by Lionel White
He had loved her, honestly and truly, and this she’d never doubted. And she had loved him. Perhaps it was for this very reason that she had run away, come back to Oakdale, come back to her own people. In her heart she had realized the truth and been afraid of it. And the truth was outside in the streets of the city tonight.
She looked up then at Caroline, her eyes hard and cold and her voice was harsh and angry when she spoke.
“Don't you know what’s happening outside? Don’t you know that white men, white policemen, are beating and shooting black people? You heard what Josh said when he stopped by on his way upstairs. You heard him say he was with Billy when that cop Maced him and then beat his head in with a nightstick while he lay on the ground. You’ve heard the gunfire. White men shooting black men. Maybe the black men are shooting back and maybe not. But that’s a war going on out there, black against white, white against black. And this is black country. There’s no room now for white people here. This is no peaceful demonstration, no sit-in. Those times are gone. This is confrontation. God damn it, confrontation!"
She shoved her chair back so violently that it fell over and she stood up, hands clenched at her side, her face distorted.
“God damn you,” she said, “we don’t need sympathy anymore. We don’t want your stinking understanding. Understanding never did us any damned good anyway. The hell with understanding. It’s just another form of patronage. Now you get your ass out of here! Go back where you belong!"
As she yelled out the words, her face suddenly broke and she started to cry and she put her hands up covering her eyes as the sobs shook her.
“Don’t you understand,” she said through her tears, her voice a sudden whisper. “Don't you understand?”
Caroline walked around the table and put her arms around the other girl.
“Shirley,” she said, "Shirley ...”
The girl pulled away, stepping back, wiping the tears from her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry, Caroline. I don’t know what I’m saying. It isn’t you. I know you mean well. But you do have to get out of here. You won’t be safe here. Can’t you understand that? If the police come, and they could at any time, and they find you here, a white girl, with those boys upstairs getting drunk, there’s going to be trouble, real trouble. It don’t matter that you’re a social worker. All they’ll see is a white girl with some black boys. You know what happened out in Detroit, at the Algiers, when the police walked in and found those black boys with two white girls. They didn’t ask questions, they just started shooting and killing.”
“But, Shirley,” Caroline said, “the police know ..
“Nobody knows nothing tonight,” Shirley said. “Anyway, it isn’t just that. It isn’t just the police. Those boys who went upstairs, couple of them aren’t even from the center here. They aren’t
children, you know. And there will be more of them. You can be sure of that. There will be more, and the next group may not just be a bunch of eighteen-year-olds looking for a spot to get high. No, you have to get out of here, for your own safety as well as ours. Get out now while you still can. Before...”
She stopped talking as the outside door burst open. Both girls turned quickly.
The yellow-orange flame from the single candle on the card table flickered and bent and then came back to life, and the three figures who crowded through the doorway were faceless and barely more than shadows as they moved into the room.
They stood frozen, the two girls and the three who had entered the long hall, for what seemed like an eternity. The only sound Caroline could hear was the sudden beating of her own heart as a sense of unreasoning, almost witless fear came over her. As they had swung toward the door when it crashed open, somehow Shirley’s hand had found her own and now she could feel the colored girl's fingers closing tight on her own and she knew that the fear was not hers alone. She knew that those three sinister, dark figures in the doorway of the building had sent the same nameless sense of panic into the consciousness of her companion. She could feel the tension which had suddenly invaded the room, almost like a live thing. She had to make every effort to suppress an almost insane desire to scream.
They separated, the one in the middle coming forward out of the gloom, and as suddenly as the fear had come over her, it departed.
She could see that the man was wearing a white helmet, motorcycle goggles, a black leather jacket with some sort of badge just over the left breast pocket.
6 HIS name was not Thomas B. Gail, he was not employed by the Bankers’ Security Association, and he had not arrived in Oakdale from Charleston by automobile.
He had been baptised Pasquale di Augustino, but it had been a good many years since he’d seen anyone who’d known him by
that name. Most of the people who had contact with him knew him < as Patsy August, although the police departments of a half a dozen cities knew him by other names. It is very likely that only the FBI and his mother could have identified him under either name. And
Mr. Carpender, of course, who had sponsored him throughout his rising career as he progressed upward in the organization.
He couldn’t have been employed by the Bankers’ Security Association for the simplest of reasons; no such organization existed. His profession, however, was very much involved with banks and, in a sense, the security systems of banks.
It is true that he arrived in Oakdale that very evening, but he didn’t come from Charleston and he didn’t come by car. He came by private plane, which he’d piloted himself, and he didn’t come with three other men. He came alone. He would be meeting the other men a bit later in the evening, out at the Holiday Inn on the edge of town, driving out in the rented car he’d arranged to have waiting at the Oakdale airport when he arrived. But at the time of his arrival these three men whom he would see later on were involved in their own particular preoccupations.
They were preparing to blow up the local power station and throw the city into darkness.
Patsy August himself had had a rather busy couple of hours before he had walked into police headquarters and introduced himself as Thomas B. Gail. He had timed his arrival carefully, making sure he would be over the airport just as darkness fell He’d known, naturally, that the Oakdale airport was never bothered by heavy traffic problems, but he’d nevertheless taken the precaution of letting them know in advance when he could be expected. He wanted not only to be sure that the rented car would be ready and waiting, he wanted to be quite certain the airport people would be waiting for him and that a place would be reserved where he could anchor down the plane for the night. He wouldn’t bother with inside storage, unless the weather was really bad, and from all reports they could look forward to pleasant conditions during the late-August weekend.
Once having got radio clearance to land, Patsy brought the plane in and taxied up to the control tower, which was built on top
of the main hangar. Oakdale was serviced by a couple of small feeder lines and a charter system, and inasmuch as the feeder lines accounted for a couple of flights a day each, most of the airport’s business was the storing and servicing of privately owned planes.
Patsy had no problem in taxiing his twin-engine Cessna almost to the doors of the main hangar building. There was a parking lot behind the hangar, and he knew that that was where his rented car would be waiting.
Leaving his three large suitcases in the plane, Patsy alighted and went at once to the control tower to check in and make arrangements for tying down his plane for the night.
When Patsy walked into the six-sided control room, he found Hank Brooks, manager of the airport, angrily jerking the hook of the telephone up and down. Brooks looked up as he came into the room and ruefully smiled.
“Damned telephone,” he said. “Seems to be out of order. Can’t get the operator.” He slammed the receiver back and stood up, holding out a hand.
“Mr. August?"
Patsy smiled and held out his own hand.
�
�Nice landing you made coming in,” Hank said. “That north-south runway is pretty rough, but you took it beautifully.”
“Thanks,” Patsy said. “It was a bit rough, but I had no difficulty.”
Hank nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s rough. Damned trouble is, we just don’t have the funds to keep things up the way we should.” He looked down at a paper on his desk. “Understand you will just be with us for the night, is that right?”
“Right,” Patsy said. “I want to pull out first thing in the morning, right after daybreak. I ordered a rental car and I understand they were to leave the keys ...”
“It’s here, in back of the hangar,” Hank said. “They dropped it off about an hour ago. A black Ford two-door.” He opened the top drawer of his desk and took out two keys on a chain, holding them out. “How was your trip?”
“Couldn’t have been smoother,” Patsy said, taking the keys. “Bit hot. I could use a drink. Don't suppose you have a bar?”
Hank smiled. “We don’t even have a Coke machine,” he said. I “But I do happen to have a little gin and bitters here in the refrigerator, if you’d like to join me in a quick one. I could use a shot myself. I’ve been going a little nuts here this last few minutes. The Mayor was on the phone, arranging to get a charter to get one of his people up to the state capital when the damned telephone circuits seemed to go out right in the middle of his conversation. Haven’t been able to get him back. I had the feeling it was pretty important. We’ve had rumors that there has been a bombing over in the city somewhere. Understand it was a church and a lot of people were killed and injured, but I haven’t been able to get any
details as yet.”
He walked over to the small portable refrigerator as he talked and opened the door. He took out a partly filled bottle of gin, a bottle of bitters and shook loose an ice-cube tray.
Several moments later, as they raised their glasses and made the gesture of a silent mutual toast, Hank said, “Damned trouble is, I don’t know how many people the Mayor is sending out here so I am not able to tell Smitty which plane to get ready. I have a feeling that, whatever it is, it is probably pretty urgent and I’d like to be prepared. But what the hell, I’ll just have to wait until they show up.”
He drained his drink and asked Patsy if he’d like a refill, but Patsy August shook his head.
“That one filled the bill fine,” he said. “I'm in a bit of a hurry to get into town. If you can tell me where you’d like me to park the Cessna ...’’
“You can taxi her over to the parking line at the north end of the field,” Hank said. “It’s quite a little walk back so I suggest you stop down in the hangar and tell Smitty I said for him to drive over in the jeep and pick you up after you get her berthed down for the night. You sure you won’t have just another little ...”
“Well, just a very light one,” Patsy said.
As Hank turned once more to the ice box to pick up the bottle of gin, Patsy stepped over next to the desk. Keeping his eye on the airport manager’s back, which was turned to him, he deftly took what appeared to be a fountain pen out of his inside breast pocket
and dropped it into the waste-paper basket at the side of the desk. His eye went to his wristwatch and he made a quick mental calculation. In exactly twenty-two minutes the acid would eat through the plastic liner and the small explosion would take place. It wouldn’t be much, but then it wouldn’t take much to put the small control tower out of business.
The airport manager seemed like a real nice guy. Quite sincerely Patsy hoped that he would be out of the room when it happened. If there could have been any way in which he could have warned him, without jeopardizing the entire plan, he would have done so. But, unfortunately, there was none. Patsy had to settle for the realization that, if he were in the room at the time, at least it would be quick. He'd never know what happened to him.
Smitty was at the workbench at the end of the hangar, grinding the valves of a motor which was in the midst of being overhauled. He was only too happy to follow Patsy over to the parking place where he would leave the Cessna tied down for the night.
This time, Patsy himself supplied the drink, offering Smitty the pint flask of bourbon which he took from a briefcase as the mechanic finished stowing the three large suitcases aboard the jeep. Patsy himself took a small slug, neat, from the bottle when Smitty handed it back to him and then again passed the mechanic the bottle.
“Hang onto it,” Patsy said. “I have several more with me. By the way, I wonder if you could do me a small favor?"
“Will if I can, Mr. August,” Smitty said.
“I only need two of the suitcases," Patsy said. “But I don’t like to leave the third one in the plane unattended. I wonder if it would be all right if I left it with you in the hangar. You do keep the place locked over night, I should imagine.”
“No trouble at all,” Smitty said. “We can drop it off and I’ll lock it up in my office and then I’ll drive you around to where your car is a waiting. You won't have to worry about it at all. I lock up the office when I leave for the night and, of course, the hangar itself will be locked. By the way, what time were you planning to pull out in the morning?”
“Right after daybreak, I hope.”
Smitty nodded. “No sweat,” he said. “Eddy—he’s my assistant— comes on at six o’clock. He can gas you up and take care of anything you might need."
Patsy thanked him and said that would be just fine. But Patsy August knew very well that Eddy wouldn’t be gassing him up just after daybreak the following morning. Eddy wouldn’t be gassing anyone up because, by daybreak, there wouldn’t be any gas pumps left. Or hangar either, as far as that went. As a matter of fact, if the mechanisms worked the way they were supposed to, and they had never failed him yet, the hangar would no longer be in existence in another half hour.
The explosion which would wipe it out would take place exactly sixteen minutes after that third suitcase was locked up in Smitty’s private office in the southeast corner of the hangar.
seven
1 CONSIDERING everything, the Oakdale Country Club was weathering it pretty well. The biggest inconvenience, of course, was the fact that the telephones were out. It meant that a number of members, who were unable to get in touch with their homes, had felt obliged to leave and make sure everything was all right. But those whose wives were present and who felt secure that their families were safe, stayed on and sort of made a party out of it. A couple of others, including Knocky Higgins, who couldn’t have cared less whether his wife was safe or not, stayed on anyway.
Miles Overstreet’s wife, Beth, was not at the clubhouse and, so far as Miles knew, was home alone in their ranch house out at the north end of the city in the new and quite expensive Far Hills development. The development was well away from the center of town and was protected by private watchmen so Miles could have felt pretty sure that Beth would be safe. He, like the others at the
club, knew by now about what was happening in the colored sector I of the city and was well aware of the rioting going on. He would, of course, have felt a lot better if he were able to call Beth on the phone. Not being able to, he would have left some time ago if he
hadn’t been on his way to being really drunk.
It had all started with that business at the card table. He’d gone into the bar and started downing one straight drink after the next until, by the time the first wild rumors had become facts, he was so far gone that he actually hesitated to get in his car and drive. He was worried, of course, and he knew he should leave. But somehow or other, he just hadn’t.
What really was bothering Miles wasn’t that he worried about Beth’s being home alone. It was the fear that, if he returned home, he’d find that Beth wasn’t there. And he knew that, if he did return home and Beth wasn’t there, he would worry ten times as much, not knowing for sure where she was.
The rioting in town had nothing to do with it. His problem with Beth had nothing at all to do with rioting.
Tony Meriot, in spite of the power failure, was doing the best he could. He had even managed to find time to put a pot of coffee on the stove and get a couple of cups into Mr. Overstreet, who certainly was in need of something to bring him around. Tony himself was behind the bar, making the drinks, and his biggest worry was that they would very soon run out of ice, with the electricity off and the ice machine and refrigerators out of business. Fortunately, he’d managed not only to find a couple of dozen candles but had also dug up four kerosene lamps. There was sufficient light, just as long as everyone stayed in the barroom.
By midnight, the place was really jumping. One of the Prentice twins, the little dark one, was upholding her reputation as the club nymphomaniac with Montgomery Cartwright on the couch next to the fireplace in the darkness of the library. Cartwright’s wife, Betty, was throwing up in the ladies’ room and, once she’d emptied her stomach, would return to the bar and put down another half quart of Scotch. Several of the junior members had already passed out, proving that becoming an accomplished lush takes experience as well as physical stamina.
A fat man, who was probably someone’s guest as no one seemed to know his name or where he came from, was singing a dirty ballad as he slowly divested himself of his clothes and Knocky Higgins was telling anyone who would listen to him that, if they’d just give him a Thompson submachine gun, he’d be very happy to drop off in town on his way home and singlehandedly solve the racial problem once and for all.
“Lead,” Knocky was saying. “Hot lead. That’s what those black bastards understand. I’d just line 'em up and mow...”
