by Lionel White
“I won’t need the candle,” Asmore said. “They have some lights rigged up in the bar just off the hall and I could find that blindfolded in the dark. You just stay here and I’ll dig us up a little brandy. We could both use it."
He stood up, feeling his way as he moved off toward the dim light coming from the end of the room, and Caroline waited until he had passed into the hallway before she quickly stood up, gathering her bag. She made sure she had the keys to the Volkswagen and then, feeling a pencil in the bottom of the bag, quickly took it out. Using a napkin from the table, she wrote a short note telling Asmore that she was going over to the Youth Center and to give Carlton the message if he should see him. And then she found her way out of the building to where she had parked her car with the broken windshield.
In spite of the rock thrown through the windshield when they had entered the city, she hadn’t the slightest fear as she started over to the Youth Center in the colored district. If there was rioting going on, and there was no doubt that there was, she knew that the very people she had been working with these last few months would without doubt be involved. If there was looting going on, they would also be involved. It was always the children and the teenagers who got carried away and who also got into trouble. In the long run, they were the innocent victims of the rioting. The thing was to try to reach them, try to stop them before they got started, make them realize what they were doing.
She knew these people, knew them and understood them. After all, hadn’t she been spending most of her time now for months on end working with them and helping them, keeping them from getting into trouble?
Yes, her job was at the Youth Center. Her job was to reach
them and talk reason to them and make them understand that all they could do was hurt themselves.
The young ones, the bright, ambitious ones, they would understand her and they would talk to the others. The ones like Shirley Candle, who was really bright and intelligent and dedicated, were the kind she had to reach. The ones, like Buddy Thomas, who even though they were a little stupid and happy-go-lucky, were amenable and good-natured and essentially kind and cooperative.
Because no traffic lights were operating, along with the confusion caused by hundreds of curiosity seekers who had driven into the center of the city from the outskirts, traffic was so badly snarled that it took Caroline almost three-quarters of an hour to drive the six blocks north to where she turned east on Charter Street. She had decided she would take time to stop off at police headquarters after all and see if by any chance she could find Carlton Asmore. It was while she was waiting to make the turn that she heard the voice coming from the loudspeaker.
At first as the voice reached her ear she merely stuck her head out of the side of the car, looking for the source of the sound, and didn’t really hear the message. But then she saw the sound truck a couple of cars ahead of her, coming from the other direction, and again the voice boomed out.
“. . . state of emergency has been declared and as of now a curfew has been put in effect by the Oakdale Police Department. All citizens will immediately get off the streets and go at once to their homes. I repeat. All citizens not having official business will immediately get off the streets and go to their homes. This curfew will remain in effect until further notice. Your attention please. A state of emergency has been declared by . .
Caroline eased in the clutch and the Volkswagen crept slowly ahead. She decided it would perhaps be best to pass up police headquarters. She doubted if the police would consider that she was out on official business.
Again the voice from the loudspeaker issued its warning and it occurred to Caroline for the first time that the warning was meant for her as much as for anyone else in the city on this particular night.
What, in fact, was she doing on the streets of Oakdale? And
why should she be heading for the colored section instead of t turning the Volkswagen and starting for home?
Carlton would be bound to check her apartment sometime during the night. After all, they did have a date to meet. They had planned to spend the night together. They had missed each other at the country club, but he would still be looking for her, worrying about her and wanting to know that she was safe.
Wasn’t she, in fact, being just a bit stupid about the entire thing? She was a social worker, not a policeman or a fireman. It wasn’t her job to control riots. The Lord only knows, she had done everything in her power to prevent one. Didn’t her duty end there? This was, after all, the night she had promised to be with Carlton. This was the night that they had set aside to spend together and make their plans for the future, the night they had been looking forward to, the night when it had been tacitly understood between them that they would formalize their engagement, set the date. They were to spend this night in each other’s arms as they dreamed about and planned their life together.
So what in the world was she doing heading into the center of the rioting?
Carlton, of course, would be somewhere down there. But Carlton would be there in an official capacity. He had to be there, gut did she? Could she really do any good? And wasn’t it really her duty to go home where she would be safe? Go home and wait for him? Sooner or later, he would show, would seek her out. Didn’t her real duty lie in being there when he arrived? In keeping herself safe and secure for him?
As she approached the intersection, she slowed down to make the turn and, when she rounded the corner, she saw the sky suddenly light up ahead as flames burst through the roof of a large warehouse a block away. It struck her that the scene held a certain amount of wild beauty and for a moment she sensed a peculiar type of thrill which was almost sexual. The thought crossed her mind that arsonists are usually sexual psychotics and she shivered slightly.
Her mind went back to Carlton. At that moment she felt an almost uncontrollable physical desire for him and instinctively her
foot lifted from the throttle and, as the car slowed, she knew that more than anything else on earth she wanted to be with him.
At that moment two small figures stepped off the curb almost directly in front of the Volkswagen and she swerved the car to avoid them. The light beams picked up a pair of little colored boys, neither of whom could have been more than eight or ten. They were lugging a heavy leather suitcase, each one holding an end of the bag as they hurried across the street. Her eyes went to the side from which they had emerged and she saw the shattered door leading into a luggage shop.
At once all thoughts of Carlton left her mind. These were the ones, these children who were looting and running wild, who really needed her. They were the ones who would be the true victims of the rioting before it was over.
Her mouth set in a stern line as once more her foot pressed the gas pedal and she started again in the direction of the Youth Center.
Carlton would have to wait.
five
1 HUGHY Crown held the unlighted cigar in his hand and leaned forward against the desk which held the mike and the turntable. He glared at Mac, the engineer, as Mac wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist.
“Goddamn it,” he said, “what’s the matter? Where’s the power? What we got that generator for if you can’t get it to work?"
“The generator’s working,” Mac said. “Where do you think you are getting the juice for that forty-watt light bulb from?”
“I don’t need a light bulb,” Crown said. “I need to get on the air. Why can’t you ...”
“I’m an electronics engineer," Mac said, his voice surly, “not a mechanic. I got the generator going but she just isn’t putting out. Supposed to put out enough for five thousand watts, but I just can’t get it. Anyway, I don’t know anything about gas engines and that’s what turns the auxiliary generator. I’m doing the best I can. I'll try adjusting the carburetor again and recheck the timing. Maybe we can make the eleven-o’clock . .
Hughy Crown looked at his watch.
“Ten now,” he said. “Christ, would
n’t you know it. Greatest Goddamned story ever hit this town and I can’t even get on the air. This would happen to me. Do you think there is any chance the power will come back on?”
The engineer shrugged. “Who knows?” he said. “We haven’t even got the phones back yet." He wiped away the sweat again and sighed. “I’ll get back to work again on the auxiliary. Maybe in a half hour or so ...”
“All right,” Hughy said. “All right. Then get back on it.” He looked at his watch again, tossed his unlighted cigar into the wastebasket. “No damned point in my hanging around here,” he said. “I'm going out. Going to drive around and see what the hell is happening. I sent the kid out an hour ago and he hasn't even telephoned in. I don’t even know what the hell is happening and it’s the biggest damned story ...”
“He couldn’t telephone if the phones are out,” Mac said.
“Well, do what you can,” Hughy said. “I’ll be back in a while, so for God’s sake try and get me some power. Get me enough so that at least I can get on the air with something.”
Five minutes later he was pulling away from the radio station, driving his XKE. He had been tempted to take the mobile unit but discarded the idea when he realized he would have to relay any broadcast through the station itself and there would be no point if the station was unable to get on the air. In the back of his mind was the additional realization that, should he get down where the action was, where he understood the rioting and looting were going on, the mobile unit mighU make a perfect target for the rioters. Newspapermen, cameramen, reporters had been targets during the recent riots in other cities, and it would be best if he were incognito, so to speak. Another thing, the Jag was fast and, if he had to make a quick getaway, it would be a lot safer than the heavy truck.
For a moment or so, as he raced the engine and prepared to put the car into gear, he hesitated. He felt a sense of fear and he was very much tempted either to return to his office upstairs or else just to drive out to his apartment, make himself a couple of drinks and sit it out. But then again he thought of the story, of
the great opportunity to be really in on the scene. Even if Mac didn’t get him back on the air, he’d still have a terrific first-person
I account which could be taped later. Probably be picked up by the networks. It could really make him. After all, that’s the way all the famous newscasters had gotten their start, being at the right place at the right time. And from the rumors and stories which had been coming into station WXZQ during these last couple of hours, Oakdale was the right place. And now was the right time.
He could go on being a disk jockey forever on this little two-bit small-town radio station and no one would ever hear of him. But one nationwide broadcast, one first-person on-the-scene story . ..
He let out the clutch and, when the car turned into the street, took the first intersection to the right and headed for the center of the city, headed in the direction where the night sky was lit up over the dark silhouettes of the downtown buildings, lighted not by street lights but by fires which he knew were blazing in the colored sections of the city.
There was a hollow feeling in his stomach and he could feel the cold sweat coming out on his forehead. He shamelessly admitted to himself that he was scared half to death, was aware of his cowardice, but he continued on. It was just too big a chance to miss. And anyway, he told himself, if there were fires, there would be firemen. Firemen and police.
He decided he would use his press card in order to get through the lines, but once he got to where the action was really taking place, he'd get rid of the card. Everybody knew Hughy Crown. He’d try and get a few personal interviews. He would carry the portable tape recorder with him, which he had in the trunk of the car, and then later, he could incorporate the tapes into his first-person newscast of the holocaust.
Turning east into Green Street, he could see that there was some sort of traffic jam ahead and he slowed down. Already he could feel, or at least he thought he could feel, the heat from the flames which lit up the sky directly in front of him. He was forced to slow down and come to a stop when the car in front of him halted. He rammed his hand down on the horn button angrily.
Winding down the side window all the way, he poked his head out and saw a long line of cars up ahead. A quick look to the rear showed that he was hemmed in tightly and there was no chance to turn in the narrow street and go back. Still holding his hand on the horn button, he inched forward and twisted the steering wheel. The XKE mounted the curb and in a moment he was driving on the sidewalk. The crowds opened up like waves before the bow of a ship as he slowly progressed, keeping the twin horns blasting and cursing the crowds when they failed to move out of his way fast enough.
At the end of the block a uniformed policeman standing in the center of the street stared at him for a moment and then began blowing his whistle. He crossed over to the car, angrily yelling, “Where the hell do you think you are going, buster!"
Hughy Crown found his press card and held it out as the officer puttheflashlighton hisface.
“Press,” he said. “I’m Hughy Crown, WXZQ."
“I don’t give a Goddamn who you are,” the cop said. “Get that damned car off the sidewalk.”
“I’m looking for the chief,” Hughy said. “Whip Partridge. Is he up ...”
“Get off that sidewalk,” the cop repeated. “Get that pile of junk off the sidewalk and park it. Nobody drives past this point.”
The police officer walked beside the Jaguar as Hughy drove back across the curb. He could see the fire engines up ahead and, although the street was lined with cars which had been parked, there was a clear path between them.
“I’m Hughy Crown, station WXZQ,” Hughy repeated. “I’m down here to interview the chief and I ...”
He suddenly realized he was talking to himself. The uniformed policeman had turned and again was blasting away with his whistle as he half-ran to intercept several men who were starting toward the fire on the other side of the street.
Hughy slammed the car in low and the engine roared as his tires skidded on the pavement. He heard the cop’s whistle again, but he didn’t stop or turn back. Ahead, between two fire trucks, he saw a police squad car with a red light circling on its roof.
The car pulled out and turned left, but he was no more than barely around the corner before both feet slammed pedals to the floor as he braked desperately to avoid the half dozen thick fire hoses which lay in front of him. He was dimly aware of the squad car, which had, upon turning into Division, pulled up abruptly at the curb just around the corner. His reactions, however, were not fast enough and before the Jaguar had come to a halt, he had bumped over a half dozen hose lines.
For a second or so, he just sat there, half-stunned by the shock of the sudden stop. As he looked down the street he saw that the entire east side, for at least two or three blocks, was ablaze. Sparks and half-burned pieces of wood were falling all around him and, in spite of clouds of black smoke pouring from a dozen buildings, the street was as bright as it would be at twilight.
It was only when the door of the car was jerked open and he felt himself being pulled from the leather bucket seat that he came to.
“You son of a bitch," the fireman said, pulling him from the car, “you son of a bitch, you just ran over our hose lines. What the hell you doing in here anyway?”
For a moment Hughy stuttered, seeking to find words, and then he managed to get the press card out of his pocket again and held it up.
He started to explain who he was and that he was looking for the police chief when the fireman jerked the card from his hand and threw it on the ground.
“Just get the hell out of here,” he said. “We got trouble enough without...”
The man had released his arm and Hughy leaned down and retrieved the press card.
“Covering for station WXZQ,” Hughy muttered. “If you can let me have your name, I’d like to get a statement..
“You want a statement, see Chief Miller
,” the fireman said. “In the meantime, get that damned car...”
Hughy realized that the voice was no longer yelling. It wasn’t exactly friendly but apparently the man realized who he was talking to. Hughy forced a half smile.
“You guys are doing a great job. Great," he said. “How come you can still get water with the power station out and ..
“Water works are up at the north end of the county. Don’t depend on city power,” the fireman said. “Now, you better...”
Hughy got back in the Jag. "I’ll just turn around,” he said, “and if you can tell me where I can find ..
The fireman pulled the door open again.
“You ain't turning around and driving over those hoses again,” he said. “You can leave your car here or you can go forward. You want the chief, you’ll find him up ahead somewhere.”
Hughy looked back up the street and saw the flaming buildings, the debris everywhere. At one point a building had caved in and fallen, burying a couple of cars parked at the curb.
“I could never get through,” he began.
“You can get through if you just take it slow and watch where you are going. An ambulance got through just a couple of minutes ago. It’s the only way you can get out of here now. You ain’t going to cross those hoses again and even if I let you, the street’s all jammed up and you’d have to get out and start walking anyway. Now just go ahead and take it slow. Once you get past Elm, you’ll be all right. But get out of the colored section as soon as you can. I hear they are looting and there’s been some sniping.”
For a moment he hesitated, almost tempted to leave the car and take a chance on losing it. The way the sparks were falling nothing in the vicinity was really safe. But then he remembered that he had allowed his insurance to lapse two months back and that he still owed a year and a half's payments on the car. He simply had to take a chance and try and get out the hard way. After all, if the ambulance got through ...
2 GOLDIE Jackson looked around at the five girls, shifting her great bulk in the old kitchen morris chair as her eyes darted back and forth. She sighed and reached for the whiskey bottle to pour a short drink into the paper cup on the table. She was already very drunk.
