Macon hated the Beastie Boys for bringing hip hop to kids who’d never heard of b-boying or Kool Herc or park jams, and who didn’t bother to find out; for flipping the game around so that instead of having to do extra work to be down, whiteboys could be dilettantes in hip hop, self-conscious clowns whose very presence was a joke that deprecated the culture even as it pretended to deprecate itself. The Beastie Boys made the white kids in his neighborhood think it was okay to start rapping, and the black kids who got bused into his junior high from Boston decide white rappers were automatically wack. They made white people ridiculous, tore down everything Macon had begun building, slashed his whole fantasy of being the only cracker cool enough to be up in this hip hop shit. He didn’t want any white role models, especially not three whiny-voiced, non-lyrical motherfuckers who dressed like bums and wasted dope beats and went triple platinum on some raunchy frat-boy mass-appeal shit. Yeah, okay, so they were Buddhists now. Too late. The damage had been done.
Macon was a few blocks from the bridge ramp, gas-brake-honking to the last echoes of “King of Rock” and remembering how many times he’d listened to its sequel at full volume in his room, manually censoring the songs by turning down the sound on DMC’s two curses. Thin walls in the Detornay household, no privacy. His mother didn’t have to read his journal; you could hear a telephone conversation damn near anyplace in the house. She shoulda gone back to work way sooner than she did, he thought. The bane of Macon’s mother’s generation of middle-class white women was the fact that they’d redirected all that well-nurtured, hard-won ambition toward their families instead of using it to fuel their own lives, thus driving their children fucking insane. Of course, Macon conceded, the angry-kid equivalent to Virginia Woolf’s five annual Benjamins and a room of one’s own had been knowing that no matter how long he spent over on the wrong side of the tracks, fighting the good fight and hating the hypocrisy of the system in which his entire community was so entrenched, when he came home teary-eyed and stoned or scarlet with outrage an hour past his curfew, there would still be leftover chicken in the fridge to sate his revolutionary hunger.
A tall white woman, twenty-five maybe, was bouncing on the balls of her feet, hand raised to Macon’s cab. A desperate look dampened her face, and Macon swerved instinctively to the rescue.
“Thank God,” she exhaled, leaning back into the seat, hands tucked beneath her thighs. “I thought I’d never find a white cabdriver.”
Macon’s body stiffened. “What?”
“I’m not taking any chances with that maniac on the loose.” Her eyebrows arched at his silence. “You haven’t heard? It’s all over the news. He’s some kind of black militant wacko or something. ” The woman shook her head. “I’m not a prejudiced person. But this guy . . . he robs white people and the cops can’t find him. Nobody knows what he looks like.” She shuddered. “I don’t want to get raped.”
“Better safe than sorry,” Macon heard himself respond. His brain was foaming, overflowing like an ill-poured draft. He’d done it: found some kind of worm hole in the white psyche, some uncharted reflex, and here he stood, divorced from his own color by the violence and conviction of his actions. Those fools hadn’t seen white knuckles gripping that gun. They couldn’t. Their brains weren’t wired to link whiteness to the words Macon had hurled at them, the fear he’d made them feel. It had to be a nigger. Macon was invisible. Shock fluttered his stomach.
“This city,” his fare said, shaking her head.
“Mmm.” Did the world merely call traitors to whiteness black? What was the turning point, the secret password, the moment when you were no longer recognized, the instant when your picture faded from the ferry pass and you had to stay on the island of Blackness forever or swim back on your own? How many of Macon’s victims had taken part in shaping this description of him? Had the first two or three declared him black and the others merely cosigned the police sketch? If the later ones had known about this enraged, dusky criminal—an image of the nonexistent man took shape in Macon’s mind, a blue-black Rastus with granite-hard veined forearms and a clenched mouth and stark pearl teeth and eye-whites, crazed deadly eyes—wouldn’t they have looked him over as this woman had, affirmed that he was safe before they strapped on their seat belts?
It had all happened too fast, perhaps. A flurry of robberies quicker than media saturation, faster than the leap from the back of the Metro section to page one. Hell, he didn’t watch the news himself, and he was the motherfucker on it. There were eight million people on this small, cramped island, and even the biggest news never reached some ears. Those were the ears that ended up on juries.
Macon massaged sudden fatigue from his eyes with a thumb knuckle and finger, and thought about all the black cabdrivers who had to be starving behind this shit, all the white people shaking their heads and adding another twig of anecdotal evidence to their bonfires. Cap Anson slid into second base, spikes high, laughing his ass off and spraying a stream of dirt in Macon’s face, then stood and smiled and extended a hand to his progeny. We’re wearing the same uniform now, Macon thought, appalled.
He pulled to the curb and the woman handed him the fare, along with a generous tip. He watched her swift calves and imagined the clunk of her heels until she disappeared into a doormanned building. Macon’s brain flopped like a dying fish on the floor of a rowboat and he banged a U-turn and headed back toward the highway, Queens-bound. Ten minutes later he was parked at Nique’s window, holding up traffic.
“Damn, Moves. You look like death eating a sandwich, dog.” Commuters honked and Nique craned his torso out of the tollbooth, checking to see if any of the cars belonged to drug customers. They did not, and he ignored them.
Macon slumped forward, forehead resting on the wheel, rubbing his temples with two fingers to the dome. “I feel like a bullshit-ass Raskolnikov,” he said in the slow, textured tone reserved for times when he felt wickedly removed, smoother and older and hipper than his interlocutor or else half-dead. The voice hinted at a Southern drawl; Nique suspected Macon had cribbed it from some PBS jazz documentary.
“Just comparing your life to classic literature doesn’t make your life classic literature,” Nique informed him. “Fuck happened?”
Macon steeled Nique with a confidential stare, exhaled elaborately, then changed his mind and shrugged and parried. “White people are really losing their minds over this cab thing, huh?”
“Man, they love it. They’re having a field day. You been listening to the radio? They did a whole hour on it earlier. Interviewed all these outraged white people talking about hate crimes and ‘We entrust these people with our lives,’ playing the victim role like they been practicing for years and shit. Then they talked to a couple of black folks who were like, ‘Hey, cabs are finally stopping for us ’cause everybody white’s afraid to take ’em.’ ”
“Huh.” Macon mulled that over and warmed into a grin.
“This is my favorite,” said Nique. “There’s this group that’s boycotting the cab companies until they find the criminal, right? And dude, they organized a fuckin’ carpool for crackers to get to work. It’s like the Montgomery bus boycott on acid. I love this shit.” He laughed. “You must be in high demand out here, huh? White cabbie in this city right now? You the man.”
“Not me,” said Macon, shifting into drive. “I can’t even get arrested in this town.” He peeled off, whipped back to Manhattan as fast as he could and trolled the streets, face flushed red, desperate to make things right before he considered the consequences and lost his nerve.
It didn’t take long to find a fare. “Boy, am I glad to see you,” chortled the square-headed meatbag businessman, tucking the folds of his raincoat around himself and smiling as if he’d just told an inside joke. Blue suit, white shirt, red tie. Fucking presidential. Macon grunted, drove half a block, slammed the gearshift into park and hit the locks and spun. It was the middle of the day, middle of the avenue, middle of Midtown, the light green up ahead. Cars swerved and hon
ked around him, and Macon thrust his head into the space in the partition and eyeballed his startled customer. The future drained away like water spiraling out of a bathtub, and Macon watched it disappear. Prison flashed through his mind, cinematic: a lengthy sentence, weight-room brawls, gradual wisdom, comradely strolls around the yard with Morgan Freeman. None of it mattered; no fate-specter was going to spook Macon. Life was only now, this single instant and the necessity of shouldering the weight.
“What color am I?” he demanded.
The man shrunk back against the seat, maximizing what space lay between them.
“Look at me. What color am I?”
“Y-you’re white,” he stammered.
Macon opened the glove compartment, grabbed the gun, and poked the first inch of the barrel through the partition. He rested his chin on the hammer.
“Now what color am I?”
The man blanched.
“It’s not a trick question!” Macon screamed. “Take a good look. What fucking color am I?”
“White.” The syllable leaked from him, a weak gust of terror.
“Jesus. Thank you. I thought I was going insane here. Now give me your wallet and that lovely tie, asshole, and get the fuck out of my cab.” He gestured with the gun. “Hurry. Before you forget what I look like.”
BOOK II
TRAITOR
I pounded my fist into my glove as Anson stepped into the box for his leadoff at-bat. The crowd chanted his name, and he tipped his cap with practiced grace. Arty Sullivan, our rookie pitcher, fingered the rosin bag and patted down the pitcher’s mound with his toe, trying to compose himself. It was only his second start of the season, and here was the game’s most feared hitter and the ugliest crowd he’d ever seen. I crouched into a fielder’s stance, bouncing on my toes, grateful that with Anson at the plate, the crowd seemed to have forgotten me.
“Ban the nigger!” came the cry from behind third. I flinched, almostturned, and clenched my fist atop my knee. “Ban the nigger!” It spread through the stands, bouncing like an echo from third base to the bleachers and the seats behind the plate. Anson swung at the first pitch and hit a line drive foul down the first-base line, hard enough to energize the crowd and rattle Arty even more. Where was the kid’s head at? He was ignoring an unwritten rule of baseball. I walked from third to hold a conference at the mound.
“They throw at my head and you give him something to hit? Whose side are you on? You knock him on his ass right now, you understand?”
The next pitch was down the middle and Anson poked it through the infield for a single. Sullivan refused to meet my furious stare. Cap lingered at the bag, replenishing his chaw and chatting with Red Donner. Chatting! I surveyed the baseball diamond and realized with a pang of fear that these men wearing my uniformwere not on my team. How could Donner exchange first baseman/base runner pleasantries with this man, the darling of the Klan? How could Sullivan refuse to retaliate on my behalf?
With this new clarity of vision came clarity of hearing; the jumble of noise began to shake and settle, and I realized I’d been foolish in wishing to pull voices from the din. I could hear them now, each one, and it was worse. Folks were having a good old time in here today.
“Time’s up, nigger!”
“Swing that bat like you gon’ swing from a tree!”
“This game ain’t for your kind, Fleet Walker!”
“No slave labor in the infield!”
“We’ll be waitin’ for you, Moses!”
“Ban the nigger!”
The Stockings’ two-hitter bounced into a double play. Sullivan walked the third batter and whiffed the cleanup man and I tucked my mitt under my arm and my head into my chest and jogged back to the dugout. I tried to look unruffled, to move neither too fast nor too slow. Eight more innings of this. Three more at-bats, at least. Then what? A team bus ride? Another game tomorrow?
I walked to the far corner of the dugout and hunkered down alone. There were seven hitters ahead of me but I grabbed my bat anyway, held it between my legs and rested my chin on the flat bottom of the handle. Red followed me and sat down by my side.
“I know you saw me talking to Anson, Fleet,” he said, leaning in. “I told him he’s a chickens hit son of a bitch, and that if he was half the man you are, he’d spend less time complaining to the owners and more worrying about why he can’t hit a lick off colored pitchers.”
I looked at Red and forced a smile. “Thanks.”
“I also told him that if they try to bean you again, I’ll slice him to ribbons. Be the only ballplayer ever slid into first base.”
It wasn’t until the fourth inning that I returned to the plate. I came up with a man on first and one out. The pitcher looked over at Anson; Cap nodded his head and I knew to duck before the pitch even left the hurler’s hand. I moved too soon, though, crouched into a ball and gave the fellow an easy target. The pitch caught me in the arm. It wasn’t thrown very hard; the pitcher had to sacrifice some speed because he changed the placement of the ball so late in his delivery.
I stood, triumphant: That didn’t even hurt, you bastard. Dusted myself off, saluted the pitcher with two fingers to my cap, and listenedto the crowd go apoplectic with rage.
Anson was waiting for me. “You better get used to this,” he said. “Every pitcher in this league gon’ throw at your head, boy. I noticed your man Sullivan ain’t been too quick to throw back, neither, has he? Why you s’pose that is, Mr. Moses Fleetwood Walker?”
“Maybe he’s better than that,” I said.
Cap threw back his head and laughed. The fans followed suit, as if they were in on the joke, and for a moment the entire stadium went rancid with the sound. At the plate, Joe Wagner took a secondcalled strike. Anson shook his head and opened his eyes wide, affecting rueful bemusement. “Maybe he’s better’n that. Yep, that’s prob’ly it, all right. Good thing you don’t take it personal. You know, Fleet, I’m not just havin’ Hoss knock you down to make a fool of you. I wanted to get you to first so’s me and you could have a chance to talk. I don’t understand you, Fleet. Every other nigger in the league knows he’s not wanted and he leaves. You mean to tell me you’re even stupid for a nigger?”
I adjusted my cap and got into a base runner’s stance: knees bent, arms outstretched, poised on the balls of my feet. “Maybe you’re afraid to pitch to me,” I said without taking my eyes off the field.
“I’m not the one who should be scared,” Anson replied.
Wagner dribbled a grounder back to the mound and Hoss threw to third and put out the lead runner. I got a good jump and beat the relay to second standing. “We’ll talk later,” Anson called.
“Don’t listen to him,” said the second baseman. He stood close behind the bag to hold me, prevent me from taking too much of a lead. “Don’t listen to any of them. Just hang in there.” I turned and stared at him. Hoss threw strike two down the middle. “I’m from Queens,” the kid went on. “I used to cut school to watch you fellows take batting practice, shag flies, anything. This is my first year up from semi-pro, and you know what?” He glanced around and almost winced. “I don’t want to be a ballplayer no more.”
“Well, I do,” I said. “Too bad you and I can’t change places.”
The inning ended with a fly-out to right field, and the game continuedscoreless into the bottom of the eighth inning. I had handledonly two balls the entire game, fielding each one cleanly and throwing my man out to thunderous tumult. Heaven forbid I made an error. Their heads might have exploded. In the seventh, Hoss had brushed me back twice before finally hitting me in the shin, the most painful ball so far. I’d been thrown out at second on the next play, a lazy broken-bat roller to third that I would have beaten if I wasn’t hobbling. Anson had been quiet at first base. “You look like you’ve got a lot on your mind, Moses,” was all he’d said. “I’ma be quiet so’s you can try to think.”
Hoss Rawlings was the Stockings’ first batter in the eighth. Desota called for time and walked out t
o the mound, beckoning the infield in to conference. “You listen to me, Sullivan,” he said. “This son of a bitch has hit Walker three times now. If you won’t throw back, I’ll call in someone who will, you got that?” Sullivan nodded into his glove; I gazed off into the stands, grateful but embarrassed. Whatever happened, I knew I’d never speak to Sullivan again.
The pitch was tight and inside, a fastball, and Hoss twisted to avoid it and got plunked on the elbow of his pitching arm. He fell to the ground and that was it for him. Anson sent in a pinch runner, some overzealous rookie who took a long lead and got picked off on the second pitch. The next batter grounded out to short, and then it was the top of the ninth and I was at the plate.
The new pitcher was Randy Garrett. He’d been a Giant for two seasons. He and I had never spoken much, but we’d gotten along fine. Garrett was a quiet guy, a farm boy still adjusting to life on the road, but not stupid, not a rube. He knew enough to shut up, to listen to the vets and try to learn the game instead of running around whooping and hollering with excitement like a lot of these hayseed kids did when they got out on the road.
I watched him throw a final warm up and stepped in. Garrett nodded once. Was he responding to the catcher’s sign or greeting me? What sign would he need if he was under orders to go for the head? I tightened my grip on the bat, optimistic enough to expect the first real pitch of the day. It came in low and outside, far from a strike but not a brush back, either. Anson called time and ran to the mound. Garrett towered over his manager, rubbing the ball between his hands and furrowing his brow. He glanced up at me, looked down at Anson, nodded, slipped his hand back in his glove, and dropped his gangly arms. Anson barked some curt last order and marched back to first base.
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