Standing at the Scratch Line (41 page)

Rastus shuffled into the room and checked the buckets and turned to walk out, but the major’s voice stopped him. “Rastus!”

The man turned and faced the major, but kept his eyes downcast. “Suh?”

“Rastus, do you believe that Negroes should get college educations? Should they be allowed the right to vote?”

Rastus stared down at his hands, which were clasped in front of him. “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout no college. As to votin’, I can’t speak for nobody else, but I can’t tell no difference in them politicians. If they’s all the same, I can’t see no use in it.”

“You’re a thinker, Rastus. That’s what I like about you,” the major said with a chuckle. “You can clear the glasses and go now.” Harley watched Rastus carry out the used glasses and thought it wasn’t that difficult to break a man’s spirit. Twenty years ago, when Rastus was first hired, he had been called William. The major was incensed to discover that there was a Negro in his employ with the same first name. After administering a serious horse whipping to the man, Harley renamed the man Rastus, which, in his opinion, was a more niggerly name. Rastus ran off a couple of times but he was brought back in shackles each time under the allegation of thievery and was left under the major’s custodial care. More beatings ensued and soon there was no more rebellion. Of course, there was always the possibility that William-cum-Rastus would awaken from his slumber and realize that his life had been stolen while his youth was being beaten out of him. Perhaps he would pick up a weapon. But Major Harley felt those years were past.

Major William Harley wished that all his dealings were so cut and dried. His problem now, as always, was how he was going to cheat his allies out of their share of the deal. A considerable amount of money stood to be earned if the interstate went along the route as designated, and the major wanted the lion’s share, if not all of it. It was his vision. It was his idea, his plans that caused the whole thing to come to fruition. It was only right. The problem was explaining that to his partners. He was not particularly worried about the klavern. He knew that five hundred dollars and some fixing up of their headquarters would resolve many of their concerns. The parish assessor was a different problem. It was he, on the last day before the announcement, who would process all the deed transferences into Major Harley’s name and would assure that all documents were affixed with the official seal. The assessor had already indicated that he wanted in for fifty percent. The major had agreed to it, but he knew some unfortunate accident would befall the assessor before any money or property was exchanged.

It served the major’s purposes to keep fueling the resentful indignation of the local klavern against the Negroes. He was amused by the unthinking molten anger that surged beneath the surface of his fellow white Southerners and how it was so easily manipulated. All he had to do was find the nearest available opening and its violent energy would always spew in the same direction. It would follow the path of past eruptions. It was all so easy. If the truth be told, in his perception, there weren’t many white people who were much better than niggers and very few deserved to be at the top next to him. He would continue to use the klavern until they could serve no further purpose.

Perhaps, he thought as he finished the last sip of his cognac, they might even be directed to dealing with the assessor if certain information were revealed to them.

King Tremain and Sampson Davis walked their horses slowly up the ridge that led out of the lowlands where his family’s farm was nestled in the fold of some low hills. The air was crisp and fresh off the Gulf of Mexico and the early morning sunlight promised a day of sultry heat. The original purpose of the ride was to bring money to the bootleggers, but King had paid a visit to his Aunt Reola’s little section before the sun had risen. He had been coming to visit her secretly since his return to Louisiana. Reola Bodeen Tremain was his Uncle Jake’s widow and had always treated him kindly. As usual, she had been grateful for the money he left with her that morning. She had been working the farm alone with her thirteen-year-old son since her oldest son was sentenced to ten years on the chain gang.

Once he and Sampson reached the top of the low-lying ridge, they stopped in a grove of trees and looked down on the patchwork of fields that the Tremain clan had reclaimed from the swamp over the generations. They saw a small number of distant figures clad in black, attending a morning burial in the family plot. King knew they were burying Ben Willets, his Aunt Clara’s husband. Willets was the man who had taken over the farm section that had belonged to King’s father. The man had been found beaten to death on the edge of the swamp. His death had caused the family elders to convene a meeting in the barn. There had been some discussion about the possible culpability of the DuMonts. But, everyone knew that King had killed him, although no one had seen him do it.

Letting his horse pick the trail down the back side of the ridge, Sampson led the way. King watched him and wondered. King was always on guard for any change. His relationship with Sampson was a thing of mystery to him. It was surprising how well they got along. He could neither explain it nor define it. All he knew was that it felt good. By some strange quirk of circumstance he made a connection with the man he had made mute.

Halfway down the ridge, King took the lead and climbed to a knoll rising above the ridge. He and Sampson guided their horses into a stand of trees as the burial ceremony broke up. He watched as the black-clad figures trudged slowly back down the hill to their wagons and carts. He felt nothing: not sadness or regret. When he had first returned to New Orleans and had paid a secret visit to the farm, he had been surprised at how dingy and run-down it was. He knew then that he had no desire to return to his father’s farm. As far as he was concerned, Willets could have kept it. If Willets had kept his hands off of Reola and maintained a reasonable silence, he would probably still be alive.

King and Sampson reined their horses toward their meeting with the bootleggers. King had checked with some of his associates about the three men who had come to him with the deal, and Pete and Dirty Red had checked out as solid men at the scratch line. The third man was new on the scene and had neither good nor bad references. The meeting place was a grassy, tree-covered dell lying next to a meandering creek. The creek fed into a little-used waterway that connected to a major river channel. King rode into the meeting alone. Sampson was making his way to a hiding place in the thick undergrowth and brush. Although he did not expect treachery so early in the transaction, caution was always appropriate. He had arrived before the appointed time of the meeting. King got off his horse and walked him along the creek until the boat came into view. King tied his horse to the branch of a tree and made his way silently through the thickets and undergrowth to the boat. It was a swamp steamer like the
Mamie Lou.

As he drew nearer, voices from the boat carried over the stillness of the swamp. A male voice could be heard. “Tyson, you ought to let this matter lie. We’s made a deal.”

Tyson’s voice stated with emphasis, “I don’t see why we need this Tremain! We should just take his money and leave! Hell, he ain’t nobody!”

“I don’t know ’bout you, man, but once I gives my word, that’s it,” a third male voice said. “My partners don’t have to worry ’bout whether the sun is shinin’ on me or not.”

“Whatchoo mean by that, Dirty Red?” Tyson demanded. “You sayin’ I can’t be trusted?”

“No, he ain’t!” King heard Pete’s voice interject. “He just sayin’ when he give his word, that’s it. He don’t go back on it. Ain’t no reason fo’ us to be arguin’ ’mongst ourselves. We got a good deal here. We shouldn’t be tryin’ to squeeze too much out of it.”

“You boys got to think big,” Tyson declared with emphasis. “Everybody is out fo’ his self. Tremain don’t care about us. He’d turn on us if it was worth his while!”

“You ain’t from around here, Tyson. Sho’ ’nough there’s some colored folks who runs on flashin’ and scammin’, but most ever’body knows who those people is. Most of the rest of us lives by our word.”

“What Pete is sayin’ is that, we don’t shit where we eats!” the third voice interjected.

There was a moment’s pause. Then Tyson began to speak. His voice was unusually conciliatory. “Y’all got it wrong. I was suggestin’ a way to mo’ better our money situation, but it ain’t no big thing.”

King smiled at the words as he retraced his steps to his big gelding. He turned the horse around and threaded his way a quarter mile through the underbrush before he headed back toward the boat. He didn’t like Tyson and it was clear to him that Tyson was not a man to be trusted, but King was intrigued by the question as to when Tyson would feel strong enough to make his move.

King saw that Sampson had hidden his horse in a thicket of stunted dogwood, but Sampson himself was not visible. King kicked his gelding into a canter just before the boat came into view. He wanted to make a suitable amount of noise on his arrival.

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Sheriff Corlis Mack puffed his cigar until rings of smoke circled his head. He looked across his desk at the dark-haired man with the ice-cold blue eyes and thought, You’re an ambitious rascal and I wouldn’t like you standing behind me. Mack smiled. “I’ve got an assignment for you and a couple of men, Johan. We haven’t been getting our full quota of money out of Niggertown since somebody did them DuMont niggers. Some of those businesses haven’t paid in months! We haven’t had a hammer on them since Bull Gingrich got himself killed. I need somebody to put their foot down on these shiftless niggers. Because you were once assigned to collections, I want you to crack down on a few of the nigger operators that we know didn’t pay and leave the message that we want our cut. We aren’t going to let them do business until we get our cut. I don’t care how they get it done, I just want the money. I’m giving you this assignment because you know how to talk sense to niggers. Get me, I don’t want anybody killed yet. Just a few broken bones should do. We’ll save the killing for later, if they act mule-headed.”

Kaiser stood up and gave his superior a half-salute. “You got it, Boss. I’ll take Williams and Herbert. We’ll start tomorrow.”

Mack nodded. “Yeah, they’re good strong boys. Good choices. Only one difference, I want you to start tonight. It’ll take a while for them niggers to work something out. The sooner they start working on it, the better.”

“Alright! We’ll start tonight. You want me to jam Bichet too?”

“No, no; he’s paid up on time. Just hit the niggers who’re at least fifty percent nigger.” Mack chuckled at his little attempt at humor.

Kaiser smiled politely and withdrew. He was extremely irritated with the assignment he had just received. He was in line for the captain’s vacancy when Rodgers retired in the spring. An assignment in Niggertown was like being sent to work in the swamps. All the cherry assignments were in the white areas of town, except for perhaps the old area of Storyville. Plus, unusual, freakish things always happened on any assignment that had to do with niggers.

Kaiser contacted the two men he was going to use and arranged to meet them on the edge of Storyville later that evening. It was Kaiser’s intent to work his way uptown. He was resolved that if there was a way to make the assignment a success, he would find it. If a few niggers were found in the river, so what? He knew that Corlis wouldn’t complain if he produced results.

The evening found Johan Kaiser and his two subordinates visiting card parlors, speakeasies, brothels, and pit fighting halls where cocks or dogs fought to the death. They left behind them a trail of concussions and broken bones, but were unable to get anyone to identify the name of the new top-nigger.

At ten thirty in the evening they visited the Red Rooster, which was one of the best establishments hosting pit fights in the uptown area. Kaiser didn’t care that the Red Rooster was one of the few businesses that had made regular payments. He wanted to leave a message, but the three Moses brothers who owned the place heard he was coming and had sufficient muscle around to deter any rough interrogation techniques. Kaiser was extremely frustrated. All he was able to do was make threats, when he really wanted to smack one of the nigger owners across the head with his baton. But a casual glance around at the surrounding muscle affirmed that such an endeavor would be foolish. Kaiser was about to leave when he saw Bradley O’Malley sitting with a prostitute in a booth at the back of the lounge. Kaiser headed back to talk with him.