Standing at the Scratch Line (40 page)

“If you’re not off my property by the time I get my shotgun, I’ll start pulling the trigger!”

King shook his head resignedly. “What makes you think that you’ll make it to yo’ shotgun?”

Serena watched her father’s face and saw his expression settle into hatred. She sighed: that look meant that King would never be welcome in her parents’ house, not that she really ever expected to get her father’s blessing.

Her father looked at Serena and the hatred did not fade from his expression. He said to her grimly, “If you expect to continue living in my house, you better get inside now!”

“I’ll live here as long as I like!” Serena declared. “I spent many hard years working this place. You can’t take away my right to live here!”

“We’ll see about that when this gangster leaves!” Her father turned to go into the house, but King punched him hard in the stomach. Her father staggered forward, holding his middle, and fell to the floor gasping for air.

King squatted beside him. “She lives here as long as she wants. Whether you like it or not. And I know you don’t want to think about what I’ll do to you if I find out that you’ve laid even a finger on her, do you? I hope I’ve made my point.”

There was no response. Her father just lay on the floor holding his stomach. King patted his arm. “I knew you’d see the light.”

Charles Baddeaux grunted. “If you come on my land again, I’ll kill you!”

King smiled. “You better get me with the first shot,” he suggested softly. “ ’Cause if you don’t, I’ll just wait outside ’til you come out of your house, then I’ll stake you, while you’re still livin’, in your own rice patch to let the crows feed on you.”

King stood up and ushered Serena off the porch to speak with her. After several minutes of murmured conversation, King mounted his horse and rode back into town.

The ensuing week was hell for Serena. The primary cause of distress was her mother’s failing health and the attendant increasing desire for the comfort of laudanum. The other problem was her father. He no longer spoke to her, and while he didn’t dare lift a hand against her, he took every opportunity to show her that she was unwanted. If it had been Serena by herself, she could have withstood his hostility easily, but her two sisters and her brother were caught in the middle.

S
 A T U R D A Y,  
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 E P T E M B E R   4,   1 9 2 0
   

“
Kyklos
is a Greek word meaning circle. It is the origin of Ku Klux Klan. You see, the founding fathers of our organization knew that we would have to link hands in an invisible circle in order to keep the niggers and Jews and papists in their place. You got to know your history, Jack!” Major Harley swished his cognac around in his snifter. He was a plump, pale-faced man in his late fifties. Only his eyebrows retained their original dark-brown coloring; the rest of his full head of hair was nearly white. “
Kyklos,
my friend; the White Circle has a job to do.”

“I often wondered where a foreign name like that came from,” Jack Shannon mused over his own brandy. He was a tall, spare man in his midforties with jet-black hair whose skin was tanned from working in the sun.

“Ain’t no foreign name! It’s American!” defended the third man in the room angrily. He had watery-blue eyes and a ruddy, pockmarked complexion. The pockmarks on his skin caused his face to look as if it had been chipped out of granite. His hair was fine, the color of corn silk, and kept falling into his eyes.

“Now, now, Roy. We don’t want to argue with our guest,” Major Harley said. “I hope you’ll pardon Roy Wilcox. He’s one of our zealots.” Harley took a sip of his cognac and strode over to the table to pour himself some water, but discovered that the bucket was empty. “Rastus! Rastus, get in here!”

A balding colored man in his late fifties appeared at the door, bowing. “Yes, suh, Major Harley.”

“Rastus, we’re out of both water and ice. How do you think that happened?” the major demanded.

Rastus looked back and forth between the three white men in the study. “I ’spects you done drunk it up, Major, suh.” Sweat dripped down the dark brown skin of his face as he waited patiently for direction.

“No, you fool!” corrected Major Harley. “We’re out of ice and water because you didn’t fill it! Now, I want both buckets kept filled for the duration of the meeting! Do you understand?”

“Yes, suh.” Rastus nodded and shuffled over to the table and removed both buckets. The three white men watched him leave.

“You shoulda smacked him, Major, for sassin’ you!” volunteered Roy. “Niggers need remindin’ of who owns the store!”

Jack shook his head and went over to the maps tacked to the wall to study them. He turned and looked at the major. “If they choose the coastal route, you still have five properties to acquire. Your maps indicate that you’ve got the deeds for six lots. You’ve still got a lot of work to get done. You got until November fifteenth to get possession of that land! That includes transfer of title and possession of legal deeds; that’s not very much time. The National Bureau of Transportation Committee is going to announce which route Interstate Twelve will take out of New Orleans that day.”

“You know, Jack, that we’ve been treading a thin line for some time now. If the chairperson on the committee knew I owned that land, he’d use his influence to select an alternate route. He’s still upset over that time we quarantined his wheat on the docks for three weeks.” Rastus entered, set down the two buckets, and left.

“He lost a harvest. I can see why he bears a grudge,” Jack acknowledged. “He better not get wind of you running the coloreds off their land. It might affect his decision. I think you’d do better to avoid fireworks and offer them the current price for the land. You’d still make a pretty penny on the deal.”

“I’m opposed to paying anything to niggers when I can take what I want,” answered Harley. “From what I understand the white citizenry is so up in arms over the general uppityness of the niggers, the night riders may ride again.”

“Yeah,” Roy joined in. “We’re goin’ to make a sweep through tomorrow night and run some mo’ niggers out!”

“I don’t want to hear your plans! I will not become an accessory to murder!” Jack interjected.

Roy looked at the major with a questioning look. “Who’s been murdered?”

“You and your riders are getting out of hand! I heard how they burned a colored woman and her daughter to death on Thursday,” Jack Shannon commented, sipping his brandy.

“That is pure folderol! All them niggers was given a chance to remove their possessions before their shacks were burnt and no women or children were hurt! It just plain isn’t so!”

“The people who guide the night riders are on par with Plato’s philosopher kings,” explained Major Harley. “We’re interested in the social good, not cruelty. We just want to set the record straight and make sure that the mongrel races know better than to vie with us for what God gave to us!”

“Amen,” Roy agreed.

“I’m returning a business favor to you by telling you the deadlines as they are communicated to me, but don’t confuse me with one of your partners!” Jack said, setting down his glass and straightening his jacket. “I am grateful for that favor you did for me two years ago, but there is a limit to the gratitude and the repayment. I think you could do this deal legally and still make a lot of money. Personally, I’ve discovered doing business with more honey than vinegar brings people back to the table to deal a second time.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Jack,” Major Harley said as he escorted him to the door. “I don’t want you to think we’re on different sides. I’ll talk some sense into the boys.”

Later, when he and Roy were sitting alone in his study, Major Harley said, “We got to watch that Jack Shannon. He looks like he’s getting mighty skittish. We need something to keep him quiet ’til this deal’s in the bag.”

“You want me and the boys to give him a little talkin’ to?”

Major Harley guffawed. “You and the boys might not come back from that talk! We don’t want to do anything to get his back up. No, we don’t want to wrestle the bull, we only want to corral him.” The major thought a moment. “Isn’t his wife from Baton Rouge? See if we can’t get someone in their local klavern to dig something up on her. Tell them it’s for the good of the Order.”

“Yes, sir. I got the telephone number of one of the deputies over there. I’ll get on to him.” Roy rose, ready to leave.

“There is something still outstanding, isn’t there, Roy? A little unfinished business?”

“You talkin’ ’bout the Caldwell place? I got mens out now lookin’ for the kid that got away. What’s so impo’tant ’bout a pickaninny. He ain’t even a full-growed nigger.”

“As long as he can appear, that land can’t be sold at public auction. There can’t be any living relatives or kin that have rights to that property. That one piece makes all the rest work; without it, it’s just a good money-making deal; with it we have the chance to make millions. Let me put it bluntly; if he’s found, I don’t want him to be alive. Do you understand?”

“Okay, Major.” Roy scratched his head. “ ‘Scuse me, Major, but I don’t see how this one piece of property gon’ make us all that money.”

“You’ve got to have vision. You’ve got to think ahead, Roy. What happens when they build one of these newfangled macadam roads?”

Roy pushed the hair out of his eyes and answered hesitantly, as if it was a trick question. “Peoples use it?”

“I don’t think you have a big enough candle up there, boy, to light up every part of your head; some part of you is always in the dark.” The major gestured to Roy with his snifter, indicating he wanted a refill. Roy complied and then Harley continued. “Yes, people will use the new roads, Roy, lots and lots of people. And where there’s lots of people, there’s things that they need. Business opportunities, you might say.”

After another sip of cognac, he continued. “Look at what happened with that first interstate that they put through here. There was nothing beside that road five years ago. Now there’s all sorts of business popping up along that highway. Can you imagine the money a man could make if he owned the land around the first fifteen miles of highway just outside of New Orleans?”

“You doin’ this for yo’self? I thought you was doin’ this to help raise money for the klavern! We got some poor members who ain’t even got decent gowns and hoods and we need to fix up our headquarters. It’s gettin’ all run-down. It needs paintin’ and a new porch!”

“Of course, this will benefit the klavern,” the major smiled broadly. “I will just need to get reimbursed for my out-of-pocket expenses, which have been considerable, but that is of no matter at this point. Something we can discuss later, no?” Roy nodded his head. “Good, good,” answered the major. “I just want to remind you, Roy, that I’ve already been generous with the klavern. I’ve donated the ammunition and dynamite you’ve used a couple of times and loaned a couple of my trucks and I’ve shown that was I open to another such arrangement! Isn’t that so?”

Roy nodded his head in agreement once again.

The major stood up and stretched. “Well, there’s many a fish to fry before this weekend. We’d both better get busy on it. Call me as soon as you have closed out the Caldwell case.”

“Sho’ ’nough, Major!” Roy said smartly as he saluted and went out the door.

Major William Fulton Harley waited until the steps died away and the outside door slammed closed before allowing himself to relax. He poured himself another cognac and sat down in an easy chair. It pleased him considerably that he was known locally as “the Major.” His official military records indicated that he had made the rank of lieutenant before he was dishonorably discharged in Virginia for participating in a drunken duel that resulted in the shooting death of a fellow officer. After his saber was broken, he left Virginia and drifted down to New Orleans. He got a job providing security for one of the big grain speculators. His ability to command men and his knowledge of military strategy served him well and as he learned the ways of the waterfront, he found ways to make money for himself. The passing twenty-five years had been kind and had allowed him to conceal his unfortunate incident, while he assumed the rank and title more commensurate with his assessment of himself.