Black Gangster

by Donald Goines

  This time the crowd came to its feet screaming without help from the agitators. Ruby stared at Prince's broad back; there was a look of surprise in her eyes.

  "I want you to remember one thing, friends," Prince said quietly, so that many in the audience had to lean forward to catch his words. "This goes for all you mellow Chicanos out there, too, who whitey likes to display as a grinning Tio Taco on TV and in the movies. Just dig this and judge for yourself if I'm fakin'. When you went to school and they had you packed in on top of each other, did they ever tell you anything about any black heroes or Mexican ones? Hell no! Every one of you out there remembers what went down in them schoolrooms, so why should we allow our young brothers and sisters or, for some of you young parents out there, your kids to run head on into an academic death just because they got a bunch of antagonistic honkies teaching in our school system? We ain't got to stand still for that shit, not in this day and age. When the kids come home and pull your coat about some of that bullshit some of them teachers work out of, tell us. By the time we get through raising hell around the school, it won't be no room left for no funny-actin' teacher. We done passed the stage when we hope to get respect from whitey. We know how he feels about us, so what the fuck, whitey is just foolin' himself if he thinks the feeling ain't returned. In fact, I personally know a lot of brothers who hold whitey in such contempt that they're ready to get down out in the streets with him if it's necessary. If it's complete genocide for the black man, it don't make them no difference."

  He hesitated for a minute, waiting for the clapping to finish. "I ain't got nothing else to really say, but I'd like for as many of you out there to join with us, so that we black brothers and sisters can work togeth er to stamp out this vicious racism that surrounds us." Prince nodded his head and slowly backed towards the chairs as the crowd erupted in loud applause.

  Chinaman patted Prince on the back and grabbed his hand. "Mon," he said, excited, "I didn't know you could speak like that."

  The emcee announced Dorothy Washington, and Roman's woman Dot came onto the stage. She spoke for ten minutes on the role the women should play in the ghetto. She emphasized unity among them, playing up the possibilities of their roles in the future. She stepped down to loud applause, while Prince stared at her in wonder. She had spoken sharply and intelligently. At times she had made acerbic remarks about the loud manner of many of the young men in the audience but had capped it off nicely so that no one got angry.

  The emcee then announced Chinaman, to loud clapping from the Latin part of the crowd. He addressed them as "brothers of color," bringing applause from everyone.

  Chinaman, sweat running down his tan cheeks, gained confidence from the applause. His words lashed out with a sincerity that a close observer would have missed in Prince's rambling speech.

  His closing words brought the crowd to their feet. "Unite, men of color," he screamed, "unite!" As he stepped back from the microphone the crowd went into a frenzy. They stamped, shouted, and screamed at the tops of their voices.

  From the wings of the theater, Morales led a group of police on the stage. They snatched Chinaman and put handcuffs on him. Prince held out his hands towards the officers. At sight of the police, the crowd went wild. Men rushed the stage, cursing loudly. Seeing the beginning of a riot, Prince forced his way towards the microphone.

  He shouted, "Brothers, be cool! This ain't nothin'! Ya'll just be cool and enjoy the dance." He lowered his voice as he noticed some of the crowd taking his advice. "You know how these things work, don't you? I'll be back before the dance is over, if you will just be cool."

  "That's what you think," Gazier growled in his ear as he pulled him away from the microphone.

  Roman, sitting in the crowd, ducked down in his seat, unnoticed by anyone except his woman. Dot glanced at him curiously. This was a new Roman to her. In the past, he had never been afraid of the police. If she could have read his mind, she would have been pleased at her man's actions. Roman was thinking of the future and he didn't have any intention of being under the police axe when it started to fall. He believed in his heart that Prince was responsible for the death of the two police officers. If that was the case, he reasoned, the police would never let up until they made an arrest.

  The arresting officers pushed Prince and Chinaman into the alley where a police car was waiting. "Get in, you black sons of bitches," Gazier growled, kicking both men as they scrambled into the rear of the car.

  "You peckerwood bastard," Ruby screamed in his face, as she attempted to climb in the car with her man.

  One of the men pulled her out of the car, scratching and kicking. "Goddamnit, keep it up, girl, and we'll take your ass right on down with them," he yelled. She kicked him on the leg and his palm shot up and he slapped her twice across the face.

  A loud roar came from a group of kids as they raced down the alley. Some of them stopped behind garbage cans and began to throw wine bottles and whatever else they could get their hands on.

  "Get this car out of here," Morales ordered from the top of the stairs. "We'll follow as soon as possible."

  "Get a car, get a car!" Ruby screamed frantically at the kids near the end of the alley. "Oh my God," she moaned, "they goin' kill my man. I just know it, they goin' kill him!"

  Morales turned and raced back through the dance hall, followed closely by other policemen. The place was in bedlam. The back of the theater was packed with kids trying to find out what had happened. There was an ugly murmur from the crowd at the sight of the policemen, but they allowed the officers to pass.

  Blanca gripped the microphone and yelled into it. "Let them go!" she screamed. "It won't help nobody if you fight the law!" She was joined on the stage by Ruby, her hair disarranged from the scuffle. The women alternated at the microphone, begging the crowd to remain cool.

  Dot made her way to the stage. She grabbed the microphone and stared insolently at the crowd. She put her hands on her hips and stood wide-legged. Her voice lashed out.

  "It ain't about that," she screamed. "It ain't about that bullshit ya workin' out of." People in the audience stopped and stared up at her.

  "You think jumpin' on the man now will help Prince and Chinaman?" she asked, sarcasm dripping from her words. "If you really want to help, let's all go down to the police station and picket the goddamn place."

  The gang members in the audience took up the cry. Soon there was a rush for the exits as group after group of kids got together for rides.

  Morales waited in the lobby until he had heard her last words. "That ain't good for us," he said to his men and rushed them towards the front door. The sidewalk was jammed with kids. They had to push their way through the sea of black faces to reach their police cars. When they reached theirs, they found the windows knocked out. The crowd scattered at their approach.

  "Don't worry about it now," Morales told his infuriated officers. "We've got more important things to worry about. Let's get moving; we've got to get back to the station before those kids get there."

  Even as the detectives piled into the car, other police cars were pulling away, packed with arrested teenagers. As they made their way through the crowded street, other police cars began to arrive on the scene.

  At about the same time, Gazier's driver pulled up in the basement of the precinct station. "All right you two, get the hell out of there," he growled at Prince and Chinaman.

  Both men struggled awkwardly to climb out of the car. The handcuffs were now behind their backs. As Prince climbed out of the car, Gazier struck him in the face. He sprawled out on the concrete floor fulllength. One of the other officers kicked him in the side.

  "Get up, nigger," the policeman yelled at him. "Where's all your fancy talk now, nigger?" He kicked him again as Prince struggled to his feet.

  Chinaman received the same kind of treatment as he got out of the car. The policemen followed them up the stairs into the station, beating them across the shoulders with their nightsticks. The beating stopped when they came
in sight of the desk sergeant.

  Both men were quickly fingerprinted, then they were made to leave all their personal belongings at the desk. Each time an officer wanted one of them, they were roughly handled. The only time the handcuffs had been removed was during the fingerprinting.

  "What about these cuffs?" Prince asked. "We ain't done a goddamn thing, so it ain't no need to treat us as though we just robbed a fuckin' bank."

  "Just keep your mouth quiet," the desk sergeant warned. "Unless you want something that will really give you something to bitch about."

  "I want you to see that that tall black boy gets a chance to enjoy our penthouse while he's here," Gazier remarked offhandedly. "Yes sirree, I think that's just what our little smart nigger needs. A taste of the hole will really bring him to an awakening."

  The thin, rednecked turnkey smiled and glanced towards the desk sergeant for confirmation. The sergeant had the last word on where prisoners would be locked up.

  The sergeant nodded his head in agreement with the order. "You take that old Jones boy out of the hole and tell him for me, if he starts some more shit back in the bullpen I'll personally come back there and kick all the black off his ass."

  Chinaman glanced quickly at Prince. Deep down inside he was thankful as hell that it wasn't him being put in the hole. He knew that there was room for only one person in the hole at a time, so he would miss that part of the ride.

  The policemen standing around the lobby stared at the two men coldly as they were led past. Most of the officers knew only that these were the men arrested for trying to start an organization that would fight for Negro rights. Many of them were angered by the thought of men they considered their inferiors trying to be equal.

  After following the turnkey down a narrow corridor, the two prisoners stopped and waited patiently as he unlocked a large steel door.

  "You find you an empty cell and lock up," the turnkey ordered. "I'll come back a little later and remove those cuffs if you don't make no noise." He slammed the door behind Chinaman.

  Prince stared around curiously as they went down some steps and entered the basement. The smell of musty clothes and unflushed toilets filled his nostrils as they stopped in front of a small steel door.

  The turnkey opened the door and stepped back. An elderly Negro with gray hair and an alcoholic's grin came out. "Thank you, cap'n," he said with a toothless grin.

  "We lettin' you out now, boy, but you start that goddamn hollering again, I'll bring you back down here and throw the fuckin' key away. You understand me, boy?"

  The old man nodded his head. Saliva ran out of his mouth, and the left side of his face was covered with stale vomit. His clothes had the odor of urine; it appeared as if someone had used him as a receptacle for body waste.

  The turnkey held his nose. "You go stand on the goddamn steps, boy, and don't leave. I'll take you back up when I finish here." He turned to Prince. "Boy, you get them clothes off, hear?"

  Prince held up his handcuffed hands. "How the fuck you expect me to do it, peckerwood? I know you don't think I'm Houdini!"

  The guard removed his blackjack from his back pocket. "You listen, nigger, and listen good. You don't need your goddamn hands loose to wiggle out of them pants. Now, I want to see your black ass shining, quick like, you understand?"

  Prince stared at him bitterly. There was an urge to hurt, to kill, inside of him, but he knew it was useless to rebel. He forced a smile as he removed the pants. "It's your turn now, Whitey, so make the most of it," he said with all the pride a half-naked man can muster.

  "Get the hell in there," the guard snarled, pushing Prince inside the filthy cell. "Don't you be worrying too much, boy, about when your turn is coming. We been handlin' niggers for a lot of years now, so don't you begin to think we don't know how to keep you in your goddamn place."

  "You dirty white peckerwood bastard," Prince cursed through the small bars in the door of the cell.

  The turnkey only laughed and started towards the stairway. "You remember them names, boy, when you start yelling your black head off for me to come and remove them cuffs, hear?" His laughter drifted back down the stairs.

  Prince turned and examined his temporary home. It was just barely long enough for him to lie down in. He paced it off. After six steps, he had to turn around. If it hadn't been for the handcuffs, he could have stretched out his arms and touched both walls at the same time. There was a hole in the corner of the cell that was used for a toilet. Beside it sat a wooden bucket, half full of body waste, giving off a smell so offensive that Prince almost puked. The bed he was supposed to sleep on consisted of eight long iron rails held up by smaller pieces of steel. He sat on the edge of the steel bed, as far away from the obnoxious smells as he could get. It wasn't the first time, Prince thought coldly, that they had tried to break him with this kid shit.

  Upstairs, the desk sergeant spoke to Gazier. "Your partner just called in. He says to get prepared for some pickets. It seems that those punks you brought in have a lot of friends worryin' about them."

  Gazier sneered and turned to the red-faced, hefty officer who had displayed so much cruelty to the prisoners. "Come on, Fred, let's do some ridin'. Maybe we can be lucky and find some more of these meanass Rulers."

  Both men laughed and left the station.

  9

  SHORTMAN PARKED IN front of a small, unpainted, two-family flat. "Donnie," he said to the husky, light-skinned man next to him, "can you reach that wrench on the backseat?"

  The young man reached over and picked up the wrench. He climbed out of the car and met Shortman on the sidewalk. Both men were extremely well dressed. Earlier in the evening they had attended the meeting at the auditorium where Prince had been arrested; now they were worried about the consequences. Both men were known to the police as members of the Rulers.

  "You know, Shortman," Donnie began, "it's kind of lucky Prince assigned us to this whiskey thing, man. We ain't up on none of that bullshit that been goin' down, so even if we do get picked up, ain't nothin' the man can hold us on."

  They continued up the walk and onto the porch of the unpainted house. The screen door was latched, but they could see people sitting inside in the dark. The sound of loud music filled the air. From where they stood, they could see someone dancing in the living room.

  Shortman knocked harder on the screen. "Come on, goddamn it," he yelled through the open doorway.

  A girl who looked no older than a teenybopper came to the door. She stared out at Shortman and Donnie, then opened the door quickly.

  "Hi there, Shortman. Earl, Earl, here's the big fellows, man," she yelled over her shoulder.

  Someone cut on a light as the two men came in the room. The house was scantily furnished. There were two couches along the wall, while the dining room was empty except for a portable record player sitting on the floor. Beside it was a stack of 45 records and two empty album covers. Two young girls were dancing together, or rather practicing dance steps, in the dining room.

  Earl came hurrying into the room. "Hey man, I didn't expect you. I been upstairs taking care of business." He was tall and thin and looked to be still in his teens. His voice was shrill.

  Shortman nodded in his direction and continued towards the stairway, Donnie following closely. Earl and his partner waited until the two older men had passed, then fell in behind them. They went up the stairs single file. As soon as they reached the top, the first thing that hit them was the heat. Donnie blinked, dense smoke in his eyes. Both men continued until they reached the front room of the upstairs apartment. Sitting in the middle of the room was a whiskey still made out of two fifty-gallon barrels welded together. From the top of it a copper pipe ran across the room to the cooler. The specially made gas range under the cooker was blazing; fire leaped out and around it, climbing up halfway on the outside of the connected barrels.

  Shortman coughed. "Goddamn thing puts out enough smoke to kill a motherfucker," he cursed and made his way towards one of the bedrooms. Donn
ie and the other two boys followed him closely.

  Inside the bedroom, barrels were lined up against the walls all around the room. The drums each contained cracked corn mixed with wheat rye, plus fifty pounds of sugar.

  Shortman stuck his finger down in one drum and sucked the stuff off the tip. "It's bitter. Maybe you better run this batch off tomorrow, Earl." He didn't wait for a reply. He walked out and entered the bedroom next to the first one. Again he tasted the fermenting enzyme. He removed a large paddle and dipped down into the barrel. He stirred the corn and rye and sugar up until he was sure it was well mixed.

  "You been stirring this shit up regularly, Earl?" He tasted the juice again. "Damn, this bastard is still sweet. Stir them up one more time tomorrow, Earl, then leave them alone. You should be cookin' this batch off some time this weekend."

  Donnie stepped over and tasted the stuff. "I like this shit just like it is," he said to an empty room, Shortman and the two boys having walked out. He followed them to the whiskey still and watched closely as Shortman took a small glass and tasted the harsh liquid as it came out of the cooler.

  "Goddamn, this is some strong shit!" Shortman exclaimed, almost blowing smoke from his mouth.

  "How many gallons you think you goin' run off tonight?" Donnie asked, watching his partner cough with amusement.

  "I don't know." Earl hesitated. "Somewhere between fourteen or sixteen, I hope. This is the second run today, Donnie. Blue picked up fifteen gallons this afternoon, so I figure our output for today to be somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty."

  "That ain't too bad," Donnie answered quietly. He removed his bankroll and peeled off six tens. "That should be enough money for you to take care of your young girls with." He held the money out towards Earl.

  Earl sneered. "Don't no bitch get no money out of me."