Shakedown on Hate St

by Matthew Copes

  I told him I would.

  “La Lena said to tell you she's real sorry and that she loves you too. Do me a favor and don't mention this to nobody. I just got outta the slam. You feel me?”

  “I feel you,” I said. “Thanks for the beer.”

  It was official. The woman I adored had set me up for two beating-abductions. She's always a woman to me...

  I was punch-drunk as hell, but I had the presence of mind to grab the pile of addressed, stamped envelopes from my desk drawer. I walked back down to the lobby and stuffed them into the outbound mail slot.

  Before I dragged myself into the hot shower I finished off the last Colt 45. It wasn't half bad. The stuff knocked you for a loop too, and fast. I got dressed, grabbed my keys and walked outside. The head trauma and beer buzz had me weaving. I hailed a cab.

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  “Seven-thirty.”

  “What day is it?”

  “Thursday. Buddy, you OK?” He sized me up in the rearview mirror.

  “I'm OK. I just got out of the hospital,” I lied.

  “Take me to Magnolia Dry Cleaners on Pine in Cherry Hill.” It was late and I knew they'd be closed, but it was worth a shot. I told the cabbie to wait while I walked around back but the shop was all closed up. I pounded on the door and yelled La Lena's name but there was no answer. I got back in the cab and we drove to her apartment. I paid and walked across the courtyard to her building, and just as I got to the door La Lena's grandmother came out with Soul.

  Soul recognized me first. “Hi Mr. Dutch,” she said.

  “Hi girl. Where's your mother?”

  “She had to go to work.”

  “Soul is going to stay with her Aunt Gladys and Uncle Curtis for a day or two,” grandmother said. “La Lena said if I talked to you to tell you she loved you. I don't know what you two are wrapped up in, but please don't let that girl get hurt. And please don't come around here again. There are children here who don't need to be involved with whatever it is you're doing.” She whispered the last two sentences.

  “I won't. I'm sorry,” I said. I took a knee. “Goodbye Soul. Remember what I told you. I love you more than anything. Don't ever forget that.”

  “I love you too. Whenever you look at that flower, you can think of me, OK?”

  After seeing Soul and La Lena's grandmother I went home. There was nothing more I could do. I'd either see the two of them again or I wouldn't. That was the cold, hard truth. I got down on my knees and did something I hadn't done in a long time. It took a lot of nerve considering how our last interaction had gone. I humbly asked a God I'd never seen and didn’t believe existed to take care of the two people I loved. I suggested he not do it for me, because I didn't deserve it. Maybe La Lena didn't deserve it either. But Soul did. I ended the whole thing with an unconvincing amen.

  I didn't know where she was, but I knew what she was doing. Protecting her baby girl the only way she knew how. I had a blinding headache. I turned on the evening news. Same old same old, but there were no mysterious explosions or high-profile deaths. I turned the volume up and went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. I'd just poured the grounds and flipped the switch when something caught my eye. A live-feed newscast from The City Club. The perfectly quaffed Ken-doll was doing a shamelessly inaccurate bit of reporting, maybe 30 yards in front of the clubhouse. He trumpeted Stein's accomplishments. The state of the city had never been better he said.

  The portico was guarded by ostentatious white columns and the marble steps were covered with a wide swath of red carpet. The idling limo was parked out front, and cotton ball exhaust clouds puffed from its tailpipe.

  I flipped to the other two network stations. The CBS affiliate was doing a piece on the mayor too, but from inside their studio. It couldn't have been more different if the two networks existed in different time-space dimensions. The report highlighted the disparities between the city's haves and have-nots. It mentioned the event at The City Club too, but without the live footage. Stein was out of touch. He was out courting the country club class while John Q. Public couldn't buy a job, his children were getting a lousy education, and his taxes were going through the roof. The second network station was playing a rerun of Welcome Back, Kotter. If not for the turn my life had taken I'd have watched Kotter.

  I turned back to the live broadcast but the reception was shit. It flickered in and out and playing with the rabbit ears didn't help. I went to the kitchen and poured myself a mug of coffee, feeling nauseous, because I was convinced I'd see Stein blown to bits live from the comfort of my own living room.

  Then the reception stabilized, but just barely. The limo rounded the corner toward the exit, the tinted windows making it impossible to see inside. The club members were on the steps waving. The limo stopped, the door opened and Stein got out, but he bent and reached back, as if to grab something. The reception flashed to a white and grey snowstorm, once, then twice as if the signal had been completely lost. When the fuzzy coverage returned, the mayor, his wife, and their daughter were standing hand in hand waving back toward the clubhouse. Then reception went out completely.

  “Jesus Christ. No.” I said.

  56

  THE PHONE RANG FOUR times before he heard it. He stood absentmindedly forgetting the hot coffee he was holding. The first splash burned the top of his right hand and he instinctively ejected the mug, causing the rest to spill down through his jeans and onto his thighs. He slapped frantically at the wet spot, trying to cool the hot liquid. The last few warm drops made their way down his pant leg onto his shoe. He flicked his fingers free of the sticky residue and walked to the corner table. All that commotion, and it was probably just Arnold calling to say he wasn't coming because he'd gotten sucked into a MASH rerun marathon and couldn't tear himself away. As he looked down to pick up the receiver he noticed a bag under the table he hadn't seen before. A near perfect match to the fabric on the sofa. Half a block away La Lena flipped a switch.

  “Hello?”.

  “Hello Jefferson. This is your wake-up call.”

  He knew the voice, but the words made no sense. His brain scrambled to put meaning to them.

  “What?”

  “You never should've fucked with my baby girl. Look down, and goodbye.”

  A white-hot spark no bigger than an atom ignited the explosives in the bomb inside the purse, and the corner table under which it sat instantly accelerated from zero to 2,000 meters per second. Its solid, oak edge caught Jefferson squarely between the throat and chin, in the part of the mouth called the soft palate. On impact his head snapped backward so violently that it severed his spine.

  It was only after he was dead that his body was torn apart by hot metal fragments, wood shards and the powerful shockwave.

  57

  THE NEXT MORNING I woke with a colossal headache. Malt liquor, stress, and head trauma will do that. I watched the news and scanned the morning paper but there was nothing. I sat at my kitchen table with my morning coffee and cigarette. I'd been smoking way too much. Just walking to the bathroom to take a leak got me wheezing. I was flipping through a stack of mail I'd been ignoring when an official looking envelope caught my eye. As official as mail from a dry cleaner can be. Stamped in big, red, capital letters was: BALANCE DUE. I slid my index finger into the gap between the envelope and the gummy flap on the back and peeled them apart. I pulled the letter out and flattened it on the table. It was typewritten.

  Dear M,

  The device was a dud. Filled with sand and totally harmless. It had to be. How could I put someone else's child in danger to save my own?

  There are things I must do. I must do them alone. I knew if I didn't deceive you, you'd never have let me do them.

  No matter what happens know that I love you. Soul loves you too. She told me so this morning.

  Love, LL

  P.S. I got the things you sent.

  So that's that I thought. I lit the letter with my lighter and dropped it into the sink.
I watched it turn black and curl in on itself, then washed the ashes down the drain. So Stein had made it safely away from The City Club after all. It all made perfect sense. I took a hot shower and forced down another cup of coffee.

  I had a big day ahead of me.

  58

  ARNOLD FINISHED HIS lunch of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Heavy on the gravy, and two slices of soft, white bread to sop up the extra too. Just the thing an old body needed on a cold day. He lit a Camel, and Irma, the beefy, 50-something waitress refilled his not yet empty coffee cup. She must've been a real knockout three decades ago, he thought.

  He always sat at the same booth, but that day for the first time he could remember, it was occupied. A shriveled old white woman with a shawl draped over her shoulders sat there, drinking hot Lipton tea and eating toast with strawberry jam and a fried egg. Probably all the poor thing could afford by the looks of her.

  After lunch he'd mosey home and read the paper. His soaps were on from three to five. After that the evening news. Then dinner, followed by boredom, boredom and more boredom. He couldn't fall asleep before one o'clock and rarely slept past five-thirty. It made for brutally long days. La Lena had been right, he was a creature of habit. Old and set in his ways would have been a better way to put it. He stared out the window. It was cold, cloudy, and windy. The noisy kind of wind that made you happy just to be inside. He'd even seen a little dust-devil on the way to the diner. Just like a mini tornado, except no higher than a man, and the only things trapped in its vortex were newspaper scraps and candy wrappers.

  Seemed like there were more homeless lately too. A sign of the times. Sleeping in the breezeways of abandoned shops, in alleys, and behind dumpsters. He wondered why it was that blacks were poorer than the whites, but there were more homeless whites. It didn't make any sense. Made a man appreciate the things he had. A lot of vets out there on the streets too. Came back from places like Korea and Vietnam, all fucked-up from the things they'd seen and done. Drink too much on a cold night, pass out somewhere and the next thing you know a rookie doctor at the VA hospital was sawing your foot off.

  He still wore an army jacket. His original was long gone but he'd found another just like it at the surplus store. They sold all kinds of patches too, and he loved looking at them. Da Nang. Bak To. Khe Sanh. Artillery. Airborne. Infantry. He hadn't been in Nam because he'd been too old, but he wished he had. His jacket carried three patches. Korea. Infantry. 1952. The truth was he'd been a cook's assistant. Not once had he seen the enemy, let alone fired a shot at one of them. Precious few rounds at the range during basic training too. Not much faith in the black man in those days. Some things never changed. It still burned him up when he thought about it.

  His coffee had gotten cool and after the third cup it didn't taste good anyway. He pulled on the stubby Camel. Back in the day they'd given his lungs a real jolt. He'd smoked so many over the years he may as well be smoking Virginia Slims for all the satisfaction he got from them. Just like the coffee. The first few of the day were heaven, but after that, nothing.

  He buttoned his coat and stuck a dollar under his saucer for Irma the way he always did. He tugged the tall collar on his GI coat and zipped it all the way to the top. He pulled the front door open and slipped out. The little bells bounced against the glass making their flinty chirps. He turned left and walked toward the alley the way he always did. The cold air felt good.

  He was a slow, deliberate walker. Experience had taught him the importance of being observant, and the faster you moved the harder it was to see things. Important things. He marveled at how few people were around.

  As he neared the alley a familiar sound bounced out and down the sidewalk. A corrugated steel trash can tipping over and banging against the asphalt, or maybe just the lid falling off. Probably a cat trying to get at an old chicken bone or tuna can.

  He walked toward the sound curious to see if his assessment was correct. A mangy cat would probably run past him any minute, grinning because a three-day-old chicken bone from a trash can was a big score in its world.

  He'd gotten the sound, but misidentified the guilty party. He saw an old army jacket just like his, but worn and dirtier. The man wearing it had on an old pair of khakis, leather work boots and a brown and orange stocking cap too. He was slumped over a can about 30 feet into the alley, half-facing Arnold, and his face and hands were grimy. Arnold leveled his eyes at him but the man wouldn't make eye contact.

  59

  “BUDDY, CAN YOU HELP a vet?” I asked in as gravelly a voice as I could muster. As the last word left my mouth I collapsed onto a pile of trash bags stacked against the brick wall. Arnold looked up and down the street like his instincts had detected something suspicious. He took his hands out of his pockets and walked toward me, extending his right hand in a gesture of assistance.

  “Here man, give me your hand,” he said. “Let's go get you something decent to eat.”

  “God bless you friend,” I said, extending my right arm to him, slowly at first, but the moment it was within range I lunged and latched onto his arm just above the elbow. I fish-hooked my right leg behind his feet and thrust him over on his back before a retaliatory thought had a chance to form in his brain. Now I was straddling him, using my younger, heavier, and stronger body to pin him to the pavement. One hand on his throat, the other over his mouth. I gazed down into his gluey, brown eyes, just like I'd done so many times at the diner. There was recognition there. The old bastard knew exactly who was on top of him. I scooted him toward the wall until we were concealed from hapless passers-by on the street.

  “If only you'd shown La Lena the same courtesy you just showed me,” I whispered.

  I wanted to tell Arnold he only had himself to blame. That it hadn't had to end this way. That he'd sold-out his own race, but it was too late for all that. There was no point in uttering another word. We both knew what came next, and a strange resignation bordering on relief was written all over his face.

  I rolled him over, then slung my right arm under his chin and around his neck. Adrenaline pulsed through my veins, allowing me to squeeze with superhuman strength. His body went limp quickly. I still felt his heart beating, but there was nothing going on upstairs. With my left hand I grabbed the rear of Arnold's head and pushed it away from his body. My right hand snaked around the back side of his chin and mouth. With a violent jerk my hands slammed in opposite directions breaking the Korean vet's neck. To make it look like a robbery I removed his wallet, watch, and cigarettes, then covered his lifeless body with trash bags and an old pizza box.

  60

  AT 11:30 AM THE ELEVATOR's smudgy, steel doors opened in the parking garage below City Hall.

  “Did you see that fat fuck Gino puke the night we went to The City Club?” the mayor asked Evan.

  “Did I see it? Jesus, are you kidding? I could've seen it from outer space.”

  They chuckled.

  “Whatta ya think he had for breakfast that morning?” the mayor asked.

  “Looked like corned beef and cabbage, shepherd's pie, and a side of onion rings to me.”

  The ground was still stained where his vomit had touched down. His stomach bile was permanently impregnated into the porous concrete, like one of those Rorschach ink-blot pictures psychiatrists use to determine their patient's degree of perversion and derangement.

  The Cadillac's door was open and the engine was running, and the driver came toward them as they approached.

  “Mr. Mayor, I'm sorry sir,” he said, “but if I don't go to the bathroom right now I won't make it.”

  “Jesus. Number one or two?” he asked.

  “Number two. I'll just be a minute, believe me.”

  He jogged to the same stall in the same bathroom where Gino had fingered the bag of dog shit. He sat down on the same toilet and assumed the FAA crash position. Hands behind head, face to lap.

  The explosion shook the building so violently he thought it would collapse. He waited until the tre
mors had stopped, then opened the door.

  61

  SHORTLY AFTER ONE O'clock on the same day, Megan Stein and her mother pulled out of the garage in their Buick wagon. Memorial Day was a big deal, and it was prudent for the mayor and his family to set an example of thankfulness and patriotism. They had almost everything they needed, but a few odds and ends had been overlooked. They were almost out of yellow mustard and ketchup, not to mention hamburger buns, chips, and relish. It wouldn't hurt to buy another can of Cool Whip for the homemade apple pies either. Better too much than not enough, and it wouldn't go to waste.

  Mother and daughter were bundled up against the unseasonably cold weather. Maybe they'd make a day of it. Walk around the mall, do some window shopping and have lunch out. A mother-daughter special day.

  Megan could hardly contain herself. It was only May, but her little mind was already thinking ahead to Christmas, her favorite holiday. It was a long way off but she had an idea. It seemed like a good year to shake things up a bit. They wouldn't do an angel on top of the tree like they'd done in years past. A star sounded better. A big, shiny, silver one. Gold would be OK too, but silver would be better. Lois drove while Megan delivered her sales pitch. At the big intersection near the Safeway Lois flipped her left turn signal. The light was red, but she didn't notice and she didn't brake. She was halfway into the turn when she realized what she'd done.

  Carl Chambers was changing the radio station in his gorgeous, 1979 Mack R Model dump-truck, and he’d just found something he liked. Eye in the Sky. The Alan Parsons Project. The 300 horsepower diesel thumped methodically and 18 tons of hot asphalt sizzled in the box. By the time he peered over the chrome bulldog it was too late.

  Just before impact he jerked the wheel hard to the left. It was a heroic but altogether useless act. The two vehicles came together, then careened unsteadily as if they were one. The truck rolled over to its right, succumbing to centrifugal force and its high center of gravity. The Buick was pinned underneath, and when its tail spun around it put the driver's compartment in the path of the steel box and its contents.