by Guy Johnson
“Don’t interrupt me ag’in!” The voice had turned cold and authoritarian. “As I was sayin’, I knew you’d remember the summer of 1954, the summer you spent with us when we opened that man’s veins and staked him out in the swamp for the fish to feed on! I knew you wasn’t fool enough to try anythin’ at the expense of yo’ family! Because, if you did, I just don’t know how we’d deal with the disappointment! Get my drift?!”
Braxton quelled his anger and replied in a resigned tone, “I understand you.”
“Now, was the meetin’ successful?”
“Yes, I have assigned people to watch the key grandson and establish his social circle. The DiMarcos will use their Mexico City connection to follow him if he travels down to see King Tremain. I’ve also arranged for the next to the last payment of your money to be sent to your Nassau bank. If you please, Uncle Pug, I didn’t know I had to check in with you to clear my every move. I thought I was serving you well by using my own initiative. That’s the way we’ve been operating for the last few years.”
“This be a new day! All debts is due now! We gon’ take over this operation! You’ll take your orders directly from me or my grandson, Deleon! You ain’t got no say in this! We have some debts to settle and we don’t want no bunglin’! One of us will be to Frisco in a couple of weeks. You hold your horses ’til we get there!”
“DiMarco isn’t too receptive to direction,” Braxton offered, trying to mount a diplomatic argument as to the drawbacks of his uncle’s plan.
“We’ll use him as far as he’s useful, after that he’s swamp food. As a matter fact, all the men you’s met with gon’ be swamp food after this is over. You should take care that you don’t end up the same. You’s a distant relative, yo’ DuMont blood ain’t that thick.” The phone went dead.
Braxton exhaled and returned the receiver to its cradle. He spent a few moments breathing deeply. The intrusion of his mother’s family was about the last thing he needed. Although he had gone to them when he had needed money for medical school and also years later when he needed capital to buy the Bay City Gazette, he didn’t like spending too much time with them. The summer he had spent in Louisiana had been enough for him. He saw them as the epitome of an inbred, unsophisticated backwoods family. Nonetheless, he was not foolish enough to cross them. He knew they would track him across three continents to exact their revenge.
He was beginning to regret that he had discussed Sampson Davis’s death and the letter with his uncle. He had thought his uncle would be satisfied with his taking the lead in the matter as he had done for years, but that was obviously not the case. Once the old man heard about the possibility that King was seriously ill, he got extremely excited, spouting far-fetched plans as soon as they came into his head. His outburst exemplified what Braxton feared most about the DuMonts. They were a primal, frightening, and passionate people, more interested in displays of courage than caution. A folk who after spilling the blood of their enemies would drink, dance, and carouse until exhaustion and excess took them. They relied less on organized planning than spur of the moment, impromptu actions, which often led to messy results, like witnesses, clues, and fingerprints. Given the DuMonts’ overriding mania in all matters regarding King, Braxton was concerned that their impulsive brutishness might be directed at him should he show reluctance to perform some poorly thought-out directive.
A pain lanced across Braxton’s back as the tension in his body reached critical mass. He needed to relax. Braxton went to the phone and made a call. A woman’s voice answered. Braxton said, “I’m ready, come now.” He returned the phone to its cradle and went out on the deck. His only option to keep control of the situation was to bring it to resolution before his relatives arrived.
There was one major, nagging unknown: the grandson, Jackson Tremain. If Jackson was anything like his cousin Franklin, there would be no problem. But if this grandson had more of King’s skills, everything might unravel. Braxton simply did not know with whom he was dealing and yet he had already set actions in progress involving that person. This broke a cardinal rule of his, which was never to take an offensive move without a clear understanding of your opponent.
There was a knock at the door. Braxton had a moment’s hesitation before answering it, thinking it might be DiMarco’s men, but he put that thought out of his mind. He knew DiMarco would wait until the job was finished, or nearly finished. Braxton opened the door and a tall, stylishly dressed, golden-brown-skinned woman walked in and gave him a peck on the cheek. Her hair was in a full natural and she wore large, colorful hand-crafted earrings. She smiled at him, showing white teeth and sparkling eyes. She took off her coat and Braxton admired the curves of her body underneath her dress. As he ushered her to the bar his last business thought was, Who the hell are you, Jackson Tremain?
Deleon DuMont, a lean, whipcord-wiry man wearing an olive double-breasted suit, a white silk T-shirt, and loafers without socks sat at the bar and watched John Tree walk out the front door of the Miramar Vista. He sipped his drink slowly and turned to watch himself in the mirror. He was a brown-skinned man with high cheekbones and a triangular face who, no matter how well he shaved, always had a visible five o’clock shadow. Nonetheless, he thought he presented a striking image. He had tailored his look after that of the black detective on Miami Vice. He liked to wear silk T-shirts under his suit jackets and he liked the way his thick black hair was pomaded into waves. He pulled a pack of imported cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lit one of its dark brown cylinders of tobacco. There was a faint perfume in the smell of its burning ash. By the time he had finished his cigarette and watched a bit of a baseball game that was on the bar’s TV, he saw the young woman with golden-brown skin and large, colorful earrings stop by the entrance to the bar. She did not enter, but merely nodded to him then continued on her way.
Deleon paid his bill and went into a phone booth, where he made a long-distance call. The phone rang several times then a male voice with a raspy, southern Louisiana accent answered the phone: “It’s yo’ dime!”
Deleon spoke into the phone, “The girl just went to his room, Grand-père. He’s going to be there the night. It isn’t likely he’s going to leave before tomorrow morning.”
The voice was querulous: “Any of ’em make you?”
“No, Grand-père. I was discreet, as you requested. No one saw me. I was simply calling to report in. There doesn’t appear to be much else to do here. Unless you wish me to go upstairs and chastise him for his disobedience, perhaps show him how sharp my blade is?”
There was a moment of silence, then, “Naw, keep yo’ knife sheathed. We don’t want him to know you’s already on the scene no way. You just keep an eye on him and that Tree feller. You done good, Deleon. Look like you gon’ get some help on this here particular assignment. Some of our Mexican friends want a piece of the action. Frankie San Vicente will be arrivin’ tomorrow. He’ll be stayin’ at the Hilton by the airport. Pick him up tomorrow night.”
April 3, 1954
Jackson was eight years old when his father was killed and for him it marked the end of innocence. His life preceding that event was beyond the horizon of memory; it had fallen off the edge of the earth into darkness. His father was killed on a Friday night in April 1954 and the memory of that afternoon and evening remained unfaded by the years. The day had been cold and overcast, punctuated by numerous showers. The streets were wet and shiny like someone had covered them with sparkling cellophane. Jackson had hurried home after school, stepping over puddles in which he saw a dark and distorted world reflecting off the surface of the water. He was looking forward to the hot chocolate made by old Papa Butterball Brown. When he arrived, he was salivating with anticipation of the hot, sweet liquid.
Jackson was living in his grandparents’ house at the time. His father had decided to move back in with his parents on Fulton Street after Jackson’s mother had been killed in a car wreck in 1951. The house was a large, rambling Victorian with fourteen-foot ceilings and lo
ng, vertical windows which stretched nine feet from bottom to top. It was always cold because of its high ceilings, and despite its numerous windows, it had the dark, brooding character of its presiding matron. Although the family was ruled by his savage, iron-fisted grandfather, his grandmother ran the house on her own rigid, loveless terms. And as long as Jackson lived in its dank, shadowy gloom, it was a place without joy, without hope, and its darkness was filled with a haunting and lonely silence.
An hour before dinner, on the night of his father’s death, Jackson’s cousins, Franklin and his sister, Samantha, came over with their mother, Lisette. Franklin, at ten years old, was two years older than Jackson and slightly bigger. He liked to take advantage of their size difference and bully his younger cousin. Franklin was envious that Jackson lived in their grandmother’s sprawling house and his envy manifested itself in a hectoring hostility. Jackson had tried numerous times to befriend Franklin, but his efforts were consistently spurned. Yet Franklin’s sister, Samantha, just a few months younger than Jackson, was always friendly.
For dinner that night his grandmother cooked pork chops smothered in thick, dark gravy along with mashed potatoes, candied carrots, and big cat-head biscuits steaming hot from the oven. The children ate at the smaller table in the kitchen with Papa Brown while the other adults ate at the main table in the dining room and talked business. After dinner, Jackson wandered in to where the adults were sitting. The conversation paused when he entered the room, but his father beckoned him over. Jackson went to his father’s chair and leaned against him. Seated around the table were his father, his grandmother and grandfather, along with his aunt Lisette.
His grandmother asked, “Where’s LaValle?” LaValle was his father’s older brother and Franklin and Samantha’s father.
His grandfather, a large, broad-shouldered, light-skinned man seated at the head of the table, answered in his gruff manner, “He ain’t taking care of business for me.”
Franklin came and stood at the door, waiting for permission to enter, but his grandfather waved him back, saying, “Go on back where you came from. We got enough children in here!”
Franklin pointed to Jackson and began, “He’s in here—”
His grandfather cut him off with a look. Franklin backed out of the room without another word.
The phone rang. His grandfather gestured to his son. “Jacques, see who it is.”
Jacques put his arm around Jackson and whispered into his ear that he should go back into the kitchen with his cousins. Jackson obediently went into the other room as his father answered the phone. That was the last time he saw his father.
As soon as Jackson entered the back room where his cousins were playing, Franklin began to taunt and bait him, building up to making a physical assault. Jackson attempted to ignore him, but when Franklin said, “You’re just a black nigger like your mother!” Jackson lunged at him. Jackson’s charge caught Franklin off balance, but Franklin’s superior strength soon made the difference. After a few minutes of wrestling, he sat astride Jackson, pinning his arms and punching him. When he could not make him cry with the first few punches, Franklin punched harder. But Jackson would not cry; his anger blocked his tears. When Franklin bloodied his nose, Samantha ran from the room and returned with Papa Butterball.
Papa Butterball was a man in his late sixties who despite his portliness was still a spry but not an intimidating figure. For nearly twenty years he had been a top chef in one of King’s better restaurants. He had no family so when he desired to retire, King offered him a room in the Fulton Street house. King always repaid loyalty. Papa Butterball pulled Franklin off Jackson and said in his guttural voice, “Whatchoo doing, boy? That’s yo’ own blood you beating on! You better stop if’en you don’t want yo’ grandmother in here!”
Franklin sputtered as Papa Butterball grabbed him by the shirt collar, “He called my mother a name! And I don’t take that!”
“He’s lying,” Samantha said matter-of-factly. “Frankie started it.”
Papa Butterball said, “I don’t care who started it.” When Jackson scrambled to his feet, Papa Butterball pushed him toward the door and said, “Go clean yourself up, boy!”
As Jackson left the room, he heard Franklin threaten, “If you tell, I’m really going to kick your butt!”
After Jackson had washed his face and his nosebleed had subsided, he made his way to his secret place, behind the couch in his grandfather’s sitting room. Although there was a large fireplace in the sitting room, there was also a gas heater installed in the wall next to the couch. Normally heat dissipated rapidly in the cavernous room, but it was always cozy behind the couch due to the wall heater. Jackson lay down on a couple of pillows and cried. The tears welled up and streamed down his face. He felt a sadness and a sense of loss that he could not express.
Franklin had touched on a sore point when he had mentioned Jackson’s mother. Although he could not remember his mother’s image, from the pictures in the photo album Jackson could see that she was a very dark-skinned woman with large eyes and full lips. His father often said that she was a beautiful woman and Jackson wanted to believe it, but he was confused. He had heard too many contradictory statements from other people in his family. Everyone else in his family except his mother and he was light-skinned, and he realized without being told specifically that light skin was better than dark. He didn’t like being, as his aunt Lisette had often called him, “the black sheep of the family.” Only his father had stood between him and the slurs and ridicule of the rest of the family. His grandfather never said anything; he merely watched to see how Jackson handled himself.
Jackson eventually fell asleep, pitying himself and wondering whether he would ever be happy like other people were. Hours later he was awakened by his grandmother’s concerned voice: “What’s happened? What’s happened?”
His grandfather answered, “It was a trap! Jacques was killed!”
His grandmother’s voice quavered, “Are you sure that Jacques is dead?” Jackson heard her sit down heavily in an overstuffed chair.
His grandfather dumped out something on the table that sounded like marbles. “If he hadn’t been dead, I wouldn’t have left him at Thompson’s Funeral Home!” The grandfather’s tone was matter-of-fact. His grandmother said nothing. Jackson could hear her breathing. His grandfather continued to move quickly around the room. Jackson heard some heavy metal objects being placed on the table. He knew they were his grandfather’s guns.
“Are you sure?” his grandmother asked, her voice cracking. “Jacques is dead?”
His grandfather took a deep breath and said, “He was shot twice in the back with bullets from a high-caliber handgun. He’s dead!”
“Oh, my God!” His grandmother’s voice broke. Jackson heard the sound of a glass or an ashtray falling and shattering on the floor. Then there was another long silence, broken only by the sound of his grandfather loading his guns.
Several minutes passed before his grandmother demanded, “That’s your answer, King: kill somebody?” His grandmother’s voice conveyed her incredulity. “Like your killing people didn’t pave the way for Jacques’s death?” Her voice was getting shrill.
“Keep your voice down and don’t get righteous with me, woman! You think my heart ain’t broke? The only son of mine I got to raise, layin’ cold in a funeral home?”
Serena hissed, “He died paying for your sins!”
King shook his head. “We both know this is still part of yo’ stuff! We’re gettin’ to the last part of Sister Bornais’s curse! Don’t pretend that you forgot yo’ part in this!”
“How can you separate your business from Jacques’s death?” his grandmother demanded. “Your enemies killed him. Our son is dead and your business is the reason. The business that I begged you to quit. And you’re telling me not to get righteous!”
“Seems to me you forgettin’ that for more than thirty years, you been living pretty good off these here wages of sin, woman. You complain about it,
but you use the money. How you think all these rich white families that you admire so much got started? Money don’t grow on trees. Anyway, this ain’t no time for arguin’. I want to find out who set this trap and I think I know just the person to ask.”
Seeing the evil look on King’s face, Serena asked, “Where’s LaValle? Was he hurt?”
“I know you care about him, no matter how many others have died,” his grandfather replied, and paused before he continued. “He’ll live, but he’s the reason that Jacques is dead. Once I find out who worked with who to set up this trap, we gon’ have a little talk. LaValle’s gon’ be looking over his shoulder as long as he lives. Don’t worry, I ain’t gon’ kill him. I’m just gon’ break a piece off him every time I see him.”
There was a long period of silence then his grandfather asked in his dangerously calm voice, “Don’t tell me you want to coddle the weakling who caused Jacques’s death, do you?”
Even from his hiding place behind the couch, Jackson could feel the tension.
His grandfather continued in a casual tone, “Has he called you yet?”
“You’re planning to hurt our remaining son and you expect me to tell you whether he called or not?” His grandmother’s voice seemed to be on the edge of a shriek. “How convenient that you can turn off your heart. It’s so simple for you!”
His grandfather answered without inflection, “Don’t get it twisted. LaValle’s responsible for Jacques’s death. He has information that I need, then he’s fresh meat.”
Serena paused for a breath and then shouted, “You promised me he’d be under your protection as long as you have the strength to provide it! We are talking about your remaining son!”
His grandfather’s tone turned colder as he growled, “You know that white man’s boy ain’t my son. Never was. Because of you I only had one son. I would’ve had two, maybe three sons but we know that story, don’t we? It don’t matter either way, Serena. You know he’s weak and rotten through to his core. We both know it, don’t we?”
