Some Great Thing (15 page)

“The Rabbi stayed there out of principle. He said nobody would end segregation if porters avoided the place. He said black people had to fill that place up and keep filling it until someone took notice. But the porters wouldn’t listen. It’s true that the men partied there, sometimes. About a year before, some of the boys had a real shindig there. They brought
girls in and tomcatted and drank until neighbours called the police.

“After that, the doors were locked every night at nine-thirty. They came early in the morning to let you out. It was stupid but the company wouldn’t do a thing about it. But Alvin kept staying there. He wouldn’t give up. And that flophouse, that dignity cost him his life.

“He was the only man in that house. And even though firemen axed down the door, they were too late. They found him right there, dead on the floor.”

Ben looked up at Mahatma. “I told all this to Novak in so many words. It was at the funeral, remember, and I didn’t know that he was a lawyer, or that he would soon earn a seat on City Council and later become Winnipeg’s first communist mayor. I didn’t know that Novak had contacts with reporters and civil rights groups across the country. Or that he would come after all us porters to testify about that flophouse and get even with the company. All of us except Melvyn Hill, that is. He wanted to get ahead and he knew that testifying against the company could hurt his chances. He told us, ‘I’m going to climb the ladder, make something of myself. You should do the same.’

“‘Nobody gave me no ladder,’ Harry said.

“‘Then make your own,’ Melvyn said.

“We argued with him and told him he was being a fool and an insult to his race. He said he was going to law school and would become a judge and one day we’d see who was the fool.

“I’ve never seen Harry get so mad. His voice sunk down as low as a gravel pit, and he said, ‘You could live like Methuselah for a thousand years, but
still
you’d never be no judge!’

“‘There’s no point talking to you!’

“Harry snared Melvyn’s collar. ‘You know something, boy? Your shit smell just like mine.’

“Melvyn wriggled free. ‘You’re disgusting.’

“Soon after that Hill quit the railroad and went back to school.”

Mahatma sank back in his chair. He let out a long sigh. His work, the long hours put into the Polonia Park story, the tension stemming from his suspension and now Ben’s description of his railway life had exhausted him. He thought again of Melvyn Hill bloodied in Polonia Park.

“So he finally went to school?”

“And made judge,” Ben said. “I never thought he’d do it.”

“Do you see him much now?”

“From time to time.”

“And where’s Harry?”

“Still hanging around the Porters’ Club. It has changed names and it has a café upstairs, now. He runs it.”

“When did he retire?”

“Years ago, son, just like me.”

Forty-eight hours into his two-week suspension, Mahatma Grafton invited Chuck Maxwell to dinner. “Let’s not talk about work,” Chuck said.

“Bad day, eh?”

“Don’t even mention it. I don’t want to say a word about it. Do you know what Betts…” Ben entered the room, bringing tea for Chuck. “Aren’t you people having any?” Chuck asked.

“Black people can’t drink tea,” Ben said. “It affects our livers.”

Chuck laughed. “You know something? I’ve never thought of Mahatma as
black
. If you know what I mean.” Chuck saw Ben’s eyebrows arch. “I mean, I hardly notice his colour!” The eyebrows lifted higher. “What I’m saying is, when I see a black person, I don’t notice his colour. As far as I’m concerned, he’s white, just like me.”

“Isn’t that the most amazing thing?” Ben said. “And until you brought it up, I never thought of you as white, either. I
thought you were black.” Ben cleared his throat and went off to make dinner.

Chuck laughed. “What a guy. Your old man comes across so deadpan, I’d hate to play poker against him. Say, you know what they did to me at work today? They gave me a memo saying my writing is sloppy. They’re building a case against me. When they’ve got enough memos on record, they’ll sack me. All this is giving me an ulcer!”

“How did you ever end up in journalism, Chuck?”

“I didn’t start as a reporter. I started as a copy boy. You’re talking way back. You’re talking 1962. You’re talking high school drop-out down on his luck and flat broke. You’re talking copy boy at
The Herald
for twenty bucks a week—message boy, actually, the guy who got everybody’s coffee and scanned the copy from Reuter and Associated Press. You’re talking two years of joe-jobs until they finally gave me some work on the city beat. So I’m no Shakespeare, I’m no Hemingway. But I was a good journalist in my day. I broke my share of scoops. I was a man of the people and still am. I know what it means to make fifty bucks a week. I did it for years. And what do I get for giving the paper the best twenty years of my life? Harassment! What happens if they sack me? What else can I do? News is the only thing I know.”

“Let’s go out for a walk,” Mahatma said. “It’s snowing. It’s nice out there. When we come back, we’ll have dinner. My dad is making cornbread.”

Chuck brightened. “Cornbread! Sounds great!”

Mahatma slept in on the third day of his suspension. He woke up at ten, made coffee and lay on the living-room couch, listening to Vivaldi and thinking how much more pleasant the music was than the sound of radio news first thing in the morning. Ben came in with a bag of groceries. He asked, “Hey, son, ready for lunch?” Ben normally ate breakfast at six, lunch at eleven and dinner at five.

“Are you crazy? I just woke up.”

For Mahatma’s breakfast and Ben’s lunch, they ate grilled cheese sandwiches, for which Ben used three-year-old cheddar. “Man-o-man, I love that cheese,” Ben mumbled as he ate. “Stuff’s so good, it would make you fight your relatives.”

Mahatma picked up the next line, which he had learned as a boy. “It’s so good, it’d make you beat back your grandmother—and dare your grandfather to stick up for her.”

“You know, son,” Ben said after eating, “you ought to do some fighting back of your own right now. About that suspension they handed you.” Mahatma felt his chest tighten. He, too, believed he shouldn’t take the suspension without a fight. “Now take it easy,” Ben said, “I’m not telling you what to do. I’m just saying what I would do, if I were you.”

“Okay, go ahead.”

“I would reclaim my honour. You’re a Grafton, and—”

Mahatma finished it off, “And Graftons aren’t ordinary people.”

“You’re not really just going to sit back and do nothing but eat meals on Spanish time until your suspension ends?”

“No. I’ve already been thinking about something. Didn’t you tell me once that an old friend of yours works for the Manitoba Provincial Police?”

Mahatma met Sgt. Reynolds Wilson in the Princess Street doughnut shop. He had no trouble spotting the man. “He eats orange crullers,” Ben had told Mahatma. “He eats about ten a day. He also happens to be black. He’s so black he’s almost blue.”

“Reynolds Wilson?” Mahatma asked, offering his hand. “I’m—”

Reynolds Wilson kept his arms on the table. “You’re five minutes late.”

Mahatma sat down. “Sorry. Doughnuts any good?”

“I stick to crullers. You want a bite?” Wilson let out a snorting laugh that sounded like a car backfiring. Mahatma took off his coat and pulled out a notepad. “Put that away,” Wilson said. “Whatever I say is off the record. As a matter of fact, we never even met. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“We never met and this is off the record.”

“Good.” Wilson smiled now. “Any son of Ben Grafton must have a few decent genes. I’m gonna count on your honesty, but I’m going to enforce it too. Last guy who double-crossed me had the lifespan of a cruller.” Wilson let out another snort.

Mahatma frowned. “Can we stop pissing around now and talk some details? A friend of mine named Georges Goyette was taking photos at the Polonia Park riot. Two cops grabbed his camera. I want the photos.”

“I’ve gotta go now,” Wilson said. “Nice meeting ya.” They stepped outside. A gust of cold air bit Mahatma’s face. “Suppose an unmarked envelope comes your way,” Wilson said.

“If it does, I won’t know who sent it.”

“Why do you think I agreed to see you today?” Wilson said.

“Tell me.”

“I used to work the trains with Ben. He saved my son’s life in 1964. Kid was about three. We were standing on the sidewalk by the Porters’ Club, chewing the fat. My son got loose of my hand and ran right into Main Street with a truck coming on strong. I froze. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t even yell. Ben nabbed the kid like a shortstop nabbing a line drive. Fished him off that road just in time and whoosh, the truck went by.”

“That’s quite a story,” Mahatma said.

“Don’t tell me things I already know.”

Mahatma sighed. “Goodbye, Mr. Wilson.”

Reynolds Wilson walked into the wind.

Ben Grafton heard the mailbox open at five in the morning. He heard a car drive off while he put on his bathrobe. By the time he got to the door, nobody was there. Just an unmarked envelope inside the mailbox.

The photos showed scenes of mayhem. Mouths torn wide with shouts and agony, arms swinging, people stumbling, hair and backs cluttering the photos. In one, a police officer swung a billyclub at Jake Corbett’s head. In another, an officer grabbed a woman by the hair. In a third, an officer punched a man in the throat. Mahatma studied the photos over and over, revolted but delighted.

They kept Yoyo three days in the hospital. He gained a few pounds; he hadn’t eaten so well since leaving Cameroon. He wasn’t bored or depressed in the hospital. He considered writing about the experience for
La Voix de Yaoundé
. Several things had surprised him and would surely interest readers in Yaoundé: no patients brought their own food, no relatives came to sleep by their ailing family members, and no nurses worked with babies slung on their backs.

The day that Mahatma received the photos, Edward Slade slipped, uninvited, into the chair by Yoyo’s hospital bed. His manner displeased Yoyo. He was unshaven. His clothes were unkempt. He started interrogating Yoyo without displaying the common decency to enquire into the state of his health and that of his family. In fact, he barely introduced himself. “I’m with
The Star
,” Slade said, pulling a notepad from his coat. “I’m doing a story on how the police handled the Polonia Park riot.” Yoyo nodded weakly. “How do you feel about how the police acted?”

“I can’t really blame the police,” Yoyo mumbled. “Things got out of control. If this demonstration had happened in my country, people would have been killed.”

“But what about your arm?”

“It will heal.”

“But they broke it?”

“Yes, they did.”

Slade scribbled, “They broke my arm.” Then he asked, “Weren’t the police brutal?” Yoyo gulped at the memory of his arm cracking in the riot. He felt food rising in his stomach and fought off the urge to vomit. “Hmm, Yoyo, what do you say to
that?” Yoyo grunted and nodded his head slightly. “You agree? You agree with that description?” Yoyo nodded. He had to vomit. He had to get Slade out of there. “I need a picture,” Slade said.

Yoyo weakly lifted his arm. “No pictures.”

“C’mon,” Slade said, “don’t worry about it. It’s just a photo. C’mon, put your arm down. That’s it.”

Slade shot half a roll of film in ten seconds. “Thanks for your help. Get well now. I’ve got to run.” He took off. Yoyo rushed to the toilet to vomit. When he was finished, he wept in humiliation. To be invaded in such a way—to be displayed at one’s weakest in a photo.
Quelle honte!
Yoyo didn’t know how, or when, or where, but he vowed to get even with Edward Slade.

Pat MacGrearicque said, “I’m in a hurry.”

“This is important,” Mahatma said.

“I thought you were suspended.”

“I’m back.”

“Jesus Christ. You’ve got one minute to tell me what you want and to get out of here.”

Mahatma stared into MacGrearicque’s blue eyes. Then he set the photos on MacGrearicque’s desk. The cop flipped through them and tossed them back at Mahatma. “So, what do you want?”

“C’mon, Superintendent. These are photos of police brutality.”

“I don’t know who took those photos, or when or where they were taken.”

Mahatma knew he had him. He knew MacGrearicque was panicking. He had to be desperate to argue the time or place
of the photos. “For the record, let me ask you again if you believed your officers behaved well at the riot.”

“I have already commented on that. And as for these photos, I don’t know a thing about them.”

“Are you not concerned to see photographs of your men clubbing one man, punching another in the throat and grabbing a woman by the hair?”

“Get out of here before I throw you out.”

“What about the fact that your officers stole the camera that took these photos, developed the prints and then sat on them?”

“I said get out of here.”

“If you change your mind and decide to comment on these photos, you’ll be able to reach me at the newsroom today. If I’m not there, try the managing editor’s office.”

Fifteen heads turned when Mahatma walked into the newsroom. Helen Savoie waved. Chuck Maxwell shouted a greeting. Mahatma smiled at his friends but kept walking. “I’ve got something to do, but I’ll see you a bit later.”

Lyndon Van Wuyss and Don Betts were meeting in Van Wuyss’ office. Mahatma tapped on the managing editor’s door, then opened it.

Betts saw him and swore. “Jesus Christ,” he began.

Van Wuyss placed his hand on Betts’ arm. “If it can’t wait, Mahatma, please get to the point.”

“These are photos from the riot. The cops stole the camera that took them, developed the photos and sat on them. I managed to find them.”

The managing editor’s mouth dropped.

Betts grabbed the photos. “Well, sonofabitch. Sonofabitch, would you look at those cops. Hey, who gave you these photos?”

“A source,” Mahatma said. “I want you to run these photos and I want you to run my story. In that story, I’m going to lead off with Georges Goyette accusing the police of stealing his camera after he took those shots. I’m going to quote the police if they care to comment. I’m going to quote Jake Corbett about getting roughed up. And I’m going to describe the riot. If you don’t run the photos—”

“Fucking right we’ll run it,” Betts said. “We’ve got the photos, we can back up the story. We have to run the stuff. It’s news. Good hard news. I still think you’re a smartassed bastard, Hat, but if you’ve got a good story I’m not getting in the way.”

“Great photos,” Van Wuyss said. “But what about the way we’ve already handled this story?”

“Who gives a shit?” Betts said. “People will call us idiots for changing our tune. It gives ’em something to do. But the point here is that we have a story. We have to run it.”

Van Wuyss seemed to agree. “Well done, Mahatma.”

“Take good care of those photos,” Mahatma said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to knock out that story.”

“Hold it, Hat, and listen for a sec,” Betts said. “I’m gonna tell you how to handle this story, and I don’t want you getting all high and mighty. What you’ve gotta do is play up the cops covering up the photos. That’s what’s new. Then you can rehash some of the Polonia Park stuff at the bottom of your story.”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

Mahatma rolled over in bed and turned on the 7:30 a.m. radio news: “Crime Superintendent Patrick MacGrearicque refused to speak to CFRL Radio this morning about photographs of police brutality and allegations that his officers had stolen the film to cover up the incident.

“The pictures appeared today in
The Winnipeg Herald
. They show police officers beating one man on the head, punching another man in the throat and yanking a woman’s hair during the Polonia Park riot last Sunday.

“Another embarrassing photo appeared in
The Winnipeg Star
this morning, which showed an African journalist in his hospital room after being allegedly beaten by police at the same riot…”

Mahatma Grafton was bombarded with attention after the morning news. It started with his father, who wandered into Mahatma’s bedroom. “Good work, son. I knew you didn’t mess up.”

Then the phone rang. CBC wanted to interview him. Had he been surprised to find the photos? What did he think would happen now? Mahatma said he wasn’t surprised because he knew the pictures existed and that they would be uncovered in time. He called for an inquiry into police behaviour at the riot. Mahatma hung up. The phone rang again. It was CRFL Radio, with similar questions. He answered them. Six other radio stations called, and two TV stations, and
The Toronto Times
and
The Brandon Advance
. After that, Ben unplugged the telephone.

Jake Corbett hung up the phone in Frank’s Accidental Dog and Grill. “They’re gonna put me on TV.”

“Right,” Frank said. “And they’re gonna put me on the moon.”