Bates peered at him like an old pig. “Ambrose is going to be upset.”
“I know.”
“Nigger’s got to pay,” said Bates, stubbornly. The old men nodded.
Clay ached behind his eyes. He yearned for bourbon. Bring the nigger in. Case closed. “Who we talking about?”
“Joe. One of our shoeshines,” Bates replied. “Douglass Samuels’ son.”
“The banker?” Clay couldn’t hide his surprise. “What’s a banker’s son doing shining shoes?”
“Just because a nigger has money, don’t mean he’s got sense. He’s like any other nigger. Wanted a white woman. He deserves hanging.” Others murmured agreement. “Niggers been too riled since the war.”
Bates slowly smiled and it was this, more than anything, that made Clay want to hit him. Cowards like Bates never made it to the war. But they liked the notion of blood flowing. Bates wore klansmen robes, keeping alive a war against coloreds, reds, unionizers, and anyone else Ambrose might dislike.
“I can haul your ass to jail, Bates. Inciting a riot.”
“I can say what I damn well please. Got as much right as the next.”
Clay grabbed Bates’ collar, feeling his sharp intake of breath, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “The boy’d have to be crazy to try anything here. In an office building. Not just any building. Ambrose’s.”
“Niggers ain’t smart. Wanted a feel, a taste. Joe gave me trouble all the time. Talking back to customers.”
“Something’s not right,” said Clay, letting go of Bates.
“Right, hell—things ain’t been right since the war. Niggers thinking this is France. Thinking they can do what they want.”
“They’re always looking at us,” Louise whispered. Her words stopped them dead.
Clay pinched the flesh between his eyes. Shit. Case closed. Joe Samuels didn’t have a chance.
Allen lifted Mary up; her head bobbled, her jaw opened, and her tongue pressed forward in a wordless “ah.”
“She’s coming with me,” Allen said, daring anyone to stop him. He pushed past Clay and Bates.
“A nigger’s done felt her up. Raped her he did. Took a white woman,” proclaimed an old man tapping his cane, his voice echoing in the high-ceilinged lobby.
Bates clutched Clay’s arm. “Nigger’s on the run. Knows he’s guilty.”
“Maybe,” said Clay, pulling free of Bates.
“What are you going to do, Sheriff?”
“I’ll be bringing him in. For questioning, at least.”
Clay saw Louise’s reflection preening, her fingers patting the curve of her hips. “Go home, Louise,” Clay said. “You’ve been a great help.” She looked at him quizzically then scooted past.
“Joe gave me trouble all the time,” Bates complained. “Talking back. Doing bad shines. Didn’t know his place.”
Ignoring Bates, Clay scooped up his jacket.
Clay sighted Allen at the revolving door, trying to spin through without putting Mary down.
“Allen,” he called out. “What’s her name?” He could ask Bates but he wanted to find out whether Allen knew it. “What’s her name? Her people’s name. Mary—what?”
“Go to hell, Clay,” Allen called back, maneuvering his and Mary’s bodies sideways through the revolving glass.
Clay chuckled. Then turned, “You still here, Bates?”
He listened to Bates’ soles slapping on marble, watched the old men shuffling across the floor. Louise clutched herself dramatically, giving a sidelong glance to two colored men watching the drama from the lobby’s far side.
Bates hollered, “Louise, get on now.” He shooed the shoeshines like they were pesky flies.
Clay stared into the elevator and at himself, reflected in the mirrored wall behind the cage. He didn’t look any different. Weak chin. Hair longer than was considered genteel. Eyes cloudy from too much drink. Limbs soft since the war. A perfect specimen for a rich man’s sheriff.
He stepped inside the elevator’s belly, stretching his arms to steady himself against the bars. He’d better get moving. He’d have to find Samuels before the mob did.
He studied the parquet floor. He didn’t see panties. No cotton or lace like he’d seen on dead whores. In France, the women wore silk. He felt aroused remembering Mary’s open legs. He didn’t like to think of any man, colored or white, taking advantage of a woman.
He saw a glint of silver. He stooped and lifted a pair of handcuffs. Professional. Maybe even from his own jail. He heard a step behind him, and without thinking, he stuffed the cuffs into his pocket. “I thought I told you—”
It wasn’t Bates. Clay saw a dark man, rail thin, his pants stained with polish. “Shine, Sheriff?”
The man was sizing him up, measuring him like they were equals. Adversaries.
Clay snapped, “Did you think I wouldn’t get to you? I’m conducting this investigation. I would’ve gotten to you in my own good time.”
The man angled his head disbelievingly.
“What’s your name?” Clay asked.
The man stared back balefully.
“I’m looking to help. See that justice is done. Where’d he go? Joe Samuels, is it? Tell me where he went.” Except for a nerve quivering beneath his eye, Clay thought the man had become stone. “Come on. Help the boy out.”
The man advanced. Clay’s hand went instinctively to his gun.
“Joe’s been working here for over a year,” the man hissed. “You come in once a week. Half that time, Joe’s given you a shine. Gave you one last week. Remember what he looks like, Sheriff? Tall? Short? Light or dark brown? You remember anything about him? Joe even told you a joke. Remember? You said it was the best joke you ever heard.”
Clay struggled to raise an image. Other than Joe being colored, Clay couldn’t remember a damn thing.
“I didn’t think so.” The man set his jaw. “You’re no different than any other white man.”
“So, I forgot. I can’t remember every colored I meet. Where’s he now? Where’s Joe now?”
“You ever take the stairs to pee, Sheriff? Thirteen floors?” The man spat. “Nickel for a shine, Sheriff. That’s all I tell men like you.” He turned, walking away.
“Damn.” Clay rubbed his brow, feeling a raging ache starting. He should’ve stayed in bed this morning, drunk himself silly. His only hope was that the boy escaped Tulsa altogether. If Joe was never found, Clay wouldn’t have to decide what to do with him.
11
“Tyler, Tyler!” Joe bounded up the stairs, two, three at a time. The staircase seemed to curve forever. “Tyler!” His side hurt.
“Joe, what are you doing home?”
The clipped voice stopped his momentum. Joe spun around, teetering, his hand gripping the banister. “Hello, Hildy,” he gasped, seeing his sister at the bottom of the steps.
“Tyler’s sleeping. What are you doing home? What’s happened?”
“The most wonderful thing.” Joe collapsed against the railing, sweat trickling from his forehead.
“What?” she nervously wiped her flour-smeared hands onto her apron. “Tell me.”
“I escaped.”
“What are you talking about? Escaped?” Her brows arched. “Joe?” Hildy moved quickly up the steps. “You’re hurt. You need a plaster for your cheek.” Delicately, she touched his skin. “Joe, is somebody after you?”
Joe caught his sister’s hand and pressed it to his lips. “I ran for miles,” he said wonderingly.
“Who from, Joe?”
“White men, Hildy. A whole passel of ’em.” He chuckled. “White and bright like the noonday sun.”
“What’re you doing here, Joe?”
“I came home.”
“It’s the first place they’ll come. You’ve got to leave, Joe.”
“I came to see Tyler.”
“Damnit, Joe, you’ve got to get up.”
“I need to see Tyler.”
“There isn’t time. Get up, Joe. Run.” She tried dra
gging him down the stairs.
“Hildy, let go—”
“White men lynch Negroes. You’ve gotta run, Joe. You can’t stop running.” Hildy tugged desperately. She pounded him with her fists. “Damn you, Joe. You think I took care of you all these years so you could get hung. You gotta run, Joe.”
“Hildy, no, you don’t understand—”
“You gotta run.”
“I love you, Hildy.”
Hildy stopped. “Joe,” she asked, insistent, “why won’t you run?”
“I’ve got to see Tyler.”
“They’ll catch you.”
“They won’t.”
“Who won’t?” asked Emmaline, leaning over the banister, her hair twisted around curling rags.
“Lord,” muttered Hildy. “Mother’s not far behind.”
His mother appeared, elegant, at the top of the stairs. “What’s going on here? Aren’t you supposed to be working, Joe?”
“Somebody’s chasing him,” hollered Emmaline, leaning over the banister.
“What did you do, Joe?”
“Mother—” warned Hildy.
“Gambling? If you think your father will pay your gambling debts, you’re mistaken.”
“I don’t owe anybody.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
Her lips scrunched into a pout. “You must’ve done something.”
“If Joe says he’s done nothing, he’s done nothing,” said Hildy. “There’s some misunderstanding, Mother.”
“A woman then,” she countered.
“It doesn’t matter. Joe’s got to get out of here.”
Joe watched his mother descend the stairs, her nose tilting upward with distaste. “You’re just like your father,” she said scathingly. “Your brother, too, gone to hell.”
In the entryway, the chandelier swayed slightly. Joe swallowed. Someone passed him on the stairs. “I’ve got to see Tyler,” he murmured.
“Not until you explain yourself,” Mother said, digging her nails into his forearm. “Not until you explain the shame you’ve brought to us.”
“Wasn’t your magic any good, Joe?” mocked Emmaline from above.
“You have no respect for privilege,” Mother berated him. “No respect for history. You’ve learned barbarous behavior from your father’s people. Dirty, illiterate slaves. My family was always respectable. Always free coloreds. New Orleans Creoles.”
“Mother!” shouted Hildy.
“You. Henry. Your father. Every one of you a disappointment. Each of you bringing this family shame.”
“Stop it, Mother!”
Joe staggered back against the wall. He’d never seen his mother’s face so ugly. “I’m sorry, Mother. I never meant to hurt anyone.” A yellow rose appeared in his hand.
She crossed her arms. “Emmaline, get your father. Tell him I want him home. Tell him Joe’s gone wild. Tell him Joe’s disgraced us.”
Joe dropped the rose. He climbed the steep stairs, moving beyond his silk-robed mother.
Emmaline stared at him curiously as he reached the second floor landing.
“Joe—” She caught his arm. “What’s wrong? Can I help?”
Joe studied his sister’s pinched face. She looked like Mother. Shadows lay beneath her eyes; fine lines tugged at her mouth.
“Get Father, Emmy,” murmured Joe. “Tell him to bring roses for you and Mother.”
“You’re a fool, Joe.”
“Do you believe in ghosts, Emmy?”
“Emmaline, if you love him at all—” Hildy pleaded. “Tell him—tell him he’s got to run. White men are chasing him.”
Joe chuckled, “Nigger run faster.”
“I’ll get Father.”
“Hurry, Emmaline,” his mother ordered. “Your father will stop this nonsense.”
Joe laughed. “That’s right,” he shouted down the stairs. “Father doesn’t own a bank for nothing. He’s a big man. The biggest Negro in Tulsa.”
“Joe, don’t you care about anything?” wept Hildy. “Don’t you care about your life?”
Joe raised a finger. “Sssh. Don’t worry, Hildy. I’ve outrun the paterrollers.”
He opened Tyler’s door and stepped into a dim world, smelling of dust, menthol, and urine. Drawn curtains kept the ruby furniture from fading, kept out the fresh air.
“Tyler—” Tyler’s bed dominated the room: white sheets, white pillow cases, white ruffles on the base. Sheets thrown back, wearing white pajamas, Tyler looked dried and twisted like a blackened stump. His eyelids twitched with dreams.
Joe’s confidence had fled. He was wearied by the run, his mother’s bitterness, wearied by trying to escape a nightmare. “Tyler,” he whispered.
He searched the room. The walls were covered with dozens of paintings of the same landscape—rows upon rows, acres of wheat captured at sunrise, sunset, high noon. Joe shook his head.
He looked at Tyler. He needed to ask him something, but couldn’t remember what. He couldn’t remember what he was doing, why he was here. He’d run the distance.
Tyler was incapable of running. Incapable of leaving his bed except with the help of a son who carried him downstairs for meals and a daughter-in-law who pushed him onto the porch, locking his chair’s wheels, for an hour’s sun.
When Joe was born, Tyler had already been too old to play marbles, give him piggy rides, or eat sweet corn. Except for one Juneteenth when he’d marched with his grandson, before his stroke, Tyler had spent his days painting the same lush fields.
“Tyler.” Joe sat on the four-poster bed. He straightened Tyler’s brittle legs. Joe tapped his hands on his lap, softly chanting, “Run, nigger, run. The paterrollers come.”
Tyler grunted.
“Run, nigger, run. The paterrollers come.”
Tyler’s mouth crooked into a smile. A Bible, a glass, and pitcher were on the bed stand.
Joe bent, staring into cloudy brown eyes. “I did good today. You would’ve been proud. I escaped the slave man.”
Tyler shook his head, his mouth salivating.
“I did good.”
Tyler’s clawed fist hit the mattress. “Tyler?” Joe gripped his hand, feeling the toughened skin, the gnarled bones. “Tyler?” He laid his head on his grandfather’s chest. Feeling the frail ribs, listening to an erratic heart, Joe murmured, “Tyler? Did you ever feel as free as when you ran? When you escaped?”
“He can’t talk.”
“I know, Hildy.” Joe watched Tyler’s face—his lashes fluttering, his lips stretching paper-thin skin. “You don’t have to tell me what I already know.”
“Then why bother, Joe?”
“You see him, don’t you?” he asked irritably. “He’s not dead yet. He understands. If it hadn’t been for Tyler escaping slavery, we wouldn’t be here.”
“He was freed, Joe.” Hildy moved to the bedpost.
“What are you talking about?”
“Emmaline’s right. You’re a complete fool. Men chasing you and all you can do is sit.”
“He outwitted them all.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Tyler. He escaped.”
“Tyler was freed,” Hildy snapped back. “The only running he did was in the land rush to get the acres.”
“What acres? What are you talking about?”
“Here’s a canteen, Joe. It’s Henry’s. You need to run. I figure you’ve got minutes. Five to ten at most, somebody’s going to be here. White folks aren’t all slow.”
“What land?”
Tyler worked his jaw, trying to speak.
“Sooners, Joe!” Hildy said exasperated. “Ex-slaves coming to Tulsa. Every thief, every poor white man racing to stake a claim. ‘Like rabbits,’ Mother always says. You know this, Joe. That’s the history Mother can’t stand. Said it was disgraceful to be running after God’s land. Squatting on dirt. Said it wasn’t respectable.”
“But Juneteenth. His song about running from the paterrollers.”
“It’s a song, Joe.”
“Joe—the sheriff is here!” Back stiff, Mother trembled just inside the door. “He’s driving up. Run, Joe. I don’t want a son of mine in jail.”
“I need some things.”
“No time, Joe,” said Hildy, shoving the canteen at him. “Get to the riverbed. Lena’s. I’ll bring food tonight.”
“I’ll delay him,” Mother murmured, hurrying down the stairs.
“De…de…de—” Tyler was trying to sit up. Veins rose in his neck and forehead.
“What is it, Tyler?”
“Joe, there’s no time.”
“De…de…dee—”
“Joe! Leave through the kitchen.”
Joe squeezed Tyler’s hand. “I’ll make it, Tyler. I’ll beat the paterrollers.” He rushed past Hildy, but instead of turning down the stairs, he turned up, toward the attic.
“Joe! They’re here,” Hildy shouted, flying after him.
Joe moved two, three steps at a time. The rush was inside him: quick bursts of air, his body filled with adrenaline.
His bedroom seemed foreign. Small. The ceiling angled too steeply. Cloudless sky filled the window. His sheets were still tangled from his dreaming. Opening his trunk, he grabbed his lock pick, another set of handcuffs, cards, and his two hundred dollars.
He smiled, hearing his mother shrill, “Do you know whose house this is?” He heard a low, answering murmur.
Hildy stood in the doorway, hairpins loose, hair falling to her waist, her apron awry. “You’ve waited too long, Joe.”
“I need to find it.”
“What, Joe? What do you need?”
He was searching rapidly through his photos.
“Joe, please.”
“Here it is.” Houdini, manacled, leaping from the Golden Gate Bridge. Joe folded the photo, slipped it inside his pants pocket.
He looked at Hildy. “Aren’t you going to ask me if I’m guilty?”
“I don’t need to, Joe.”
“Thanks, Hildy.”
The footsteps on the stairs came closer. Because he’d stopped running, dread trapped him. He licked his lips, caught a glance of himself in the mirror. A wild-eyed man. Joe couldn’t figure out who he needed to be. He was so tired, so thirsty. He raised his brother’s canteen, swearing he heard, “Water.”
Magic City Page 9
