Standing at the Scratch Line (29 page)

Market Square was teeming with sellers and buyers moving between the canvas-covered stalls. At first she did not see the men. Then she saw one of them walking slowly down one of the outer rows of stalls, the thickset, light brown–skinned man. Journer noticed that he had a pronounced eyebrow ridge with a receding forehead, which made him look like the caveman pictures she had seen on the sides of carnival wagons. The man was searching carefully. He stopped and signaled to someone on the other side of the square. She couldn’t see the tall man with the long neck, but she knew he was nearby. She stepped farther behind the canvas. Her heart was fluttering and she was breathing hard.

Mrs. Whitaker, an old woman in her late sixties, watched Journer standing near the rear of her stall and followed her glance to the searching man. “You got to go, child,” Mrs. Whitaker urged. “You wait and they’s just gon’ come through and search each stall.” Mrs. Whitaker looked out on the square, her face lined and wrinkled with the years. “You got a chance if you wait ’til they’s abreast of us and then you head back the way you come.”

“I got to go the other way, Missus Whitaker,” Journer said with desperation. “I got to get to the bank. If I don’t pay on our loan today, they gon’ close our diner down.”

“Honey, I advise you to just give them the money if they catch you. Don’t fight with ’em and make ’em mad. You ’member what they did to poor Fannie Bouvier? She still walk with a limp and her face is all scarred up.”

“Missus Whitaker, I appreciates yo’ advice, but I got to go contrary. My family ain’t got nothin’ else but the diner—and my dad, he’s too old to start over.”

“Duck down, honey, they gettin’ close,” Mrs. Whitaker warned as she watched the caveman draw nearer. “Maybe yo’ pappy ought to rethink about payin’ them DuMonts. Since y’all ain’t set up to challenge them, it seem like it’s part of the price of doin’ business.”

“We tryin’ to pay our way out of debt! We ain’t got no extra money fo’ thugs!” Journer declared from her kneeling position. “One mo’ year and we’ll own our place free and clear! Otherwise, every dollar we earn, we eats or puts in the diner.”

“A year’s a long time. It’s yo’ health that’s most valuable, honey. You remember that. These men ain’t playin’ no game. They gon’ hurt you when they catch you, even if they don’t catch you now. You gon’ have to be on your toes every time you sticks yo’ head out the door. Anyway, what kind of mens leaves a woman to do a man’s job alone?”

“I was supposed to meet Phillip in the causeway, but I saw them mens following me and I just took off,” Journer explained.

“Phillip who?” Mrs. Whitaker demanded.

“Duryea.”

Mrs. Whitaker frowned down at her and dropped her voice. “You talkin’ about young Phillip Duryea of the Duryeas that run them Teamsters between here and Fayetteville?” Journer nodded. The old lady could hardly contain herself. “Phillip Duryea can’t stand up to these men. If he beats the ones that’s followin’ you, they’ll send ten more just like ’em. Now, his father was a different story. He was a man of force. He built his business despite the Klan and everythin’. He was a tough old rooster in his day. But his son can’t even get out of his shadow.”

“Missus Whitaker, I hears you but I can’t give up this money. Just help me, please. Just tell me when them mens is past.”

“Of course, child. I’s sorry to sermonize. Wait for a few minutes, then crawl out under that apron that runs between this’n and the LeBlancs’ stall.”

Journer did not say anything more. She did not want to engage in further conversation with old Mrs. Whitaker. But the old lady’s words had hit home. She had only spoken what Journer had begun to admit to herself. Phillip was not a fighter, even though he did not lack courage. He could not protect her against the DuMonts. What she and her family needed now was a miracle or a man of force, as Mrs. Whitaker had said.

“Go now, honey, and God be with you,” Mrs. Whitaker whispered.

Journer crawled into the darkness under a table and out into the back of the LeBlancs’ stall. She saw the LeBlanc family members looking back at her casually as she continued crawling on her hands and knees. They did not want to draw attention to her so every glance was brief. She started to pull back the canvas, but Mr. LeBlanc—a short, balding, brown-skinned man with a thick black mutton-chop mustache that completely covered his top lip—hissed at her and waved her to halt. She stayed on her knees ready to spring up for several minutes before Mr. LeBlanc gave her the all-clear sign. She pushed through the canvas and stood up slowly. She walked purposely back in the direction opposite of that which she had seen her pursuers follow. She turned down a narrow passageway between two of the larger stalls. She stopped and caught her breath. She waited several seconds, then looked back in the direction from which she had come. No sign of the men. She gathered herself and readied herself for the long walk, passing under the arch that marked the entrance to Market Square. She was nearly to the arch when she saw the tall, long-necked man. He stepped out into the aisle just in front of her. Fortunately for Journer, he was looking the other way. She ducked behind a bare-chested man carrying a large bundle of kindling on his shoulder. She kept the bundle of kindling between her and the tall man as she made her way to the arch. She was about to enter the shadows under the arch when she heard a male voice calling her name.

“Journer! Hold on, Journer, it’s me!”

She turned quickly and saw it was Phillip, his face smiling broadly. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the tall, dark man’s head swivel on its long neck and look toward Phillip running to meet her. Before the tall man could pivot back and see who Phillip was calling to, Journer turned and ran under the arch. She was furious. Phillip had downplayed the possibility of the DuMonts robbing her in broad daylight. Now, stupidly, he was putting her life in danger.

She ran into the crowd. The street outside Market Square was jammed with people, Journer’s heart pounding so loudly that all else was merely rumbling in the background. She didn’t see people, she saw parts of them: a dirty white, half-unbuttoned shirt, a brown leather shoulder, an indignant curl of the lips, a bare, sweating back. The images merged into each other like a nightmare. She ran blindly into a stocky young woman and fell to the ground. When she stood up she heard Phillip call again, this time from just outside the arch. She turned to look and saw the caveman knock Phillip backward into a nearby stall. As he slipped from view she turned and ran.

She was now panicked, and no longer thinking clearly. Her only focus was to escape. She knew that if the men caught her, no one would intervene. She had seen numerous people, both men and women, beaten savagely on the street, and no one had ever stepped in on their behalf. The white police did not care what happened in Niggertown. Colored people were often killed and their murderers almost always went uncharged. She ran out of an alley into a street with motorized traffic. A car swerved to miss her. Journer barely heard the beeping of its horn. She waited for a break in the traffic and ran across the street into another alley. Instinctively, she was heading back home toward the riverfront.

The tall man with the long neck stepped out into the alley in front of her. Journer was momentarily paralyzed by his sudden appearance. He was perhaps thirty feet away. He put his fingers to his mouth and let out a high, piercing whistle, which was answered by another whistle nearby. His head turned on his long neck with the darting movement of a hunting bird or a snake. The eyes in his small head stared at her without blinking. A grin was creeping across his dark-skinned face. He walked slowly toward her. “You done took us through quite a chase, little girl! We ain’t much for runnin’. That’s gon’ cost you somethin’ extry.”

Over the tall man’s shoulder, Journer saw a rider on a large chestnut horse pass briefly through the intersection behind him. She screamed out as loud as she could, “Please, Mister. Please help me!” The rider was already out of sight by the time she screamed. The tall man’s head pivoted and looked. No one was in sight. He looked back at Journer and smiled broadly. “Ain’t nobody comin’ to help you!”

“Better say ‘joe,’ ’cause you sho’ don’t know!” advised King Tremain as he entered the alley, riding his horse toward them. He had drawn one of his pistols and hidden it under the cover of his folded hands. He studied the surrounding buildings for possible snipers or other such backup. He saw nothing suspicious. The man in front of him was fidgeting nervously with his waistband as if he couldn’t make up his mind whether to pull his weapon or not. From the distance, King assumed it was a handgun. He continued to walk his horse toward the man without speaking. He had been in New Orleans for nearly five months, working quietly to open bank accounts and establish himself as a businessman. He hadn’t made his presence known to anyone in his family except his Uncle Jake’s wife. Nor had he taken any steps toward dealing with the DuMonts. This was an opportunity to begin his assault against the DuMonts.

“Maybe you don’t know what you breakin’ in on,” the tall man suggested carefully, turning to face King.

“Maybe it don’t matter to me,” King answered, waiting for the man to pull his gun. He wasn’t worried. King studied his antagonist. The man’s hands had now dropped to his sides. King figured that the man was probably working freelance with his partner. King had seen them chasing the woman through crowds. He had followed along out of boredom. He knew who the two men were because a passerby had told him. King’s horse’s ears flicked back and he started to boggle. King took a firm grip on the reins and kept control. The horse was high-spirited and decidedly suspicious. It had smelled the presence of someone standing in a walkway between the two buildings on his left. King smiled broadly. It was the man’s partner, hoping to ambush him.

“Why don’t you let the girl go as a favor to me, seein’ as we’s just beginnin’ our relationship and all?” King suggested affably.

“Nigger, you must be crazy! You must be drinkin’ some bad homebrew and it done drove you clear out of yo’ mind! Let her go? Shit, that would happen over my dead body!” The tall man moved his hands toward the edge of his jacket and quivered with anticipation.

“That ain’t hard to arrange,” King answered with a smile as he urged his nervous horse forward. The skittish animal’s ears were now laid back flat on its head. “Why don’t you have your friend come out in the open? He’s scaring my horse.”

As if he was only waiting for King to acknowledge his presence, the man burst from hiding and charged straight toward King. The instant the man came into view, the chestnut reared up, forcing King to lean forward and grab the reins to maintain his balance. The man’s charge had such speed that he was nearly to the horse before it shied. The movement of the horse caused the man to miss his aim and he clawed frantically at King’s clothes for a grip.

King had intended to shoot the man the moment he appeared, but it occurred to him that the discharge of a gun so close to the horse’s head might cause it to bolt into a dead run. A panicked horse running full tilt on cobblestone streets would probably spell death for both the animal and its rider. He swung the butt of his pistol savagely down on the skull of his attacker. The blow landed soundly with a crack and momentarily transfixed the man midmotion. Before the man could recover, King struck him forcefully on the head again and the man collapsed on the cobblestones. The horse was prancing, ready to break into a run. King pulled the reins firmly and spoke soothingly in the animal’s ear. After a few moments, the chestnut became more responsive to the touch of the reins. King walked the horse toward the remaining man.

There was no fear on the man’s face, but there was a change in his demeanor. The quick and savage vanquishing of his partner was unnerving. Sweat dripped down his dark face. The man backed away slowly with his knife at the ready, his head swaying back and forth on its long neck. He glanced away down the street as if insuring that he still had an avenue of escape. “I ain’t a-feared of you!” he said unconvincingly.

King ignored the man and said to the woman who was standing wide-eyed in the middle of the street, “Why don’t you come over here, and I’ll give you a ride at least part ways to where you’s going?”

Journer hesitated a moment, looking at her remaining pursuer, who glowered at her threateningly. She started toward the young stranger who had come to her rescue. She didn’t know him, but she did know that if she refused his offer, the snake-necked man would probably still come after her. There was no choice; it was better to risk her fate with the unknown than stay and face definite assault and robbery. As she walked around her pursuer, Snake-neck started forward as if to intercept her, but the horseman reined his horse forward swiftly. Her attacker immediately backed against the wall. Once she was beside the horse, her rescuer lifted her easily behind him. She was impressed with the stranger’s physical strength and bearing.

King pointed his pistol at the face of his opponent. “Tell the DuMonts that King Tremain is back!” He turned the chestnut back toward the intersection and trotted away, the hoofbeats of his horse echoing in the suddenly quiet streets.

When Journer got back to the Fleur-de-Lys, everyone was already talking about her daring escape and the stranger on the big chestnut horse. Her aunt, Willa, whose plump body was wrapped in a starched white apron, was serving tables. Willa motioned with her eyes toward the residence in back of the restaurant. Journer complied. The restaurant was filled with people drinking, eating, and laughing, but when she entered, everyone fell silent. People stopped what they were doing to stare at her. As she continued on toward the back of the restaurant, murmuring began, and by the time she entered the residential quarters behind the kitchen, the conversation level had risen to its original volume. In the dimness of the residence’s main room, Journer saw her mother and sister bending over her father’s prone figure. “What happened? Is Pappy alright?” Journer gasped as she rushed to his side.

Her father lay on the bed and smiled weakly. There was a gash on his forehead and his lip had been split. She saw also that there were a number of bruises on his face. “What happened?” she demanded.