wear earlocks and a skullcap. There’s nothing you can think of that someone in my neighborhood didn’t call me. And I got hit by a lot tougher guys than you’ll ever know. So anytime you really hurt my feelings, I’ll just beat the hell out of you.”
“You’re crazy!”
“No, Edison, you’re the one who’s crazy, because sure as shooting you’re on your way to the electric chair, and there isn’t anyone between you and the switch but me.”
“Shit. No one in this town gives a damn about a dead Slant whore.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. This isn’t the good old days when you and the boys could play kickball with some Negro’s head. This is the new South, or so I’ve been told by none other than your lawyer. You’re going to be famous, Edison. I can see your face on the covers of Time and Newsweek. Little children across the country are going to wear T-shirts with your picture and the caption, ‘Pull the Switch on the Son-of-a-Bitch.’ See, you’re going to show the world that the South has a conscience after all.”
“My lawyer . . . he’ll take care a’ everything.” Basehart raised himself on one elbow.
“Collinsby? Sure, he’ll take care of everything. You know what he wants to do—plea bargain you into prison so that they throw away the key. Guess he and the prosecutor are real cozy—high-school pals.”
“That’s right,” Basehart said. “They was awful friendly. That son-of-a-bitch.”
“But then, maybe he’s right.”
“Whaddya mean?”
Yawning, Rosen rubbed his eyes. “Well, if you murdered the woman, Collinsby’s doing the right thing. In fact, you’d be getting off easy.”
“Shit.”
“Gee, Edison, you’re so eloquent, maybe you should conduct your own defense. Anyway, I’m wasting my time. You did it.”
“Says who?”
“Did you?” When Basehart pressed his lips together, Rosen said wearily, “Idiot. You might as well choose which white sheet and hood you want to be buried in. Good-bye.”
As Rosen turned to walk away, Basehart blurted, “I ain’t no part a’ the Klan! Don’t truck with the idea a’ sneakin’ ’round with your face all covered up. A man who doesn’t have the guts to say his mind clean out in the open is weak as piss.” He glared at the other man, his face twitching. “Just don’t call me one a’ them.”
Turning to meet the prisoner’s gaze, Rosen looked at him curiously. “All right. Did you kill the woman, Edison?”
One quick shake of the head.
“Do you want me to represent you, along with Collinsby?”
Basehart bit his lip but said nothing.
Rosen shifted his weight. “Let me put it this way. Do you have any objections to my tagging along with your lawyer, as sort of an advisory counsel?”
Basehart’s lower lip slowly pulled away from his teeth, his mouth opening only enough for him to mutter something.
“What’s that, Edison?”
“Shit. You can do whatever the hell you want. I got better things to do than keep tabs on the likes a’ you.”
“O.K. Maybe I’ll stick around. And since you’re in such a festive mood, maybe you could fill me in on something important.”
“Yeah—like what?”
“About the gun and your fingerprints?”
“I told you, I told everyone, I don’t know. My organization owns a lot a’ guns. Anyone coulda’ taken one, ’n I don’t mean my boys. Some nigger, some ki . . .” He stopped suddenly, touching his chin. “Even the cops confiscated a pile. Who the hell knows?”
“You wouldn’t have any idea who did kill the woman?”
“Hell, no! I told you I was home target shootin’ in back or drinkin’ beer in front of the TV. Why don’t you ask Billy Lee—he was with me. Besides, he’s the one always goin’ down . . .” He stopped abruptly then slowly ran a hand through his hair. He spoke distractedly, “Ask Billy Lee. You just ask him.”
Chapter Five – WEDNESDAY MORNING
Collinsby’s Jaguar hummed impatiently through downtown Musket Shoals. Gaining speed as it passed the residential area, the automobile reached the outskirts of town where it made a sound, as if clearing its throat, and with a shudder leaped onto the highway. Rosen tightened his seat belt and closed his eyes for a moment, wondering how much of his body would remain intact for identification. His lips began the kaddish, the prayer for the dead, and somewhere very close he heard God’s laughter. No, it was Collinsby chuckling, his leather gloves gripping the steering wheel.
“Not used to this kind of speed, Nate!” he shouted over the engine’s throbbing. His grin opened like a laceration across his face.
Rosen’s ears had become two seashells. He heard eternity in the sound of rushing wind, and his lips moved faster in silent prayer.
“It’s my only vice!” Collinsby added, shifting the gear yet again and blurring the fields ahead into a kaleidoscope of yellows and greens. “Only time I feel really free! Besides, you’re the one who wanted to get right on the case!”
“Isn’t one dead body enough for this town?”
Collinsby ignored him, and Rosen resigned himself to the speed. He unclenched his hands, settled into the seat, and closing his eyes once again turned inward to his daughter—the serenity of her face before the piano. He remembered her birthday card, barely begun, in his briefcase; if the car crashed it would be his last words to her. “Dear Sarah” and that was all, a great void following the two words. If he could but finish the card . . . what would he write . . . he was sorry for having sinned against her? Hadn’t God decreed that a man’s home was sacred as the Great Temple; therefore, hadn’t the divorce sent Rosen’s home tumbling down as surely as the Romans had destroyed the Lord’s Holy Place? And left Sarah his Wailing Wall.
No, that was going too far, making him some sort of tragic figure—a Job shrinking from the Voice in the wind—when he was
no more than one of a million stories acted out each day and just as inconsequential. Like the one to which they were speeding, the home of the dead woman with her family grieving the loss of a daughter and perhaps their dreams as well. But, after all, that was justice in this world, everyone having an equal chance to suffer.
Rosen felt the car gradually slow and, opening his eyes, saw the Paddy’s narrow streets and Oriental signs. A moment later he smelled the salt air of the ocean mingling with a dozen other odors of fish, oil, and decay. It reminded him of Chicago’s Maxwell Street years ago—of the hundreds of dirty peddlars calling him down into their dimly lit stores, of pushcarts filled with hot dogs and flies, trays of cheap watches and pinwheels, of life smelling strong as the sweat of a frightened man.
“Got you here safe and sound, after all,” Collinsby said. “Bet you thought we weren’t going to make it.”
Rosen continued looking out the window without replying.
The other lawyer clicked his tongue. “Sure is something. Wasn’t that long ago when I was a boy, we used to play hookey. Come down here with our fishing poles, drinking Dr Peppers, and cast our lines off the piece of land right down there. There weren’t but a couple of shacks and lean-to’s for the fishermen. Caught some nice-sized ones, but the biggest fellers always got away. Always got spanked when I came home, but it was worth it. Now . . . heck, everything’s changed. I don’t know this place anymore—it’s like you’re not even in America. Guess you can’t totally blame Basehart for the way he feels.”
A sudden chill rushed through Rosen’s body, and he repeated the kaddish silently, this time for the dead woman.
“Here we are,” Collinsby said as they turned the corner. “There’s Nguyen’s shop, where all those people are. What a crowd!”
He drove past the tailor shop, searching for a place to park. Rosen stared at the Vietnamese congregating at the entrance, but they carefully avoided looking back. There were about two dozen men, women, and children. Many were draped in a flimsy white material thin as gauze, a few wearing turbans of the same material and holding crudely fashioned walking sticks.
