Andrew Vachss - Two Trains Running

“I don’t believe in killing by color.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if I could pick, there’d be a whole lot of whites I’ve met in my life that needed killing. But I wouldn’t go kill a bunch of white men for what some other white men did.”

“You mean, like they do us?” Rufus said, every syllable a challenge.

“That’s not why they kill us,” Moses said, a teacher correcting a pupil. “Not for anything we ever did. That’s just their excuse. Like that ‘wolf whistle’ the Till boy was supposed to have done to that white woman.”

“There’s plenty of them would kill all of us, they had the chance,” Rufus said.

“Sure. Or put us back on the plantations. Or ship us back to Africa. But no matter how much they hate us, things is never going back to the way they was-the way they liked it. If things was going backwards, then that evil Faubus bastard would be running for president. I’ll bet he thought he was, when he stood there on the steps and barred our children from his schools. But he guessed wrong. All the crackers in this country put together couldn’t put their own man in the White House, not today.”

“You’re right about that,” Rufus said, thinking, This isn’t just an old river, it’s a damn deep one. “There’s too many of us now. Too many that vote, I mean. Maybe not down there, but up here, the white people-the bosses, I’m talking about-they got to pay attention. That’s why Eisenhower sent the troops in. It wasn’t for our people in Arkansas, it was for our people in Chicago. And Detroit, and New York, and Cleveland, and… everyplace we migrated to. That’s the way the NAACP wants us to think, too. Wait our turn. Be good Negroes, so the good white people can see they should be letting us go to their schools.”

“So they can learn how Lincoln freed the slaves.”

“Yeah!” Rufus said, his voice thick with hate. “And whatever other lies they want to put in our nappy little heads. You know a lot more than I thought, Moses.”

“You can’t tell what a man knows until you get with him,” the elderly man said, puffing on his pipe. “Just watching, that’s nothing. Ofay been watching us since we were picking his cotton, under the lash. But he never knew us, ’cause we learned to keep our thinking off our faces. That’s what I was telling you before, Rufus. The difference between experience and knowledge. I know about the Scottsboro Boys, too. And a lot of other things.”

“But you Tom it up, man. I see you, every day.”

“And you don’t?”

“I don’t do it because that’s me, man. I’m not just surviving, I’m playing a part.”

“How do you know I’m not?”

“Because you never… I mean…” Rufus sat silently for a moment, then admitted, “I… I guess I don’t.”

“I was born on the seventeenth day of August, in the year 1887,” Moses said, a resonant timbre entering his voice. “Does that date mean anything to you?”

“The Civil War was over, but your parents, they were slaves?”

“They were, but that’s not what I’m saying. A great man was born on the same day as me. Marcus Garvey. You ever hear of him?”

“Well, damn, man, of course I heard of him. Marcus Garvey, he’s our spiritual father.”

“I was in that,” Moses said. “The Universal Negro Improvement Association. Before they came and took it all down. But I never forgot. And I was with Wallace Fard Muhammad himself, when I was in Detroit, back in ’34.”

“Then you’re a Muslim?”

“No, son,” Moses said, sadly. “I didn’t say I met Wallace; I said I was with him. It was just too neat, him signing everything over to Elijah and then just vanishing, like the earth swallowed him up. The night Wallace disappeared, I caught the first thing smoking. Been right here in Locke City ever since.”

Rufus got slowly to his feet. “I was going to tell you something today,” he said. “But I got a better idea. That is, if you’re willing to take a ride with me, later on tonight.”

Moses leaned back in his chair, reading the face of the young man before him. Decoding.

“I’d be honored if you would,” Rufus said, holding out his hand.

Moses grasped the younger man’s hand for a long second. Then he rose from his chair.

1959 October 06 Tuesday 18:44

As Luther was escorting Shalare back to the front of the house, a sliding panel behind Beaumont’s desk opened, and Cynthia stepped out.

“What do you think?” Beaumont asked, without preamble.

“He’s the kind of man they used to call a silver-tongued devil, Beau. Two-faced, with a lie in each mouth.”

“For all that, he was being honest with me… to a point.”

“Yes. The point about what he wants. The only question is, is that all he wants?”

“From us? It just might be, girl. Shalare’s outfit was never after our rackets. He’s a political man.”

“You mean, the elections?”

“No. I mean, yes, sure, that’s what he wants-now. But Mickey Shalare’s a man who plays the long game, Cyn. His roots aren’t here.”

“In Locke City?”

“In America, honey. Remember what he said about getting his own back? That’s what Mickey Shalare’s all about. I’m sure of it.”

“So you think he would take care of-?”

“Dioguardi? I think he’s got the horsepower to make him back off, no question about that. I mean, what’s the point of lying to us about that? We’d see the truth of things in a few days, anyway. It’s the rest of his promise-you know, that after the election Dioguardi, or another of his kind, won’t come back. That one I’m not so sure about.”

“That he can deliver?”

“Or that he even intends to. Shalare’s a man who understands power. And he knows, if our organization puts together the landslide he needs here, we’re going to leave our own people in place for the next time. Even stronger, we’d be. This is America. Nobody gets elected president for life, not since Roosevelt.”

“It’s still a puzzle, isn’t it, Beau,” she said, her tone making it clear she was pondering the situation.

“A big one.”

“So now you’re glad you’ve still got Lymon,” Cynthia said, smiling wistfully.

1959 October 06 Tuesday 18:50

“You had a fine old time, didn’t you, Big Brian?”

“Didn’t I just, Mick! You don’t often run across a man who follows the fight game the way Seth does.”

“The man at the guardhouse?”

“Yeah. He got someone else to cover for him, and we just strolled the grounds, talking.”

“And had a couple of cold ones?”

“Sure did. Pretty decent, too. Although it’s not Guinness they brew over here, that’s for sure. I told Seth he’d have to come by sometime and I’ll draw him a real-”

“You invited him to our place?”

“Well… sure I did, Mickey. I thought you’d be pleased.”

“I am, Brian. What did he say, when you asked him?”

“He said he would. And I hope he does. He’d fit right in. With the fellows, I mean.”

“Not like Lymon, hey?”

“Lymon? He’s a bloody tout, isn’t he? Grassing on his own. Seth wouldn’t do that.”

“You can tell?”

“That man would step in front of a bullet for his chief, Mickey. Same as I would for you. I could see it in him, strong and clear.”

“You saw the grounds, too, Brian?”

“Well, I don’t know as I saw them all. That’s a huge spread Beaumont has got. Big enough for a man in training to do his roadwork and never go off the property. Did get a long look at the house, though. Looks like it could take a direct hit from a mortar and laugh it off, it does. Solid stone, all around.”

“When we get back, you can draw us a map, Brian. It’s good work you did today.”