“You’re nothing. Nobody.”
Someone tripped Joe, hit the back of his knees. Clay lost his grip. Several men swarmed, kicking Joe as he writhed on the ground. The rest kept the circle, cheering, encouraging the beating. Clay recognized Bates, his jowly face alight with glee.
The men’s fury needed some outlet. Clay hoped Joe would stop struggling, fall unconscious. Moving next to Ambrose, he said smoothly, “I can haul him into custody. This boy won’t be any problem.”
“Damn right,” said Ambrose. “He’ll be dead tonight.” As if on cue, a blunt, bull-headed man slipped the rope about Joe’s neck.
Clay leveled his gun at the nearest man and, facing Ambrose, shouted, “Leave him alone. I’m taking him to jail.”
Ambrose looked hard at Clay and said quietly, “You’re interfering with justice.”
“No, just upholding the law.” Clay moved toward Joe, using his gun to wave the surly men back. “You’ll hang him all right. After the judge says so. And he will. Nigger’s guilty. No doubt about it.”
“We can hang him now, he’s only a nigger.”
“A lynching might make a stir, Ambrose. With a quick trial, you can hang him. Same result. But you’ll be a statesman. Tulsa is civilized after all, this isn’t the Wild West.”
Ambrose didn’t say anything, his face a blank slate. Clay couldn’t read him. He stooped, patting Joe for broken bones.
“Heard you let this nigger get away the first time. Ought to let us finish the job,” one of the men called.
Clay pulled cord from his pocket. “He won’t escape a hog tie.”
The men laughed as Clay tied Joe’s feet and lifted him, blood draining from his mouth, bruises swelling on his face, like a sack. “Besides, tomorrow, he’ll be too sore to move.” Clay hefted Joe on his shoulder. “Judge can arraign him in the morning.”
The men hadn’t moved from their tight circle. Ambrose still hadn’t said anything and Clay knew the men were waiting for his word. Clay struggled under Joe’s weight and locked eyes with Ambrose. “Hang him tomorrow. Decoration Day. A nice touch, don’t you think, governor?”
Ambrose smiled. “I’ll see you lynched, too, if you lose him again.”
Bates stood in Clay’s way. Clay’s shirt was damp, absorbing water and blood from Joe’s clothes. Still, Bates didn’t move. Clay could feel the other men’s hatred, disappointment. They’d tear him apart if they had the chance. They were hoping Bates would give it to them. Bates glanced questioningly at Ambrose.
“Ambrose,” said Clay. “Do not make the wrong decision here.”
Ambrose must’ve nodded, for Bates stepped aside and the men behind him did the same.
Breathing hard but trying not to show it, Clay walked.
Ambrose called wryly, “Need some help? One of my boys could help keep an eye on him.”
“This nigger ain’t going to wake any time soon,” Clay hollered back.
Men hooted and guffawed. Clay stepped across ties, past the still locomotive and slaughterhouse animals. He walked to his car, knowing Ambrose’s mob was watching every step. Joe, unconscious, was awkward to carry. Suddenly, he remembered Joe’s joke.
The well. That was it. It was a story really. Lion was a vain, lazy bossman who demanded the other animals bring him meals. No one dared threaten his power. Except Young Rabbit. Rabbit tricked Boss Lion into diving into a well, attacking his own reflection.
Clay trudged the last few steps and then slung Joe like a bag of feed into the back seat. He wiped his forehead and drew out his flask. He had it to his lips before he remembered it was empty. Then he laughed. Yes, in Tulsa, he was surely Boss Lion deep at the bottom of the well.
18
Mary heard it first, an engine cutting abruptly, wheels rolling on gravel. She’d just finished wrapping slices of jerky, washing her hands at the sink when she heard the soft whir abruptly die, and she looked up, out the kitchen window. Headlights drew close, parallel, lighting tangled ivy, startling a cat at the base of a fence. Fear settled in her chest and chased away the contentment she’d felt working in the kitchen with Hildy. It wasn’t the same sweetness she’d felt with her mother, but she felt a hint of belonging, of being, if not precisely wanted, at least useful.
Hildy was humming, securing the sacks they were taking to Joe. “Hildy,” Mary called. Then, with more urgency, “Hildy!” as the car stopped in front of the Samuels’ house.
“What’s wrong?”
Mary didn’t answer. Hildy drew beside her and the two of them stood at the sink, staring into the darkness at the police car and the three men getting out. Lucas, a holster and pistol draped on his hips, stepped quickly; Dell, slower, had a revolver sticking in his belt; Jody used a shotgun to steady himself on the path.
Hildy moved first. “I’ve got to warn Father.” Mary nodded dumbly as Hildy left, the kitchen door swinging furiously. She watched Jody and Dell climb the steps behind Lucas until they were all caught by the porch’s yellow cast. Moths fluttered around their heads.
Mary stepped outside the kitchen door, turning left, until she had a clear view of the three men at the front door. “What are you doing here, Jody?”
Lucas turned, drawing his gun.
Jody stayed him. “I could ask the same of you, Mary.”
She walked toward them.
“The lady who got raped.” Lucas stared, his fingers locked into his belt above his crotch.
Mary felt unclean again, felt as if he were undressing her. She held her ground. Dell didn’t look at her at all.
“There’s going to be trouble,” said Lucas. “You should go home.”
Jody leaned on his gun. “None of this would’ve happened, Mary, if you’d stayed put.”
“Nothing did happen. Joe’s not here. Leave these people alone, Jody.”
“A man’s got to protect his sister.”
“Is that you talking? Or him?” She cocked her head at Lucas.
Lucas stepped close. Behind him, the porch lamp made an odd halo. “The nigger’s free. We’re going to catch him.”
“Nothing happened. He never touched me.”
Lucas smiled. “A running nigger is always guilty of something. Maybe you’re too ashamed to admit it.”
Mary reached back to slap him. Lucas caught her hand, twisting it behind her back.
“Let me go.”
The front door opened and Mary glimpsed a tall man, sturdier than Joe. He was dressed in a wrinkled suit, his vest half-buttoned, his shirt collar undone. Yet he seemed more elegant than most white men she ferried in her elevator.
“What’s going on here?”
Lucas shoved Mary backward. She reached for Jody. “If you love me, if you ever loved me, don’t do this. Leave these people alone, Jody.” Her brother turned away.
“This is private property,” stated Samuels. “You have no right disturbing my house. No right coming here in the middle of the night.”
“We’re searching for Joe Samuels.”
“He’s in jail. You’ll find him there.”
“He escaped.”
“I spoke to my son myself. In jail. A few hours ago. He’s to be moved to Oklahoma City in the morning.”
“Your son had other plans.”
Samuels raised his brow. “Are you telling me you lost him?”
Lucas raised his gun. “I’m telling you we’re going to search this house.”
“Do you have a warrant?”
“No, but a bullet ought to do fine.”
Mary watched as the men glared, wary like two cocks. From the house, she heard a woman crying. Joe’s father snapped, “Be quiet, Ruth.” Then, with deliberate dignity, he opened the door.
Lucas sauntered into the house, aiming his gun at the cluster of women—Hildy and, Mary guessed, her mother and sister. Jody stepped into the vestibule, his eyes taking in the splendor: the winding staircase, the chandelier hanging above, the glimpse of a dining table, a crystal bowl cradling fruit.
Mary clasped Dell
from behind, her arms circling his waist, her cheek pressed against his spine. “I’ll do anything you want. Anything. I won’t tell anyone what you did. Don’t harm these people, Dell. They don’t deserve it.”
“They’re niggers, Mary.” He looked over his shoulder. “Besides you’ll do what I want anyway. Damaged goods, Mary. No one else will have you.” He pulled free of her arms.
Mary began locking away feeling, swallowing screams as she watched the three men’s backs. Jody held the shotgun on the family as Lucas ran up the stairs and Dell explored the first floor. Upstairs and below, there were jarring sounds, overturned furniture, breaking glass. Samuels stared at Jody like he was filth. Ruth whimpered, “My house. My house.” Mary heard a shout from above stairs. Lucas was leaning over the banister. “There’s a nigger up here in bed.”
“That’s Tyler,” Hildy called. “My grandfather. He’s paralyzed.”
“He doesn’t know anything,” said Samuels.
“If I’d known he couldn’t get up, I wouldn’t have hit him,” said Lucas.
“Barbarians,” said Samuels, starting forward.
“You’re the jungle bunny,” countered Jody, his shotgun raised.
Dell entered from the side, red striped wings splayed in his palm. “Butterflies,” he said disbelievingly. “Dead. Pinned in velvet cases. Never seen such a thing. Seems like a woman’s hobby, don’t you think, Samuels?” Dell blew and the dead butterfly fluttered into Samuels’ face.
Mary watched Samuels clench his fist, saw him straining not to knock Dell down. Hildy soothed, “Let them finish their business, Father. Let them finish. They’ll see Joe’s not here.”
Hildy looked at Mary—a look that blamed her for everything. Mary wanted to cry.
Lucas slid down the banister, feet first like a boy. He leaped lightly onto the floor, strutting forward. Mary realized he enjoyed this, enjoyed flailing his gun in Samuels’ face, belligerent, demanding, “Where is he? Where’d Joe go?”
“I don’t know and, if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
Lucas pressed the gun to Samuels’ temple.
Samuels flinched. Hildy moved to her father’s side; he waved her away. “You’re just another Klansman,” he spat, “dressed in a deputy’s uniform.”
Lucas depressed the gun’s hammer. “I’d like to blow your brains out. Splatter them onto your polished floor.”
“Stop it,” whispered Mary.
“I’d like to see you and your runt, Joe, dead. Like to see you both hanging, dancing on thin air.”
“I’ve always known white men were spineless. Cowards. It takes three of you to terrorize helpless women, a sick man, and myself.”
Lucas hit him with the gun.
Samuels collapsed onto his knees. Blood ran from his mouth.
“Father!” Hildy pressed her apron to his lip. “That’s enough,” she screamed at Lucas. “Why don’t you leave us alone?” Her mother wailed; her sister called on God.
“Should I hurt him, Jody, or let you do it?” asked Lucas. “She’s your sister.”
Jody trembled, his fake calf and foot angled awkwardly.
“Is this what you learned in the war, Jody?” Mary asked. “How to hurt unarmed men?”
“Shut up,” he turned on her. “This is your fault. None of this would’ve happened, if it weren’t for you.”
“Then punish me.”
“They’re niggers, Mary,” said Dell.
“You think you’re better?” she demanded angrily. “You’re the one who ought to be running, Dell. Not Joe. But Jody, you’ve never hurt anybody.” Tears filled her eyes. “You used to cry when I burned my fingers. You don’t mean this, Jody.”
“What do you know about me?”
“I spent my life raising you,” Mary snapped. “If it hadn’t been for you, I would’ve left the farm long ago. But I stayed.”
Jody turned away.
“Jody! Dell raped me! This morning, in the barn.”
Jody looked at Dell.
“Ask him. It’s true. Part of his plan to steal the farm. Come with me. We can tell the sheriff, maybe make some difference.”
“The hell with this,” growled Lucas. “Nigger’s on the run. These folks know where he is.”
“They don’t know anything,” argued Mary.
“Somebody’s been packing supplies in the kitchen.” Dell grinned. “Ain’t that so.”
Jody’s Adam’s apple bobbed. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
“Jody—”
“Leave me alone, Mary.”
“I know you won’t hurt these people.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“Who raised you? Who loved you, if not me?”
Samuels, staggering upright, said, “Scum. Worthless, white scum.”
“Watch your mouth, nigger,” threatened Lucas.
“Jody, you didn’t come back from the war for this.”
Jody’s face distorted. “You don’t know anything about the war,” he said bitterly. “You’re a woman. You don’t know anything about war.”
Swinging round, he smashed the butt of the shotgun into Samuels’ shoulder. Hildy dashed forward, her fists jabbing—Jody knocked her aside. He hit Samuels again. Then again.
“Jody, no,” Mary begged. Dell grabbed Mary, pinning her arms to her sides.
Swift, brutal swings with the butt forced Samuels, hands flailing, to his knees.
“Now you’re talking,” said Lucas. “Now you’re talking.” He kicked Samuels in the back and when he fell, he kicked again. Mary heard Samuels’ arm crack, a piece of bone tore through his skin.
The women screamed. Mary twisted helplessly in Dell’s grasp.
“Where’s Joe?” asked Lucas, gripping the back of Samuels’ neck. “Where is he?”
Samuels made incoherent sounds; the rage in his eyes was clear.
“Father doesn’t know anything. Leave him alone,” cried Hildy.
“Where’s Joe?” asked Lucas again. He bounced Samuels’ head against the wood.
“Stop it,” cried Mary. “He can’t tell you anything. He didn’t even know Joe’d escaped.”
“Maybe he can shine my shoes then. Isn’t that what his son did?” Lucas stood. “Dell, get this nigger a rag.”
Dell released Mary’s arms. She watched Hildy creeping forward. Lucas aimed his gun at her. “Move again and I’ll kill you.”
Dell tore Hildy’s bloodied apron and stooped, stuffing it into Samuels’ limp hand. “Shine my shoes, nigger,” said Dell. Samuels didn’t move. “Shine them.”
Lucas was furious. “Move, damn you. Move.” His boot pressed Samuels’ side.
Samuels stirred, his head lifting a bit. He spat, bloody saliva speckling Lucas’ shoes. Lucas kicked him, the force rolling him over. Samuels groaned, blood flowed from his arm. Lucas kicked him again.
Mary’s stomach heaved. “You’re killing him, you’re killing him.”
A shot was fired from the stairs.
“Tyler,” Hildy yelled. “No, Tyler, no.”
Mary saw an old man at the top of the stairs, belly down, poking a rifle through the banister rails.
“Shoot him, Jody,” crowed Lucas.
“Jody, no,” Mary screamed.
Jody aimed. His shotgun blast ripped through the rails. Brains and bone splattered. Tyler, nearly headless, rolled down the stairs.
Lucas called, “Fine shot, Jody. Damn fine!”
Hildy, weeping, started to sing, “Go down, Moses, way down—”
“Shut up,” said Lucas.
“In Egyptland. Tell Pharaoh—”
“Shut up!”
“Let my people go.”
Mary realized it was only a matter of time before Lucas killed Hildy, before the crazy men killed them all. She took her chance and flew out the door, down the stairs. She ran, screaming, thrown off-balance by her shoe, Jody cursing, “God damn, Mary. Get back here. Get the hell on back.”
She screamed into the night’s stillness, �
�Help. Help. They’re killing them.” She stumbled up steps, banged on doors, moved from house to house, repeating, “They’re killing them.”
Porch lights flicked on; faces pressed against windows; people stared through locked screen doors. Mary knew she looked crazy, a witch of a white woman. She went right up to doors, stared into suspicious eyes and said calmly, “The Samuels need help. My brother is killing them.”
When nobody believed her, she grew hysterical. She tried pulling an old man out of his house. “Please. Listen to me. You’ve got to believe me.” Babies were crying. A woman shouted, “Grady, you stay in here.” “It’s a trick,” said another, “a Klan trick.” Dogs barked and growled. Mary whimpered. Why wouldn’t they listen? She imagined Hildy already dead, crumpled on the floor.
She saw a tall man stepping into the street carrying a large revolver. She ran to meet him. “You’re going to help them?”
Mary looked into the man’s unforgiving eyes. The moon hung low over his shoulders. “Joe never hurt anybody,” she breathed. “Please. Save his family.”
Slowly, he nodded. Shouting orders, he moved in a fast trot toward the Samuels’ house. “Bill, get Lying Man. Tell ’im what’s going on.”
A voice hollered back, “Sure, Nate.”
“Chalmers, bring your .38.”
“Okay, Nate.”
“Find where the hell Gabe is.” The tall man, Nate, ran faster, and Mary saw dozens more men coming down from porches, flowing into the street. Some had guns, most had broomsticks, fireplace pokers, baseball bats.
“Come on, men,” Nate shouted.
“Hold on, Hildy,” Mary prayed to herself. A woman in a green housecoat was beside her.
“You need help? You all right?”
“I’m fine.” Mary wiped away tears.
The Samuels’ screen door slammed open. Lucas charged out, firing into the crowd.
Mary yelled, “No—” There was a scream; someone fell. The crowd scattered.
Nate kneeled on the lawn, firing.
Lucas sprinted to the car with Dell close behind. Jody hobbled down the steps and shot at Nate. The shot missed. Dell fired wildly, keeping the men at bay. “Hurry up, Jody. Shit.” He revved the engine.
Jody was almost to the car when from the other side of the lawn, Mary saw a man in a coat run up, gun in hand, and take aim.
Magic City Page 15
