Darktown (17 page)

James 1:12—“Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial, because when he has stood the test, he will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him.”

Somewhat more ominously, Revelation 2:10—“Do not be afraid of what you are about to suffer. I tell you, the devil will put some of you in prison to test you, and you will suffer persecution for ten days. Be faithful, even to the point of death, and I will give you the crown of life.”

Sometimes it was helpful to be reminded that others had felt the same way he did, people going back centuries, all over the globe. Others had endured so much more. Surely he, a man with a salary and a roof over his head and a loving family, could withstand that which plagued him.

Other times, the words grated. So much about suffering and enduring. So much about the nobleness of feeling the pain inflicted by others. It was then that the words on the page felt as dead as those who had written them, and Boggs shelved the book and went to sleep.

Boggs and Smith walked south toward the Decatur Street clubs, the roughest part of town, just across the street from the railroad tracks. Women in lurid and revealing dresses had a habit of slowly walking the sidewalks alone here, empty bottles magically rolled across the street, knives found a way to lodge themselves into people's backs. It was another thick night, and as they approached the neon sign of Early's Late Place, they heard the scuffling of shoes and the hollers. They picked up their pace and were running by the time they saw the scrum of men spilling into the street.

“Police!” Smith yelled. “Break it up!”

Men were falling down and getting up and being pulled back down again. A circle of men, widening and spinning and out of control. Boggs thought he counted five men, but there might have been a sixth in there somewhere. He realized he was lingering at the periphery only when he saw his partner launch into the mess.

“I said
Break it up
!
” Smith hollered, pushing past one man who'd already been falling anyway.

Another man pulled back his arm to throw a punch, and in so doing his elbow brushed against the bill of Smith's cap, knocking it off. Smith took out his billy club and struck the man's right shoulder. The man dropped, his unthrown punch a memory of things that never happened. Whoever he'd been trying to hit now stood up and saw before him the figure of a capless Officer Smith with a billy club pulled back a second time, eyes searching for a new target.

“Awright, awright!” The man submitted, palms out.

Smith kept his baton in position and pointed behind him with his other hand. “On the sidewalk, on your ass. Now.”

Two other men were tangled together and rolling on the ground, their bodies like the interlocked fingers of two hands desperately trying to become fists. Each time one of them was on top, he'd try to pull one of his arms loose to throw a punch, but then his opponent would flip him, an endless seesaw of futile anger.

“Break it up!” Boggs yelled at them, trying to pull off whichever one was on top. Then they rolled again, nearly taking out his legs in the process. He backed up and was about to try again when he heard a blow land somewhere behind him, and a body knocked into him from behind.

He turned around in time to see that body fall, and then Smith stepped forward to club another man down.

Smith looked disgusted at his partner. “For God's sake, subdue them!”

Boggs yelled at the two wrestlers to stop, but Smith clubbed whichever unlucky one of them happened to be on top at the moment. One blow is all it took, between the shoulder blades. The cops heard a grunt and before they could even see the man go limp, his opponent took advantage by flipping him over triumphantly.

So Smith clubbed that fellow, too, over the head.

A moment later the subjects were lined up on the sidewalk. The cops had dragged those who weren't in any condition to make it that far themselves. Turned out there were actually seven of them, two of them unconscious.

From out of the club walked a tall man whose white apron and large belly marked him the chef or owner or both. The glorious scent of smoked meat pervaded the whole neighborhood, and his person particularly.

“We had things under control,” he said. “Didn't need no police out here.”

Boggs spoke first, needing to recover some authority after seeing that look in his partner's eyes. It didn't escape his notice the other night, with Little, he'd nearly been brained, but tonight, with Smith, they'd controlled a whole group of belligerents. No thanks to him, as his untouched billy club still was safely nestled in its strap. “Yes, things appeared very under control when we arrived.”

“We have better things to do than clean up your messes.” Smith's voice was much louder than his partner's. “Now get your ass inside unless you want to join them.”

“I run a clean business, Officers. I just seem to be attracting some bad elements now and again.”

“Funny how that happens,” Boggs said. Sweat from his forehead was making the sewn-up wound sting beneath its bandage. Even with his cap on, others could still see an inch or two of the white gauze. His fellow officers had assured him otherwise, but he knew he looked ridiculous.

One of the men who'd been clubbed was rubbing the back of his neck. “Y'all are supposed to yell ‘Police' when you come up behind a man. Even the white cops know that.”

“We
did
yell ‘Police,' ” Boggs said. “You might not've heard it because you had that fellow's arm wrapped around your head, but we said it.”

Some of them, or perhaps all, smelled of drink.

“You got your partners in there pouring it all down the drain, don't you?” Boggs asked the cook.

“Why you all troubling us like this?” the cook asked. “Fellows need a place where they can relax, and I provide it. I hardly ever have any trouble, and when I do, I make 'em take it outside.”

One of the men started to snore.

The chef leaned closer to Smith and whispered, “I done taken care of your boys.”

Smith's expression told the cook that getting this close was a mistake. As was his comment.

“ ‘My boys'? Didn't know I
had
any boys.”

So the cook had paid off some white cops. At least, that's what Smith and Boggs assumed. Surely none of the other Negro cops would have taken a cent from this man. Right?

“You need something, just ask,” the cook said, looking sheepish now. “That's how it works.”

“I need you to go inside, sir,” Smith said. “Before one of us does something you'll regret.”

The cook finally obeyed, shaking his head.

“Maybe I should go to college, too,” said the youngest of the fighters, his cheeks not just unshaven but probably never-been-shaven. “Then I can be a cop and boss other colored folk around.”

Smith stepped closer and bent down in search of the kid's eyes. “It's always the one that ain't been clubbed yet who's still talking.”

One of the men who
had
been clubbed muttered for the kid to shut his barn door.

“How old
are
you, kid?” Boggs asked. “Y'all are getting a schoolboy drunk?”

“He ain't no schoolboy.”

“Truancy, too, then,” Smith said. No one bothered to reply.

“I'll go to the call box,” Boggs said.

Sighs and mutters and very quiet curses. They knew the call box meant the wagon, which meant arrest, which meant a night in the station, which meant white cops.

“C'mon, man,” one of them whined. “Just let us go home.”

“Call him ‘officer,' ” another one recommended. “They like that.”

“We also like it when the men of this neighborhood act like men and not a bunch of fools,” Boggs said. “It's a Wednesday night, for God's sake.”

“Make the call,” Smith said.

Neither of them wanted to involve any white cops tonight, especially after the stunt Dunlow had pulled the other night, but they needed a wagon to get this many men in jail. Boggs headed down the street—the nearest call box was a block away.

More mutters and curses. One of them said, “Y'all ain't no different from the white ones.”

That such a remark could come only moments after they had demonstrated just how different they were—no bribes, no thank you, no way—enraged Smith. He held his club across his body, left hand gripping the end, and said, “Next one to open his mouth is gonna wake up in Grady with no teeth.”

At least two of them were snoring now. The ones who were still awake stared at their shoes.

Boggs and Smith stood for a full hour before the wagon finally appeared. Only two of the men they'd arrested were awake. As the wagon pulled up to the curb, Boggs spied a head in the back.

The wagon didn't turn off its engine, and the driver didn't open his door. Boggs stood guard, annoyed to realize what was happening, while Smith walked over to the driver.

“Sorry, boys,” the driver said. “Gonna have to wait on me to process this one.”

In the back of the wagon was a white woman, long dark hair, late thirties. Drunk by the look of her dizzy eyes and unfortunate hair. She glanced at Smith and then back out the other window.

Arrested black men could not be put in the same wagon as arrested white women. The law. Smith bit back what he wanted to say and merely nodded.

“I'll call in another one for you,” the driver said. Smith wasn't sure if he believed him.

The wagon drove off.

“This mean we're free men?” one of the waiting-to-be-jailed asked.

Another said, “Ain't no free men around here,” and someone else laughed.

A minute of silence, Smith pacing angrily, Boggs stonily still.

Then the young one informed the officers that he needed to use a bathroom, please.

Another ninety minutes. All the fighters dead asleep.

Boggs and Smith felt it like a dare from the white cops.
Is it really
worth your time? Wouldn't it have been easier to let them just go home? Why bother?
They felt that last unspoken line echoing in their heads.
Why bother with any of this?

Each passing minute made it harder for them to stand there. And each passing minute made them less likely to give in. Their shift would end in another hour, and neither wanted to think about what would happen if the wagon still hadn't come. They'd endured long waits before, had been forced to stay hours past shift's end more than once. They would do it again if they had to.

Just that afternoon Boggs had given a pep talk to Xavier Little.
I don't know if I can take much more of this,
Little had confessed. Seeing Dunlow kick that stabbed man the other night, playing with the man's life so casually, had chilled him.
The white cops keep doing things like that in front of me, daring me to stop them. What Dunlow did isn't even the worst thing I've seen. Just the latest. Just the one I have on my mind right now.