I sat forward. “Mr. Jackson, what’s going on?”
He told me about the terrible discovery out back, in the alley, that had been made early this morning by Sanitation Department workers. That André Freeman, one of the Coalition’s oldest, most respected staffers, had been found with his throat cut.
Oldest staffers, maybe. Respected? I didn’t see anybody out at those desks who looked teary-eyed or heartbroken or anything. A little blindsided, maybe, and uneasy talking to cops — so what else was new?
“When I got here,” Jackson was saying, “the back room was swarming with blue uniforms who’d let themselves in somehow. I couldn’t catch the Reverend before he left home, so his drivers delivered him right into the middle of a three-ring circus, cops, lab techs, photographers. Those men out there in our work space are interrogating our people. Can you imagine?”
Didn’t seem strange to me.
“No,” I said, “I can’t.”
“And the worst part of is... I can tell this from the nature, the tenor of their questions... they think this is some kind of... drug deal. Drug deal gone wrong.”
“No,” I said.
“Obviously, that’s not what it is.”
“Obviously.” What the fuck else could it be?
“This violence toward one of the Reverend’s staff members,” he said with a world-weary sigh, “indicates the extent of racial discontent in this community.”
“You mean, that black people are discontented?”
“No! Well, of course, certainly black people are discontented. But what I mean is, the racists, the White Supremacist lunatics who would do to the Reverend what was done to Dr. King.”
“Murder him, you mean.”
He flinched at the word “murder,” and his echo was whispered: “Assassinate him, yes. And this movement doesn’t need another martyr. Did you hear about this neo-Nazi maniac, Starkweather, turning up dead this morning?”
“No.”
And I hadn’t. I mean, obviously, I knew he was dead, just not that he turned up.
Jackson was saying, “He was found burned head to toe, shot in the head.”
“Found where?”
“Dumped behind the church where he preached, in Ferguson.”
“Wait, Starkweather was the preacher at that church?”
“Certainly.”
Had to hand it to the late Commander. He had a lot of things going.
“Obviously,” Jackson said, “he was murdered by one of his own people. These hate groups are highly competitive. His ‘Klavern’ was only one of several in the area, none sanctioned by the official Klan.”
“Well, the official Klan wouldn’t want to take on just anybody,” I said.
That stopped him for a moment, but he picked right up. “And of course it’ll be the black community that gets the blame for Starkweather’s much-deserved death. Which will stir up the race hate even more.” He paused dramatically. “And we have the big rally coming up this Saturday, with the Reverend as the main speaker. I personally think we should cancel, but he won’t hear of it.”
“You’ll need heightened security.”
“We’ll have it. Local, federal... but as a great man once said, ‘If history has taught us anything, it’s that anyone can be killed.’ ”
Truer words.
“What great man?” I asked.
“John F. Kennedy.”
I nodded. He would know.
I started to rise. “Well, you must have plenty to deal with without wasting time on a grunt like me...”
He held up a stop palm, half-rising himself. “No, Jack! Please sit down. I brought you back here to ask your help. To ask that you, in our time of crisis, go above and beyond the call of duty.”
I sat back down. “Okay. What exactly?”
He settled back in his chair, too. “The Reverend has two regular handlers... bodyguards, who I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
The two big black guys packing heat? Yeah, I’d noticed.
“Believe so,” I said.
“Well, you’re an ex-Marine. Bronze Star winner. I would imagine you can handle yourself. And know your way around a firearm.”
“I know which end to point.”
He flashed a smile but his eyes couldn’t have been more serious. “We could use some additional security ourselves, and you’re the only person on staff who qualifies. Would you be willing to go over to the Reverend’s home this evening, and essentially be a third bodyguard?”
“Glad to,” I said.
“Should I see about getting you some kind of weapon?”
“I own a handgun. It’s in my suitcase. I can use that.”
“Well, Jack, that would be fine. But surely you aren’t licensed in the state of Missouri...?”
I gave him half a smile. “I’m not licensed anywhere. But I’ll risk it if you will. Should some son of a bitch make a move on the Reverend, and I have to shoot him? I have a hunch all will be forgiven.”
He grinned, and got up and held out his hand, which was a very nice way to say I’d been dismissed.
I shook it, then at the door paused to say, “I’m gonna grab some lunch. Would you tell Friday and Gannon that I’ll be back by one? To answer whatever questions they might have.”
“Jack, I’d be happy to.”
The two cops didn’t notice me head out. They were busy, now that many of the staffers from the weekend trip were starting to drift in. No sign of Ruth yet.
I caught lunch, alone, at a place called the Ladle, where I had the chicken-pot-pie soup with a puff pastry floating on top. Very good, but this was another of these Central West End hippie-type joints — art glass, Goodwill furniture, church pews, colored tablecloths. I ate slowly, thinking, letting the comfort-food soup warm my belly and encourage my mind.
Like Duff’s, the Ladle had indoor old-fashioned telephone booths, a row of four right out of a ’40s train station. I’d come up with the beginnings of a plan, but it couldn’t include Boyd. Not a double-cross, that’s not my deal. But something that might work best single-o.
I closed myself in a booth and put in a collect call to the Broker. This time I did get some fucking flunky and so I had to sit in there and wait for him to get back to me.
I took the opportunity to reflect on how the money worked with the Broker, at least on a usual job, and this admittedly wasn’t that. But generally he received a down payment from the client that covered his end and enough more to give Boyd and me — or any of his two-man teams (those basketball jerseys popped into my head again) — an advance.
I’d received five grand up front and I assumed Boyd the same. The rest of the payoff — Boyd’s second five grand, and my twenty — would be made a night or two before the hit. Procedure was to call the Broker and report that everything was in place and the job about to go down. The Broker would contact the client, instruct him or her to make the drop, the client providing a time and place, of course, which would be passed along to me.
Finally the Broker called. “Yes?”
Was he a little peeved, hearing from Boyd and me so often on this contract? Was I interrupting a secretarial blow job? Was he playing cribbage at his club? Okay, so I don’t know what cribbage is and didn’t know what club that would be, but you get the drift.
“I found my window,” I said.
Of course, I hadn’t. But I was heading over to the Reverend’s place tonight, wasn’t I? And I bet the house had windows.
The Broker perked up. “Good, good. I was afraid, with this difficulty that cropped up...”
He meant the late André.