He rarely glanced at the clock. He kept wanting to, but didn’t. And when a glance out the window for the first time that morning brought him the sight of Governor Guthrie, he did not react in any visible way. Perhaps his heart speeded up, perhaps his blood pressure increased, but he gave no outward sign of excitement.
He remained cool throughout the ritual shining of the shoes, his eyes now fastened upon the ceremony, with no time off for anxious inspections of his mirror image. His right index finger located the button and caressed it with something akin to love.
Dorn had told him how it would happen. How Willie Jackson, the hair nearly rubbed from his head by all those years of racist patronage, would be affixing miniature explosive devices to the undersides of Guthrie’s insteps. How Jackson, who could not risk detonating the devices himself, would then remain in his stand, waiting. And how he, Royal Carter, would rid the world of an arch-pig without ever attaching the slightest suspicion to himself.
The shoeshine went on unendurably. It took all his effort to refrain from pushing the button now and getting it over with. Why chance Guthrie’s noticing that he had something stuck to his shoes? Why not do it now, and let Willie Jackson go out with him in a blaze of glory?
No, he couldn’t do that. Brother Jackson had paid his dues, year after year of dues, year after year of tomming his way through Hell. He had a right not only to live but also to enjoy this moment.
And so he waited, just as Dorn had told him to wait. Waited for the final bit of spit and polish, waited for the snapping of the buffing rag, waited for the rubbing of the white-thatched head, the good-luck rub.
See how good your luck is, Billy Boy!
(“The essential strategy is to minimize the possibilities of failure. Let him go just so far but no farther. The top of the first deck of steps. Not sooner, or Jackson would be in danger. No farther, however, because every step increases the likelihood of his noticing the plastic on his soles.”)
The cloth snapped, the head was rubbed, the dollar bill passed with a flourish. And Guthrie, flanked by his bodyguard (who, if they survived, would shortly find themselves without a body to guard) turned and mounted the Capitol steps.
One, two, three, four, five...
When Guthrie put his foot upon the top step on the first deck, two things happened in a single thunderclap.
The permanently installed stand of the official Louisiana Shoeshine Boy disappeared.
So did a large portion of the lunch counter diagonally across the street.
“I’m sorry,” Jocelyn said. “I don’t feel sorry for him.”
“Nor do I.”
“I mean, I think it’s horrible for anyone to have his legs blown off. One at the knee and one at the hip. I get a little sick thinking about it. I flash on it and I look down at my own legs—”
“A horrible thing.”
“But if anything, I’m sorry he didn’t die. That poor old Uncle Tom, that’s the man I feel sorry for. And the people in the luncheonette. Not Guthrie and his pig bodyguard.”
Dorn took her hand. “That’s not the point,” he said. “You don’t get rid of racism by getting rid of Guthrie.”
“Maybe not, but you have one less racist. And one less loud voice on the subject.”
“And you also convince more and more of the uncommitted people that blacks are dangerous and extreme blacks are extremely dangerous. You tell all of the Willie Jacksons in America that they have more to fear from their own kinsmen than from racists like Guthrie. After all, consider this — Guthrie, whatever his attitude, gave Willie Jackson a dollar. What did the bomber give him? Death.”
“Then what is a person supposed to do, Miles?”
“Survive.”
“Is that all?”
“At times it’s chore enough in itself.”
“‘Don’t do anything because it might make the other side stronger.’ Is that what it comes down to?”
“A way to put it.”
Her eyes challenged him. “Is that what you learned in your years in Europe? I know you were involved in politics there. Is that the lesson you learned?”
“Part of it.”
She nibbled her lip. “I forget who said it, but there’s a saying. ‘All that is required for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.’”
“I know the saying.”
“But you don’t care for it?”
“But I do. There is a variation of it, though, that I think is at least as valuable.”
“What?”
“‘All that is required for the triumph of evil is for good men to do something wrong.’”
She thought it over. “Who said that?”
“I don’t remember.”
A newspaper item:
“Governor James Danton Rhodine of Indiana today visited the sickbed of Louisiana’s Governor William Roy Guthrie, in good condition after surgery. Rhodine told reporters outside the hospital that he found Guthrie in good spirits and more determined than ever to resume the fight against ‘the forces of decadence, subversion, and black despair.’ Rhodine called on all Americans of good will to ‘take up the torch that lies fallen in Louisiana and spread its light across the nation.’ A spokesman for the Indiana governor later denied that there was any racist connotation in the phrase “black despair.’”
Another newspaper item:
“In a move which informed sources consider linked to the Guthrie bombing, Prime Minister H. J. Gaansevoort of the Republic of South Africa today canceled a proposed state visit to Washington. The visit, originally scheduled for the second week in August, had drawn heavy fire from black spokesmen; it had been initiated through the office of Vice-President Henry M. Theodore, apparently without direct presidential approval. The White House declined comment...”
A long-distance telephone conversation:
“My profound apologies.”
“I had been about to offer congratulations.”
“The trouble with untrained help.”
“Or mechanical failure.”
“Unlikely. The delivery was a day late in the first place. The delivery vessel froze at the switch.”
“Repeat.”
“Weakness of resolve led to a one-day postponement. There was an excuse, but I think it was a cover.”
“Understood.”
“Then another freeze, I would suppose, and an attempt at courageous recovery. But by then the ship had almost cleared the horizon.”
“Not quite, though.”
“No. Annoying. Again, my apologies. I will follow through on this when conditions permit.”
“No need.”
“Established?”
“Absolutely. A hit is as good as a bull’s-eye.”
“The voice remains.”
“But disembodied.”
“True, but commanding allegiance—”
A chuckle. “In no gripping way. The total effect has not been officially told.”
“Oh?”
“A low blow indeed. The flock might go clucking after a wingless rooster, but not after a capon.”
“Repeat?”
“Say that the count stands at one strike, no balls.”
“Understood. Amusing.”
“Definitely amusing. Good luck on Case Four.”
“Thank you.”
Eleven
As the summer wore on, one hot day after another, it became gradually evident to Dorn that he was not going lo assassinate the mayor of Detroit. He traveled to that city twice, going there with no clear purpose in mind and doing nothing in particular in the time he spent there. He never got a glimpse of Walter Isaac James, although he frequently read his words and saw his features in Detroit newspapers.