Dark Town Redemption

by Gary Hardwick

  7

  MARCUS

  Levi Stubbs’s voice thundered off the walls of the little house. The place smelled of food, beer and the sweat of dancing people. It was one of those cozy events that reminded Robert of the old quarter parties, warm summer night affairs given in someone’s cool basement where you spent the night grinding on your favorite girl.

  After making love to Denise three times, he had gone out with her to look at his old neighborhood. He’d been worried about coming back to a place that he didn’t recognize. Three years in the service seemed like ten. He was pleased to find things still in pretty good condition.

  He looked around the party and saw familiar faces from the neighborhood. There was Tyrone Griffin, T-Griff, his old high school baseball teammate and his older brother, Monkey Griff, who had gotten his name because of his long arms.

  He smiled at Miss Stevens, a fifty-year-old widow, whose husband had died in a plane crash. She’d gotten a lot of money and spent her days going to church and taking care of her kids and grandchildren. She was on the dance floor moving like a woman half her age.

  There was John Wesley, his summer league coach and Gwen Reed, a girl he’d dated before Denise who had remained his friend.

  Robert felt warmth in his heart and the last vestige of this all being a dream were swept away by the happy faces in his home.

  The Four Tops sang “Sugar Pie Honey Bunch” as the room rocked and the floor creaked with dancing.

  Robert sang badly to Denise while holding a beer. She laughed and sang back to him just as badly. Robert looked over and saw his mother and father doing the same.

  “Go on, daddy!” said Robert.

  Abraham smiled at this and spun around eliciting cheers from the onlookers. Robert took another swig of beer and saw Marcus holding up a wall tapping a foot.

  Robert broke away from Denise and grabbed Marcus and pulled him out to the dance floor.

  “No, you know I can’t—-“ Marcus began.

  “Everybody can dance tonight,” said Robert.

  Robert placed Marcus between Denise and Abraham and the family all danced together.

  Marcus smiled and for the first time Robert realized that his brother had not smiled much since he’d gotten home. Marcus was pleasant but he had not been as elated as the rest of the family. Distantly, Robert’s keen sense of his family sent off a soft alarm.

  The group dance ended with the Four Tops song and Robert kissed Denise.

  “I’ma get another beer,” Robert said.

  “I can get it honey,” said Denise.

  “No, you don’t have to wait on me. I got it,” said Robert and then a little belch escaped him. “Excuse me.”

  Robert walked off as Smokey Robinson’s floating tenor sounded. He ambled into the kitchen past Monkey Griff who was eating a plate of food and talking to a girl.

  “Monkey Griff!” yelled Robert. “What it be like?”

  “It be like you tonight, Bobby,” said Monkey Griff in a voice so deep that it seemed to slow his words.

  Robert entered the kitchen, saw the Pabst Blue Ribbon piled into a bucket of ice and grabbed one. He opened it and took a drink. He’d had three beers already and each one tasted like the first. He remembered drinking the warm, no-name beer with Foster and Percy and a smile danced across his face.

  Marcus entered the kitchen and Robert saw the flat, serious face of his brother had returned. What was it, he thought, that could have clouded Marcus’ happiness on this day?

  “Want a beer?” Robert asked.

  “No, thanks,” said Marcus. “Alcohol is part of the White man’s plan to keep us weak.”

  Marcus had always been the family scholar and militant. It seemed that the last few years had only deepened his beliefs.

  “Yeah, I heard that.” Robert took a deep drink of his beer and laughed. “Man, when I was your age, I was drinkin’, smokin’ and everything.”

  “I know. I heard the arguments,” said Marcus

  “Yeah, I was a handful,” said Robert in that way that difficult people have when they are impressed by their own sins. “But the service saved me, you know. I learned discipline, leadership. No tellin’ where I’d be without it. Probably the graveyard-- or prison.”

  “The White man’s Army saved you?” asked Marcus. “You saved yourself, Bobby. The man just used you to do his thing.”

  The militant was back, thought Robert through the haze the beer had put on his brain.

  “What’s wrong with you?” asked Robert. “Ain’t you happy I’m home?”

  “Yeah man,” said Marcus, his face showing how suddenly guilty he felt for dampening his brother’s return. “I am, but you know, this Vietnam thing and how they treat us back here—-“

  “I know how people feel about the war, but you’ll see when it’s over, everything’s gonna change.”

  “For who?” said Marcus with the same tone as before. “Not Black folk. Hell, even White people are against the war. Dig it, do you know who Shaun Thomas is?”

  “That actor from TV, right?” said Robert a little drunkenly.

  “No,” said Marcus with some irritation, “This Shaun Thomas was a soldier like you, Black like you and he was killed last month by some White men for nothing. And the police and the newspapers tried to cover it up. But the Black paper, The Chronicle, did a big story on it.” Marcus sounded like a schoolteacher lecturing a wayward student.

  “Yeah, I remember. Mama told me about it. I know it was bad but so what?”

  “After that, some pigs shot a Black prostitute and tried to blame it on a Black man, just gunned her down like a dog.” Marcus’ voice had grown louder now.

  “For what?” asked Robert sobering a little at this revelation.

  “Because they could,” said Marcus urgently. “No matter what else she was; she was a person and a sister. The Big Four are out busting heads every night, like them secret police in Germany. The brothers are living in the worst neighborhoods, no money for our schools, second-rate city services and treated like we’re still on a plantation. We’re tired of it, Bobby. This city’s like a bomb waiting to go off. Open your eyes.”

  And now Robert knew what had stolen his brother’s happiness. The Movement.

  The Civil Rights Movement was a set of two separate agendas. Martin Luther King led the non-violent movement. Then there was the radical movement, advocated by the likes of Malcolm X and the Black Panthers. They believed only confrontation could free Black people. It was obvious that Marcus was of the latter mentality.

  “Look, little brother,” said Robert. “We can talk about this some other day. Today, I am celebrating and you know why?”

  Robert reached into his pocket and pulled out a buck knife. It was a specially crafted blade that he’d bought from a trader in Vietnam. It was steel with a black handle and brass accents. He used it for utility but once had cut a Viet Cong in a fight with it.

  “This here is my reserve fighting blade,” he said to Marcus. “I ain’t got no need for weapons no more. I feel like I gotta get rid of all the war in me, you know. I know you really can’t do that but it’s, what you call it?”

  “Symbolic,” said Marcus.

  “Yeah. That there is the old me,” he pointed to the knife. “No more hurtin’ my fellow man,” said Robert and handed the knife to Marcus. He did it slowly like he was exorcising a demon from deep within himself.

  “I know the man has a ways to go,” Robert continued, “but so do we.”

  Marcus took the knife, and Robert could tell that he didn’t want it but he accepted it, not wanting to hurt his brother’s feelings.

  “Thanks,” Marcus said without much feeling. “I know you went through a lot over there. I want you to be at peace about it, you know.”

  “I knew you’d understand it, Marcus,” said Robert. “I can always count on my baby bro.”

  “Hey, you know you can get into college easier now being a vet and all,” Marcus changed the subject. “We need to learn al
l we can if we’re going to change this country.”

  “Naw, I ain’t no book guy. That’s yo’ thang. I’ma get a job at the plant or something, get me a little place with Denise; work on some little ones. Have a life, you know? I got a line on a job as a driver at the Faygo Plant.”

  They stood in silence for a moment, Robert finishing his beer and Marcus watching him. The sound of the party was cheerful but Robert could feel the unease in his brother.

  “So, you got yourself a girl, yet?” asked Robert. “I know you shy.” Women were always something two men could talk about freely.

  Marcus blushed visibly. He was indeed shy when it came to girls. Once he had climbed a tree in order to see a girl he liked. He fell out of it and almost broke his arm.

  “Yeah, yeah I got a girl,” Marcus said smiling.

  “What’s she like? She’s a fox, I know.”

  “You know she is.”

  “That’s my little brother,” Robert and Marcus slapped five on it. “On the black hand side,” said Robert, then he and Marcus flipped their hands over and slid them across each other.

  “I meet a lot of girls in The Van... guard,” said Marcus and the last word slipped out in two distinct syllables as if he had not meant to say it at all.

  “Van what?” Robert was a little drunk.

  Marcus took a moment, his face showing that this might be a touchy subject with his big brother. “Vanguard. It’s a political group.”

  “Political how? Marches? Rallies and shit?”

  Marcus took a moment, then: “No. We don’t believe in non-violence.”

  Robert’s face clouded. That was the first time Marcus saw the soldier look, the hard, flat emotionless face of a killer. He felt himself recoil from the dark intent in his brother’s eyes.

  “You with them dudes who bomb shit and start fires?”

  “It’s called civil unrest, Bobby.”

  “It’s called a damned felony in Detroit. How we gonna change things if we tearin’ them down, burnin’ them up? This is why Negroes can’t get nowhere.”

  “I ain’t no Negro. I’m Black,” said Marcus.

  “You’re foolish. That’s what you are,” said Robert.

  Marcus faced the larger man and tried to twist his face into the angry snarl that matched his brother’s but to no avail. Whatever produced that look was not in Marcus.

  “You go risk your life and kill some poor Vietnamese guy who lives in a hut because some White man says jump. Who’s the fool?”

  “The protected never understand their protectors,” said Robert remembering the words of Lieutenant Ferguson. “You think I’m crazy because I served my country?”

  “No, you’re crazy if you think this is your country. I hear that mess all the time from daddy. I’m not buying it.”

  Robert took a step toward the smaller man, and then stopped. He had just given up his anger and now here he was about to hurt his own blood. He moved back a step and then the soldier face disappeared. He was just a man again.

  “Look, we ain’t gonna solve no problems in this old kitchen. Go on back to the party. I’ll rap with you later.”

  Robert hugged his brother and Marcus didn’t fight it. Marcus walked out of the kitchen carrying the knife, the symbol of his brother’s former life.

  Nothing was easy in life, Robert thought. Marcus was a kid when he’d left home. He was still a baby with baby ideas and a baby’s love of his big brother. Now he was a man and his big brother had been replaced with ideas and hope. How could any man compete with those formidable giants?

  The American people sent him and his comrades off to war. These same people who enjoyed the peace and freedom of this country didn’t seem to understand it was purchased with death and blood. And so now they turned their safe, well-fed faces toward him with evil, judging eyes.

  He’d marched into hell for an ideal and saw that ugliness become fodder for dignified speeches and self-righteousness. That’s what it meant to be a soldier, a patriot, he thought, understanding that all great civilizations are built upon the most uncivilized of behavior.

  Robert finished the beer, then grabbed another. He looked at the bottle for what seemed a long time and then put it back in the bucket. Enough drinking for tonight, he thought.

  Robert walked back into his party but it had been drained of some of its joy

  .

  8

  MCGINTY’S

  There was no alarm on McGinty’s bar. No bars on the windows, even in the back facing a dark alley. The owner, Brian, was the fourth McGinty to run the place and he felt no need to even lock the door sometimes.

  There was good reason for this lack of security. McGinty’s was what the locals called a blue bar or cop bar. This meant that at any time of the day, there was likely to be several armed, off-duty policemen in the place.

  Ian McGinty, a thin, snaky man, had opened the place in 1878 while still a cop on the police force. His son and grandson had kept the tradition.

  If you were stupid enough to steal from McGinty’s, you would be swiftly tracked down and dealt with. And it wouldn’t be on the job. The cops would do it off the books as it were, and they’d administer their own brand of justice.

  McGinty’s was filled to the brim this night as Sinatra crooned in the background from a jukebox. The juke boasted one hundred and fifty songs. None of the artists were Black.

  The place was done in a green that had faded from its glory days. There were Leprechauns, shillelaghs, four-leafed clovers and the like. It wasn’t the most inventive décor, but no one came to McGinty’s for the ambience. They came for the drinking, for the love and for the Irish, the love of drinking.

  Thomas and Sarah hugged near the bar as Ned Young regaled a small crowd with his story. Thomas smiled dutifully and tried not to interrupt. Ned loved to tell stories and he was good at it. He embellished sometimes but that was part of being a good storyteller.

  “... so this nigger, black as night and big as an elephant, is drunk and disorderly,” Ned continued.

  Thomas blushed at the use of the word nigger and he felt Sarah stiffen beside him. She made a disgusted noise but fortunately, no one else heard it.

  “He’s got a lead pipe big as a car in his hands,” said Ned. “I’m looking at him thinking, goddamned spook’s holding a Buick in his paw.” There was more laughter and another louder sound from Sarah.

  “People are running, women screaming,” Ned continued. “I mean this big bastard’s scaring the bejesus out of everyone within a mile. So we get up to him and I tell you, this guy’s the size of a train.”

  Ned looked to Thomas who smiled and nodded like a good partner.

  “So, we announce our arrival,” said Ned. “But the nigger, he don’t blink, this one. So, we move in and this sonofabitch is still not flinching. I get close and the bastard takes a swing at my head with the Buick!”

  The officers laughed and chuckled and some of their dates gasped. Thomas felt like he was hugging a statue now. Sarah was pissed and he knew if he looked at her, he’d see her eyes ablaze.

  “So now I’m mad, right?” Ned went on, happy to have control of the crowd. “So, I pull my weapon and the rookie here follows suit. I figure we’ll just blast this darkie back to the jungle. We start in and still the guy’s not flinching. I don’t know what’s gonna happen. Then the rookie asks me? ‘Hey, do I shoot before or after you?’”

  The group of officers exploded in laughter and applause. The crowd broke into random commentary and then Ned settled them.

  ”Well, the sonofabitch is thinking about it now. He looks at the rookie then at me then back to the rookie and drops the Buick and lays down all nice like.”

  More applause and someone slapped Thomas on the shoulder. He felt the statue he was hugging stiffen even more.

  “So we cuff him and the damned things barely fit over his thick wrists,” said Ned. “Then I hear the rookie say:” Ned turned to Thomas to finish the story.

  “This shit ain’t so h
ard,” said Thomas to more laughter and applause.

  “Then we-—“ Ned stopped. Thomas knew he was not about to talk about the beating they’d given the Black man. Ned was a little drunk but not so far gone as to admit to a felony to a room full of people. “We took the asshole in,” he finished.

  “Shit, they’re making rookies smarter now,” said Donald Brady, a tall, dark-haired cop that Thomas had seen around the precinct.

  “He’s a lot smarter than you were, Ned,” added Matt Reid, Brady’s partner. Shorter and much better looking, Matt Reid favored a young Gregory Peck.

  “Up yours,” said Ned.

  “Buy you a beer?” said Reid smiling.

  “I take it back,” said Ned and the cops all laughed again.

  Thomas laughed as well and turned to Sarah and saw her angry face.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked knowing full well what was bothering her.

  “I’m going out back to smoke,” Sarah said and without another word, she disengaged his hug and walked off.

  “Where’s she going?” asked Brady walking over with Reid.

  “Ladies room, I guess,” Thomas lied.

  The small crowd was breaking into smaller conversations. Brady and Reid stood on either side of Thomas and for some reason, he felt uncomfortable. He knew their reputations as tough cops and no friend to Blacks.

  Reid had been the subject of several brutality complaints and Brady had put a Black man in the hospital and had barely gotten a slap on the wrist.

  Brady also had a cartoon on his locker that depicted a Black man hanging from a tree while several Klansmen watched. The caption read: “Another happy night in Alabama.”

  “Listen, even though you’re a rookie,” said Brady. “My partner and me want to invite you to the weekly poker game.”

  “You got grandfathered in—- literally,” laughed Reid referring to Thomas’ police pedigree.

  “Thanks, but I’m not too good at cards,” said Thomas.

  “All the better,” said Reid. “It’s small stakes, no big deal.”