If the Moon Had Willow Trees (Detroit Eight Series Book 1)

by Kathleen Hall

  6

  Bootlegged

  This is our basic conclusion: Our nation is moving toward two societies, one black one white—separate and unequal.

  —The Kerner Report

  NOVEMBER 1967—Although Clyde referred to his neighborhood as The Perpetual Petri Dish, it was an oasis in post-riot Detroit. The streets were wide, trees lush and the houses well maintained. With thirty homes in a two-block area, the homeowners knew one another and looked out for each other. Clyde once said, “Here’s the math. Whites own ten houses, but white families only occupy five of the houses. Of the five, only one white family owns the house they live in. The other four rent their homes from white owners who fled Detroit after the riots.” Clyde’s own house was a bright yellow asphalt-shingled bungalow with white shutters and a black door. When Clyde referred to his home as a “crib,” Sam would say, “you mean cab?” One of those tired, but expected, ritual jokes that caused group groans. Watching them over the past few months, Maggie realized Clyde and Sam were masters at demonstrating the power of quirky humor to break down racial barriers and quiet egos.

  “Hey Maggie,” called Clyde as he opened the door. “Sam just called and wanted me to tell you he can’t make the meeting and will get with you tomorrow.”

  “Damn. He’s been so buzzed about dissecting the Kerner Report. I’m chomping at the bit to see it.”

  “Speaking of chomping, Blanche put out pigs-in-the-blanket, crackers, cheese and of course rabbit food—what you French might call a very petite day joiner. Work today?”

  “Très petit dejeuner,” laughed Maggie. “As to work, nope. Thought we’d be busy before Thanksgiving but Angelo said chill. He’s got me down for two, four-hour shifts during the week and eight hours on Saturday. Good schedule, much less crazy than it was.”

  “I’m not giving up any hours right now and my guess is the rest of the crew is doing the same. Unemployment is so freaking high that Angelo only has to think replacement and he’s got fifty cooks and a hundred waiters at his door,” said Clyde.

  “Clyde Daniel Webster, are you kidding me? Angelo would close his doors before letting you go.”

  “Strange things are happening, Maggie Soulier. It ain’t what it seems. Go get your day-jew-nay, however the hell you pronounce it, from the kitchen and bring it to the dining room. Might be a long meeting.”

  To Maggie, The Eights were a curious anthology of people. Clyde and Blanche Webster, with their three young sons in a quiet Detroit neighborhood were the median. Blanche ran a daycare center in the basement at Hope Chapel and was active in all things involving children, education and women’s rights.

  At the far left, Robin and Willie Johnson, mid-thirties and childless, liked to walk on the wild side. Both were into recreational drugs, including LSD for ‘spiritual treks.’ Robin baked and designed special event cakes for weddings, funerals, confirmations, bar mitzvahs. Her jewel tone colors and cake shapes were off the charts and she’d attracted the rich and famous, including the Motown crowd. But Robin had no interest in empire building and refused to take more than three clients each month. Willie, a local celebrity, was the Zamboni driver at Olympia Stadium. He loved to dress in Red Wing red—red pants, red shoes, red socks. Willie never took time off when the Red Wings had a game and rarely called a backup for their practices. The backup drivers were relegated to cleaning the ice from one a.m. to six a.m. when the arena was rented to amateur teams. A Detroit icon with a smile that lit up the ice arena, Willie, ‘Mr. Zamboni,’ was often invited to emcee small events or serve as the Grand Marshall in local parades. Unlike Robin, Willie loved the smell of greasepaint and the sound of applause. Clyde used to worry about Willie’s discretion, but after ten years, he’d finally relaxed his guard. Robin and Willie spent most of their time, money and energy pushing for prisoner’s rights, monitoring police conduct, arrest records and criminal court cases. But Willie knew decriminalizing recreational drugs, especially pot, was the ticket to freedom for most brothers. He returned to this arena time and again, bloodied and broken, wrapping his fists for another round. The Johnsons’ many connections to the media and defense bar morphed into one of the Freedom Riders most coveted, surprising and effective power caches. Doors and file cabinets opened, information was leaked and tweaked in this underground swap meet.

  Remaining at the ‘near right’ were two single females and Maggie’s best friends. Loretta Hood had owned and operated a hair salon just west of downtown called SistaHood for more than twenty years. Before the black-is-beautiful movement gained momentum, Loretta had, one-by-one, begun changing the look of blacks in Detroit. Her customers walked out with Afros, dreadlocks and hair woven with beads, feathers and ribbons. Loretta’s own hair was nappy, shorn like a sheep. She said the contrast worked. Her customers were ready for Motown, the cover of Ebony, a late night at the Latin Quarter.

  Stella Webster was closer to Maggie’s age, tall, thin and gorgeous. She married Clyde’s cousin Odell when she was only sixteen. Long-story short, Odell learned his trade in the tenements, dealing and using heroin. After they married, Odell’s addiction arced and he began beating the crap out of Stella. Clyde and Blanche took her in when she was seventeen. With their help, Stella attended Eastern Michigan University on college grants and scholarships. After getting her undergraduate degree, Stella went on to earn an MBA from Wayne State. She now worked as a mortgage closer for American Savings and Loan in Detroit. Not into risk-taking, rebellion or even peaceful protesting, Stella’s contribution to the cause came through her clarity of communication and attention to detail. Her competency in accounting and knowledge of contract law were invaluable. As for Odell, the last anyone heard he was serving time at Dehoco, the Detroit House of Corrections, for armed robbery.

  Compared to other members of The Eights, Maggie thought she and Sam moved along the continuum from ‘median to left’ when it came to taking risks and protesting—but skirted the ‘near right’ when it came to jobs and life styles. Both she and Sam were more focused on equal employment, equal pay and housing opportunities. Maggie’s mind was wandering. She reminded herself to pay attention and take notes; Sam will want a blow-by-blow of the meeting.

  After ten minutes of catching up with one another, Clyde knocked on the table and cleared his throat. “I’ve asked Stella to give us some background on the report because, unlike me, she knows how to be succinct. And, because you’re all so damn shy, she’ll help me lead the discussion. To tamp down any wild-ass expectations, it’ll take months to sort out all the details in this report. Our job is to identify and grab the low-hanging fruit and get started before opposing forces set up their defenses. Stella?”

  “Thanks, Clyde. In short, because the NAACP has contacts deep within the Johnson administration, the Freedom Riders were able to snag a bootlegged copy of Kerner’s Summary Report of the riots. The copy is in draft form. We don’t think it’s been swept by the FBI, or others who might insist on editing it for the ‘public good.’ The full edited report, expected to be more than 400 pages, will be available for purchase after its release in February. In the meantime, we have one draft copy to begin our discussions. We won’t make copies and ask that you not take any notes. I’m sure it goes without saying that any talk about this report outside The Eights could put innocent people at risk and jeopardize our work. Questions?”

  “How do we know this isn’t a plant?” asked Willie.

  “We don’t. If it’s a plant, the person who gave us the copy might be involved. If not, he might lose his job for turning it over to us. We might get some adverse publicity, but there’s nothing illegal about accepting a copy of this draft report,” said Stella.

  “Bottom line, we don’t want anyone losing their job and we have enough adverse publicity without creating more, which is why we can’t talk about it outside this group. Capisce?” said Clyde.

  “Bro, you gotta drop the Italian. You’re beginning to sound like Angelo,” said Willie. Clyde responded by tapping the table with his mid
dle finger.

  Loretta asked, “If we don’t cover the core issues tonight, will we schedule an extra meeting or wait until next month?”

  Stella looked to Clyde and he replied, “Let’s see what we accomplish tonight. I’m open to an extra meeting if that’s what it takes. More questions? Okay Stella, let’s grab some fruit.”

  “Three basic questions were addressed: What happened? Why did it happen? What can be done to prevent it from happening again? We’ll zero in on the last two questions. Why did it happen? No surprises here. The report found ‘race prejudice . . . threatens future . . . white racism . . . explosive mixture . . . pervasive discrimination and segregation . . . black in-migration and white exodus . . . massive concentrations of impoverished Negroes in cities.’ ”

  Maggie was trying to take it all in and make mental notes to cover with Sam. The Eights were transfixed. It was so quiet Maggie could hear Marmalade, Clyde’s old collie, snoring in the kitchen. Maggie thought, Kerner said exactly what we’ve been saying for years. Finally, it seems, the Feds got this right.

  Continuing, Stella reported, “What can be done to prevent it from happening again? ‘The major goal . . . single society . . . open opportunities . . . eliminating barriers. Lastly, increasing communication across racial lines to destroy stereotypes, to halt polarization, end distrust and hostility, and create common ground for efforts toward public order and social justice.’ ”

  Maggie said, “Are you fucking kidding me? Does this mean we aren’t alone in this fight?”

  Stella looked to Clyde who said, “Maggie, it’s filled with hope, but there’s one recommendation that gave me the creeps the first time I read it. By the third or fourth read I started to get it. No protest march, this action is more like flying to the moon or writing a symphony. It’ll take a lot of time and finesse, but we gotta do it.” Taking the copy from Stella, Clyde turned to the middle of the report and read: “ ‘We can pursue integration by combining ghetto enrichment with policies which will encourage Negro movement out of the central city areas.’ ”

  “Now before anyone goes ballistic,” said Clyde, “the report supports this recommendation as ‘. . . the only possible choice for America . . . a policy . . . designed to encourage integration of substantial numbers of Negroes into the society outside the ghetto.’ ” To Maggie, the key words and phrases hung like confetti.

  “In my first read I thought, those S.O.B.’s want the cities to themselves,” said Clyde. “After I reread it with the supporting comments, it’s clear the effort to achieve equality must include integration. An all-black Detroit will create a bigger ghetto. We need to integrate and that means bringing the city to the burbs. Comments?”

  Willie said, “It creeps me out with the reasoning. It’s like hens chasing the goddamn foxes to the suburbs. What the hell? Why shouldn’t Detroit be the first black city? I say it’s about time. Why not?”

  “So, Willie, we draw our lines in the sand and then what? We design a new flag, set up boundaries? Form our own armies?” said Blanche. To me the whole point is to find some way to live together. No more craziness.”

  “Willie Johnson, Blanche is right. We can’t do this shit any more. If peace is an option, it’s gotta be our goal. I’m not fighting for a piece of property. I’m fighting for equal rights. Just so there’s no doubt, I think the only way to equality is to prohibit same-race marriages, so we all turn honey-colored mulatto. Then we could smoke weed, dance and make love instead of shooting each other,” said Robin.

  “Robin Johnson, now what poor white boy do you have your eyes set on?”

  “Willie Johnson, you do make my heart sing, but if it was law I’d be forced to marry Elvis,” winked Robin and everyone at the table dissolved in laughter at the idea of Robin marrying a white boy from Tupelo, Mississippi.

  7

  Adulterated

  The racial hysteria among whites fleeing Detroit for the suburbs in the post-riot period added to the greater fear and racial hysteria of whites living in the suburbs.

  —Detroit Weekly

  NOVEMBER 1967—Heading northwest on Grand River Avenue, it was hard to avoid the aftermath of July’s looting and burning. Newscasters described this area as ‘war-torn’ and Sam thought the remains of the S.S. Kresge store near Joy Road looked like a bombed-out ship, its hull ready for demolition. How many times had he and his brother Kenny sat at Kresge’s soda fountain sipping root beer floats or eating hot fudge sundaes? Speaking of Kenny, Sam thought what an asshole. Last time I lend him my car! After all their arguments, Kenny had once again tucked a roach clip in the ashtray. The last thing Sam needed was to get stopped for a traffic violation and arrested for possessing drug paraphernalia. If he got booted from the Guard, he’d lose his tuition benefits. Kenny made good money at a tool and die shop, but burned through it like who laid the rail. His story this time was his 1965 VW had been impounded for unpaid parking tickets. It’d been months since Sam saw the VW and he had no doubt it’d been repossessed. Sam thought, shit, mooching is one thing, lying about it pushes it to a whole new level.

  As Sam approached Outer Drive, Grand River looked cleaner, stores were open and holiday decorations signaled a return to normalcy. Sheer Juice, the company Sam worked for, occupied a small two-story white cinderblock office building retrofitted with a loading dock facing the back alley. Unlike neighboring retail stores and offices with plate glass windows, Sheer Juice’s daylight slogged through glass-brick windows and frosted-glass doors, giving it a modern architectural mien, but no invitation to enter. When Sam asked the Plant Manager, Louie Zito, “what’s with the no-see glass, especially upstairs?” Zito said, “we gotta protect our proprietary interests in the preparation and bottling of Sheer Juice.” Sam almost laughed because Zito’s response was so noir paranoid and illogical. Sheer Juice was just juice.

  Four parking spots at the back of the building were reserved for the President, Comptroller, Plant Manager and Administrative Assistant. Parking spaces up front were reserved for customers and subcontractors during the day and for employees who started their shift after six p.m. Because of school, Sam preferred the late shift; parking up front was a nice perk. For that matter, his job was a perk. Thanks to Angelo and his connections, Sam was not flipping burgers or delivering pizza, but working for a company that promised to build his resume during graduate school. Although most of his assignments were mindless, he was exposed to processing, marketing, sales and distribution. And, at times, he was asked to do some basic office and accounting work. On the rare occasion when Sam worked a day shift, he’d take applications and interview hourly workers. It wasn’t rocket science, but with the right spin, his experience would look mighty good on a resume, even open a few doors.

  Zito saw Sam park his car and was waiting at the front door to let him in. “So, where the fuck you been?” asked Zito. “You get hit by a car or what?”

  “Hey Zito! Thanks for holding my place. I don’t know what the hell I’d do if I didn’t have you kicking my ass every week,” laughed Sam.

  “You ass-kisser. Won’t work. I’ve got all kinds of shit for you tonight to make up for your piss-poor attendance, so don’t even think about leaving before it’s done. Capisce?”

  “Capisco. Anything, my night is yours.”

  “Yeah, well don’t fucking stretch the clock. It won’t take all night. Follow me.”

  The loading dock was filled with five-gallon blue containers made of heavy-duty molded plastic. Each container had “DEPC” stamped in white block lettering. Zito said, “We’re working with one of the giant beer companies to extend the shelf life of fruit juices. I can’t say who but you’ve heard of ‘em. Deal is fucking huge. Cha-ching! It’s top secret. You say anything to anyone and you get a pair of cement shoes. Got it?”

  “Sure, Zito. This is a good thing, right?

  “Yeah, asshole, it’s a good thing. Here’s what I need you to do. Take all thirty-six of these jugs to the processing area and line them up in front of the f
irst three juice machines. Okay, numb nut? That means twelve jugs in front of each machine. They’re heavy as brick shithouses so take them one at a time. It’s 6:15 now. I figure five minutes for each trip to cover breaks, so three hours max plus two hours for payroll. I’ve got stuff to do, so I’ll lock the doors and be back by eleven to help you wrap up. Questions?”

  “Not that I can think of. You home if I need to call?”

  “You call my house and I’ll break your fucking kneecaps. My wife thinks I’m working.”

  “Nice, Zito. You’re getting laid and I’m busting my ass.”

  “Well, you know what they say, ‘time and service,’ that’s why I get paid the big bucks. You can wipe your ass with that MBA,” laughed Zito as he headed for the back door.

  For the first time it hit Sam that the executive parking spots in the back were strategic. These guys could come and go without being seen. Plus, it was no secret the administrative assistant position was filled by a revolving door of young, pretty, buxom babes.

  Damn, thought Maggie. It was after ten and she hadn’t heard from Sam. She hoped he’d call so she could do a brain dump of the Kerner Report before she forgot. Screw that, she thought. Sam’s job was so closely supervised he wouldn’t call. Maggie hadn’t met his boss and had no interest in meeting him. According to Sam, Louie Zito was a misogynist and banterer. Maggie couldn’t decide which was worse but thought she could take misogyny better than bantering. She’d be glad when they were done with these part-time, labor-intense, mundane jobs. Compared to Sam, Maggie felt lucky. Although her work was a drag, she stayed with Angelo because she liked him and Clyde. Yet, she dreamed of the day when she wouldn’t have to arrange another slice of pepperoni on a pizza, flush out the coke machine or clean up after a bunch of ankle biters. Delivering pizza wasn’t bad, but being female was a nuisance. Maggie had some close calls with sofa jocks who’d been drinking and watching sports on TV all day. More than once, some nimrod grabbed her arm and insisted she stay and earn some big tips. In the coldest voice Maggie could muster, she’d say: My boss Angelo Ciccerelli is connected, if you get my drift. If I’m not back in ten minutes he’ll send his hit men out looking for me. Worked every time. But now, Maggie wanted out. Six more months and she’d have her Master’s, and she hoped, a job teaching poetry.