Echoes of a Distant Summer (9 page)

“You talkin’ like some white-bread head-shrink who’s mo’ interested in justifyin’ weakness than in helpin’ somebody be strong.” The sarcasm was heavy in his grandfather’s voice. “Life is all about dealin’ with pressure and responsibility, and makin’ hard decisions. You don’t help nobody tellin’ ’em they can run away from somethin’, ’specially when you know they can’t run away from nothin’ important. You got to show them how to deal with things, how to find the courage inside.”

“LaValle had a weak constitution! From birth—”

“That justifies him turnin’ traitor to the people that raised him? His weakness?” King’s sarcasm was sharp and jagged like the corroded edge of a razor. “Bullshit! The boy can’t cut it; never could, never will. He ain’t nothin’ but a mama’s boy, just sly and sneaky with no backbone. Thank God, Sister Bornais said he don’t have too long to live now, otherwise …” His grandfather left the room and headed for the back of
the house. His grandmother stifled a sob and then exhaled loudly several times before she too stood up and headed toward the rear of the house.

Jackson crawled out from behind the couch and went to stand in front of the fireplace. He did not know what to think. He leaned against the brick of the fireplace, hoping that his grandfather had made a mistake.

His cousin Franklin entered the room behind him. He began to taunt Jackson, “Pitch-black tar baby! Pitch-black tar baby! Your daddy’s dead! Now you ain’t got nobody to protect you! I’m gonna kick your butt every day till you die! Ha, ha! Your daddy’s dead!”

Without warning Jackson picked up a poker from beside the fireplace and swung wildly. The poker glanced off the side of Franklin’s head. Franklin cried out with shock and pain. Blood dripped down the side of his face where the poker had lacerated his skin. He started toward Jackson, shouting, “I’m going to get you for—” He didn’t complete his sentence because the poker caught him across the forearm, snapping it with the force of the blow. Franklin screamed but Jackson wasn’t finished. He swung again, catching Franklin on the shoulder and then on the back as Franklin fell to the floor, trying to escape the barrage. Jackson would have continued beating him if his grandfather had not entered the room and snatched the poker from his grasp.

“What’s going on here?” he demanded.

Franklin bawled, tears running down his face. “He hit me with that thing and now my arm hurts so bad!”

“I’d do it again,” Jackson proclaimed with tears also running down his cheeks. “He teased me about my father being dead and how he was going to beat me up every day till I die. I’m not afraid of him! I’ll fight him every day till I’m dead!”

His grandfather looked down at Jackson and said with admiration, “That’s my blood speakin’.” He grabbed Jackson and held him so tightly that the boy could barely breathe.

“What about me? He hit me!” Franklin whined, slowly rising to his feet, holding his arm.

“You’s a bully and you got what you deserved.” King took a step toward Franklin and poked him in the chest hard with a forefinger, forcing the ten-year-old backward. “You lucky I didn’t hear you. I’d have whipped your ass till the cows came home!”

Franklin’s mother rushed into the room, along with Serena. When
Lisette saw Franklin holding his arm and the blood flowing down his face, she wailed, “What are you doing to my baby?”

“He made fun of Jackson being fatherless. He picked on the wrong Tremain and got his butt whipped,” King answered. He slapped Jackson roughly on the shoulder and walked out.

Those were Jackson’s images of the night his father died. He could recall voices and phrases; the timing of entrances; the smell of food, cigars, and dampness; the way the tobacco smoke hung about four feet off the ground in the dining room—but he did not recall anyone talking to him specifically about the death of his father. As a matter of fact, no one ever spoke to him directly about his father’s death. In the months that followed, Jackson often wanted to ask someone how his father had died, but the mood in the house wasn’t conducive to questions. His grandmother did not even speak to him, unless necessity or common courtesy required it, and his grandfather drifted in at odd hours during the night, only to depart by first light. Jackson saw him once when he got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. His grandfather was sitting at the big oak dining room table, puffing on a cigar; the smoke billowed around his head with each puff. To Jackson it looked like his grandfather was breathing fire. His grandfather beckoned Jackson to come to him. Jackson wanted to hold his breath when he smelled the pungent odor of the cigar, but he forced himself to breathe, to appear calm.

His grandfather saw the fear in his eyes. He pulled Jackson into a bear hug and held him for a long minute. He pushed the boy back and held him at arm’s length. “You realize, you’s my blood. I’ma take care of everythin’ for you. You ain’t gon’ want for nothin’, food nor housing! And I’m gon’ to get everyone who had anything to do with your daddy’s death. We gon’ fill up a section of a graveyard ’fore it’s over. These people don’t know who they messed with. We gon’ show ’em, boy. We gon’ show ’em!”

For a moment his grandfather appeared to be lost in thought, but he gave Jackson a long look, as if he were trying to memorize his features. “Listen, I may have to go away for a while. But don’t you worry, I ain’t gon’ to be that far away. I’m gon’ always be close enough to do for you.

“Now, it’s going to be hard here for you. You don’t fit her mold, boy.” His grandfather nodded toward his wife’s bedroom. “And you remind her of your father. That’s two strikes against you, boy. So, she ain’t gon’ be in yo’ corner. You gon’ have to tough it out. Remember, bein’ tough
ain’t about winning every fight; it’s about getting up off the floor with the same vinegar you had when you hit it. It’s gon’ be hard, but you got it in you. You my blood! And remember, I’m always gon’ be there for you, one hundred and fifty percent.” He shook Jackson for emphasis. “You my blood. I see my blood flowing in you. Out of this whole family, there is only you. So, just know, I’m watching out for you.” Jackson returned to his room slightly dazed; that was the longest his grandfather had ever spoken to him.

Occasionally, in the mornings before school, Jackson would find Papa Brown at the table sucking his teeth at the news in the paper. Sometimes he would look up at Jackson and wink and then whisper, “Looks like yo’ granddaddy done set someone else to right.” Papa Brown whispered because he didn’t want Serena to hear him. Jackson would stare over Papa Brown’s shoulder at the article and accompanying photograph. The article always began, “Negroes Run Wild in the Fillmore” or “Another Senseless Mob Killing in North Beach.” The victims were always black or Italian men and they were either strangled with a rope or kicked to death. According to Papa Brown, these were the two methods his grandfather favored most with people he really disliked. Jackson lost count of the victims after the sixth article.

Although it was impossible to believe, the icy atmosphere in his grandmother’s Victorian grew even colder when LaValle was found shot to death outside of one of King’s apartment buildings. He was killed three months after his brother. He had a closed-coffin funeral because he had been dispatched by a blaze of machine-gun fire and his body was beyond the reconstructive art of the mortician. Jackson’s grandmother moved like a silent robot through the house and would brook no noise or conversation that was not absolutely necessary. Living with her was like living in a mausoleum.

These were images of his father’s death. Images called to the surface by his grandmother’s phone call. It had taken him years to bury these pictures and even longer to discover that an important part of his being was invested in the crypt that he had constructed to bury his memories.

D
eleon DuMont made his way up the front stairs of his rented house as the barking of San Vicente’s two Dobermans announced his arrival. The dogs’ presence annoyed him. San Vicente had presumptuously come to San Francisco with a retinue of henchmen and canines and had expected Deleon to defer leadership to him. Deleon had immediately corrected San Vicente’s misconceptions, but in doing so had engendered a coldness from San Vicente and his underlings. The dog handler had even allowed one of the Dobermans to threaten him, but Deleon had ended that situation by producing a cocked revolver and pointing it at the dog. There was now an underlying feeling of distrust in all his interchanges with San Vicente. Deleon was fairly sure that his Mexican colleague had no intention of sharing the bounty of King’s wealth with the DuMonts. He knew he had to be on his toes. He had only two men with him; paid men, not ones he could really trust if things went awry. They would risk their lives up to a point, but that didn’t extend to facing down a larger, committed force.

He opened the front door, which was a solid, wooden affair that swung inward with a loud creaking noise, and stepped into a long, dark hall. The living room door on his right opened and a man stuck his head out to see who had come in; it was Javier Gomez, one of San Vicente’s men. Gomez nodded as he recognized Deleon and then ducked back into the room and slammed the door. There was no indication of welcome or friendship; Gomez was merely performing a duty.

Gomez was a Cuban of European descent, as were the rest of San Vicente’s team. The Cubans were the offspring of fugitives who had fled the rise of Castro’s regime. From what Deleon understood, most of them had undergone some sort of CIA training as part of a grand scheme to unseat the despot, but Castro’s seeming invincibility over the years had caused them to look for other avenues of employment. The one thing that was clear to Deleon was their racist attitudes toward anyone of African descent. Their smirks and jokes told in Spanish revealed their prejudice without doubt. Although he didn’t speak the language, Deleon heard the word
negro
numerous times before their raucous laughter spilled out like burning acid. Things came to a head within the first few days when Case Hardigrew, Deleon’s man, pulled a gun on two of the Cubans. San Vicente stepped forward and calmed
tempers all around. The Cubans’ jokes ceased and they became cold and polite in the company of Deleon and his men.

Deleon had noticed that San Vicente’s men functioned like a team. There were six altogether, including San Vicente and the dog handler. One of his men was always on guard. Every four hours or so one of his men would walk the perimeter. They even slept in shifts. Deleon passed two more doors and opened the one at the end of the hall which led into the dining room. A large gas heater roared in the hollow of a long-dead fireplace. Francisco San Vicente and Luis Martinez, his second in command, were playing draw poker with Case Hardigrew.

Hardigrew looked up, the brown skin of his shaved head reflecting the ceiling lights with a sheen. He waved. “How do? Want to sit in for a hand?” Hardigrew was a chain-smoking ex-cop who ten years ago had served as a bodyguard for Deleon’s grandfather before going freelance. As far as Deleon was concerned, he was a big, beefy man who put too much reliance on his size as a physical advantage.

Deleon put a smile on his face and shook his head. “No, thanks.”

Inviting San Vicente had been one of Deleon’s grandfather’s ideas. He had wanted to get man power out to the coast without paying for it. Now they would pay for it big-time. For all intents and purposes Deleon was operating by himself. Although Deleon’s other man, Nolan Brown, was proficient at stealing cars, which was what he was out doing at that very moment, Hardigrew and Brown were just window dressing. Deleon would have to stay alert and watch for San Vicente’s first move. He went upstairs to his room to clean his rifle. Once inside his room, he unlocked a heavy wooden chest and took out a 30.06 sniper rifle with a floating barrel. He began cleaning the rifle and thinking about his conversation with his grandfather.

One of the reasons he had left the house was to call on a secure line. He didn’t know what San Vicente’s men might have rigged up with the house phones. He had ridden the Muni down to the post office on Seventh Street and walked through the building and then had taken another bus down to the main Muni bus terminal. He always used public transportation when he thought he was being followed, but no one appeared to be tailing him. He had gone to a bank of public phone booths. Once inside, he closed the door and dropped some coins in the slot and dialed his grandfather’s number. The first voice he heard was Zenia’s. He smiled. “How’s it going, Zee?”

“Is that you, Deleon, honey? Are you all right? Your grandfather’s
been chewing on nails to talk with you. I think your father’s got his dander up over some foolishness. You know how your father is. Let me get your grandfather for you. Remember, take care of yourself.”

As Deleon waited for his grandfather to pick up, he thought about Zenia Archambeaux. She was a pretty, tall, chocolate brown–skinned woman with a great body. She had been his grandfather’s longtime nurse, until he had married her over a decade ago. She had always been tremendously friendly with Deleon and seemed dedicated to his grandfather’s welfare. She was a lot of woman for the old man, but she tended his every care and, as a result, he seemed to have a new lease on life.

The receiver on the other side of the line picked up and a raspy voice said, “It’s yo’ dime.”

“It’s me, Grand-père. I’m calling to check in.”

“Good, I been waitin’ to talk with you. How’s it goin’ with Frankie and his boys?”

“Not good. Francisco wants to take over and the two guys you sent out are worse than useless. San Vicente brought dogs and a dog handler and a four-man team of Cubans who are always on guard. They act like they know there’s something big at stake; maybe they even know about the stock certificates. They’re watching us. No way I’m going to surprise them with Hardigrew and Brown. I need some seasoned professionals who know how to carry out a military engagement. Otherwise, we’ll be blindsided by San Vicente and his boys.”

“Damn it! The best men I got is in Nassau launderin’ the money that Braxton sent. You just hold on, I’ll send ’em out in a couple of weeks. Maybe what we need to do is take out both of Tremain’s grandsons. To hell with the money! That’ll send them Cubans packin’. Ain’t no reason for ’em to stay if both Tremain’s grandsons is dead. That’s it! Just make sure you kill the one that King liked first.”