Five Smooth Stones (130 page)

" 'Pharaoh's army got drownded . . " they sang, and he turned and waved.

CHAPTER 81

As he neared the opposite side of Main Street, he noted men clustered on the veranda of the Grand Hotel, and when one of them waved and shouted a greeting, he recognized them as representatives of various news media. It hadn't taken them long; they must have burned the highways from Capitol City after an earlier call by Chuck to tip them off. Chuck was mounting the steps of City Hall when David reached the sidewalk, and he wondered if there was some lingering hope in the minds of the whites inside that Chuck's apostasy from the cause they considered holy was one that he would desert, some hope that in the end he would be guided by the light that had guided his forefathers. The great white light, thought David, the light of their world—lead, kindly light, amidst encircling gloom. He smiled when he caught up with Chuck and Chuck's hand fell on his shoulder in friendly greeting. "They send for you, too?" he asked.

"Sure did," said Chuck.

"Bring your prayer book?"

"Nope. Takes too long to explain what it means to these characters."

"Do we just barge in? Like the white folks?"

The question was answered by a tall, sober man, still young enough for the sergeant's stripes on his police uniform to cause surprise. He opened the double entrance doors and said, "You-all come in and wait." His accent was as thick as Chuck's had been when David had first known him at Pengard when he had said that all he had to do was open his mouth and they sent for the N-double-A and ALEC and the ACLU on the double. The sergeant went ahead, limping noticeably on one foot, and David saw that the ankle appeared swollen under a pressure bandage.

"Our side's not the only one with walking wounded," he muttered to Chuck.

"Tsk, tsk. Mustn't be gleeful."

Two men past middle age, dressed in civilian khakis, were patrolling the hallway with restless imprecision. They wore badges pinned to shirt pockets and gun holsters slung around their hips. Both wore green neckties. David wished he could say to Chuck what he was thinking: that no human should look that vicious, that police departments paid money to buy and train dogs with that air of anticipatory alertness that revealed their eagerness to attack.

The young policeman stopped at a door in the left wall at the far end of the hall, knuckles raised to knock, then turned to Chuck. What the hell! David could feel himself frowning with surprise and puzzled suspicion. There was no viciousness in that young face; the eyes, lightish-brown under a thatch of hard-to-control mouse-colored hair, were almost appealing. Was he scared? Did he think that with his back turned they were going to rush him, there in that hot, dusty-smelling lobby, while two wolf-type humans prowled with their ears damned near visibly cocked?

"Look, Reverend," said the sergeant. "Look. Chief Scoggins is plenty upset—"

"I don't doubt it, Eddie," said Chuck. "Right now we aim to get a sick girl seen by a doctor and released if she's not all right. And to get to see her ourselves. Her mother's plenty upset, too. We don't aim to make trouble. We were sent for."

So Chuck knew this character. Chuck was talking to him in his own language; he'd ask Chuck about him later.

One of the men patrolling the hallway came closer, and the sergeant Chuck had called Eddie turned away and this time knocked on the door they were facing.

They all look alike, thought David when a man came to the doorway at last; they all look alike: fat, thin, tall, squatty, bald or brush-cut. They don't need bedsheets and hoods for disguise; their hate is a protective coloring that makes them an anonymous, universal entity, without individuality, even physical differences blurred. This man Scoggins was standard issue, short, fat, and mottled, but he might have been the tall

rangy man in the green shirt David had seen at the stockade gate, whose arm later had swung the two-by-four when David lay on the ground in front of the barrier. In Scoggins there was an almost family resemblance to a bus driver remembered from many years ago. His belly bulged fatly over an elaborate belt buckle; he was sweating heavily, khaki shirt dark with moisture across shoulders and under arms. The skin of his face bore unhealthy patches of purplish veins, and the bald expanse of skull was red. He looked past Chuck, directly at David. His voice was high-pitched and nasal. "You can go back where you belong," he said. "Now."

"Just a minute, Chief." Chuck's voice brought the hot blueness of the chiefs eyes, accentuated by the unhealthy flush, away from David. Straining to catch what was behind the eyes, David thought he sensed wariness.

"Just a minute," Chuck repeated. "You sent for us. And it is my understanding that you did so to discuss the immediate release of a sick girl in your jail or medical attention for her. We are also requesting that we be permitted to see her."

To himself, David said, "Whew!" at the dangerous deepening of the police chief's color. Going to have himself a stroke; sure as hell going to if he doesn't cool down. Can't have that, can't have the son of a bitch turn into a lousy martyr. But stroke or no stroke, it was going to take the combined efforts of Scoggins, Eddie, the hallway patrol, and anyone else Scoggins could call on to get him and Chuck out of that building before Effie's case was settled.

"Doctor's there," snapped Scoggins. "Dr. Hendricks got there more than half hour ago. And we sent for Anderson to keep the niggers happy. That satisfy you?"

"No," said Chuck quietly.

There was the wail of a siren from what David judged to be the east side of town, rising, then falling, and he saw Eddie turn and limp quickly into a room at the back of the hallway.

Scoggins had moved back, his hand on the edge of the open door preparatory to closing it, but Chuck's large and competent feet were planted firmly on the threshold. Now David could see beyond Scoggins into the room behind, where the committees were meeting. He caught Haskin's eye, but could not tell if the quick smile of recognition spelled encouragement, optimism, or patience at a stalemate. The two groups, white and colored, were seated on opposite sides of a long table with a white man, fat and perspiring, at its head.

This must be Ol' Hoot'n' Holler, the mayor; he looked ineffectual and frightened, and David wondered why.

He brought his attention back to Scoggins, who was well launched into a tirade, the sense of which David could have delivered from memory at any time.

"... you and your kind, Martin. White niggers. You all come over here to talk about getting a doctor to a sick nigger in the jail, wanting to visit her. Well, the doctor's been got. Two doctors. So there's nothing to talk about. And if this nigger pal of yours don't get the hell back over where he belongs hell be in jail too, and I ain't saying he won't need a doctor, My belly's full of you Goddamned Commies hiding what you're trying to do under a load of bullshit about wanting to help the niggers, just looking for new ways to start trouble—"

"Hold up, Chief." The man who had appeared at Scoggins' shoulder from somewhere inside the room was taller than the chief by more than a head. His narrow, angular body was topped by a narrow, angular face; snow-white hair was plastered to a high, narrow skull. The lower half of the face showed a lipless mouth that, when closed, looked like a scar and, when open, like a hatchet wound. "I am Thomas Elmore, city attorney." When he spoke it was evident that he had lips. "The taxpayers employ me to give legal advice and counsel." He looked down at Scoggins. "My advice is that you issue these two men passes to the jail at this time."

"You let me run my own Goddamned business, Elmore. You'll be let to run yours."

Elmore gave no evidence of hearing Scoggins other than a slight inclination of his head. He looked at Chuck. "We are releasing the occupants of the stockade and jail who were arrested last night. They will appear in court tomorrow morning for fining. Those who do not appear, do not pay fines, will be picked up by county juvenile authorities and taken to the detention home in Otisville. The necessary papers will be at the jail shortly."

David felt the rage start inside, begin to consume him, and he made a conscious effort to stiffen muscles, to stop the tremor he knew could follow the rage. He looked at Chuck, and for a moment Chuck became a part of the rage, Chuck smiling with pleasure, Chuck thinking they had won a victory. Was he so damned naive he couldn't see what was back of this? Cruelly heavy fines, crippling fines, fines that would wipe out some of those families over there. And loans to meet the fines, loans levied on pay. Unless some organization paid the fines. It wasn't ALEC's responsibility, or the N-double-A's or any other group except the YPCF, and he knew they couldn't make out a check for a hundred dollars and be sure it wouldn't bounce. In the end ALEC would pay, and start their work-stoppage project with what might be a whopping five-figure outlay just in fines.

"Cattle goads and dogs are cleaner, Counselor." His voice came from the rage, but he held it low and steady.

Nothing stirred in the gray eyes and angular face that Elmore turned on David. "There were flagrant violations of the laws, and serious, very serious, breaches of the peace. We can hardly ignore them. The young people will be released a few at a time and taken home under guard."

"You gonna stand here and—and argue with—with a damned
nigger!"
Scoggins' color had risen to the danger mark again.

"No." The mouth became a deeper scar as he opened it now to call "Eddie!"

As they waited for Eddie to come, David said, "The young people will have legal representation in court."

Elmore shrugged. "If there is someone who will—"

"I was not asking a question. I was stating a fact. I will represent them. With my partner, Bradford Willis."

Elmore, who had turned away, turned back now. "What is your name?"

"David Champlin."

The name had obviously done more than ring the well-known bell, thought David; it had struck a spark, and the spark was hot enough to bring, for the first time, color into pallid cheeks, a flare into the cold eyes. There was a second's hesitation before Elmore said, "Ah. You are David Champlin, eh?"

"Yes. But I wouldn't rescind the passes on the strength of that if I were you."

"I don't intend to." He turned away again, and this time did not turn back. "Eddie, make out passes for the jail. Scoggins, cool down. We'll go to the mayor's office where it's private, and talk. Bring the passes there for signature, Eddie."

David followed Eddie and Chuck slowly to the back of the hall, and as Elmore and Scoggins started toward a door marked "Chief," he heard Elmore say in a scratchy undertone, "For God's sake, can't you see it's the only thing to do?"

There were two drinking fountains against the rear wall over which "White" and "Colored" signs were painted. The door through which the young police sergeant and Chuck had passed was a few feet to the right of the fountain for colored. David leaned against the wall between fountain and door, while the two armed patrolmen stood at the double-entrance front doorway, looking out. Occasionally one of them would glance back over his shoulder at David. Like a pitcher keeping the guy on first honest, thought David. They were like a couple of adolescent kids, obviously given the job to satisfy their urge to participate in what was going on now. David had no doubt that should another crisis occur they would be replaced instantly by younger men.

He didn't want to think about Elmore's disclosure until he could toss it back and forth with Brad and Fred Winters; then he remembered Topper's story of the beating Fred had received. He was looking for a pay-station telephone booth where he could call Mrs. Anderson and inquire about Fred when the voices in the room near him became distinct. Glancing at the door, he saw that the spring lock had failed to engage and that the door had swung slowly open. Eddie's voice came clearly. "But—but Reverend Martin, I got to talk to someone
now.
I'd rather it was you—"

"And I appreciate it. And I want you to talk freely with me. But can't we get together when you're off duty, after Mr. Champlin and I get this mess straightened out?"

"I dassent, Reverend. I just plumb dassent. It's my job if I do and—and right now that ain't none too sure—"

"I think I know what you want to say, Eddie." Chuck's drawl matched the younger man's now. "And I think it would be right nice if you'd let me call Mr. Champlin in while you say it. As a sort of representative of his people. If there are two doctors with Effie, we have time."

"No. I—I couldn't—all right, Reverend—"

When Chuck came to the door, David was concentrating heavily on the contents of a bulletin board hung between the two fountains. Without comment he went into the narrow room with its high, sloping, old-fashioned shelf-like desk beneath a rear window. Eddie did not look up from where he sat on a high stool in front of the desk, but picked up the pencil with which he had been making out the passes and began doodling on the soiled blotter. David heard the spring lock of the door click sharply behind him, and knew they were safe from an unannounced interruption.

"Listen, Chuck," he said. "Can't we hurry this up? Even if the doctors say Effie's O.K. I'd like to get over there as soon as possible—"

"She'll be all right," said Eddie.

"I heard a siren a bit ago. Would that be an ambulance?"

"Could be." Eddie was digging into the blotter with the point of the pencil now. It snapped suddenly, and he brushed the piece of lead from desk to floor with the edge of an open hand. He still did not look at the other two men, then clenched one fist and began pounding the edge of the desk with it in an unsteady, unrhythmic thudding.

"Look!" he blurted suddenly. "Look, Reverend! What's happened? I don't know, Reverend, I don't know. I don't want no part of this. No part. I never grew up hating colored people. I got a wife and baby, and last night when I told my wife about all that happened, she cried. It ain't right, Reverend, it ain't right. We've gone crazy. We've gone plumb crazy. It ain't the colored that's gone crazy. I didn't know, didn't anyone know, what was going on; didn't none of us know how the colored felt, and now we know and everyone's scared crazy."