At the Christmas break a close friend of the professor who was a barber—Erskine the Barber—was holding Chicago’s first Kwanzaa celebration, at least according to him. He begged Prez to come in for an Afro styling session and to model in a fashion show of African garb.
Prez got off the bus and started walking the three blocks to the barber shop. This time he knew he was being followed. But it was just after noon on a bright sunny day. He didn’t think they would get violent in such an affluent Afro-American neighborhood, especially since everyone was counting down the days to Christmas. And he wasn’t concerned about the gun he was carrying. At worst, that was a misdemeanor charge and a fine.
A police car began driving slowly behind him. At the next intersection it turned left. Prez kept walking. He crossed the street so that motor traffic would face him. The police car came around the corner facing him and drove very slowly. Prez used his peripheral vision to note that the cop was talking into his radio microphone. Prez kept walking straight. The car came around the corner again and this time Prez looked at the cop. It was Mad Dog Murphy. Why was he in a single-man car, Prez wondered. Murphy motioned him over. Prez tried to ignore him, but he did not want to give him any excuse to start shooting. They were on a residential street and right in front of a school that he knew was busy readying some of its students for the Kwanzaa show. Prez walked over to the driver’s side. Murphy had his right hand inside his jacket. Snubby in a shoulder holder, Prez guessed. That’s illegal.
“Well, well. The dead girl’s fuck slave. Where you going?”
“Erskine’s Barber Shop three streets over.”
“You got ID?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I want to see it.”
Prez gave him his wallet.
“Well, well. You’re a foreigner too, Preston Downs from Washington, D.C.”
“Why did you stop me?”
“Watch your tone with me, boy.”
“I’m nobody’s boy. You need to watch your tone.”
“What the fuck did you just say to me, boy?”
“May I ask you something, off-i-cer? Is there any trouble in the area?”
“Ah, no . . . boy.”
“Just one more. Are you looking for anyone that fits my description?”
“I already told you there’s no trouble in the area, so why would I be looking for anyone?”
“So you’re not looking for anyone that fits my description.”
“No. Your description or anybody’s description.”
“Then you don’t have probable cause.”
“What? I’m a cop. I can do what I want out here.”
“The Supreme Court has just ruled that you cannot. You have to have probable cause, otherwise this is an illegal stop and you are breaking the law. May I have my wallet back? I am free to leave.”
Prez noticed a beige sedan driving slowly by. It turned the corner and stopped.
“You leave when I say you can leave.”
“No, officer, you are breaking the law. You are in violation of the Constitution.”
“I can ask to search you.”
Then a dark-gray sedan rolled by slowly. Mad Dog Murphy made eye contact with the driver of the passing car. Prez looked over his shoulder and saw it was Wicker. He drove up two blocks and parked.
“Yes, you can ask and I have the right to say no. The answer is no. You cannot frisk me. Keep the wallet. I’m going to the barber shop. Return it there or I’ll have my lawyer on this and he’ll get it back.”
Prez turned and started walking away from the car. He heard the car door open and feet come rushing towards him. He felt a sharp blow to the back of his head and saw a flash of light. He wondered if he had been shot in the head. He was thrown over the back of the police car’s trunk. Mad Dog Murphy was screaming at him.
“Nigger, I’m going to blow your head off! I’m going to blow your head off, nigger!”
Prez turned and looked down the barrel of a snub-nosed revolver loaded with dum-dums. The cop kept screaming. But everything seemed to be in slow motion now. The cop screaming slowly: “I’m going to bloooow your head off, Niggerrr!”
Some kids opened the school door. Murphy glanced, switched the snubby over to his left and drew his service revolver, which he pointed at the kids.
Prez snap-drew his weapon and spun. He saw flashes from the cop’s muzzle. Prez was wearing a long black leather coat. When he spun its tails flared out. He could feel bullets pulling at his coat tails. He shot back at the cop’s gun arm. He wanted to disarm that mad dog and get the hell out of there. The cop dropped his gun and fell backwards. Prez took off running in the other direction, away from the two parked sedans. He ran zig-zag like a half-back. He could feel his clothes being snatched and pulled this way and that. He felt stinging sensations on his torso and back. He kept running. He turned a corner and ran as fast as he could. He heard tires screeching but no sirens. He ran through an alley, jumped a fence, ran through a backyard, jumped another fence, threw his weapon down a sewer, stopped a kid, and bought his hat from him, then he took off his coat, threw it in a garbage can, and walked into a clothing store and bought another one. When he bent down to get the money out of his boot the proprietor asked, “Did you hit your head? You’re bleeding.” Prez touched the back of his head and his hand came away covered in blood.
“Don’t know how that happened. Is there a washroom or sink in here?”
“Sure, in the back.”
Prez paid, said thank you, and went to the bathroom to clean the blood. Then he ran to get on a bus that was just about to pull away from the curb. Now he was hearing sirens and lots of them. A small army of police cars raced by. He got off the bus and took the subway north. He stayed on the subway until Loyola University. He got off and found a phone booth on North Broadway. A woman answered: “You’re at Loyola? Go to the Madonna Della Strada Chapel and wait.”
He asked directions and was pointed toward the chapel. He sat on the steps, paced, and sat some more. It was a long ten minutes before he saw the professor’s MG pull up. The woman who had come to his former apartment was driving.
“C’mon!” she said as she got out to put the top up. “Here.” She passed him an envelope after they were seated in the car. “Everything you need is in there. Do you have papers, money? Give it to me. The number that you called, if you wrote it down give me the paper.”
“What is this?” he said as he opened the envelope and pulled out some weird looking currency.
“Canadian money.”
“Where’s Professor Mackey? And I need to call my lawyer.”
“If you do that, you will be dead before midnight. You are too fucking smart to be acting so goddamn stupid right now. Do you want to live or die? Sit back, we’ve got some driving to do.”
52
Montreal, Summer Solstice, 1969 – After Supper
There had been rather innocuous banter around the table thus far. That was about to change.
“There are differences between what white women and black women consider necessary to achieve women’s liberation. This is based upon the stark differences in our real lives. You care about stuff that we don’t. You hide stuff that we won’t. For example, you demand the right to work but I’ll bet you would be so uncomfortable if you actually made more money than your man.”
Marianne roared with laughter. “I already make more money than most men I know. And believe me, I flaunt it. Isn’t that right?” She looked at Prez.
“You are a managing librarian, while Doug is just a reference clerk,” Jamie interjected. “You should make more. But in that type of employment climate it is different from the real world. You should know that, Marianne.”
“What ‘real world’ are you referring to, Jamie?” asked Tala.
“Where real things are produced and delivered. Like resources, goods
, retail, banking and transportation services, communications . . . that sort of thing. Take a look at the companies listed on the stock exchanges or in the Fortune 500 if you want to know who the big boys are. There aren’t any libraries listed and no women running any of those companies. Anyway, you should really be talking about wealth accumulation and not wages because one’s wages may not tell the whole story of the net worth of an individual.” He scowled at Marianne. “And you should know that too.”
Prez looked over at Marianne and had never seen her so dejected. He said, “You don’t think libraries are important, Jamie. You don’t value information?” She dropped her eyes and would not look at Jamie. She was displaying something towards Jamie that Prez would have bet practically anything she didn’t even have in her—submissiveness. Shit, he thought, how much money does Jamie have? Is that it? Jamie, at six feet two, also possessed something else Marianne seemed to want in a man—height. Marianne seemed ill at ease when they were out together and she had on high heels.
He wondered about the quizzical way she looked at mixed-race babies and children. What was she thinking and feeling as she looked at them?
“Jamie, are you trying to channel this conversation into a debate about capitalism versus Marxism?” asked Tala. “That’s a typical male chauvinist tactic—trying to veer away from what we women really want to talk about.”
What a great move. Let me stay quiet and see how this unfolds, thought Prez.
“She’s right, Jamie. We were talking about whether any differences exist between what black and white women are fighting for. What has that got to do with net income?”
“Well, actually, everything. Or, maybe nothing. I’ll just butt out. Hmph!”
Oh, stop pouting, Jamie, and get back in there and fight like a rich white boy, thought Prez.
“The point I was trying to make is that in the Afro-American community families have been held together by the women on every level, and still are.
“It’s really hard to enjoy such an exquisite meal while such an unappetizing course of conversation is being served up,” said Prez. “I just heard such an offensive deluge of stereotyping bullshit gush from your mouth, Tala, that I almost don’t know what to say. Except that I am disappointed, and that you, of all people, should know better. You were raised by your father. You know what happened to my father.”
“What happened to your father, Doug?”
“Not now, Jamie, please. Tala, you know of the families that live around Lincoln Park. The fathers are there taking care of their families, going to work every day and providing the whole neighborhood with a sense of security.”
“I’m going by statistics which bear me out. You haven’t even seen what I’ve been reading. You haven’t looked at the information. You’re just going by what you see every day,” said Preston.
“True. But knowing begins with observation. I read too, just to remind you. And when I read jive like you are talking now the underlying proposition is an Afro-American community that is matriarchal and monolithic. Afro-Americans comprise a sort of nation. And like any nation there is a class and caste structure. There is a complex and fluid social structure. While it is true that slavery removed the black man from the head of his family and replaced him with the slaveowner, it is also and more profoundly true that the Harlem Renaissance was built upon the solidity of the Afro-American family with the father at its head.”
“And before I say anything else, a bit of a tribute to a woman I think is really fantastic, so fantastic that she made me promise not to bring up the fact that she is soon to be a professor at Howard University. She is beautiful, brilliant, and bold all rolled into one woman who probably makes way more money, in wages, than all of us put together. But still, none of that takes away from the fact that on this particular issue, Tala, you are wrong.”
“Professor Tala!” Marianne blurted out. She got up and gave Tala a big hug. “Your father must be so proud,” said Marianne.
“Oh, he is, in his own restrained way, you know. Like he can’t bring himself to give me praise sometimes. I love how you all have balconies,” said Tala. “Mind if I step out and enjoy your balcony for a bit while you’re getting dessert? Come out with me, will you, Prez?”
As Tala looked from the balcony, Prez approached her from behind and put his arms around her waist. “Beautiful night, the way you smell, the way the evening light shimmers upon your lips.” Prez turned her aound and leaned in for a kiss.
“Don’t you dare try to Don Juan me on her balcony.” Tala placed her palm on his chest and pushed him away. “Anyway, we have to talk.”
“Oh, do we? Let me guess. Hm, I can’t even begin to guess. Nobody died. You wouldn’t have any news for me about you and your boyfriend, since I don’t see an engagement ring. And anyway, we are not supposed to be anything but friends in spite of this morning’s accident.”
She turned from him and looked down at the shaking shadows of tree leaves upon the pavement. “Accident, huh? That’s what you think happened?”
“The way you’re acting now, yeah, an unintended collision between two bodies that could result in a lot of damage.”
Tala lowered her head and wiped her cheeks dry of a few wayward tears that she quickly disowned. She wondered if he’d noticed, and hoped not. She turned to face him and crossed her arms.
“You won’t be coming home any time soon. Don’t look at me like that. My father wanted you to know. You’re on a kill list.”
“I knew it. Godammit, I knew it as soon as it happened. But, your father is in D.C. How does he know what happened in Chicago?”
“My father loves you like a son. He doesn’t want anything to happen to you. Will you stop looking at me like that?”
Prez noticed that she did not answer his question. What she had told him indicated that Master Flowers had access to federal information. That gibed with his conclusions that the repression being suffered by the movement was federally coordinated, but who exactly was Master Flowers, a man who had nurtured him with a lot of love and affection? And who was Tala? He had been in love with her forever. And this morning she had given herself to him in the most unexpectedly beautiful manner. Instead of that being a beginning, it was an ending.
“What’s ‘any time soon,’ Tala?”
“We don’t know, Prez. You’re okay here. You’re safe, protected, and you have a life of freedom.”
“Freedom? Bullshit! Who’s protecting me? I mean, if you know I’m protected then you must know who’s protecting me, because I sure don’t and I don’t feel protected. And I don’t want to be protected here. I want to go home.”
“Well. You are. They won’t touch you because Canada and the United States do not have an extradition agreement.“
“So what? No agreement or ten agreements.”
“An extradition fight means evidence must be presented in open court. They don’t want that.”
“They are afraid of the truth. But I want this whole fucking ordeal addressed in a court of law. I agreed to leave only because I thought I’d be coming back soon. And I have been doing everything that has been asked of me. It’s been a long time. My family doesn’t even know where I am.”
“They know you’re alive and well.”
“Who told them?”
“Look, Preston, we are still doing all we can to get to the bottom of this and figure out what is going on. Until we understand what you got caught up in, we cannot let you come back home. You would not live long enough to see a trial.”
“I don’t want to be in exile.”
“We are doing everything we can. My father has already made inquiries, discoveries; and not just through filing motions but by talking to people he knows.”
“What has he found out?”
“Don’t get upset. Promise? Say it. Say you will stay calm and focused.”
“Alright.”
/> “You want to know how long the feds have had you under surveillance with your own personal file number and code name? Well, do you? 1963, Prez; since 1963, when you faced down the police at the Garfinckle’s store demonstration. My father practically begged you not to go. Remember? He even made you do more kata that day, and made you do a whole bunch of new stretching routines, hoping that it would be so late after you finished that you would decide not to go. But go you did. And put yourself right up in front.”
“What else was I supposed to do, Tala? All my boys were there because I asked them to come. I couldn’t abandon them.”
“Well, none of your boys are knee-deep in shit now, are they? Only you. Let’s take inventory. Brennie-Man’s older brother – “
“Yeah, I know, Tala. He’s a police officer himself now. And Wellington’s teaching at a college down South. And Sticks is coaching basketball. And Freddie Snaps married Debra and they live in Norfolk where Freddie’s father started a private college and now they both are professors there . . . and the list goes on and on. But only I am in exile without my family and therefore, seemingly, without a future. I know all that. You don’t have to rub it in.”
“And your brother? A sergeant major in the US Army.”
“What is your point, Tala?” Prez was beginning to feel very tired.
“What really happened to you on the streets of Chicago that day was that Preston Downs, Jr., your father’s first-born son, was killed. Oh sure, they missed killing your body, but your life’s trajectory was ended. Even if you were still back there, locked up and awaiting trial, you would not win at trial, Prez. They would have stacked the deck against you from the indictment to the judge, to phony witnesses, to the jury panel. One way or another, they wanted you dead and buried. You need to embark upon a new life trajectory.”
Exile Blues Page 28
