Dominion (54 page)

As they walked into the spacious, richly decorated den, Clarence saw Norcoast quickly replace a book on the shelf. He noted it was a brownish clothbound, third book in on the fourth shelf. He stood too far away to identify the title.

“Hello, Clarence and Geneva. So glad you could come.” The councilman’s long arms filled the room, his half handshakes, half hugs surrounding first Geneva, then Clarence.

Clarence eyed the hand-carved oak chess set, beautifully displayed on an oak chess table, the squares ornately painted on the polished surface. As the councilman rehearsed the history of his estate, Clarence worked his way over toward the books. He noted the third one in on the fourth row—
Classic Chess Openings.

“Oh, is that Katie? She’s so pretty.” Geneva pointed to a professional photograph of Reggie and Esther with an older teenage girl in front of them.

“That’s our girl,” Esther said. “She’s back at Radcliffe, doing great. Adjusting. Just called yesterday. I made sure she’s wearing her angel necklace. She needs all the protection she can get. And Mom needs to know she’s getting it.” She laughed, and Geneva smiled.

After they chatted awhile, Norcoast pointed to the board and asked Clarence, “Want to see how far we can get before dinner?”

“Sure,” Clarence said and pulled up a chair on the black side.

“Don’t you want to draw for white?” Norcoast asked.

“No. I prefer black. Even if white has the advantage.”

“All right.”

Clarence loved the order, the precision, the geometrical symmetry of chess. In the real world everything seemed bent. Chess was an ordered world, one that made sense. One where there was no guarantee of winning, but at least you always knew you
could
win. Nothing was rigged against you. The rules never changed on you like they seemed to in life.

There might be white history and black history, white literature and black literature, but there was no white math and black math, no white chess and black chess. This game had a mathematical quality to it. Sure, white always moved first, always got the initial advantage. But black could overcome it, and often did.

Norcoast pretended to consider carefully his move, but Clarence was certain he had made his choice already. Finally, Norcoast’s manicured fingers wrapped firmly around the head of his king’s pawn, thrusting it forward. Clarence responded instantly, boldly, moving his pawn as if his hand would now slap a time clock, which it often had during speed play in Chicago parks. Norcoast looked surprised at the abrupt move. He studied the board carefully, thoughtfully.

Clarence’s strategy was to unnerve Norcoast with his confidence, a tactic his Uncle Elijah had taught him in his drafty Mississippi shanty. He’d used it on the weekend tables in Chicago parks and against his geometry teacher, Mr. Hardin, at Jefferson.

Clarence planned to attack in his street fighter persona, flailing away until his opponent was spent and prone for the kill. Brilliance and blunders abound in such games, and he suspected risk-taking would throw off the steady predictable politician. But as the game moved on, Clarence hesitated to follow his plan with the women watching, fearing an irretrievable blunder that would cause embarrassment. He started moving predictably and for the first twenty minutes, like two wary boxers, they slid into pawing at each other.

After half an hour Clarence became frustrated he’d confined himself to playing Norcoast’s game. He determined to become aggressive, to try to seize the center of the board, the chess equivalent of the high ground. They had traded a knight and a bishop, and he considered which of the remaining pieces he would brazenly send to the center. He chose his knight, moving him with more confidence than he felt. Norcoast countered by sending his knight to face him, attempting to subdue and contain his lateral motion. White knight against black knight.

In a series of bold moves, lines that seemed to lead to a win appeared with stunning clarity, only to disappear like apparitions at sunrise. When the smoke cleared, fifty minutes into the game, Clarence was down a pawn. He could see Norcoast relax, and he felt his own nervousness. The pawn was a small advantage, but unless he regained the balance, it could be enough to beat him. He searched the board for any chance at retaliation.

Clarence laid a trap for Norcoast on his kingside. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice. No such luck. Norcoast nimbly danced around the snare. By the fiftieth move Clarence could no longer prevent Norcoast’s extra pawn from reaching his end of the board and transforming itself into an omnipotent queen. He looked down and considered the humiliating option of prolonging the game. Instead, he toppled his king and surrendered.

“A fine match, Clarence. Some brilliant moves.” Norcoast extended his hand.

If mine were brilliant and I lost, guess yours were really brilliant, huh?

“Oh, yes. Both of you were brilliant,” Esther Norcoast said.

Geneva cleared her throat and added, “Yes. Very brilliant.” Geneva still called knights “horses” and rooks “castles,” so her assessment was not particularly reassuring to Clarence.

He’d been intimidated into playing Norcoast’s game, adopting a cautious defensive posture that failed to utilize his strengths. He’d lost to Norcoast twice now, both in tennis and in chess. He determined he would not lose to him again.

“What’s with this hat?” Clarence asked Ty, as he held out the blue baseball cap. “I saw you wearing it the other day.”

“Thought my room was private.”

“You thought wrong. Show me I can trust you and I won’t have to go in your room. Now what about the hat?” Clarence pointed to the black B with an X drawn over it, followed by the number 187. “What’s this supposed to mean?”

“Nothin’.”

“It’s gang stuff, isn’t it?”

“Jus’ means nothin’.”

“You sure?”

Ty gave a contemptuous one-shoulder shrug, as if giving a full two shoulders would demand more energy than his uncle was worth. Ty grabbed the cap and rushed past him out the door. Clarence turned and started to grab him, but he saw Geneva out of the corner of his eye. He stopped, not trusting himself to lay a hand on the boy.

The next morning Clarence poised himself over his computer, holding chair and whip against words, as a lion tamer against a lion.

“It takes a village to raise a child.” That was a fine old African proverb until liberals commandeered it. It meant extended family, friends, neighbors, and community should support and reinforce parents, who were the actual child-raisers. I experienced this growing up in Mississippi—neighbors and teachers and church folk often hugged us, but they also had Daddy and Mama’s delegated authority to swat my bottom when they saw me do wrong, which was more often than I care to remember.

Now liberals have hijacked this proverb and ruined it. They’ve redefined “village” as big government instead of family, neighbors, church, and community. An example of this village in action is classroom sex education, which for three decades has brought America’s children everything from handfuls of condoms, to phone numbers to call to get an abortion, to gay lifestyle advocates who inform our children many of them are really homosexuals who just don’t know it yet.

It takes two parents to raise a child. It takes a village to get out of the way and quit trying to take over Dad and Mom’s child-raising authority and responsibility.

It takes a village to raise a child. It takes a village idiot to believe government knows how to raise a child.

Clarence entered the Main Street Deli to meet Ollie. He saw him in the corner, sitting alone, munching on an elephant ear.

“Mind if I interrupt,” Clarence asked, “or should I leave the two of you alone?”

“No. Join us.”

“You would have made a good black man, Ollie.”

“Why? Because I’m so athletic and sing so well?”

“No. Because you eat all the stuff you’re not supposed to. How’s the case going?”

“We seem to be caught in a quagmire of ambiguity.” Ollie smiled. “Learned that from the captain. I think it means we don’t know what we’re doing. Manny and I went over it again, step by step. The key is motive. Motive is everything. Why did they hit your sister? That’s been the question all along. Okay, your sister was outspoken against gangs, but no more than a lot of people in North Portland. I mean if they’re going to take someone out, why not Reverend Clancy or one of the other pastors or the guys at Teen Challenge or Bridge or Gang Outreach? They’ve done more to put a dent in the gangs than anyone. Putting a hit on Tyrone because he’s a tagger? This was way too big to get a baby homie. So, I tell Manny, no matter what we do, the puzzle pieces still don’t come together.”

“You expect killing to make sense?”

“Gangs operate by rules, just like we do. They have their own logic, their own way of doing things. This is obviously a gang hit. And yet, no retaliation. There’s been no retaliation because the homies don’t know who to go on.
Nobody
knows who did it, because nobody knows
why
they did it. Motive. It all comes back to motive.”

“Okay,” Clarence said. “So what are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking about a case I was on in L.A., back in ’84. You remember Kermit Alexander?”

“Played for the Forty-Niners? Sure.”

“You remember what happened to his mother?”

“Vaguely. Something bad.”

“Yeah. It was South Central L.A. A couple of Crips entered the front door of Mrs. Alexander’s house with a .30 caliber M-1 carbine. When they came out a few minutes later, everybody inside was dead, blown to a pulp. The perps ended up at San Quentin on death row.”

“You’ve got a good memory.”

“I should. I was the first officer on the scene. Mrs. Alexander had been in the kitchen preparing Sunday morning breakfast before getting the family off to church. Her youngest daughter and two grandsons were killed in their beds.” Ollie shuddered. “It wasn’t much later I put in for a transfer to Portland, though it didn’t come through for two years.”

“Why are you telling me this?”