Southern Cross

by Stephen Greenleaf

  “Seth tells me he’s generated some controversy over the years.”

  Scar shrugged. “He’s a boil on the rebels’ ass, that’s for sure.”

  “Rebels?”

  “That’s what I call the folks still fighting the war. Which is pretty much everyone south of Broad and west of Goose Creek.”

  “This is the Civil War you’re speaking of.”

  Her eyes twinkled in the night light. “We call it the War of Northern Aggression, and far as we’re concerned, that’s the only war there was. Rest were just skirmishes.”

  “So the North–South thing is still happening down here.”

  “One fifth of the male population of South Carolina was killed in that war; it’s not something folks forget, even after a century.”

  “Even so, it’s hard to understand why it’s still so important.”

  She shrugged. “Slight problem of communication. Northerners think we’re incestuous and retarded and intent on lynching every black buck with a cock over two inches long; we know for a fact that Yankees are hypocrites and Communists and perverts—every Yankee man I know is more concerned whether his wife is wearing her underwear than whether she’s losing her mind.” Scar looked at me and softened. “But maybe you’re the exception that proves the rule. Or should I go put on some panties?”

  Without a conscious prompt, my gaze dropped to her lap. By the time I’d retrieved it, Scar Raveneau was laughing at me.

  We finished our drinks in a hush that had somehow become a comfort. “So what’s your story, Miss Raveneau?” I said when she seemed ready to leave. “As turbulent as your namesake’s?”

  She shrugged. “Lucky at cards, unlucky at love.”

  “That’s hard to believe. You’re an attractive woman.”

  For some reason, the cliché made her angry. “Guess you misheard me. I didn’t say I was unlucky at fornication—I can walk to that window and spit on a dozen lawyers who’ve spent at least one evening trying to make me their hobby. You know what a hobby is, don’t you?—something to fool with when you don’t have anything better to do. Fucking adulterous bastards.”

  The epithet betrayed wounds inflicted far more recently than the Civil War. “Sounds like you’ve been burned a few times,” I said.

  “My heart’s as black as barbecue, Mr. Tanner. And it’s still dangling over the pit.”

  “Is Seth Hartman one of the fires?”

  Her next breath sizzled. “None of your goddamned business. Doesn’t matter anyway—he’s got someone.”

  “Jane Jean.”

  She nodded. “He tell you about her?”

  “Not much.”

  “Maybe they hit a rough patch. Now wouldn’t that be a shame?”

  I decided not to plumb her jealousy just yet. “Know anyone around town who’s got a serious bone to pick with Seth?”

  It didn’t seem to strike a chord. “He’s made a pack of enemies, but then so has the mayor. I don’t know of anyone settin’ snares for him, if that’s what you mean. What makes you think there is?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t, necessarily. But he seems worried about something.”

  “Probably whether Poogan’s is going to run out of crab cakes before he gets his ration—the man has a serious fit for food. Speaking of which.” She lifted her glass.

  “More gin, Miss Raveneau?”

  “Since you’re twisting my arm. And fix one for yourself, Mr. Tanner. Then maybe we’ll slip off our shoes and do some serious communicating. Did you know Porgy and Bess was written about Charleston? Catfish Row is just down the street from here.”

  TWELVE

  Seth called before I was out of bed the next morning. I tried to pretend I’d been up for hours, but he saw through me immediately, probably because I was having trouble forming phrases.

  “Sounds like a rough night,” he said as a chuckle rumbled through his voice. “Hope it wasn’t the bed.”

  “More like the neighbors.”

  “Oh?”

  “Your friend Ms. Raveneau paid a call.”

  “Ah. The lovely Scar. Let me guess—you tried to match her drink for drink.”

  “Something like that.”

  “What you should know is that Scar’s immune to gin. It’s like lemonade to her—she’s left a lot of fallen soldiers in her wake, including yours truly more than once. I assume I should replace my stock.”

  “A case ought to get us through the week.”

  “Unless she decides to throw a party; she’s been known to invade with friends in tow.”

  A particularly effective blow percussed the base of my skull. I winced, then took a tack. “Scar seems fond of you.”

  “The feeling is welcome and reciprocated.”

  “Which means?”

  Seth paused. “Just what I said. When my marriage started going bad, Scar and I had some good times for a year or so.”

  “I guess what I’m wondering is if it would be a problem for you if Scar and I got … friendly.”

  Seth’s laugh was warm and quick, without an agenda as far as I could tell. “It would pleasure me no end. But I warn you, she’s also hard to best in contests with weapons more erogenous than juniper berries.”

  “Sometimes those games are more fun to lose than win. She seems to think I’d be entranced by the significant other in your life, by the way.”

  “I know you would be. I’ve been trying to set us up for lunch, but Jane Jean’s even busier than I am.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Practicing law with her daddy on Church Street.”

  “I always wondered how it would feel to love a lawyer.”

  “A bit like loving a porcupine—stimulating as hell, but you’ve got to watch your step.”

  I grinned at an image of Seth impaled on a thicket of sharp spines. “Maybe we can double-date; I’d enjoy watching you watch your step.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Scar and Jane Jean are a lot alike.”

  “Which means?”

  “They hate each other’s guts.” Seth laughed long enough for me to regret the years we’d gone without such banter.

  When he spoke again, it was with far less levity. “I talked to the head of Kounter-Klan this morning.”

  “And?”

  “He said he’d be happy to speak with you.”

  “I’ll call him right away.”

  “I didn’t mention ASP, because at this point I don’t want him to know I’m being targeted personally. But give him an hour before you call—while I was talking to him, someone on the other line called in a bomb scare.”

  “Bombs. Racist garbage. I feel like I’m back in the sixties,” I said.

  “More like the thirties, Marsh. Times are hard and people are scared and blacks are back to what they’ve always been—scapegoats for problems that seem out of control. I’m sure Rick Last leads the state in death threats.”

  “Last is the name of your friend?”

  “Yep.” Seth gave me his number. “He’ll be there till noon.”

  Seth hung up, and I went out for breakfast. After coffee and a croissant at the French place down the street, it occurred to me that what was most likely to happen to me in Charleston was a big bump in my weight.

  I called Rick Last when I got back. While I was waiting for him to come on the line, a series of thumps and bumps jarred the ceiling overhead: Scar must have been doing aerobics. I decided it would be nice to be watching her sweat.

  “Last.” The voice was brusque and captious and impressively nerveless given the recent scare at his office.

  “My name’s Marsh Tanner. I’m a friend of Seth Hartman’s. I’m calling from—”

  “He told me. What is it you need?”

  I noted the absence of pleasantry. “I need to know if you have anything in your files on an organization called the Alliance for Southern Pride. Have you heard of them?”

  “Some.” The word was measured an
d grudging. “What do they have to do with you?”

  “They’ve been harassing someone down here. A friend of Seth’s. He thought if I knew who they were, maybe I could convince them to stop.”

  “Why would he think that?”

  “Because that’s my business, on occasion.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I’m a private investigator.”

  “In Charleston?”

  “San Francisco. I’m just visiting.”

  Last thought it over the way a cop thinks over your cover story whenever you invade his turf. “Let me offer some Southern hospitality, Mr. Tanner,” Last continued, suddenly sunny and obliging. “Outfits like ASP can ruin a vacation real quick. You’d be wise to watch yourself if you go looking for them, and even wiser to let someone find them who’s more … familiar with our ways.”

  “More Southern, you mean.”

  “Close enough.”

  “I’ll keep your advice in mind. In the meantime, I’d appreciate knowing what you know.”

  Last sighed. As it reached me through the phone, the sound was dreary and disappointed, the drone of a true cynic. “What form has this so-called harassment taken? Has ASP done anything criminal that can be traced to them?”

  “As far as I know, so far they’ve made do with threats,” I said. “Delivered by telephone and on tape.”

  “Audio or video?”

  “Audio.”

  “Threats to do what?”

  “Unspecified as yet.”

  “What’s the quid pro quo?”

  I hesitated. “That’s going to have to remain confidential for now.”

  “Really.”

  “Afraid so. I’m not a free agent in this. There are things to consider I don’t even know about.”

  Last’s laugh was dry and piqued. “That goes without saying, Mr. Tanner. Even when you think you know, you won’t.”

  His condescension rankled. “You Southern guys like to see yourselves as pretty Byzantine, don’t you?”

  His response was curt and uninvolved. “At the very least, Mr. Tanner.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think you’re all that complicated. Freud would get a fix on you guys in a minute.”

  “Maybe. But our women would drive him crazy.”

  We laughed, then checked ourselves for wounds, then decided to let our contretemps evaporate. “So,” I went on finally. “Is it that you don’t know anything about ASP, or are you just not telling?”

  Last took time to organize his essay. “We know some, but not much. ASP is new to the scene, first sighted maybe a year ago. They’ve only surfaced in and around Charleston so far, though there are signs they’re branching out. They seem to have come up with some seed money.”

  “Where?”

  “Don’t know. Could be anyone from a rich patron to a similar group passing on a dividend. Bank robberies out West by members of the order a few years back financed a dozen other hate groups for a long time.”

  “There’s no money trail to ASP at all?”

  “There’s a P.O. box listed on the pamphlets—where to send donations. We checked it out, of course—just a mail drop. There’s no DBA statement on file, either.”

  “What is it they’re after, basically?” I asked.

  “I don’t see a definite agenda out of them yet—they’re less clear about their aims than their principles.”

  “Which are?”

  “Racist, nationalist, and fundamentalist. They’re ultrapatriotic, ultra-Christian, and ultraconservative.”

  I couldn’t resist—“The Southern Way of Life.”

  “A perversion of it, Mr. Tanner. I imagine you would regard the gang culture of places like Compton and South Chicago as a similar perversion of your own values.”

  “Touché, Mr. Last.”

  “Noted, Mr. Tanner.” He paused to say something to someone else, then came back on the line.

  “What’s unusual is to find this type of activity cropping up in Charleston,” Last continued. “There’s been plenty of racist activity in South Carolina over the years, of course—seventy-three lynchings between 1882 and 1900 alone, if you like numbers—but most of it’s been up-country. Our legendary race-baiting politicians, Pitchfork Ben Tillman and Cotton Ed Smith, regarded Charleston as the enemy camp—called Charlestonians ‘self-idolatrous,’ which isn’t a bad description even today.” Last’s laugh was low and mordant.

  “You’re saying there’s no hate-group activity in Charleston except for ASP?”

  “The only visible Klan activity in this state in the past year or so happened over by Pelion and Swansea. But the Klan has been on the rise in the region in general ever since the Greensboro Massacre in ’79—the Klan refers to it as their Fifth Era. Most of the activity lately has been in North Carolina—Glenn Miller’s White Patriot Party and groups like that. But racism is like a rash—you never know where it’s going to break out—so it’s not surprising it finally found its way to Charleston.”

  I took time to digest what he’d told me. “What else do you have on ASP? Anything that could point me to the leadership?”

  “The front man is a guy named Bedford. Calls himself the Field Marshal. He may or may not be the real honcho.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “He’s about thirty. Headed the Young Republicans at the College of Charleston, then founded the White Student Union when party politics got too tame for him. Moved on to the National Association for the Advancement of White People while Duke was in charge, then got religion. Spent a month with the CSA in Arkansas, then—”

  “CSA?” I interrupted.

  “Covenant, Sword and Arm of the Lord—a little nugget of fanaticism over in the Ozarks. Then he went up to Idaho and got schooled in Christian Identity for a time—that’s Aryan Nation stuff. Came back to Charleston a couple of years ago but wasn’t visible till recently, probably studying his Bible. Then all of a sudden he pops up with this ASP organization. The Purification Brigade and all that.”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  “No. He’s careful to keep it secret. Paranoid to the gills.”

  “What’s his favorite tactic? Cross-burnings, parades, hate mail, what?”

  “Nothing that dramatic so far. They’ve written letters to the newspapers opposing affirmative action and abortion and slipped pamphlets under windshield wipers advocating compulsory sterilization of welfare recipients and resegregation of the schools. They’ve made some phone calls to this office, too, ordering us to cease and desist our maiming of the great white race, as they put it, but that’s pretty much par for the course around here. As far as I know, they haven’t staged a public protest yet, though rumor has it one may be right around the corner.”

  “Can you send me one of the pamphlets they’ve put out?”

  “We don’t like to let that material out of our hands. But if you go by the high schools or the college down there, and look on phone poles and billboards, you’ll probably come up with something—they like to go after the throwaway kids who don’t have a personal support system and don’t know enough history to see the hate-mongers for what they are.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Devils, Mr. Tanner.”

  I decided I didn’t need him to elaborate. “So what’s the bottom line, Mr. Last? What do these race guys want to see happen in this country?”

  “It depends on who you talk to and when you talk to them. If you’re in a public forum, with media around, a guy like Duke will rail against abortion and welfare and foreign aid and attendant evils such as that.”

  “The Republican platform, in other words.”

  Last didn’t take the bait. “If it’s a public forum but no press, they’ll start talking conspiracy—the Trilateral Commission is a dupe of the Communists, and the Rothschilds are in control of the banking system, for example. They might bring up their plan for a forced separation of the races as well—restricting Jews to Long Island, blacks to Alabama a
nd Mississippi, Hispanics to Texas, Asians to Hawaii, and so forth. They’re also partial to jailing homosexuals, closing the borders to immigrants, and abolishing the IRS and the Federal Reserve System.”

  “What’s wrong with the Federal Reserve?”

  “Obviously you haven’t heard that FERNS—Federal Reserve Notes—are a tool of the international conspiracy to destroy the white race by strangling it with usurious debt. The Bible comes down hard on usury, you know.”

  “If that’s what they say in public, what do they talk about when they meet in secret?”

  Last was silent so long I thought he’d hung up. “Do you really want to know?” he asked finally.

  “I think I’d better.”

  “Then read a book called The Turner Diaries. It was written in 1978 by a guy named William Pierce, a former physics professor at Oregon State. What it describes is an all-out uprising by whites against the nonwhites in this country, a racist pogrom if you will, as part of God’s plan to introduce a higher species of man on earth. It’s an entrancing document if you’re sadistically inclined, and terrifying if you’re not. The Diaries are particularly vivid about the fate of those who collaborate with the lower races, such as white women who keep company with black men and lawyers who advance their civil rights.”

  “What happens to them?”

  “On what Pierce calls the Day of the Rope, they get hanged from trees with signs around their necks saying, ‘I betrayed my race.’ As encouragement to others to maintain racial purity.”

  “Sounds delightful.”

  “It’s at least as awful as it sounds. But you would be foolish if you didn’t understand that a lot of people see just that sort of Armageddon as their only salvation, and even as God’s will. America is the most religious country on earth, after all—forty percent of the population considers itself Born Again.”

  It took time to get the Diaries out of my head. “You don’t have any idea if Bedford’s the real power behind the ASP business?”

  “No, but whoever it is, he’s not stupid. The pamphlets are literate and rhetorically effective—among the better examples of the genre.”

  “The ASP people seem determined to keep their identity secret. I thought Klan-type guys were more public than that.”