Authors: Thomas H. Cook
Streets of Fire (41 page)
Once at headquarters, he placed the envelope on Luther’s desk, then told him all he knew.
‘I don’t know if all this is enough to arrest Jolly and his people,’ he said, ‘but whoever takes over Bearmatch should be told about it.’
Luther sat exhausted behind his desk, his face still soiled from the battle at the motel.
‘Maybe you should take it over, Ben,’ he said. ‘Maybe the people over there’ll trust you.’
Ben shook his head, then took out his badge and laid it down on Luther’s desk.
Luther stood up quickly. ‘I know how you feel, Ben,’ he said. ‘But we could use you for a few more days.’
‘No.’
‘But they’re planning a big demonstration this morning, and …’
‘No,’ Ben repeated. ‘No more.’
As he left headquarters for the last time, Ben realized that he had one more duty still left to him. He got in his car and drove toward Bearmatch. Long lines of Negroes were moving down the broken sidewalks toward the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church, but they seemed hardly to notice him as he sped by them, moving steadily but slowly toward the heart of Bearmatch.
Mr Ballinger was sitting quietly on his front porch when Ben got to the house. He did not move as Ben got out of his car, then walked through the tiny gate and up the rickety front steps.
‘I was wondering if I could talk to your daughter for a few minutes,’ Ben said.
‘She ain’t here,’ Mr Ballinger said.
‘I drove by the place she works,’ Ben said. ‘I didn’t see her around there.’
‘She ain’t at work. She’s with the rest of them. They all going downtown.’
‘You mean for the demonstration?’ Ben asked.
Mr Ballinger nodded. ‘She gone for that, yes, sir. She probably at the church by now.’
‘Thank you,’ Ben said as he turned and walked back to his car.
Scores of people were already flowing down the steps of the church when Ben got there. He stood where he had stood so often before, but now he was almost alone, except for the state troopers. The Langleys were gone and Daniels and Breedlove were dead. Only McCorkindale remained, lazily leaning against a telephone pole as he watched the procession pass him slowly on its way to Fourth Avenue.
Several minutes passed before Ben spotted Esther coming down the stairs. He moved toward her quickly, joining the crowd as it surged down the street, the people singing now and clapping hands.
‘I wanted to tell you a few things,’ he said quickly as he stepped up to her.
She turned to him, surprised. ‘You better go off, now,’ she whispered vehemently. ‘You shouldn’t be around here.’
‘I know what happened to Doreen,’ Ben said.
Esther’s eyes widened.
‘It was Roy Jolly,’ Ben said. ‘He made a deal with some people in the Police Department. Doreen saw him make it’
Esther’s eyes glistened in the bright sunlight. Her body trembled slightly, then stiffened. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘you told me. Now you better be gone from here.’
He did as she asked, melted away from her, but continued forward with the crowd, keeping pace with the line of march until they flowed over the hill at Fourth Avenue. He could see ranks of state troopers and firemen as they stood in a thick line at the bottom of the hill, blocking off the business district of the city. For an instant he stepped out further from the crowd and let it flow on without him. Then, suddenly, he began walking again, slowly, steadily, only a few feet from the great moving bulk of the march. He could see the Chief as he stood at the bottom of the hill, his small eyes peering at the approaching crowd. When they were near enough, he lifted his megaphone and shouted to them.
‘This march will not continue,’ he cried.
But the people proceeded anyway, and Ben walked along at a distance beside them, his eyes straight ahead, his heart pounding wildly as he came nearer and nearer to where the firemen and troopers waited.
The march stopped only a few feet from the Chief’s position, and for a moment the two groups stared silently at each other. Then the Chief shouted into the megaphone again, warning them to go back to their churches and neighborhoods, that the march would have to end.
Suddenly a man stepped out in front of the crowd and addressed the men behind the Chief, addressed them personally, almost intimately, as if speaking in a quiet, persuasive voice to each man individually.
‘We have done nothing wrong,’ he declared, ‘and we only want the freedom that is supposed to be for every American in this country.’
The Chief stepped back slightly, then turned on his heels and headed back toward his men.
The other man did not seem to notice him. He continued to speak to the ranks of policemen and firemen.
‘We have a right to be treated like human beings,’ the man cried. ‘We’re just people, like you. We want the things you want.’
His voice rang over them, and Ben could see some of the firemen’s hoses begin to droop limply in their hands as they listened to him. He could see them glancing at one another, their lips moving softly.
‘We have the right to pray,’ the man declared. ‘And we are going to get on our knees and pray for a moment. And then we’re going to get off our knees and continue this march.’
Ben began to walk slowly down the hill. The firemen had stopped talking among themselves and were now standing rigidly in place, staring over the long dark line that moved up Fourth Avenue.
The prayer ended, and the demonstrators rose quietly, paused a moment and then began to move forward.
The Chief stepped back behind the firemen, lifted his megaphone and yelled into it. ‘Hit ’em!’
No one moved, and as Ben stepped onto the curb, he could see that the firemen continued to stand absolutely still, their hands still on the hoses, but making not the slightest effort to release the water.
‘Hit ’em!’ the Chief cried again.
Still, no one moved, and the water remained pent-up and unreleased behind the enormous steel nozzles.
The leaders of the march glanced at each other unbelievingly, but continued to move forward, passing in a thin line first the firemen, then the stupefied troopers who stood behind them, and still moving on, unmolested, toward the steps of City Hall.
From his place on the curb, Ben could see that some of the firemen were crying. Many had dropped their hoses and were now simply standing in place while the small gap in the gray wall of troopers grew wider and wider as the demonstrators poured through it. Suddenly Ben felt like a little boy on the trolley once again, peering toward the rear. But now there were hundreds of faces staring back at him, solemn and insistent.
The marchers had begun to sing quietly, and as he listened to their voices, a kind of music filled him as well, and his eyes grew moist and his hands trembled. He thought of Doreen in her innocence, Kelly in his love and Breedlove in his courage, and as he thought these things, he could feel the deepest quarters of his heart urge him forward, slowly at first, then more insistently, until finally he stepped off the curb, moved to the edge of the line of march, then, after a single moment of delay, joined the onrushing wave of humanity.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1989 by Thomas H. Cook
cover design by Jason Gabbert
This edition published in 2011 by
MysteriousPress.com
/Open Road Integrated Media
180 Varick Street
New York, NY 10014
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