The Black Mass of Brother Springer

by Charles Willeford

  "Okay, Mr. Price. You can expect me."

  I took a taxicab to the designated meeting place, but there was no one there. I paid off the driver, and as soon as he drove away a man wearing overalls crossed the street and joined me. He was a thin, wiry little white man, with grizzled gray hair and a pale thin face spotted with freckles. He was younger than he looked, because the dark stubble of beard on his cheeks and chin was coal black. This was the first white man I had talked to in a long time, I thought.

  "I'm Eddie Price," he said.

  "The cab fare was ninety cents."

  "Oh! Sure." Mr. Price pulled a dollar out of his pocket and handed it to me.

  "I don't have any change."

  "That's all right. Follow me, Reverend."

  Instead of following him I walked at his side, and in the middle of the block on Montgomery Street, we turned into a low one-story garage building. Outside there was a single gas pump. Price took a crudely lettered GONE FISHIN' sign down from the wall, and hung it over the top of the pump. He rejoined me at the entrance, and then pulled down the reinforced door. Dim overhead lights burned in the rafters of the garage, and there were six automobiles of different makes parked along one wall.

  "The office is over there," Price said, pointing.

  We crossed the grease-spotted concrete floor and entered the small office in the far corner of the building. The office was a poorly constructed addition of beaverboard; two walls jutting out at right angles from the comer, and a dutch-door entrance.

  Seated behind a cluttered and messy desk was a middle-aged man wearing a gray seersucker suit, a blue necktie and a white shirt. In contrast to Eddie Price he resembled a banker. He stood up as I entered the office, and waited until Price closed and latched both the top and bottom halves of the dutch-door before he spoke.

  "How do you do, Reverend Springer. My name is Corwin, and I represent the Jax Intertransit Omnibus Company."

  "How do you do, Mr. Corwin."

  "Eddie here," Corwin added, "is chairman of the Citizen's Committee of Jax."

  "Evidently, you gentlemen want to talk business," I said, hoisting myself onto the desk. I sat stiffly, watching both of them warily. Corwin winked at Price, nodded his head sagely.

  "Yes, you can call it business. You look like a reasonable man, Reverend, and I think we can come to terms."

  "Just a minute," I said. "Before we go any further, I want you to know that I'm not the head of the League For Love. I am only a member, and any decision must be made by the group as a whole. Not by me."

  "We don't talk business with niggers," Price said.

  "That's right," Corwin said firmly. "We don't. But then, I don't think we have to talk to niggers. I think we can stop this bus boycott right here, just among the three of us. Don't you think so, Eddie?"

  "I certainly do, Mr. Corwin."

  "I came to listen," I said, lighting a cigarette. "Let's hear it."

  "I'm going to get personal then," Corwin said bluntly. "How much are those niggers over there paying for you to stir up trouble?"

  "As yet, the question of salary hasn't come up. As a minister of the Church of God's Flock I am paid eighty dollars a month."

  Price spat on a rubber mat in front of the door. "I pay two mechanics eighty bucks a week apiece!"

  "Naturally," I said coldly. "Unskilled labor should be paid a larger weekly wage."

  "Cut it out, Eddie!" Corwin said sharply. "Eddie didn't mean to belittle your profession, Reverend. As a minister you are preaching the Good Book, and both of us admire you for it. But you're entitled to a living. Look at your clothes! You need a new suit, your collar is frayed, and even a new pair of shoes would come in mighty handy. Right?"

  "I suppose." I shrugged.

  "Now, look," Corwin continued. "We're all good Christians here. I'm a Methodist, and Eddie here is a Presbyterian. But we're Southerners too. We've lived around niggers all our lives, and you haven't. As soon as I heard your accent—"

  "I don't have an accent."

  "That's what I mean. As soon as I heard you talk I knew you were from up North. We take care of our niggers down here. Good care of 'em. We always have and we always will. We know them and we love them. We need them and they need us. If it wasn't for niggers there is one hell of a lot of work we would have to do ourselves. Right, Eddie?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Now you come down here and start stirring 'em up; get our niggers all excited, and they get confused. They don't rightly know what to do, you see. You start out on something like this bus boycott, telling niggers they got a right to sit anyplace they like, first thing you know—Bang! Trouble. As I said before, Reverend, you look like a reasonable man. You don't want any of these niggers in trouble, and neither do we. A lot of 'em are getting mighty biggity these days as it is. Eddie here, I know, spends a good many hours every week, when he could be working at his business, holding meetings, making night visits and all, with the Citizen's Council. He doesn't want to do that, and neither do I." Mr. Corwin spread his hands out, palms up. "But we have to do it. The Negro has a very definite place in the South, and we must keep him in it."

  "How would you like to have your sister marry a nigger?" Price asked me belligerently.

  "My sister was run over by a car when she was nine years old," I said. "What she does now is in God's hands."

  "I'm sorry," Price said contritely. "But what I mean is: that's what they want! Niggers all want to marry white women, and if you let 'em have so much as an inch, that's what'll happen, just as sure as you're born. We can't let that happen."

  "I didn't know that," I said. "None of the colored men I've met have expressed such a desire."

  "Oh, they don't say it!" Price raised his voice. "But you just look at what happens when they get a little money up North. They marry a white woman every time!"

  "Eddie knows what he's talking about." Mr. Corwin nodded sagely. "He's made a study of race problems for many years, and he knows 'em. When they put Eddie up for Chairman of the Council, I gave him my vote, because I knew that Eddie knew the problems we faced."

  "I appreciated that vote of yours too, Mr. Corwin!"

  "And I was glad to give it to you, Eddie."

  "Suppose we talk business," I suggested.

  "All right," Mr. Corwin agreed. "Let's. All we want is a normal situation again. We'll keep your name out of it, and you won't have to do or say a thing. Just quietly drop out of the—what do you call it? League For Love, and start preaching the Good Book the way you're supposed to do at your own little church. That's number one. Number two, this is an easy thing for you to do. Deliver a copy of the rosters of the people who are in your car pools and on the volunteer lists to me or Eddie. If you will do this, I'll give you five hundred dollars right now, and upon delivery, I'll give you a thousand dollars. There it is. That's our proposition. We'll take care of the boycott by visiting these people on the list and talking to 'em. Eddie knows what to say. I promise you that there'll be no violence whatsoever."

  "Five hundred now, and a thousand later?" I asked, thinking the proposition over.

  "That's right," Eddie said. "One thousand upon delivery."

  "Let's make it a thousand now, and another thousand on delivery," I suggested.

  "That is a fair figure, and I agree with you, Reverend," Mr. Corwin said affably. "To end this boycott peacefully, I'd be willing to pay any amount of money, but unfortunately, the Intertransit Company didn't authorize me any more."

  "All right," I said. "Give me the five hundred. I'll see what I can do about the rosters. But they're kept in a safe, and it may take a day or so."

  "Speed is essential." Mr. Corwin frowned.

  For some time I had heard a faint, whirring sound, and when we stopped talking for a moment, I traced the noise to the inside of the desk. I slid down from my seat atop the desk, squeezed by Eddie, and before Mr. Corwin could stop me, I jerked open the file drawer of the pine desk. A tape recorder whizzed away; a blinking green light in the ce
nter indicated that the machine was recording. The microphone was in the tray of the partly open top pen-drawer, and Mr. Corwin had effectively shielded both mike and dangling cord from view throughout our conversation by leaning forward and resting his hands on top of the desk.

  "You boys have been bugging me, I see," I said quietly.

  "Just protecting our investment," Mr. Corwin said easily.

  "Give me the tape or it's no deal," I said.

  "Let's put it another way." Eddie smiled happily. "We keep the tape, you get us the rosters, and then we'll give you the tape. But Let's forget about the fifteen hundred dollars, shall we?"

  "Okay," I said. "Your company just lost a bus boycott."

  "Get out, nigger lover!" Eddie said contemptuously. He turned away from me, unlatched the top half of the dutch-door, and pushed it open. The bottom half was latched on the outside. As he bent over to raise the latch, I picked up an empty Coca Cola bottle from the desk and swung it hard against the base of his skull. Eddie didn't move or make a sound; his body merely hung limply over the bottom section of the door which remained latched.

  With the bottle firmly gripped in my hand I wheeled on Mr. Corwin who was still in this same position behind the desk. His pale blue eyes were opened wide and he stared at me disbelievingly. As I looked at him, he raised his hands to protect his face. I slowly advanced and he backed up against the beaverboard wall. Without taking my eyes from his face I reached down and switched off the recorder, jerked both the spools off the spindles with my left hand, and dropped them into my coat pocket.

  "How about the five hundred dollars, Mr. Corwin?"

  "You killed him, Reverend! He's dead, I know he is!"

  "No. A man can take a pretty good blow at the base of the skull. Now, if I had hit him on top of the head, he might be dead. But he isn't dead. What about the five hundred dollars, Mr. Corwin?"

  "The company didn't give me that much," Mr. Corwin stammered. "I got three hundred this morning, and Mr. Keene didn't want to give me that. He didn't think I could bribe you."

  "I bribe easily," I said. "Give me the three hundred."

  Mr. Corwin fumbled his wallet out of his hip pocket, his fingers trembled so violently he couldn't get the money out. I took the wallet out of his hands and removed the money.

  "Some of that money is mine!" he protested.

  "It still doesn't add up to five hundred," I told him reasonably. "And now Let's talk some more. I have the tape. You don't. One blubbering bleat out of either you or Mr. Price, and you're through. You know that, don't you?"

  Mr. Corwin nodded. "What about the rosters? You'll get them for us won't you?"

  "Just as soon as you can dig up twelve hundred dollars in cold cash. Goodbye, Mr. Corwin." I pulled Eddie's limp, wiry body away from the top of the door, and let him fall to the floor. He groaned and rolled his head back and forth, brought his hands up to his face. "You see," I said, "he's all right."

  As I unlatched the lower door, I kept my eyes on Mr. Corwin's face; then I backed out, closed the door and latched it again.

  "I'll really be in trouble if I don't get those rosters," Mr. Corwin called out to me when I was halfway across the garage floor.

  "Just give me a ring when you get the money," I shouted back cheerfully. "Right now you'd better take care of your chairman!"

  Chapter Eleven

  Near the entrance to Flagler Park I hailed a taxi-cab and climbed inside.

  "Where to, Reverend?" the driver asked respectfully.

  I looked at my watch. One-thirty. So much had been going on I had thought it was much later.

  "To the nearest telegraph office," I told the driver. My right hand felt numb and I flexed my fingers. The Coca Cola bottle dropped to the floor of the cab as I opened my hand. I had been holding the bottle in a death grip since leaving the garage, and I hadn't realized it. The incident in the tiny office had been rather tense at that. Amateurs, I thought. If they had wanted to bug me, they could have done it easily in that messy, disorderly office. They could have run an extension microphone in from the open garage and hidden it in a dozen places. But that was the trouble with all of us; we were all amateurs. I was an amateur preacher; Eddie Price and Mr. Corwin were amateur boycott breakers, and the League For Love was working in the dark. We had organized hastily and we were without a long-range plan of any kind, meeting each crisis as it came along hurriedly and without thinking it out. Amateurs.

  I counted the money Mr. Corwin had given me. Three hundred and twenty-seven dollars. Not bad, but why all the gobbledygook about fifteen hundred bucks? Did they really have that much dough to spend for just a few rosters, or were they trying to get me to quit my activity? I was no ring leader; I was just drifting along with the other members of the League For Love to see what would happen. But why think about it? Why think about anything? Ride with the tide, look and listen, speak when spoken to and listen to the voice as it talked. My voice was saying something very interesting things. But when all was said and done, nothing would make any difference anyway. My act of violence in the garage office had disturbed me, caused my heart to beat faster. I had hit Eddie without thinking and I had done it easily and well. Just like that. I hadn't been in a fight of any kind since the age of twelve when I had fought a boy in school who had stolen a peanut butter sandwich out of my locker. And as I recalled that fight, I remembered that I had lost it...

  "Here we are, sir," the driver said.

  I paid him off and entered the telegraph office. I had to send my wife some money. Not that I really felt responsible for Virginia. She was an adult. But she was dumb. I was afraid it wouldn't occur to Virginia to write or wire her mother for money to get back to Columbus. And I didn't want Virginia to notify the police that I was missing.

  I put a hundred dollars down on the marble counter and told the girl I wanted to send a money order to Virginia Springer in Ocean Pine Terraces, Miami.

  "Yes, sir." The girl consulted a small table. "That will cost you two dollars and fifty-two cents."

  "That's a little high isn't it, for a money order?"

  "I don't know, sir. That's what the table says. You can see right here—"

  "Never mind." I took another five out of my wallet. "How about a message with it? That's free isn't it?"

  "No, sir. A message with a postal money order costs six and five-tenths cents a word."

  "You've got quite a little racket going here. I don't suppose you have special rates for ministers, either?"

  "I really don't know, sir. I'll have to ask Mr.—"

  "Never mind. The hell with it."

  The girl's eyes widened and her eyebrows raised.

  "What I mean is, I'll pay the regular rates."

  I wrote Virginia's address on the form and a brief message: Go back to Columbus and mother. I pushed money and message across the counter to the girl and accepted my change.

  "You didn't include your name and address, sir," the girl reminded me.

  "That's right. I don't want the woman to know who sent her the money."

  "Yes, but we need it for record purposes."

  "Well, you won't get it. Do you want to send the money order or not?"

  "Yes, sir. I'll send it. I know who you are anyway. I've seen your picture in the paper."

  "You're a bright young lady. Your mother must be proud of you."

  "She is," the girl said defiantly, shaking her pony tail.

  I left the office, stood at the curb cracking my knuckles. I had come off badly, I decided. Getting sarcastic with an employee who was merely doing her job was no way for a minister to act. I went back inside, beckoned to the girl.

  "I'm very sorry," I said. "I'm overwrought today. Please accept my apology."

  "That's quite all right, sir."

  "God bless you child." That was better. I left the office.

  Outside I picked up an empty taxicab at the corner, and told the driver to take me to the Southern Baptists of Saint John Church.

  When I entered t
he basement GHQ there was a lot of activity going on, but none of the ministers of the League For Love were in the room.

  I tapped a young typist on the shoulder, and she leaped quickly to her feet.

  "That's all right, young lady," I said. "Keep your seat. Where are Dr. Heartwell and the other League members?"

  "He's upstairs in his regular office," the girl answered quickly. "Reverend McCroy and Dr. David are with him and," she looked around the room, "I believe Reverend Hutto is up there too."

  "What is it? A meeting?"

  "Yes, sir. An investigator from the International Colored Advancement Society flew in from Atlanta, and he's talking to them now."

  "Thank you."

  So, the professionals had arrived. The I.C.A.S. had recently been outlawed in four southern states, and in a widely publicized move, this organization had shifted its main headquarters to Ghana, Africa. Devoted to advancing the cause of colored men throughout the world, this widespread organization had hired the best Negro brains available. Our little operation could get into some real trouble if the I.C.A.S. became involved. The smell of Communism hung over this dark organization, and although none of the rumors concerning Communism had never been proved, the mere taint of the name, International Colored Advancement Society, could put the kibosh on our boycott in short order. Besides, this organization would demand a strict accounting of funds, and in all probability, would thoroughly investigate me and my phoney religious background. The valid ordainment in my wallet would be a great joke if publicized in the newspapers, and my usefulness to the League For Love would be all over.

  At the end of the basement hallway I climbed the steps leading up to Dr. Heartwell's office three at a time. Without knocking, I entered Dr. Heartwell's office and closed the door behind me. The Right Reverend Jason McCroy, Dr. David, and Dr. Heartwell sat in chairs facing Dr. Heartwell's desk. The swivel chair in the place behind the desk was occupied by the investigator from Atlanta. He was a sharp looking character, decked out in a Brooks Brothers suit with thin narrow lapels, and a gay Countess Mara necktie was tied around his powerful neck. His hair was black and straight and was combed back over his round skull in well trained elegance, aided by a shiny, sweet-smelling pomade.