William Kennedy - Chango's Beads and Two-Tone Shoes

“So there we were, me pushing Petey Hawkins in a wheelbarrow down North Pearl, a few wagons on the street, not many since it’s the Fourth, and Petey’s sitting on two pillows, legs dangling over the front of the barrow, his smile as big as his straw hat. We get to State Street and I turn around and we’re almost back to the barbershop, just a few steps from where we are right now, and Dummy Quain, one of the Lousy Dozen that hung around Dunn’s Saloon, says, That ain’t right, pushin’ a nigger, and Dummy walks alongside me and says, This ain’t right, George, and I say, Forget it Dummy, I lost a bet on Jeffries and I gotta pay the man. Dummy kept walking and then he grabbed the barrow and tipped Petey onto the cobbles of Pearl Street and said, Fuck you, nigger.

“I hit Dummy and he wobbled and fell against a horse and the horse bit him, but Gerber and Hosey from the Lousy Dozen were on Petey before he could get up, kicking him. Three young coloreds in front of Petey’s barbershop — one of them was Petey’s brother, Nigger Dick — were waiting to get their winnings out of Petey’s safe and they come running. More whites poured out of Mahar’s and two more coloreds walking down Pearl jumped into it. I helped Petey stand up and I said, We got a riot, and he hit Hosey. Gerber knocked me down and Dick Hawkins grabbed Gerber’s arm with both hands and broke it. How’s your arm? I asked Gerber and Dick give me a big smile. Then Petey saw more whites coming up Columbia Street and he says, Outa here, outa here, too many of’em, and the six coloreds run up Pearl, Petey leadin’ ’em toward the Third Precinct near Wilson Street with a dozen whites on their tail. I was running right with them and I saw Dick Hawkins coming last and then one of the whites yells, Pipe that big shine, and Dick turns around just as this heavy fella was swingin’ at him with a piece of pipe, and Dick cut the man’s arm and face so fast it’s black lightning and a whole lot of blood, and the man’s in a heap as Dick comes inside the Precinct. The Lousy Dozen was now a Lousy Two Dozen, and they were rattling the door. But the cop bolted it and waved his pistol at them. Lotta scenes like that all over the country that day — twenty-four coloreds killed and a couple of whites, and they burned stores and houses in the big cities, all because there wasn’t no more white hope.”

Doc Fahey, in one of those detective cars that were coming up Pearl Street with the open siren, saw George sitting on the fender of a parked car in front of the Kenmore. Fahey and his partner, Warren Prior, put George and Vivian in their backseat and took them to Memorial Hospital up the block. Fahey called the Times Union to tell Quinn he’d found George, but Quinn was out, so Fahey left a message.

“How’s the head, George?” Fahey asked.

“Which head?”

“Yours. The cut. Does it hurt?”

“Not a bit,” said George.

“Did you see who threw the rock?”

“If I ever see him again I’ll give him a swift kick in the candy.”

“Don’t get in any fights, George, back away. It’s dangerous on the street tonight.”

“No Quinn ever took a backstep for anybody. Jimmy Cagney said that to — Jimmy Cagney said. .”

“You don’t have to be as tough as Cagney, George. There’s young black gangs out tonight and a lot of anger. Somebody already threw a couple of Molotov cocktails down by Dorsey’s. You should take George someplace safe, Vivian. I’ll call his son, Dan, and he’ll come and get him.”

“We’re going to Cody Mason’s concert over at the DeWitt,” she said.

“That’s good, Vivian. Call a cab to go over. Stay off the street tonight, all right?”

When Roy arrived at the Brothers’ storefront headquarters — two steps down from the sidewalk, three doors north of the Palace Theater’s stage door, and directly across North Pearl from Memorial Hospital — the plate glass window was gone. Gordon Buford was nailing plywood over the opening but the plywood didn’t cover it, more needed. The Malcolm X poster that had been in the window for two months lay curled over a table top in the office, a bullet hole in Malcolm’s chin.

“Clarence was here when they shot out the window,” Gordon said.

Clarence Gale, sweeping up shattered glass, said, “They missed me.”

“You see who it was?”

“Three, four white guys maybe in a Buick station wagon. Couldn’t see much.”

“Whites cruisin’ is bad news,” Gordon said. “Lot of our kids out there too. Ben and I talked to some up on Ten Broeck Street, told ’em to stay cool tonight, cops are everywhere. But the kids didn’t blink. Some of ’em’ll be around the Four Spot for the dance.”

“A dance?” Roy said. “Don’t they know about the riot?”

“They just play some riot music,” Gordon said. He hoisted a second piece of plywood into place to cover the broken window space.

Ben Jones was on the phone, sitting at a battered oak desk under a large hand-lettered sign that said: BROTHERS — WE NEED RENT AND PHONE MONEY. GET SOME! The phone company had cut service: the Brothers could receive but not make calls. A smaller sign advised, DON’T SELL YOUR SOUL FOR $5. PAY YOUR DUES, $5. The new edition of the Brothers’ tabloid, The Emancipator , published every so often, was stacked on a table next to the desk and a large headline from an old front page was tacked to the wall above: FIVE BROTHERS WILL TESTIFY AT BEN JONES GUN TRIAL. At a back corner of the room was a refrigerator, a table with three chairs, a small stove, and a shelf with plates, glasses, knives, and forks. Here the Brothers fed a hot meal daily to eighteen children of parents who were in the hospital, or in jail.

“What happened today?” Roy asked Ben.

“Woman called, her son got robbed of eighty cents in front of the Palace. White woman. Four black kids, she says. She wants us to find out who they are so she can tell the police.”

“That it?”

“Robert Gene called, he’s hyper. Twenty kids hangin’ out up on Swan Street talkin’ trouble. He wants somebody to go up and help cool ’em down. Can’t do it alone.”

“You send anybody?”

“Nobody to send. Everybody’s out on the street.”

Ben handed Roy two stapled, mimeographed pages. “The new Black John is out. Somebody pushed it under the door. That guy’s cracked wheat.”

Roy read the headline in typewritten caps: THE EYES OF ALBANY ARE ON YOU, BLACK MAN. This was a flyer, the third Roy had seen in recent weeks, always anonymous, always crude, race-baiting commentary: “Muslims are holding meetings down on Green Street. Albany doesn’t need them. They don’t vote, they don’t smoke, they don’t drink. But they kill !. . Aunt Jemima of the South End loves her streets and sure does get her gabby self into the papers. But she can’t get along without all those white folks hangin’ on her apron strings. Pour a bucket of white pancake batter on your naps and be happy, Mammy, but watch out when it rains. . Looks to Old Black John like the Mayor’s being real nice these days — picking up trash in Arbor Hill, all honey and melon, but his political machine’s thugs roam the city — kiss the black man in daylight, kick hell out of him at night. . I see where Reverend Smathers got hit by a rock but didn’t make a complaint. You know right away the good reverend is black. No white man would stand for that. White man would defend himself to the death !”

Roy looked up from Black John’s screed to see somebody getting out of a car and coming across Pearl Street. Shades, muscles, white T-shirt, pressed pants — Zuki came through the door.