James Benn: A Blind Goddess

Mom had put the kibosh on the idea of a motorcycle half a dozen times. Dad would shake his head and tell me to listen to my mother, which I interpreted as practically a green light to proceed as long as I didn’t get caught. So that was my plan: get a job, pay old man Warner, fix up the Scout in secret, and then show it off to my friends. Not the most well-thought-out plan, but remember, I was sixteen years old.

“I bought the Chief model,” a corporal sitting next to me said, cutting into my story. “Got it up to one hundred on a flat stretch of road in Kansas once. But then I got drafted and left it with my girl. Some 4-F is probably out riding it now. Sorry, Lieutenant, go on.”

“No problem, Soldier. I did stop to take a breath, after all.”

“Don’t mind him, Lieutenant,” one of his pals said. “What happened next?” I hadn’t realized I had an audience. The GIs seated with us had ceased their conversation and were leaning in, nodding at me to continue. I did.

What happened next is that I kept asking my dad to get me a summer job at the police department. There weren’t a lot of them to go around, but police work in Boston was largely a family affair. When Dad and Uncle Dan joined in 1919, fresh from the war, they were filling in the ranks after the police strike, which Governor Coolidge broke up. Best thing that ever happened to the Boston Irish. After years of No Irish Need Apply , there was finally a place to get a job, and better yet, a place to get jobs for your relatives. Everyone else had their cut of the American pie, so why not us?

Dad and Uncle Dan were both homicide detectives, and both had connections. Uncle Dan’s were more along the lines of the Irish Republican Army, but Dad was friendly with politicians and the unions. When he finally gave in, it took one phone call. At dinner that night, he told me to report to work at headquarters the next morning, and to wear my old clothes. I was to report to Mr. Jackson, and Dad said it was important to do what I was told and not embarrass the family. That was pretty much what he said about most things. I asked what the job was, and he told me to be thankful I had one, and to stop bothering him.

That night I thought about the possibilities, too excited to fall asleep. I was hoping it might have something to do with cars or even motorcycles. The Boston PD had plenty of both, and they all needed maintenance and cleaning. There was a shooting range and armory, too. Didn’t they need all those weapons cleaned? I briefly entertained the notion that they’d want a kid for undercover work, and finally fell asleep imagining myself on a Hardy Boys adventure.

It wasn’t any of those. When I got to headquarters, lunch pail in hand, I was told to go down into the basement and see Jackson. The desk sergeant didn’t even look up, just crooked a thumb in the direction of the stairs. A sign above the stairwell did say PUBLIC NOT ALLOWED, and that bucked me up. I was going where the public could not go. I was practically a rookie policeman.

Not even close. At the end of a dark, narrow hallway, I saw a sign over the door. H. JACKSON, CUSTODIAL SERVICES. Mr. Jackson was the janitor, and I was going to spend my summer mopping floors. I was lucky to have a job, as my dad said. But back then, it was the greatest disappointment of my life, and I hadn’t even opened the door.

When I recovered enough to pull myself together and enter, I got my first look at Mr. Jackson. He was a Negro. Not that I didn’t see Negroes in Boston, but I had assumed my boss would be a white man. Hell, every boss I’d ever seen was white. The surprise must’ve showed on my face, because Mr. Jackson frowned and shook his head, the kind of slow, deliberate head-shaking you save up for the profoundly stupid.

“You don’t like the idea of working for me, son, you turn around go home. Won’t miss you none,” he said. Mr. Jackson was about average height, but wide in the shoulders and thick at the waist. Not fat, but built like a fireplug. He was dark, too, the kind of skin that makes you think of pictures in the National Geographic . His curly hair was shot through with grey, and he wore blue overalls and a dark blue shirt with his name stitched over the pocket.

“Sorry, Mr. Jackson,” I said. “It’s just that I didn’t know … I didn’t expect … you know …” I sort of let it trail off and stared at the floor, then let my eyes drift around the room. There was a big sink in the corner and a drain in the floor. Shelves held cleaning supplies, tools, dusty boxes, and heaps of broken fans, radios, and other appliances. Above all that was a single narrow barred basement window with a parade of feet passing by, mostly heavy cop shoes and blue trousers, the busy men oblivious to Mr. Jackson’s domain below.

“There’s a lot you don’t know,” Mr. Jackson said. “But your daddy’s a decent man, and I’m sure he meant no harm. Doesn’t mean I want you around if you can’t take orders and get the job done.”

“I can do the job, Mr. Jackson,” I said, remembering my father’s injunction. “You can count on me.”

“Not looking forward to it,” he said, pointing to a broom. “Start sweeping.”

“Where?” He was silent. “I mean, where, Mr. Jackson?”

“Start at the top, work your way down. That’s six floors. Don’t leave a speck of dust.”

“Paddington Station,” the conductor proclaimed. “Next stop, Paddington Station.”

“Wait, Lieutenant, that’s our stop,” the corporal said. “Why was he so sore?”

“Yeah,” another GI with a southern accent said. “No colored boy oughta talk like that.”

“Aw shuddup,” responded a guy with a New York accent. “Come on, Lieutenant, wrap it up, huh?”

“There’s still a lot of story to go,” I said. “But the reason he was upset is that his son was supposed to get the job. Had it, actually, until my old man made that call. As soon as he did, Tree Jackson lost it and young Billy Boyle had it handed to him.”

“Ain’t right, if you don’t mind me saying so, Lieutenant,” the corporal said. “Colored folk got it hard enough.” The southern fellow shook his head at this misplaced sympathy.

“Didn’t sit well with me either,” I said, rising from my seat. “But by the time I found out, it was too late. When I got to know Mr. Jackson a little better, he told me how things were. If you’re black, get back. If you’re white, you’re all right . It was his son Tree who had to get back. Enjoy your leave, fellas.”

“Is that what Tree is still upset about?” Kaz said as we walked out of the train station to hail a taxi.

“That ain’t the half of it,” I said. “But it’s all for today.”

“Not hungry, Billy?” Diana Seaton asked, not waiting for an answer as she snatched a warm roll from my plate and soaked up the rest of her soup with it. She was enjoying her SOE recuperation leave, determined to get her strength back after time spent in that Gestapo prison.

“Go ahead,” I said, delighting in the sight of her by candlelight. Diana had a way of dealing with the curves life threw at her that I envied. She’d had her share of tragedy, but fought her way through each one, confronting them directly and then leaving them behind. I was more of a brooder, I decided. Which was pretty much what I was doing right now. As opposed to Diana, who settled back into her chair, sighed, and finished the wine in her glass.

“More wine?” Kaz asked, filling her glass from the bottle in the ice bucket. The three of us were dining at the Dorchester Hotel. It was elegant, and the food was terrific, even with wartime rationing. The Ministry of Food had decreed that no restaurant meal could cost more than five shillings, and meals were limited to three courses, to prevent rich folks from eating out to circumvent the strict rationing of groceries. Even with these limitations, the Dorchester kitchens managed to put on a fine feed. And wisely, booze was not rationed.