The Stones Cry Out (32 page)

"You must not live in the city,” he said.

"You singled Fielding out during the protest march,” I persisted. “You made him sound like Enemy Number One for his factory but--"

"Factory? You’re making it sound like a legitimate business. That’s empty space. And it takes up a whole city block, while the man refuses to pay the taxes. Again, this is why we approved the landfill. Tax revenues.”

"So once the landfill went through, you were free to demonize him. Was that something you two worked out, or did you spring it on him?"

He rolled the brown cigar between his fingers. "My help on the landfill was based on principle."

"What about the protest?"

"Principle too."

"What principle are we talking about?" I asked.

"Reparations.”

"Reparations. For?"

"Slavery, what else. The black slave built that big Fielding fortune. The black slave made all those people on the river rich. Time to pay up for all that hard we did for free."

“‘We?‘”

“My people.”

But my knowledge of Fielding history was better than most. "It’s an odd family to choose, if that was the principle behind the protest.”

“What?”

“The Fieldings sided with the North. They freed their slaves voluntarily."

"They still had slaves."

I opened my mouth, about to say something, when I stopped. I almost admired him. The politician's acumen. How easily he had steered me off course. "Back to the landfill. This morning, as I said, the FBI discovered a body. A young woman."

The mayor didn't blink. He didn’t even feign surprise. Twisting the cigar, he waited for me to continue.

"That doesn't surprise you?" I said.

"It did."

“How’s that?”

"My constituents make sure I know what happens here on The Hill. Somebody already called me this morning. Said a man and a woman were snooping around the landfill."

"But I suppose nobody knows who killed that poor girl."

The smoky agate eyes darkened. His mouth tensed and he stood. Walking to the humidor he replaced the cigar in the box. "Agent Harmon – isn’t that right?”

I nodded. He turned around.

“Your name is Agent Harmon, am I correct?”

I nodded again, suddenly wary. Suddenly wondering if he knew I’d been suspended.

“Well, Agent Harmon, I called for a civil rights investigation. Y'all were supposed to look into that white cop murdering an innocent black man in broad daylight. But instead you can’t find anything to go on so you come to my house, on a Sunday, trying to divert my attention with another matter. I refuse to play your game."

And I refused to play his game. “Harrison Fielding,” I said.

“What about him?”

"He couldn’t have gotten that landfill through without your enthusiastic support. He needed you, because he needed every black vote on city council. What did he offer you?"

He tapped the humidor, closing the lid. He pulled the cover over the secretary then turned smiling, mocking my question.

"Take that fancy black car you parked outside my house and drive around Church Hill. Ask these folks what they need, they'll tell you. Money. They need money for schools. They need it to feed their families, raise their kids. And that’s my job, to bring money into this district." He pushed open the pocket doors." And you’ve got some nerve, coming in my house like this."

Sound seemed to wash into the room. I could hear a clicking sound. Like the dog’s claws ticking across the floor above us. And a hip-hop beat. Monotonous, reverberating. And then there was a soft whoosh as the air conditioning system kicked on. I could feel the cool air blowing from tiny vents in the padded ceiling.

The mayor had already opened the front door.

And when I walked out, he slammed it behind me.

Hands shaking, I rolled down the windows on the Benz and drove up East Franklin, circled Chimbarazo Park, and tried to get my mind to settle down. At the corner of 25th and East Broad, I finally pulled over and took several deep breaths.

Unlike Harrison Fielding, the mayor wasn't susceptible to bluffing. I couldn’t decide if the FBI would tell him about my suspension. On one hand, it would make the Bureau look bad; on the other Phaup could claim she was “redirecting” the Civil Rights investigation. Either way, I had the sense that Lulu Mendant knew my current status. And he knew I was stepping over a line. So he pushed back.

But for my own sake, I needed to see Mendant's face when the words were said. Landfill. Harrison Fielding. The dead girl who decomposed in their civic project.

I saw his face, all right. It told me his bluff was better than mine.

And for my willfulness, what did I have? Almost nothing. Except Mendant’s chance to sue for impersonating a federal agent. Something to make OPR really happy.

I was pulling a U-turn, heading back to downtown Richmond, when the bells started ringing. Sunday afternoon and St. John’s church bells were chiming with the hour. The iron notes echoed across the brick, rolling down the road. I whipped the steering wheel around once more.

I knew two cures for a frantic pulse -- running and prayer.

Parking the Benz on East Broad, I walked past the church’s the parish cemetery. Buried here were Edgar Allen Poe's mother and some dozen Harmons who built the white clapboard church in what was then the New World. Though a historic landmark, St. John's still held services amid a steady stream of tourists. People wanted to see where Patrick Henry delivered his famous ultimatum about liberty versus death. It was in the sanctuary. A re-enactor gave the speech daily.

And when I snuck into the box pew which once belonged to my family, another tour was underway. The re-enactor guide was wearing a Colonial-era white shirt with plumy sleeves and brown knickers. He spoke with an arcane English accent, painting a picture of Richmond on the eve of revolution in 1775. I gently closed the short door to the pew, but the hinges creaked loud enough to make everyone turn and look.

"Ma'am,” the guide called out, his accent suddenly gone. "You're welcome to use the church. We only ask that you turn off all electronic devices."

Privacy shattered -- not to mention being personally crushed by "ma'am" instead of "miss" -- I reached into my bag and shut off my cell phone. I sunk down into the pew. The guide resumed his description of the Second Continental Congress, with Thomas Jefferson and George Washington among the men discussing the future of the colonies. And how later Benedict Arnold quartered his British troops here, the traitor who hoped to conquer a defenseless Richmond.

"If you look at the unusual ceiling…."

I closed my eyes, bowed my head. I didn't want to see that ceiling. The guide was describing the intricate engineering that held the concave plaster. But I had stared at that smooth dome all through my father’s funeral, praying that when I looked down again David Harmon would be with us in this very same box pew. His worn Bible in one hand, my mother's hand in the other.

And now I prayed for more help. A different kind. But just as undeserved.

"This concludes the tour portion of your visit, but if you will please take a seat, we will begin the re-enactment of the Second Virginia Convention of 1775."

He had dropped the English accent again, once more asking for electronics to be shut off. He also asked them not to record Henry’s speech. “Bootleg copies are all over YouTube. I hope you understand. The church sells an official tape, with proceeds supporting historic preservation."

Still trying to send my petition to heaven, I paused to make a mental note. Bootlegging came under the FBI's jurisdiction. When I got my job back, I’d check the pirated recordings.

"And please don't cough," he added.

The tourists laughed.

"I'm quite serious,” he said. "Today's re-enactment is part of my master's thesis in history. It will be recorded. Which is why you might notice the room getting a little warm. In order to turn on the recording equipment, we’ll have to shut down the air conditioning."

Because somebody asked, he explained how the old church had been wired for technology. Electricians ran a sound system alongside cooling equipment, using the same perforations in the plaster, hoping to preserve the old walls and dome ceiling.

I glanced up. The tiny holes pushed cool air into the sanctuary. I could hear the steady whoosh of air. And I heard the silence when the system shut down. The room suddenly had a hushed atmosphere.

Like the mayor's parlor.

I was out the church door, giving thanks to God, before Patrick Henry uttered his first word.

Sitting in John's big white Cadillac, with its tinted windows and spoke wheels, I felt like a duck at a shooting gallery. Back on East Franklin Street that night, we were the only white people for miles who weren't looking for drugs or prostitutes.

And not four minutes after John parked, a young guy sauntered over. He kept both hands jammed down into the front pockets of his baggy jeans, his shoulders hunched like Quasimoto. He passed by the car twice with that lope-and-pause stride of the chilled-out dude. As if he wasn't waiting for us to lower a window and ask for narcotics.

All I really wanted was a sweater. Once again John had the car in an arctic freeze.

"You believe my theory?" I asked, shivering.

"
Believe
is a strong word.” John watched quasi-Quasimoto passing by the car again. "But you had a dream, and we did find a dead body in the dump. Murdered. And right now I could be home watching the Braves lose, but I’m out here on Church Hill. So believe what you want."

From St. John's Church, I had raced to John's apartment and described my day over pepperoni pizza (for me) and beer (for him). I told him about the mayor's house and my belief that our conversation was recorded. The padded suede walls, the sound-proofed atmosphere, and how I heard the air conditioning kick back on when we came out of the parlor. The same sort of high-tech cooling and recording system for historic architecture as St. John’s.

John had listened and opened another beer. “I don’t even want to get into the fact you went to his house.”

“Just to say hello.”

He set the beer on the dilapidated coffee table. “Why would he need to record conversations?”

And that’s what brought us to Church Hill at night.

But now Quasimoto was making me nervous.

"When I came up here earlier, I parked where Mendant couldn't see my car from his house. But he still knew I was here. He even knew what I was driving. How long before somebody calls him to say two white people are parked up the street and they’re not buying drugs?"

John stared out the windshield, his face set like stone. I could only imagine how his wives had appreciated this hard attitude. After several moments, waiting for him to answer, I finally turned away and stared out the windshield with him. The mayor's house was two blocks away. The streetlights were haloed with humidity. The house’s colors looked like a kiddie playground.

"You pray," John said.

I looked over. "Pardon?"

"You told me you went into that church to pray.”

“That’s right.”

“So ask that God of yours to help us out here."

I didn't bother telling him that was exactly what I’d been doing for several days – fervently, unceasingly -- reminding the One Who Needs No Reminding that when Phaup returned and discovered “manpower” being wasted on Civil Rights, John could retire. But I'd be fortunate to hold a clerical position in rural Maine, leaving my mother to fend for her life with only Wally and the Pentecostals for help. Lost to the thought, I didn’t catch the man’s approach.

He knocked on the window, I jumped.

John's right hand was already on his holster. With his left, he touched the lever to lower the window. Two inches.

“Hey, bro’,” Quasi said.

The guy's eyes were narrow and bloodshot, roaming over the vehicle's interior. Searching for information. Clues. Identities.

“You needin’ some directions?"

John kept his hand on the gun but pulled out his wallet with the other, handing it to me. “Ten,” he said.

I pulled out a ten dollar bill, handing it to him. He slipped it through the window.

"There's another twenty where that came from if some decent Chinese food gets here. Fast. If it’s the dish with the flapjacks, there’s another twenty on top of that."

Quasi pocketed the bill. "That's it?"

“For now."

Quasi loped toward East Broad Street and John closed the window.

"We’ve got half an hour," he said.

"How do you figure?"

"I gave him ten bucks, but there's forty dollars behind it. And he wants the forty. There aren't any Chinese restaurants on Church Hill because the blacks chased all the Asians out of the neighborhood. So he'll have to get down to Shockoe Bottom, find takeout, and ask people who don't speak English about ‘flapjacks.’ The term is Chinese pancakes. Then he has to wait while they make the pancakes because not enough people order that dish to keep them on hand. And then he has to get back up here for the money. Thirty minutes, tops."