Death of a City

by Lionel White

  “I think perhaps, my dear, you had better wait here. If it is anything really serious, the police will have been in touch with Carlton and he will probably be tied up. I’ll go on into town and I will undoubtedly see him. I'll have him call you if he is going to be any length of time. Stay here and he will know where to reach you.”

  As he spoke, he saw that the color had left her face and he could feel her slender body shake beneath his hand.

  “Division Street?” she said. “Division Street. That’s down in the colored section, isn’t it? Oh God, I hope no one has started ...”

  She didn’t finish the sentence as Tony Meriot once more rushed through the door and crossed to their table.

  “Something has gone wrong with the telephone circuits, Mr. Asmore,” he said. “And the radio station just went off the air. Right in the middle of a bulletin. The announcer had just finished saying something about the explosion being in a colored church which was filled with children and that it was believed a bomb ..

  This time Caroline succeeded in reaching her feet.

  “Oh, dear God,” she said. “I knew it. I knew this would . . .”

  “Tony," Cass Asmore interrupted. “Have Reynolds bring my car around. I am going into town and . . .”

  “Your chaffeur took off when some of the colored help left right after we first heard the news, Mr. Asmore. But I could drive you ...”

  “We'll take my car,” Caroline said abruptly. “I have to find Carlton. I must find him. I knew, oh, I knew . . .”

  “Now, now,” Asmore said. “Just take it easy, my dear. All right, you can drive me into town. We will go to police headquarters and I am sure Carlton will either be there or they will know where he is.”

  Twenty minutes later, approaching the outskirts of the city, they heard the sounds of a distant fire siren and Caroline spoke for the first time since they had left the country club.

  “If it is true,” she said, “if someone has actually bombed a colored church and there were children in it, this city could very well be the scene of the worst race riot . . .”

  “Nonsense,” Cass Asmore said quickly. “You’re from up North, Miss Vargle. I don’t think you understand the psychology of a place like Oakdale. If a church has been bombed—and believe me, I certainly am not going to accept that as true until we discover the facts—but if a church has been bombed, then it is the work of a maniac. Feelings will run high, of course. There will be trouble. But I know these people. Race riots just don’t start spontaneously. And one incident, even one tragic and dramatic incident, would never spark a race riot in this city.”

  Caroline’s voice was almost formal when she next spoke.

  “I am afraid, Mr. Asmore,” she said, “that you don’t know Oakdale as well as you think you do. There has been an undercurrent of unrest in the colored section for some time now. And there have been incidents. The black people of this city . . .”

  “The black people, as you call them, of Oakdale have nothing to riot about,” Cass Asmore said coldly. “And don't tell me I don’t understand our Negroes. I have been living with them all my life.”

  “And I have been working with them, you might even say really living with them, for the last few months. I think I know how they

  t think. They read the papers, listen to the radio, see the TV. They know what has been going on around the rest of the country. A lot of the younger ones have been away to schools and colleges and they have learned the techniques of protest. Oakdale is ripe . .

  “Now, Caroline,” Asmore said, putting his hand on her arm. “I know that you are upset. But suppose we just wait and see what has happened. There is no point in going off half-cocked. No point in asking for trouble before it comes.”

  He hesitated a moment and then said, “I think perhaps you had better make a left turn at the next corner and we can circle around the center of town and run up Cottonwood Street until we come to South Charter. There seems to be some sort of traffic jam up ahead. We’ll go to police headquarters and find out what is going on.”

  Caroline slowed as the car approached the next intersection and it was as she was making the left turn that the rock hit the windshield, shattering the glass.

  three

  1 TH EY hit the powerhouse, the Oakdale generating plant of the South State Power and Light Company, at twenty minutes before nine. The four packets of dynamite, each packet made up of six sticks, did the trick. Two packets under the main generator and one carefully placed at the side of each of the two auxiliary generators. Mr. Jackson was in charge of the operation and he carried it out as planned, with his usual efficiency.

  He had been known as Mr. Jackson to George Evarts, the manager of the Peabody Hotel, but when he drove up to the Holiday Inn on Route 17 and knocked at the door of room ten and the muffled voice inside asked, “Who is it?” he said “Charlie.”

  There was the sound of a safety chain being removed and then the door opened just wide enough for him to slip in. Shades covering the plate-glass window which made up the front wall of the room had been drawn and it took him a moment or two to adjust to the dim light which, coming from the partly opened door of the bathroom, was the only illumination.

  The three of them, the two already in the room and the one who had knocked and entered, were on a first-name basis—which in itself was a bit unusual as none of them knew each other’s last names. Nodding, they gave no other sign of formal greeting. They didn’t in fact, speak a single word during the next ten minutes while they made their preparations, going through the movements silently and efficiently and with no wasted effort at all.

  Basil, the short, heavy-set one whose broken nose, scar-tissued eyebrows and crooked jaw were mute evidence of long forgotten barroom brawls, had already used the burned cork on his face and donned the crinkly gray-black wig which covered his bald head. He packed the suitcases while Marty, who had also used the burned cork to cover his pale, lean face and adjusted his own wig, carefully went over the room with a slightly damp Turkish towel, wiping any surface which might possibly have retained fingerprints. Charlie, or Mr. Jackson, went directly into the bathroom. He stripped off his jacket, loosened his necktie and opened the collar of his shirt. He tucked a towel around the collar and then turned on the light over the mirror. The burned cork was on the shelf under the mirror and his face was without expression as he studiously began to apply it, being careful to put it on as evenly as possible and keep it from getting into his eyes. He wouldn’t be bothering with a wig; the black beret which he would wear would cover most of his head and his slightly exaggerated gray-black sideburns could have belonged to a colored man as well as a white man.

  Reentering the combination living-room-bedroom of the suite, he spoke for the first time.

  “There has been a slight change of plan,” he said. “You are to leave your car here and we will all go in mine.”

  Basil looked up quickly.

  “I don’t like it, Charlie,” he said. “We already checked out.”

  “Pick up the phone and call the desk,” Charlie said. “Tell them you have changed your plans and are staying over until tomorrow morning.”

  Basil looked at Marty and shrugged.

  Marty shook his head.

  “Don’t like it either. Two cars would be better. In case we get split up or anything.”

  “Two cars are better but only if we have one here. This spot is out of town, away from where the main action is going to be. Anything happens, we can make our way back here on foot if we have to, and at least we will have transportation waiting for us. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Those are the orders and they came directly from the big man himself. So that’s the way it's going to be.”

  Basil reached forthe telephone.

  “Get all your stuff out to your car, put it in the trunk and lock it,” Charlie said. “I have what we will need in my car. Everything but the guns.”

  Marty looked down at the opened suitcase on the bed. It held two submachine guns, a
sawed-off shotgun and three thirty-eight police specials.

  “How about these?” he asked. “You want I should put them in the back of your car?”

  “I’ll be driving,” Charlie said. “Basil sits beside me and you ride in the back seat. Keep the suitcase on the floor, ready to get to fast if anything should happen. But we don’t want to use no guns unless it’s absolutely necessary. I have a couple of canisters of tear gas where I can get at them fast, in the front of the car. If we should get stopped for any reason before we get to the powerhouse, let me do the talking. I’m using local plates, I got identification and, if everybody plays it cool, there’s no reason to expect trouble. We don't have to go through the main section of town and we shouldn’t run into anything." He looked down at his wristwatch. “Let’s get moving. Time’s running short.”

  He took a pair of thin silk gloves out of his coat pocket and started to pull them on.

  Basil put the receiver back on the phone.

  “We are OK until tomorrow noon,” he said. “All set?”

  “You carrying the keys to your car?” Charlie asked.

  “I got the keys," Marty said.

  “After you get the bags in the trunk, take the keys and leave them in the glove compartment.”

  Basil looked up quickly from closing the suitcase which held the guns.

  “That would be stupid. Suppose...”

  "Suppose something should happen. Marty gets hit. We have to make it back here on foot. What good is the car to us if we don’t have a key?”

  “Marty ain’t going to get hit,” Marty said. “But I’ll leave the keys in the glove compartment. Should we all go out together or you want I should go out first?”

  “You first,” Charlie said. “My heap is parked alongside of yours. The Lincoln Continental. Get the stuff in your car and then get in the back seat. We’ll be out in exactly three minutes. You Basil, take the other bag there.”

  Four minutes later the Lincoln slowly pulled away from the parking space in front of room ten of the Holiday Inn, turning south on Route 17 and heading back toward Oakdale.

  2 OLD man Hendricks cupped one hand around his right ear and leaned forward across the desk.

  “What did you say, son?” he asked. “Between the noise that generator makes and the Goddamned noise you got coming out of that there radio of yours a man can’t even think let alone hear what you’re sayin'.”

  Harry reached down and twisted the volume dial of the tran-sister set.

  “I said it was your move, Pop,” he said. “Your move. And after working in this sweat shop for forty years, I should think by now you’d be used to hearin’ over that generator.”

  “Ain’t the generator, son,” Hendricks said. “It’s that Goddamned rock and roll you keep playing. A man can't even think, let alone hear...”

  “You been thinkin’ fine, Pop,” Harry said. “You been thinkin’ good enough to already clip me for eighty-five cents. So make a move.”

  He reached over to the radio set again and began twisting the dials.

  “You don’t like the music,” he said, ‘‘I’ll get something else.”

  Hendricks shifted the time clock which hung from a strap on his shoulder and started to get to his feet.

  “Move when I get back,” he said. “I gotta start makin’ the rounds. Anyway ...”

  He stopped suddenly, halfway up from his chair as the voice came clear and sharp from the speaker of the small radio.

  “. . . now know that the explosion which rocked the center of Oakdale less than forty-five minutes ago is believed to have been caused when someone tossed a bomb into the Abyssinian Baptist Church on Division Street. It is believed that a number of people were killed ...”

  Harry reached for the dial to turn up the volume, at the same time saying, “Holy Jesus Christ. Do you suppose . .

  “Shut up and listen,” Pop said.

  “. . . children are believed to be still buried under the debris of the burning structure. Police and firemen are at the scene and a reporter from this station is covering the disaster, but because all telephone lines are temporarily jammed, this station has no further specific information. Traffic in the downtown area is congested and police have requested that all persons not having . .

  The high, slightly hysterical voice of the announcer was interrupted in midsentence by a burst of static and Harry quickly reached for the dials. His hand never found its target. The voice, coming from the opened door of the office, arrested it in midair.

  “Freeze! Both of you. One move and you are dead men.”

  Old man Hendricks swung around as though he had already been shot and his time clock, swinging in unison with his body, struck the transistor set and knocked it to the floor. His mouth fell open and hung that way as his eyes popped. Harry didn’t have to turn. All he had to do was raise his slightly popped eyes and see the three men crowding through the doorway of the office. Two of them were carrying guns, guns which Harry knew, because of television and movies, were submachine guns. The three men, wearing dark glasses, were moving rapidly down to them. The one in the center wasn’t carrying a gun. He was carrying a blackjack, but Harry never had a chance to realize it because the blackjack crashed across his forehead, fracturing his skull and knocking him unconscious to the floor before his eyes had had a chance to register the fact that he was about to be struck.

  Old Hendricks started to make a cry of protest but, before he could utter a sound, a second blow caught him on the side of the head and he slowly leaned forward and then fell.

  Charlie put the blackjack back in his side coat pocket.

  “Tie ’em up, Marty,” he said. “Basil, you take his clock and start punching in. I am going to need fifteen minutes, no more.”

  He went back to the doorway of the office and picked up the heavy canvas bag he’d carried into the building. His eye went to the watch on his wrist. It was half past eight.

  3 IT is quite possible that at any other time the incident would probably have passed virtually unnoticed. It would have perhaps mystified a number of persons, but in a normal climate the facts of the case would sooner or later become known and the entire thing would have blown over. However, by the time it took place, the climate was anything but normal. By eight o’clock on that Saturday evening, there probably were no more than a handful of colored people in all of Oakdale who had not become aware of the bombing of the Abyssinian Baptist Church and the senseless murder of a number of small colored children. And so, despite the fact that the telephone system in the city was no longer functioning and all communication was by word of mouth, the rumors snowballed as they passed from person to person and what had been a small thing became a cause celebre.

  An innocent young colored girl had been raped by a gang of white men in broad daylight in the very heart of the colored district. Whitey was not only burning down the churches and killing the children. Whitey was openly raping the wives and daughters of the colored population.

  The truth, of course, was something else again.

  It had happened when the five high-school students had gone down to the beer parlor on Sycamore Street to buy a couple of cases of beer. They had driven down to the colored section in a car belonging to the oldest of the group, a lad named Sid Bamberger, who, because he was sixteen and had an all A record the previous semester in junior high school, had been given a Mustang by his grateful and proud family.

  It was not the first time the five boys had stopped by the Tip Toe Beer Parlor to stock up. They did it each Saturday evening and there was a very good reason why they went to the Tip Toe instead of patronizing some place in their own part of town. They were all under age and they all looked it. It is doubtful if there was a white bar or store in Oakdale which would have sold them beer.

  So they had gone down to the Tip Toe as they usually did on Saturday evening for the beer they would be drinking later that night at the dance which was being given over at the country club. They knew damned well that they would
n’t be able to get anything stronger than lemonade at the club itself.

  It happened just after they had bought and paid for the two cases of beer and were carrying them out to the Mustang.

  One minute they were leaving the beer place and then, before anyone, including the boys themselves, knew what was happening, the girl was in their midst and screaming. As Sid explained it later, in telling the story to his father, “My God, Dad, I just couldn’t believe it. I don’t even know where she came from. All I know is that she was there, tearing at my clothes. She seemed to have blood all over her face and she was naked, but I mean naked. Nothing on at all from the waist up. Yelling rape. That we’d raped her.”

  A little later, Sid’s father said, “I’m putting the Mustang up for the next two months. Not, son, because of the girl. I believe your story about her, although it doesn’t make much sense. No, I am punishing you for being a damned fool. I don’t exactly approve of your buying beer, but you should have enough sense to know better than go to a colored bar to get it. So far as the girl is concerned, you and the other boys can consider yourselves lucky. I don’t know what it might have been all about, but you could have gotten yourselves into serious trouble.”

  Sid knew that his father was telling the truth. He knew just how close they had been to being in serious trouble. It was probably only because of the very suddenness of the thing that they had gotten away as they did, only because the people around when the incident took place, were as surprised by what was happening as the boys themselves had been.

  A dozen people had rushed out of the bar when the girl had started screaming and others were already beginning to stare from nearby windows and doorways.

  The girl had apparently picked Sid himself as her target and she kept tearing at his clothes and screaming. It wasn’t so much that he was scared. He guessed he was more embarrassed than anything else. After all, she was just about naked and she kept pushing her bare breasts up against him and yelling like a crazy woman. He had finally managed to get the door of the Mustang open and crawl behind the wheel, not so much because he was trying to make an escape as because he just wanted to get away from her.