Death of a City

by Lionel White

  “Man, this town is sure goin’ be somethin’ tonight,” a voice said. “I’d sure like to pick me up a piece of that white pussy while we at it.”

  “Pick up any kin’ a pussy you can get,” Buddy said. “But do you job first. Now put on them leather jackets and them white helmets. Nobody goin' know whether you a policeman or not. At least ’til you git close enough to fire. You each got a gun, you got you jug a booze and you got you bottles with that gasoline in ’em. So git started. An’ just one more thing. You think they is any chance some mother is followin’ you, man, don’ come back here. All right. Let’s go.”

  There was a sudden wild scramble and a couple of moments later the night roared as a dozen feet jammed on starting pedals and the Hondas came to life.

  Buddy blew out the candles and sat back in his chair smiling.

  “Son a bitch,” he said, “thas the easiest money those cats ever make for doin’ somethin’ they jus’ dyin’ to do anyway.”

  It was also the easiest money Buddy himself had ever made. There was just one trouble. He really hadn’t made most of it yet, or at least he hadn’t collected it. He wouldn’t be collecting it until some time within the next few days when Mr. Jackson said he would be getting in touch with him. Buddy sort of hated to trust a creep like Mr. Jackson, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it. At least Mr. Jackson had put up the money for the Hondas and the expenses, the money to pay the boys off when they finished their night’s work. Buddy just had to hope he wasn’t going to get stiffed himself for his cut for organizing the operation.

  That Mr. Jackson sure must be loaded. The funny Goddamned thing was, Buddy simply couldn’t figure Mr. Jackson’s angle. What the hell did Mr. Jackson care about Oakdale? Why the hell did he want to see the town set on fire? Why did he want those cops shot? Buddy simply couldn’t get it at all.

  Oh, well, maybe Mr. Jackson was just some rich nut who hated cops and liked to go to fires. Every man to his own choice. It didn’t bother Buddy one way or the other. Just so he got his payoff.

  Thirty-five hundred dollars! Goddamn! That should make that snot-nose Shirley chick sit up and take notice. Buddy would be willing to bet his ass against a wooden dime that none of her shitty college boy friends had that kind of loot to blow on her.

  Thinking of Shirley Candle reminded Buddy that he had promised to meet her at the Youth Welfare League meeting house on Central Avenue that evening at around ten-thirty. He’d better be getting started pretty soon. Buddy figured that with all the excitement which would be going on down in the colored section of town after that bombing of the church, things would be pretty hectic. There were bound to be crowds all over the street and it might take him a little extra time to make it. The police had a nasty habit of keeping colored youths off the streets when there was trouble down that way and Buddy didn’t want to get picked up. Not this night of all nights. He would have to circle around and come in from the east side of the city to avoid any possible trouble.

  The odd thing was that Buddy, who was directly responsible for a good deal of the hysteria and trouble which were spreading like a plague throughout the city, didn’t realize that no section of Oakdale would be safe to be in on that Saturday evening. One thought did occur to him, however, and he found it vastly amusing. His boys, in their white helmets and their black leather jackets, their white gloves and their motorbikes, could easily be mistaken for cops. It was more than possible one of them might shoot another one by mistake before the night was over. Buddy couldn’t care less; if it were to happen, each incident would enrich him by an additional hundred bucks.

  2 WHEN Burt Randolph, vice-president and general manager of Oakdale’s First National Bank, heard about the bombing of the church on Division Street, it didn’t take him long to figure what the aftermath would be. There would be rioting and there would be looting. It would be inevitable. Just look what was happening elsewhere in the nation. Look at the incidents which had set off other riots in other cities. A single colored boy could be shot and wounded while breaking and entering. It could spark a riot. He remembered Watts—a woman protesting because the cops wanted to pick up her son on a traffic charge had been enough. Any sort of incident could set the fuse burning. Of course, colored people were constantly being arrested in Oakdale and a couple of times within the last year or so police officers had shot colored men in the heart of the colored district.

  Nothing had happened. These were simple things and Oakdale was a relatively quiet and peaceful town. But bombing a church? The slaughter of a number of small colored children? That was something else again. Even Oakdale’s colored population would react to that. Overreact quite possibly. No, there was no doubt about it. There was bound to be trouble.

  Not, of course, that Burt Randolph didn’t have full confidence that the local police would be able to keep things in hand. Oakdale’s police knew how to handle the city’s colored population. They might need help if things were carried to extremes, but there was always the National Guard. It takes a little time for a riot to get into full swing.

  Probably the worst that would happen would be a few fire bombs tossed into liquor stores and the retail establishments in the colored sections. After all, the niggers only used the riots as an excuse for looting. One trouble, of course, was the geography of the city. The colored section was adjacent to the main business section. If something started over there, it might be pretty hard to contain it.

  The more he thought about it, the more Randolph was tempted to close the bank early. Why take any chances? But he hated to take the responsibility on his own shoulders. You simply couldn’t tell how old man Millard might react. He was just as likely to thank Randolph for his forethought as he was to fire him for going beyond his authority in making the decision. It would probably be best if he got hold of the old man and asked his advice.

  Getting hold of his superior, however, proved a little more difficult than he’d thought. Burt Randolph was still jiggling the receiver on the phone in his private office, futilely attempting to get an operator, when the electricity suddenly failed. He knew then what he had to do, Millard or no Millard. They might keep the bank open until its normal Saturday night closing hour with a potential race riot in the offing, but it was a damned cinch they couldn’t operate with candlelight, even assuming they had sufficient candles, which, naturally, they didn’t.

  Randolph left his desk and went into the main lobby of the bank and spread the word. Get rid of all customers and lock the double plate-glass doors leading to the street—as fast as possible. Collect all cash assets from the various cages and put the money in the safe and lock it up for the weekend.

  “Certainly, Mr. Randolph,” Williamson, the head teller, said. “But unless the electricity goes on again, we won’t be able to activate the time lock. The electric clock which controls it..

  “Secure things as best you can,” Randolph said. “Then see that everyone is out of the building. Except Jason. I want Jason to stay on tonight and I will try and have someone here to relieve him in the morning.”

  Jason was the bank guard on duty and normally ended his tour when the bank closed at nine o’clock.

  ‘‘Are you expecting some sort of trouble, Mr. Randolph?" Williamson asked.

  “Not all all,” Randolph said quickly. “But did you hear about that church bombing and there could be trouble in nigger town. Maybe some rock throwing and that sort of thing. I would feel better with someone on the premises. I don’t know how long the electricity is going to be off, so I think we should try and rig up some sort of light in the front of the lobby. I don’t suppose there is such a thing as a kerosene lamp ..

  Williamson shook his head, suppressing a smile.

  “I’m sure that Jason has a flashlight available,” he said. “We do have a carton of sealing wax in the store room and I think we could probably fix up some sort of jerry-rigged light. Some sort of a dish with a wick in it. Wouldn’t be much, but if the flashlight batteries are used up, it might be
better than nothing.”

  “Well, do what you can. I’ll talk to Jason. Hate to keep the old fellow on all night, but I still don’t want to leave the place in the dark with no one around.”

  “I would be glad to stay ..

  Randolph shook his head. “No, Jason is the man for it. After all, he is the guard. He has a gun and he knows how to use it. He’s getting along in years, but he was on the force and he knows his business. Not, of course, that I really expect anyone to try and break in. But just in case someone does throw a brick through those front doors, I don't want any looters wandering around the building.”

  “Shouldn’t we try and get the police ...”

  “I’m going to try and find the Mayor when I leave,” Randolph said, “but I wouldn’t count on the police. If there is trouble, you can be sure the small police force we have in Oakdale will be plenty busy trying to contain it in the riot area. I don’t think there is any chance it will spread over this far, but I just want to take every normal precaution.”

  “That bombing was a terrible thing,” Williamson said as he turned away to implement his orders. “A terrible thing. Must have been some maniac. All those children . . .’’

  3 MR. Carpender waited for several minutes after he had dialed the number and finally, annoyed, reached up and pulled down the hook which held the receiver on the pay telephone. He waited until he heard a click and then reached into the slot at the top of the telephone box, he dialed the operator and, when she came on the line, he said, “Operator, I have been trying to reach a longdistance number and seem to be having difficulty. I wonder if you would try and get it for me?”

  “What is the number you are trying to reach, sir?”

  He gave the telephone number in Oakdale, also giving her the area code number. And then he waited, the receiver pressed against his ear to shut out the noise of the traffic outside of the booth. It was several minutes before her voice came back on the line.

  “I’m sorry, sir," the operator said, “but we seem to be having some difficulty getting a circuit through to Oakdale. If you would care to give me your number, I will be glad to call you back as soon as I can ..

  “Thanks,” Mr. Carpender said. “But I will try a little later." He replaced the receiver, anything but disappointed. Turning, he left the booth and started back toward his hotel. Passing a tavern a block away, he hesitated and then entered. He spotted the radio on the wall at the far end of the bar and saw that a major-league game was in process. Going to the bar, he ordered a Scotch and soda and climbed onto a stool. He checked his wristwatch against the clock next to the cash register. It was ten minutes after nine.

  He had, of course, been quite sure that he wouldn’t be able to get through to Oakdale, after having received the call from Charlie a little earlier in the evening. However, had he been able to reach the Oakdale number, he would have hung up at once without answering. He’d just wanted to be certain. That had been the one thing he and Charlie had disagreed about, the telephone exchange. But in the long run, he’d let Charlie have his way. After all, Charlie was on the scene and Charlie was handling that end of it. He knew what he was doing and he had to trust his judgment in some things.

  Charlie’s argument had been that he might just as well use the kid as long as they were paying him off anyway and there was no point in bringing in any extra muscle if it could be helped. The reasoning had finally convinced him, especially when he counted up the money he had already put out in setting it all up.

  Of course, it would have been better if Charlie and the other two boys took care of the exchange themselves, but after all, they were going to be busy at the power station and there was only so much territory they could cover.

  Mr. Carpender had never met Timmy Young and didn’t want to, but he didn’t have too much confidence in him. For the church job, fine, he was perfect for that. But there was some doubt in Mr. Carpender’s mind about how he would be afterward. After all, the kid was really a moron, a definite case of retarded development.

  On the other hand, the telephone exchange didn’t present any really great problem. If the kid just followed instructions and got the main transformer, that’s all it would take. One grenade, one transformer. It wasn’t as though he had to enter the building, had to face anyone. The transformer was in a separate structure, off by itself, protected by nothing but the high chain-link fence which enclosed it.

  Tossing the grenade over the fence would be simple enough. It was only that Mr. Carpender never could quite trust mental defectives. But, what the hell? It must have worked out all right. In any case, the first part had certainly gone off without a hitch. And the first part, the bombing of the church, was the really important thing. That sort of job very definitely called for a mental defective. Even Charlie, tough as he was, would have found that a little sticky. Not planning it and setting it up, but actually doing it, tossing the grenade through the door.

  Mr. Carpender, reaching for his Scotch and soda, shuddered slightly and frowned distastefully. Hell, even in the early days, when he had been a lot more personally involved in the violence which had always surrounded his activities, he would have found it pretty damned difficult to have thrown that bomb.

  He looked up at the TV set in time to catch the score and saw that the Mets were behind by three runs. He decided to nurse his drink, stay around until the end of the game, maybe have a second drink while he waited for the end of the ninth inning. He wanted to see if any news bulletins were flashed on the screen. He rather doubted it, however. He’d managed to pick up a newscast earlier, between the time he’d received that first telephone call from Charlie and the time he had futilely attempted to reach the Oakdale number on the phone, and there had been nothing at all about Oakdale.

  The wire services had very likely had some hint of what was happening and had happened, but they were probably trying to get more details before they released anything. Well, unless they got a man into the town and out again, he doubted if they would have much by eleven. Mr. Carpender certainly hoped they wouldn’t.

  4 WHIP Partridge lifted his eyes from the city map spread across his desk at police headquarters when Sergeant Mallon opened the door and stepped into the chief’s private office.

  “Squad car just got back from the powerhouse,” the sergeant said. “It must have been a dynamite blast. Place is a total wreck. Still on fire.”

  “Great,” Partridge said. “Just great. That’s all we needed.”

  “There’s some sort of riot down on Central Avenue, a couple of blocks from that church,” the sergeant continued. “I got a report from the car radio from Captain Parker. He’s there now and he says he needs help. The niggers are beginning to loot and the firemen won’t go in because they say there are snipers on the roofs of some of those tenements.”

  The police chief threw up his hands and groaned.

  “Help?" he said. “For Christ sake, where am I supposed to get help from? Parker will just have to handle it the best he can. Every damned man I’ve got is already out on the streets. I been tellin’ the mayor for months now that this department was undermanned. We didn’t need tonight to prove it. Hell’s bells, if I had any help,

  I wouldn’t be sending ’em down into nigger town anyway. I’d send ’em out to patrol the white districts. If those spades want to burn down their own houses, let ’em. I don’t blame the firemen for not going in. What I need now is men to keep this thing from spreading. If old Millard doesn’t get the National Guard into this town pretty damned soon, I don’t know what’s going to happen. Captain Parker may think he needs help, but I need help, too. I need men and I don’t know where ..

  “There’s some guy outside who wants to see you, Chief,” the sergeant interrupted. “The fellow I was telling you about before. Says it’s important.”

  Chief Partridge looked at the sergeant and shook his head in disgust.

  “Goddamn it, Sergeant,” he said, “can’t you see I am busy? Can’t you see I got no time to be jawi
n’ with strangers? We got a full-fledged riot on our hands. Understand? A full-fledged riot. Whoever he is, get rid of him.”

  “I tried to, Chief,” Mallon said. “But the guy insists. Says he thinks he may be able to help you. He’s some kind of private dick. Showed me an I.D. card and he’s with something called the Banker’s Security Association. Something like that.”

  “Yeah?” Partridge said. “Is that so? Banker's Security, eh? Never heard of it. All right, send him in. And, Sergeant, try and dig me up another portable light. Battery in this one is getting weak.”

  Sergeant Mallon sighed and shook his head.

  “The boys took all the other lights,” he said. “That’s the last one you got, there."

  “Well then, get me a new battery. I can’t run this damned control station unless I can see what the hell I am doing.”

  “Where will I get a battery ...”

  “Goddamn it, I don’t care where you get it. Just get it. Break into a Goddamned hardware store if you have to. Hell, everybody else seems to be breaking into them.”

  “OK, Chief,” the sergeant said. “I’ll see what I can do. And if you want me to get rid of that guy outside . . .”

  “Oh hell, send him in. What’s the difference? One more nut tonight isn’t going to make much difference.”

  Partridge deliberately took his time, carefully cutting off the end of the cigar with a pocket knife and then reaching over to the desk lighter and snapping it into flame and holding it up to the end of the stogie, keeping his eyes down and on what he was doing and not looking at the man who had entered his office and stood quietly at the side of the desk.

  It was a technique he always used. Let ’em stand and sweat for a couple of minutes. Throw ’em off balance, make ’em a little nervous before he lifted his eyes and coldly stared at ’em for several seconds. Strangers who wanted to see the chief of police were either in trouble or they wanted a favor. In either case, it was a good idea to shake them up a little before they started spilling their story.