Angry Black White Boy (23 page)

“Sure,” said Edgar. This guy seemed almost proud, he thought.

“Then, come the Civil War, we lost it all. The house, the land. Everything burned, ruined. We sharecropped for a while on a neighbor’s land. Still had a few workers, freedmen, but we couldn’t make a go of it. So the whole family relocated to South Carolina, bought some cheap acres and started over. Tobacco this time. My grandfather, he was incredibly bitter about the war, which I guess is understandable considering what it had cost him. He joined up with the White Knights of the Confederacy. Used to tell me fairy tales, when I was very young and he was very old, about a good dragon who had to defend his castle and his gold against a tribe of evil black elves. Raised my dad around that kind of stuff, and he became a sheriff. He didn’t tell any stories at all, but the other kids told me plenty of stories about him.”

The man paused to smooth his hair with the palm of his hand. “My high school was one of the first to be integrated,” he said. “And in the true Southern spirit, they did it by changing the school district by one block, so one African-American family was in it. They had one kid. Clive Jackson was his name.” He shook his head. “What a kid he was. I still think about tracking him down sometimes, and thanking him. He got out of there about one second after graduation, but he’s the one who really changed the way I thought about things. Just watching the way he carried himself, with everything he had against him, was such a powerful experience. . . .

“I moved away myself, up to Chicago. Didn’t speak to my father until he was on his deathbed. It’s funny; I went back there and all his home nurses were black. The doctor, too. All local kids. And he had nothing but kind words for them. I don’t know when he softened up. And considering what they must have known about him, I don’t know why any of them were willing to care for the old bastard.”

Edgar looked at his watch. He was ten minutes late, and five minutes away from where he was supposed to be. Oh well. “Thank you,” said Wilson. “I feel like a million pounds just dropped off my shoulders.” He plucked the coffee cup from Edgar’s hand. “Here, let me throw that out for you. Oh. And, uh, sorry.” He patted Edgar on the shoulder and walked off.

In the Bronx, Mr. Dudley James Johnson, aged ninety-three, was preparing to leave his house. He slipped into a powder blue polo shirt, matching powder blue slacks, and white buckskin shoes. He took his powder blue Kangol from the hat peg and kissed his wife good-bye. “Be careful, Toes,” she said.

Lucia Johnson still called her husband by his ancient tap-dance nickname. In the thirties, Dudley had been one of the premier dancers in Harlem. He’d played on bills with the Count Basie and Duke Ellington orchestras and danced alongside Bojangles Bill Robinson. The Johnsons’ modest Bronx home was filled with framed advertisement posters. Dudley had traveled throughout America back then, gotten standing ovations from people who wouldn’t seat him in their restaurants or rent him a room in their hotels. He’d invested his money wisely and he and Lucia, an ex-choreographer, lived simply but comfortably in Co-op City. They’d never had children.

“I will, baby,” he assured her. “I been waiting for this day my whole life.” Dudley walked to the small park near their house, lowered himself onto a green wooden bench, and waited. It wouldn’t take long, he thought. Who better to apologize to than a dignified, white-haired old man, stylish and stooped with age? Who could resist? In the screenplay of American race, he was as iconic as that wise old Native American Oliver Stone was always planting everywhere.

As silly as he felt, Dudley couldn’t wait to hear the words. It would be a moment of uplift, like when Joe Louis beat Schmeling. Dudley had given up on seeing real justice in his lifetime long ago. But when it glinted for a moment, like gold in a prospector’s pan, he still got giddy.

Not five minutes later, a white man and his young daughter strolled toward Dudley, the man walking with his hand around the girl’s shoulders. They stopped in front of Dudley’s bench, and the father stepped in front.

“Good morning, sir,” the man said, nodding to Dudley.

“Good morning to you,” replied Dudley, folding one powder blue leg atop the other. He smiled at the girl. She looked away, shy.

“Sir, you don’t know me, but I want to say I’m sorry. I’m sure white people must have put you through a lot in your time. I remember how we used to drive into the black neighborhood and start trouble when I was a teenager . . .” He paused. “We didn’t know much better, I suppose.”

“Very few people did, son,” Dudley said, a million dog-eared memories cakewalking through his mind.

The man looked down and poked a pebble with his toe.

“Well, I’m sorry now,” he said.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass,” said Dudley James Johnson pleasantly, still smiling. “Pardon me for saying so in front of young ears, but I don’t give a good goddamn. I don’t forgive you, and neither does anybody else. Being as old as I am makes you honest, son, and the truth is, there’s not enough forgiveness in this world for white people. No, sir. Only God is that forgiving.”

The man couldn’t look at Dudley for long without dropping his eyes. His daughter played with a stick behind him. “I pray for God’s forgiveness, too,” he whispered, unable to find his voice.

“And I pray that He forgives you,” said Dudley, extending his hand. The man clasped it between both his own, and Dudley had to pull back to reclaim it. “Good luck raising your daughter,” Dudley said.

“Thank you,” said the man. He gathered the girl to him, and Dudley watched them amble from the park.

Chapter Twelve

Macon, Dre, and Nique walked up Broadway to 125th Street, obeying the conditions of an unspoken pact that forbade them from discussing what they might find once they got there, or elucidating any of the myriad ways in which Macon’s Day of Apology might send the city hurtling toward conflagration. Instead, Andre and Macon trudged silently, their paces synchronized. Nique strode counterpoint, listening to the news on a radio plugged into one ear and giving occasional updates.

“You wanna hear something crazy?” Macon said abruptly. Andre looked over and found his roommate fixing him with a grotesque stare, eyes jubilant with disgust.

“I guess so.”

“It’s about Cap,” said Macon. “He’s been on my mind today, you know?” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “That motherfucker grew up in straight Indian country, middle of Ohio. First ball team he ever played on was supposed to be all-Native. He had to pass for Indian.” Macon looked up at the sky, then reconsidered and squatted on the pavement to address the dead. “You proud of me, fucko?” he shouted at the ground between his boots. “Family line’s a fucking noose, huh, asshole? Hot enough for you down there?”

Andre stood and watched. Macon’s hair was already thinning a little, the white of his scalp visible at the crown. He had never noticed that before. “Congratulations,” Andre said, extending a hand.

Macon looked up at it and frowned. “On what?”

“Sidestepping the sins of the fathers,” answered Andre.

Nique had walked on, and now he doubled back. “Fuck is the holdup?”

Macon rose at his rebuke, ignoring Andre’s outstretched hand and pushing off the tarmac. “Just hollering at my redneck ancestors.” He shrugged and brushed his hands clean.

“Well, maybe you can do that later.” Nique pressed the headphone tighter against his ear and repeated the latest. “In Brownsville, cops just arrested three white men and six black women and seized rifles, machetes, and chain saws. . . . ‘An aborted hate crime on what is already being called the most racially tense day in New York City history.’ ”

“Fuck,” said Andre. “You know what happens if the pigs kill somebody, right?”

Nique continued: “Blacks in Harlem, Brooklyn, and the Bronx have already lashed out at the droves of white people visiting their communities with the intention of apologizing. Whites in Queens and Manhattan have also initiated violence. In Bensonhurst, a group of men with baseball bats was just detained by po-po after a black woman heard them chanting ‘No apologies’ as they walked past the house where she works. Honkies tried to say they were a softball team.

“Off-duty police officers have been asked to report in for the remainder of the day, to protect the legions of tourists wandering the city and ensure that no further violence erupts.”

Macon spat on the ground and felt the saliva repool in his mouth. Once he started spitting, he could never stop. “Wonderful. Apologizers with police escorts.”

Gingerly, he touched the butt of the gun stuck into the waistband of his jeans, making sure it was still there. Macon had convinced Nique to let him bring it along, just in case.

“Just in case what?” Nique had wanted to know.

“Just in case I want to kill somebody,” Macon had answered matter-of-factly.

They turned onto 125th Street and walked east. Imported whites dotted the street, but it seemed like most of them had already learned to mind their business. Black people walked past them stone-faced, accelerating so as not to be addressed.

Not everyone had given up, though. Macon watched an obviously out-of-town white woman stop midblock and wait as a tall black man approached her. Her mouth popped open, but before she could speak he’d passed her by. She looked for all the world like a bum asking for spare change and being snubbed. “Excuse me,” she managed to spit out to the next pedestrian, but the girl ignored her and continued on her way. The white woman was getting flustered. “I’m—” she blurted as another black man neared, then turned to watch him pass.

“Go home,” he replied over his shoulder.

Macon approached her, said hello. “How do you feel?” he asked.

The woman didn’t seem to recognize him. “Like shit. Like I’m less than human. Either they ignore me or they curse me out.”

“Huh,” mused Macon, wishing her well and walking on. “Maybe this is working better than we thought.” They turned uptown on Frederick Douglass Boulevard and Nique continued with the updates.

“The Reverend Al Sharpton reaffirmed his support for Macon Detornay’s Day of Apology today from his Harlem ministry, encouraging black people to view the gesture as ‘long overdue and hopefully the beginning of a new era of responsibility.’ Other black leaders simply called for calm. Jesse Jackson, speaking on National Public Radio this morning, encouraged black people to ‘overlook what they might find offensive about the apology and take it in good faith.’ ”

On 127th and Frederick Douglass, several young black men abandoned their posts against the wall of a corner bodega as Macon drew near. They formed a loose phalanx across the sidewalk, and Macon stopped before them. Nique and Andre flanked him, standing a step behind.

“Here to say you’re sorry?” asked a cat in a Latrell Sprewell jersey-and-shorts set and suede work boots, a backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Just taking a walk,” said Macon.

“You ain’t gonna apologize, Macon?” piped a dude in blue linen, stepping forward and swinging his arms from the shoulders, like a boxer warming up.

“I didn’t think you recognized me.” Macon was pleased despite himself.

“Shit, we know all about you, big man. We your number one fans. And I quote: ‘White people owe a debt, and we should be giving back before the people we owe start taking back.’ ”

“Brilliant,” somebody said.

“Trenchant.”

“Mufuckin’ portentous.”

“So what will you be giving back today?” asked Sprewell. He crossed his arms and dipped his eyes up and down Macon’s frame. “Let’s start with your wallet. I see you ain’t wearing a necktie, thus frustrating my efforts at poetic justice.” He turned to his boys and laughed—“That was slick, right, how he took them cats’ neckties?”—then returned to Macon. “But I’ll take those Tims, though. Just my size.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” said Macon calmly. “I don’t have any money, anyway. All I can give back is my life.”

“What the fuck I’ma do with your life?” Sprewell spat back. “You better run yo’ shit. And what them two niggas witchu lookin’ at? Word up, keep ice-grilling me and y’all’ll get robbed, too.” He circled to Macon’s left and the crowd edged forward, obeying the street-fighting rules of conduct: Always pretend a scrap is going to be fair until the first punch is in the air, then rush the chump.

Macon lifted his shirt, and the sight of his gun backed everybody up. He felt like Ice Cube in
Boyz N the Hood:
had to restrain himself from licking shots at heaven and shouting a swaggering,
Now wassup, homey?

“It’s really a question of priorities,” he said, coolly. The brothers stood stock-still, not scared enough to run but maintaining a respectful distance and silence. A captive audience, thought Nique, disgusted with his boy’s display. He had to fight the urge to sucker-punch The Franchise in the side of the head himself.

“See,” Macon explained, gun in his hand now and power flowing deliciously out from it, “if you beat me down, I’m out of the game at a pretty crucial moment. So while I may appear to be contradicting myself, it’s all for the cause. Not everyone’s a foot soldier. The extent to which a beat-down would expand my consciousness is insignificant, I can assure you.”

The guy rocking the linen took a double step back. “I can see that,” he said. Sprewell and two others nodded.

“I appreciate the thought, though. You gentlemen enjoy your day.” As soon as the phrase left Macon’s mouth, he realized it sounded like copspeak. Oh well. He spun on his heel and headed back the way they’d come. Nique stalked after him and Andre brought up the rear, throwing up his arms and shaking his head at the posse in an awkward what-can-you-do departure gesture.

Nique pushed Macon hard against a car as soon as they were out of earshot, back on the thoroughfare of 125th. “Are you fuckin’ nuts? Don’t you know any better than to go around flashing steel at motherfuckers? You don’t show a nigga a gun unless you ’bout to use it, man. That’s how cats get killed. Matter fact, gimme that.” He snatched the heater from Macon’s waistband and placed it in his own. “I don’t know why I even let you bring it,” he muttered. “What if those dudes had been packing, huh? You ever think of that? This ain’t the only gun in New York City, you know.”

As if to prove it, shots rang out and all three of them dropped to the ground, in time to hear bullets whiz inches above. Across the street, an obese, bearded white man screamed, “Nigger lover,” and planted his feet like a marksman, both hands wrapped around the handle of a huge, antique revolver. Macon, Andre, and Nique scrambled behind the car for safety as the man squeezed off four more shots at them.

Macon grabbed the pistol from Nique’s waist and pulled the trigger without aiming. At the sound of retaliatory gunfire, the assailant turned and ran, only to be tackled by a mob of Harlemites expressing their discomfort with his irresponsible use of the firearm and the term
nigger.

The man’s last five bullets had been stopped by the Volvo behind which Macon and company crouched, but the first ricocheted off a building and passed straight through the chest of a black statistician on his way to drop off his daughter at day care. He collapsed, and the bullet exited his back and bounced off a stop sign, a second building, and a third before coming to rest squarely in the head of the white woman Macon had approached. She was dead before she toppled to the ground.

Macon’s bullet, meanwhile, arced high into the air and plummeted to earth eighty-three blocks south of where it had been fired. In front of the Army recruiting station in Times Square, a delegation of Black Hebrews stood on their customary milk-crate pedestals, preaching the gospel as they understood it to a swollen crowd comprising more skeptics and horrified tourists than believers.

“Read!” commanded the speaker, and his assistant reopened a dog-eared King James Bible. To all challenges concerning the logic of using this particular translation to prove their assertion that only the colored peoples of the world, the Twelve Lost Tribes of Israel, would be granted salvation, the group responded that King James I of England had been a black man. Their leader held up a worn picture of the monarch and said, “Looks like David Dinkins to me,” whenever questioned, although the British ruler bore scant resemblance to the ex-mayor.

“ ‘Can the prey be taken from the mighty, or the captives of a tyrant be rescued?’ ” the reader bellowed.

“ ‘Can the prey be taken from the mighty?’ ” repeated the speaker. “Can the prey be taken from the mighty. What that means is—” He never finished the thought. Macon’s bullet fell from the sky like manna and penetrated the top of his skull. He crumpled and dropped face first off his platform. A small trickle of blood leaked out onto the concrete and the crowd screamed and parted before it. To the untrained eye, it looked like an act of God.

The Black Hebrews knew better. They seized upon their fallen comrade, ascertained that he was dead, and turned their attention to the panicked crowd, assuming that one of them was the assassin. They attacked the mass indiscriminately, and soon the entire plaza was a gyrating clot of violence, spinning and spilling out into the busy street. A taxi skidded to a halt to keep from hitting three brawling men and was rear-ended by four other cars, one of which was due for factory recall and promptly exploded into flames. It threw fiery shrapnel fifteen feet, pulverizing the plate-glass window of a Gray’s Papaya hot dog stand.

“They killed him!” came the shouts. “They killed Brother Ben-David!”

Prompted by clear visual, auditory, and olfactory cues—flames, tormented faces, blood, whirling fists, the shattering of glass, shrieks, car alarms, the smells of smoke and panic—the people of New York heaved a collective sigh of horror and relief that the day’s mounting tension had finally broken, and commenced to get their riot on.

The nearest store windows were smashed with cinematic flair. Due to Times Square’s nascent domination by megacorporations, these windows were owned by Disney, Warner Brothers, and Star-bucks. Folks dizzy with confusion, rage, and giddiness were soon sprinting up the block toting such looted booty as huge stuffed Porky Pigs, Bugs Bunny wading pools, Little Mermaid lunch boxes, and gleaming stainless-steel cappuccino machines.

There was no joy in the air, though, no come-up-on-the-man get-me-some-free-shit carefree moment of release. This was Midtown Manhattan, not Any Ghetto U.S.A., and even as the fire spread, turning snubbed white apologist tourists, Black Hebrews, and indigenous pissed-off citizens from all sides of the racial divide into looters and pyromaniacs, everybody knew the mack hand of the law was coming down to diggum-smack some sense or at least some pain into the populace, piss on the flames with a huge flaccid Bull Connor fire-hose dick, and return the slightly singed $49.95 Foghorn Leghorn dolls to their proper top-shelf perches. The body of Brother Ben-David lay faceup in the dust, oblivious to the madness surging all around, as folks began trying in earnest to beat, rob, and flee one another.

Meanwhile, in Harlem, the first two officers on the crime scene were the 26th Precinct’s own Dick Downing and Ray McGrath. They’d been on stroll patrol a few blocks south when the screams and gunshots echoed forth and brought them running, and they arrived to find two dead bodies sprawled on the ground, a huge crowd of black people exchanging hostile stares with a smaller group of whites from across the street, and a small knot of black folks kicking a fat white man to death. Downing and McGrath called for backup and an ambulance, and pounced immediately on the knot of blacks with Tasers and billy clubs. The crowd surged forward, screaming in protest. Downing stepped away from the fray and waved his gun at them. Wherever he pointed it, the people shrank away in fear.