Lonely Crusade (30 page)

Now they turned to look at Jackie as if she had misplayed her cue. “It’s politics, darling,” she hastened to explain. “They don’t have our politics—”

“Neither do I,” he stubbornly answered.

“But you believe in the union, don’t you?”

“Certainly.”

“And you want to expose the traitor and save the campaign from failure, don’t you?” She spoke as to a child.

“Of course, Jackie,” he replied with an increasing irritation.

“Then you shouldn’t object to accepting this evidence and presenting it to Joe and Smitty,” she concluded uncontradictably.

“Well—” If she had asked him this in private, he would have objected, he knew; but to object now would be tantamount to impugning her integrity, destroying their affection for each other. He would not only lose Jackie but would not save himself, since by his presence he had become a party to the action anyway. And it was more gallant to assume that she would not ask this of him unless she was convinced that it was honorable. “Okay,” he said. “But I have to be convinced first of the person’s guilt.”

“It must be done from the floor,” Bart said.

Lee turned to look at him. “I don’t understand.”

“You must denounce this traitor from the floor at the union meeting before all the rank-and-file members. This is no private thing.”

“Lee won’t object to doing that,” Jackie said quickly, “if he’s convinced of the person’s guilt.”

“Well—” He gave her a stricken look as if to say: “For you!”

“The point is, Gordon,” Bart said, “we are trying to avoid ejecting politics into this organizing campaign. By your working with us in this the objective is achieved and we do not have to show our hand.”

“Well—that’s fair enough,” Lee Gordon said. “I’m willing to help on that basis.” And now at last: “Who is the person?”

“We don’t want to name him until we have all the evidence in,” Luther replied. “But I’ll let you know, man.”

“Well—yes.” Lee Gordon wanted to laugh hysterically—all this build-up, this awful strain, this Communist hammering, and then to say they couldn’t name the man. Were all these Communists crazy? Now it was imperative that he see McKinley and get the facts, and though Jackie asked him to stay, he left soon after with the others. If it was Joe Ptak or Smitty they named, he would not believe it unless McKinley named him first. And he was so afraid that Jackie might say something that would turn him away from her.

Through the wide front window of McKinley’s house Lee Gordon looked into the softly lighted living-room and saw Lester McKinley sitting in a gray upholstered armchair beneath a reading lamp, his dark head bent with immobile absorption to an open book, and to one side Mrs. McKinley knitting with comfortable serenity, her hands moving with tiny methodic motion in the spill of light. For a moment he hesitated, loath to break into this tranquil scene with the disturbing business of betrayal.

But Lester, sensing an alien presence, looked up and saw him outlined against the night. Although he could not recognize Lee, he knew instantly it was he, and through him raced the murderous fury he had been struggling so long to control—ever since early Saturday morning when Foster, arriving early, had sent for him just before the change of shift.

“Lester, some time ago you spoke to me about an inspector’s job,” Foster had said.

“Yes, I did,” he had replied. “But now I have changed my mind. I will be satisfied with the job I have.”

“It’s not teaching Latin,” Foster said.

“No, but I will be more satisfied with it than I would be teaching Latin,” he said, looking forward with keen anticipation to murdering this white-faced man.

“How would you like to work with Lee?” Foster had then asked.

“Lee?”

“Gordon, the colored boy employed by the union. He’s going to work for me now—in the personnel department. And you could work with him. The two of you should make a good team. And I will stick a few hundred dollars extra into your pay envelope.”

He could have killed Foster then. He had the red-raw urge, and it would not have mattered what they did to him afterwards. Now he bitterly regretted that he had not. But instead he had maintained his iron composure, replying in a level voice: “You can not buy me, Foster, as you have bought this feeble boy. You can not buy me with all the wealth that white men own. You can not buy me.”

“Then I can fire you.”

“You can not fire me. For when you made the offer I had already quit.”

And what had all his cool composure meant? he now thought with bitter scalding chagrin as he opened the door for Lee Gordon to enter. It had not made a dent in Foster’s ruthless nigger-hatred and Foster lived. But there was no indication of this in his quiet manner as he said cordially: “Come in, Lee, come in, I was expecting you.” And now he would look into this traitor’s eyes and study his Judas face and listen to his lying voice and then be through with him, he thought. Through with all of them, lying, cowardly, traitorous, depraved, bastards who were the Negro men, and through with their white overlords who not only spat into their open mouths but fed them their own genitals to eat.

“Hello, Lester,” Lee said, pumping McKinley’s hand with a heartiness he did not feel. “At least I’m glad to see you’re still among the living.”

“Come into the living-room and sit down,” Lester said, his softly modulated voice pleasing to Lee’s ears. “I am very glad that you stopped by.”

Mrs. McKinley had quietly disappeared, and taking the chair she had vacated, Lee said seriously: “Lester, remember at the meeting before last you said that Foster had bought out someone connected with the union. It seems that all the workers know about it now.”

Does he want me to kill him? Lester wondered. Or is he trying to test me to see if I know, or force me to deny that I know? If I thought that, I’d kill him now. But when he spoke his voice had not changed. “And what are you working on now?”

“Working on?” Lee looked at him with a puzzled frown, aware of some deep misunderstanding, but totally in ignorance of the murderous chaos of McKinley’s thoughts. “I don’t understand.”

You bald-faced bastard, Lester thought, scarcely able to control his savage fury. Traitor! Nigger! You white man’s bootlicker!…But his voice was still contained. “You are not working in the personel department of Comstock?”

“Oh!” Lee laughed with relief. “Foster did offer me the job but I refused it,” he said, wondering how Lester knew, but he did not want to ask. “Did you think I had accepted it?”

So he just took the money and will continue to betray the union, Lester thought, studying Lee’s thin, serious face. And yet he is very smooth with it; did all weak people have this ability to lie? “No doubt it was a better job,” he said aloud.

“Yes, he offered a handsome salary.”

“But you prefer to continue with the union?”

“Well—yes. I suppose I’m something like you. At first it was just another job, but now I believe in it.”

“I see. And now what do you want of me?”

“Well, since you were the first one to know of the traitor, I was hoping you’d give me his name.”

For a long moment Lester did not speak, his tautly leashed body rooted in rigidity. The urge to charge Lee with his guilt almost overwhelmed him and frightened him to nausea, for to draw a denial would impel him to certain murder, he knew. Trembling in cold sweat as the compulsion threatened him, he hung to sanity by one thin thought. For finally, with gristly irony—the ultimate poetic madness of racial prejudice—only his concern for his white wife and half-breed children restrained him from murdering Lee as he sat there. And now, hoping Lee would leave, he quietly said: “I did not really know of an actual traitor then,” and slowly added: “And do not now. I only know that as long as there are men like Foster who possess the wealth to buy, there will be other men corrupt enough to sell.”

So that was all he knew, Lee thought, feeling a sense of letdown. “Well—” he hesitated for a moment before revealing it, “the Communists are getting prepared to denounce someone as the traitor and I just wanted to be sure they denounced the right one. I don’t exactly trust them.”

So he is a Communist too, Lester now thought wearily. I might have known…

“Anyway,” Lee said in conclusion as he arose to leave, “we can keep working on it until we find the one. That’s about all we can do.”

Now McKinley also stood. “I should have told you before, Lee,” he said in his soft, scholarly voice. “I am not working at Comstock anymore.”

“Not working?” Lee stared stupidly at him.

“I quit Saturday morning at the end of my shift,” McKinley informed him.

“You—quit—” For a moment he could only stare blankly at McKinley as all manner of fantastic conjectures soared wildly through his mind. But just before he asked: “Why, for God’s sake?” the answer exploded in his brain—It’s Lester! He’s the traitor! He was profoundly shocked.

“We are leaving for Denver tomorrow.” McKinley’s voice finally penetrated the dull, glazed torture of his thoughts.

“Well—” he said in that light, weightless voice that follows shock. “I guess I’ll be getting on. I’ve taken up enough of your time as it is, seeing as you’re not with us any more.”

“Good night,” McKinley said, his urge to violence burned to ashes now, but his hatred for this haggard, traitorous boy a gruesome stain that would remain forever on his consciousness. “And I hope you a full measure of all that you deserve.”

“Good night, and the same to you,” Lee replied, hurt more deeply than he realized. For he had liked Lester McKinley and had trusted him all the way.

Outside Lee Gordon breathed deeply of the pure fresh air. So it was Lester—good old black loyal Lester. His legs were rapidly carrying him to the nearest telephone when suddenly he stopped. For he could not tell a white man that a Negro was a traitor—he just couldn’t do it, that was all. And after a moment he added in his thought—nor a white woman.

Then it struck him that he did not have to tell her—she knew. So Lester was the one whom Luther would not name. And now he understood, all the pieces fitted. Lee Gordon the Negro would denounce his friend Lester McKinley the Negro as the traitor. And by so doing he would not only place unity above friendship and the union above the race, but would proclaim himself a Communist for only a Communist would do such a thing.

The very clever Communists, Lee Gordon thought. And then again he wondered about Jackie.

Chapter 18

L
EE GORDON
dreaded reporting for work and dreaded facing Joe Ptak, having to feign and lie because he could not reveal that Lester McKinley, a black man, was a traitor. For the first time he felt dishonorable—as if he had the power to halt the onrushing chaos, knowing he would not use it and could not use it, because it would kill a race.

But Joe Ptak greeted him with a plan. “I’m going down to the gates with a sound truck and talk to these ignorant bastards,” he announced. “Since your boy has a car he could drive you out to San Pedro to pick up the truck.” To disclaim official recognition of Luther’s assistance, Joe Ptak only referred to him when it was unavoidable, and never by name. “The longshoremen are lending us theirs.”

“Fine!” Lee said, relieved to get away.

Luther did not mention the conference at Jackie’s the night before, for which Lee was profoundly thankful. After a cautious greeting on the part of both, they drove out of the city in silence.

And then Luther grinned. “The boys wanna race,” he said and stepped on the gas.

Lee looked up startled and Luther thumbed to the rear. Looking back, Lee saw the car. “It’s not the law?” he asked.

“Naw, I know their cars.”

“Whoever it is, they’re really highballing.”

“Yeah, but they ain’t gonna catch this baby ‘less they got wings. I got a supercharger in this baby.”

But the car hung on, and when they came into a lonesome stretch flanked by fields of new-grown corn, it closed up and the siren sounded.

“Not the law, eh?”

“Ain’t the state patrol,” Luther still contended, pulling to a stop just ahead of a culvert over a deep, twisting ravine. “Least ain’t the cars they been using.”

A long, black county car drew up ahead and four deputy sheriffs walked back.

“Speeding, eh?” a hard cracker voice raked Lee with antagonism.

“Hey, Luther,” the second one took it up. “You know this boy, Ed?”

“Sure, I know that boy. He’s a chauffeur out in Hollywood. One of your boys, ain’t he, Paul?” He winked at the second speaker.

“He’s a good boy most of the time. Got his lady’s car out though. She know you drive her car around like this?”

“Why not?” Luther said.

“Did you hear that?” Ed ejaculated. “He said why not!”

“Okay, step out,” Paul ordered. Now his voice was harsh.

Two of the deputies had approached on Lee’s side along the edge of the gully, and one commanded: “This way, boys.”

Ed stood on the road, motioning the cars of the curious on ahead. Paul came around the car to aid in the frisking of Luther and Lee.

“Ray, can you tell these boys are Reds?” it began.

“One is black and the other is off-black.” Paul offered with a laugh. “The reddest thing about them is their eyes.”

“Walter knows. Ask Walter. How do you tell a Red, Walter?”

“I can usually smell ‘em,” Walter declared. “A Red and a Jew smell just alike. But there’s so much nigger smell here I can’t smell nothing else. Are you boys Reds?”

Neither replied.

“Speak up! Speak up when you’re spoke to! Are you Reds? I asked you.”

Lee’s tight, hot gaze searched the speaker’s face for signs of levity but found only a blunt bestiality that frightened him.

But Luther’s voice was level, only slightly thickened. “Just plain American.”

“You hear that!” Walter feigned indignation. “Just plain American! How ‘bout you, boy?” he turned to Lee. “You just plain American, too?”

Lee looked into his piggish eyes, debating whether to reply civilly or tell him to go to hell. “Yes, I am,” he finally said.

Walter nodded with satisfaction. “They Reds all right. Any time you hear a nigger say he’s an American, then you know he’s a Red. The Jewish Communists teach ‘em that. Ain’t no other nigger that impudent. I got a good mind to beat you til you’re red sure enough, you—”