Dominion

by Randy Alcorn

  They all laughed at Obadiah’s antics.

  “But only those sittin’ real close understand what’s goin’ on,” Obadiah whispered. “See, there’s no ball on the field. It’s all an act. It’s shadow ball.”

  “No kidding?” Ollie asked.

  “Sometimes we’d play a couple innings that way,” Obadiah said. “The fans way up in the stands could never tell. The ones close enough to see there was no ball were just smilin’ and laughin’ along with us. That was shadow ball. The name stuck, I guess, maybe ’cause we was all dark as shadows.”

  The warm-ups finished, and someone sang the national anthem. Obadiah stood straight and tall, gazing at the flag with his hand and his baseball cap on his heart. The umpire called “Play ball,” and Clarence saw the moisture in the old man’s eyes.

  Why didn’t I ever carve out the time to take him to Cooperstown?

  Clarence finally asked Ollie and Manny to stop asking his father questions so they could all watch the game. It went quickly, punctuated with Obadiah’s stories. The Mariners were up 4-3 at the seventh-inning stretch. Ollie escorted Obadiah to a bathroom, leaving Clarence and Manny in the seats. After two minutes of silence and pretending to read the program, Manny said to Clarence, “You’re lucky to have a father like that. I wish I did.”

  If you’d had a father like mine, it would’ve made you a nigger.

  Clarence caught himself, feeling guilty “Thanks, Manny.”

  The Mariners won 6-5 in the tenth inning. Obadiah’s entourage went out into the parking lot. This time Clarence asked Ollie and Manny to let Daddy get to the car before extracting any more stories from him.

  As Clarence pulled out into the darkness for the three hour drive home, it brought back cozy memories of long drives after dark with his daddy—only in those days it was Daddy doing the driving. He’d always felt secure with his father there. As long as Daddy was close by, everything in the universe would be all right. In a strange sort of way, he felt that tonight.

  Before Ollie and Manny could start quizzing him again, the old man turned to the backseat and said, “Tell me about yo’self, Detective Manny.”

  “Well, I grew up in Santa Fe. Most of the town was Mexican. Everybody belonged to a gang.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah. Those were the days of switchblades, bicycle chains, and zip guns, mostly.”

  “Who’d you fight?”

  “Black gangs and white gangs.”

  “What got you out of the gangs, Mister Manny?”

  “One day I came home and my mama asked me, ‘You gonna kill all the blacks and whites in Santa Fe? Then what?’ She told me the real revolutionaries use ideas and words. She said I should get out of the gangs and concentrate on my studies, and that way I could really do something to fight injustice.”

  “A smart woman, your mama. And you followed her advice?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You decide then to become a policeman?”

  “I saw cops always hounding my family. I wanted justice. So I thought, what better way than be a cop myself? You can’t do much from the outside. I thought maybe I could do something from the inside.”

  “What was your daddy like?” Obadiah asked.

  “He was a veterano. He still hung around the gangs, even when I was growing up. Finally one day he got beat up and run over. Almost died. Wasn’t able to walk again. Passed away five years later, when I was thirteen. Never found out who did it to him. Blacks, I think. Maybe whites. Not sure. Both of them used to gang up on my raza.”

  “Don’t really matter, does it?” Obadiah asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The color of the hoodlums that beat him. Good matters. Bad matters. Color don’t matter.”

  “Before they crippled him,” Manny said, “my dad always told me he’d take me fishin’, but he never did.” Clarence looked in the rearview mirror. He saw Manny’s hand on his face.

  “My daddy took me fishin’ all the time,” Obadiah said. “Even if the fish lost their enthusiasm by ten o’clock, we wouldn’t lose ours till midafternoon. Clarence don’t has much time for fishin’ no more. If you ever needs a fishin’ partner, Mr. Manny, and you ain’t in too big a hurry, this ol’ man would love to tag along with you.”

  Manny stared at Obadiah. “Thanks.”

  As they approached Vancouver, still ten miles north of Portland, Clarence saw the cherry top spinning behind him and pulled over.

  “I wasn’t speeding, was I?”

  “I’d give you 69 in a 65, but not worth pulling you over,” Ollie said from the back. “Okay, Clarence, when the cop comes up, just don’t look at the speedometer.”

  “Why?”

  “You pull people over for speeding—I did it for years—and they sit and stare at the speedometer, which is pretty dumb since it always says zero miles per hour. Surprise this cop. Don’t look at your speedometer. Maybe it’ll throw him off.”

  Clarence watched in his side mirror as the officer approached. “I need to see your license, registration, and insurance papers,” the gruff voice said. The officer pointed in his flashlight, looking through the car at the other occupants. Of the four, only the old man appeared pleasant.

  “Stay right here,” he said. While they waited, another patrol car pulled up behind the first.

  “He called for backup,” Manny said. “Can you believe it? He actually called for backup.”

  The original officer returned and said to Clarence, “Can I check your trunk please?”

  “Why do you want to check his trunk?” Manny asked.

  “I’m talking to the driver, not you.”

  “Unless you’ve got a good reason for asking, he’s not opening the trunk,” Ollie said.

  The officer’s eyes shot back at Ollie, and he pointed his flashlight at him. “We’ve had a lot of drugs and robberies between Seattle and Portland. Just checking.”

  “You can’t detain a man,” Manny said, “and call in a backup and check his trunk just because he’s going four miles over the speed limit.”

  “Well, now, what are you?” The officer stared coldly. “Some kind of attorney for wetbacks or something?”

  “Watch your language, officer,” Ollie said, pushing Manny back in his seat. “Don’t be calling my friend an attorney. We’re cops. He’s my partner.”

  Ollie reached to his back pocket to pull out his wallet, and the officer’s hand moved instantly to his holster. Ollie slowed down his hand, clearly showing the wallet and removing his police ID, passing it behind Clarence’s neck to the officer.

  “Detective, huh?” the officer said. “Well, Detective Chandler, I’ll leave you to detective work and you leave me to highway patrol. How’s that? Stay right here. I’ll be back.”

  The officer went to consult with the backup cops. After ten minutes, he came back and returned Clarence’s license and papers.

  “I’m not going to get you on the speeding this time. Just be more careful. All of you, have a nice day now, all right?” He aimed his sarcastic words to the backseat in particular.

  As they drove off, Ollie said, “In all the times I’ve been pulled over, and there’s been a fair number, I’ve never once seen such a rude jerk of a police officer.”

  “How often have you ridden in a car driven by a black man?” Clarence asked.

  “Other than with my black partner in a cop car, not very often,” Ollie admitted.

  “I get the same thing when I’m with my Hispanic friends,” Manny said.

  “It could’ve been a lot worse, gents.” Obadiah sounded eager to look on the bright side. “In the ol’ days, dem boys might’ve just taken us out and lynched us.”

  “I’m worried about Ty,” Geneva said to Clarence Sunday evening. “He still hasn’t come home. I told him to be back before dark.”

  Clarence looked at his watch—8:30 P.M. “You know how he forgets about the time. Maybe I’ll have to ground him again. But don’t worry. He’ll be okay.” Clarence wished he bel
ieved it.

  “You had a message on the machine from some girl named Gracie. I rewound it.”

  “Gracie?” Clarence didn’t know why he felt guilty.

  “Yeah. Why’d you give her our home phone? Isn’t that why it’s always been unlisted? And why we gave up Dani’s number for a new unlisted?”

  “She couldn’t call during the day. And she goes from school to work.”

  “No pay phones at school? No lunch? No breaks at work?”

  “Come on, Geneva. What did she say?”

  “Said she wanted you to call her. Left her phone number. What’s this about?”

  “I hope it’s about Dani. I’ll explain later.”

  He went to the phone in their bedroom, shut the door, and dialed the number. A male voice answered the phone—her father, Clarence assumed.

  “Yes, may I speak to Gracie please? This is … Clarence. A friend of hers.” Identifying himself as a Trib reporter might set off some alarms.

  “Gracie,” the gruff voice yelled, “it’s one of your bum boyfriends. Says his name’s Clarence.”

  “Hello, Clarence?” Gracie said. “Look, I asked around, you know, like I said I would. At first there was like nothing, but then this guy met me for a break over at the mall. We had a burger and fries. And a chocolate shake.”

  I don’t care if you ate deep-fried mouse droppings, girl, what did he say?

  “Anyway, he knows something about what happened that night. I can’t really talk to you now. My parents don’t want me on the phone. I should really tell you in person.”

  “Can you just give me a quick summary?”

  “No, I really can’t.”

  “Okay. Can you meet me at the Trib tomorrow?”

  “No way. I can’t meet till Thursday. And I don’t have a car.”

  “Thursday?” Clarence groaned. “All right. I’ll come over to the school. I’ll ask Mr. Fielding if we can use a room again.”

  “No way. This guy goes to my school. If he saw me like talking to you, I could be in big trouble. Look, maybe this isn’t a very good idea. Let’s just forget it.”

  “No. Wait, it’ll work. Where can we meet?”

  “Well, my uncle owns a restaurant just six blocks from Lloyd Center, on Grand and Estep, just before it merges with MLK. It’s called Miller’s. When I got in trouble once and had to meet with a social worker, he let me use it. I can walk over there after work. He’s got an office in the back he’ll let us use. I’ll call him to make sure. But if you don’t hear back from me, he’ll be expecting you. I’m off at 6:00 on Thursday so I can be there by 6:15.”

  “Are you sure we can’t meet at the Trib or your school?”

  “No way. I’ll take some risk for you, but this is plenty. Should we just forget it?”

  “No. I’ll be there 6:15 Thursday.”

  He got off the phone and walked into the living room.

  “What’s up?” Geneva asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Nothing much. I’m going to talk with her more later this week.”

  Before Geneva could ask when, he’d walked into his office and closed the door. He worked for over an hour, then came to bed. It was 10:30 and still no word from Ty. Geneva was buried in a book and didn’t even look up when he came into the room.

  Her inattention got his attention. He craned his neck over to kiss those warm and inviting lips, only to discover they’d turned cold and immovable. She was as kissable as jagged granite.

  The phone rang. Clarence grabbed the bedroom extension, tensing at the late call.

  “Mr. Abernathy? This Mr. Kim, from store?”

  “Yes?”

  “I so sorry to call you this late, but just close up my store. This about Tyrone, your nephew?”

  “Yes?”

  “I see him shoplifting from my store yesterday afternoon. I try to talk to him, but he run out. Meant to call you yesterday, but got busy. Do not want to call police. But if happens again …”

  “I understand. What did he take?”

  “Pop, candy bars, magazine, beer.”

  “All right. Let me check into it. I’ll get back to you.”

  Clarence hoped it was a case of Asians who couldn’t tell one black boy from another. He went into Ty’s bedroom. He searched his closet and drawers. Nothing unusual. Then he crawled down flat on the floor and reached way back under the bed. He found three candy wrappers and two unopened bottles of beer.

  Clarence sat up and sighed, wanting Ty to come home soon, but also dreading it.

  It’s almost eleven o’clock and he was supposed to be home by dark. And he’s shoplifting now? What will it take to teach that boy his choices have consequences?

  Lately I’ve been talking to boys on the street and asking them what they plan to do with their lives. Most of them aren’t thinking beyond age eighteen. Of those who do have plans, nearly half told me they’re going to be pro athletes, most of them basketball players.

  Here’s the dream-shattering truth. Each year 300,000 kids play basketball. About a thousand of those get college scholarships. At the end of their four years in college, 57 of those are drafted by the NBA. Of those, 27 make an NBA team. Of those who make it, the average stay in the league is three years.

  Even among those who do make the pros, many end up failing miserably in life. One of the great athletes of this century was Joe Louis, heavyweight champion of the world. He ended up penniless, a doorman at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas. J. R. Richard was one of baseball’s dominant pitchers in the seventies. In 1993 he was found homeless under a freeway.

  The good news is, if you develop a strong character and a solid work ethic and get a good education, you can succeed in whatever you do. I used a football scholarship to help get me through college. Use sports, but don’t ever let sports use you. Go to school, do your best, get your degree. Don’t ever skip your homework to shoot hoops. Skip hoops to do your homework.

  After pushing the key to send his column to Winston, Clarence went down to the newspaper morgue and dug up the stories related to Leesa Fletcher. He read the account of her funeral, juxtaposed with a picture of her grieving father—embraced by a teary-eyed Councilman Norcoast.

  Clarence left the Trib, headed east on the Morrison bridge, turned north, and exited toward MLK. He’d stayed late at the office, and his thoughts now focused on how he should deal with Ty, who hadn’t gotten home last night until after midnight and never called to say where he was. Clarence had confronted him on that and the shoplifting, which he denied at first, then finally admitted in the face of the evidence. Clarence had taken him to the Kims’ store this morning before school, where under his uncle’s eye, he apologized and promised he’d never do it again. Clarence told him they’d need to have a long talk tonight about the consequences. Geneva would be gone all evening at a community bazaar, which was just as well, since Clarence thought she tended to go too easy on Ty.

  The drive home was dark and wet. When he was a half mile from Jackson Street, Clarence pulled up at a stoplight next to a lowriding gold Impala. He looked over and saw the driver, a young male Latino. In the passenger seat sat another Latino, also a young male. Clarence’s pulse raced. When the light turned green, he changed lanes to follow them. He slipped open his briefcase, grabbed a pen, and scratched down their license number on a file folder: Oregon plates, TAH 755. He stayed behind them until they pulled abruptly into an ARCO station.

  Driver and passenger both got out of the car as the attendant put the pump nozzle into their gas tank. Clarence approached them. “You guys pay a visit to 920 Northeast Jackson Street around midnight back on September 2?”

  The two looked at each other, then turned and sprinted to their car, hopping in and screeching out of the station, the pump nozzle spraying gas on the ground.

  “Hey!” The station attendant yelled. Clarence ran back to his Bonneville and pulled out on MLK. He saw them two streets ahead. They made a sudden right turn into wh
at he knew was a neighborhood.

  Don’t let there be any kids in the street.

  After the Impala turned, it went only forty feet before the driver slammed on the brakes. Two cars pointed opposite directions idled in the middle of the road, drivers jawing. The Impala’s driver laid on the horn. Neither of the offending drivers moved an inch. One got out and stared. Suddenly Clarence whipped around the corner, coming to an abrupt stop right behind the Impala. He jumped out of his car and rushed the driver’s door. He beat on the window. The driver jammed it in reverse, appearing as if he might ram the Bonneville.

  Clarence looked for something hard, saw nothing, then thought of the handle of his knife. He pulled it from its sheath, then with a backhand motion slammed it against the window, breaking it open enough that he could reach in with his left hand and pop up the lock. Now the two Hispanics lay low in the front seat, covering their heads.

  Clarence opened the door and pulled the driver out by the scruff of his neck. He reached in and grabbed the keys out of the ignition. He waved at the two dudes blocking traffic. “Call 911,” he yelled. “Or the cops. Tell them there’s two murder suspects at this address.” They looked at him as if to say, Call the cops? They’d faced a lot of cops before, but they’d never called them. Finally, one shrugged and reached in for a car phone. Clarence heard him give the street name.

  Clarence secured the driver in a headlock and instructed the passenger to stay in his seat and keep his hands on the dashboard. Five minutes later a patrol car drove up. The officers got out cautiously, one pulling his gun at the sight of Clarence’s bleeding right hand holding the knife, while his left arm surrounded the driver’s neck.