Deacon King Kong(70)
“You don’t have to eat my head off about it. The Irish got kicked and booted the same way.”
“We ain’t talking about them.”
“No we’re not. You were talking about the church money. It’s got nothing to do with this trouble,” Potts said.
“It’s got everything to do with it. That Christmas Club money is all we can control. We can’t stop these drug dealers from selling poison in front our houses. Or make the city stop sending our kids to lousy schools. We can’t stop folks from blaming us for everything gone wrong in New York, or stop the army from calling our sons to Vietnam after them Vietcong done cut the white soldiers’ toenails too short to walk. But the little nickels and dimes we saved up so we can give our kids ten minutes of love at Christmastime, that’s ours to control. What’s wrong with that?”
She waved at the weeded lot, the projects nearby, the Elephant’s old boxcar on the next block, and behind it the harbor and the Statue of Liberty, shimmering in the afternoon sunlight. “Look around you. What’s normal about all this? This look normal to you?”
Potts sighed through clenched teeth. He wondered how someone who lived in this mess could be so na?ve.
“Nothing in the world is normal,” he said. “I can’t understand why you’d even hope for that.”
His comment sent the anger hissing out of her like a balloon, and her features softened. She eyed him with curiosity, then wiped the edge of her eye with the back of her hand and shifted her weight.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“About this case.”
“No. Right here. The preaching’s inside. On Sundays. Not out here behind the church. The inside’s what you need.”
He shrugged. “Your sermons are enough,” he said. “That last one was good. I like seeing you stirred up.”
Now she frowned. “Is it funny to you, what I said?”
“Not at all,” he said. “If you’d been on the job as long as I have, you’d feel the same way. We’re the same, you and I. We have the same job, remember? We clean the things no one wants to clean. Dirt. That’s our job. We clean up after people.”
She smiled bitterly, and once again the mask she wore so well, the firm lady of strong, impatient indifference whom he’d met when he first walked into the church a week before, broke apart, revealing the vulnerable, lonely soul underneath. She’s just like me, he thought in wonder. She’s as lost as I am.
He managed to wing himself back under control and blurted, “You asked why I’m really here. I’ll tell you. First of all, I know your deacon is around. He’s good at making himself scarce. But we’re gonna get him.”
“Get him then.”
“Thing is, we’re stepping soft, trying not to rattle folks. But the people here are not making it easy. When we ask they say, ‘He was just here,’ or ‘He just left his building,’ or ‘I think he’s in the Bronx.’ They’re covering for him. But you ought to know something. And you can spread this around . . .”
He leaned in close. She noticed the lines in his face were etched with concern, and alarm.
“The man who wants your Sportcoat sent for somebody from out of town. A very dangerous guy. I got no information on him other than a name. Harold or Dean. Last name unknown. Might be a Harold. Or a Dean. Not sure. Whatever his name, he’s rough business. He’s in a different class than the knucklehead you sent off.”
“Harold Dean.”
“That’s right. Harold Dean.”
“Should I warn folks?”
“I’d stay out of that flagpole area if I were you.”
“That’s our place! Must be thirty people float by there every morning. Even Deems don’t fool with us there.”
“Gather someplace else.”
“There is no place else. We surrender the flagpole, that’s it. We’re prisoners in our own homes then.”
“You don’t understand. Your deacon is not the only guy around here who’s in danger now. I read the report. This Harold Dean is . . .”
She stared at him in silence and he halted.
He wanted to say, “He’s a killer and I don’t want him near you.” But he had no idea what her reaction would be. He didn’t even know what Harold Dean looked like. He had no information other than an FBI report with no photo, only the vaguest description that he was a Negro who was “armed and extremely dangerous.” He wanted to say, “I’m worried about you,” but he had no idea how to say it. It wouldn’t do now anyway, because she was angry again, the dark eyes glowing, the pretty nostrils flaring. So he said simply, “He’s dangerous.”
“Nothing in this world is dangerous unless white folks says it is,” she said flatly. “Danger here. Danger there. We don’t need you to tell us about danger in these projects. We don’t need you to say what the world is to us.”
He offered a thin, sad smile and shook his head. So there it was. “Us?” he said.
He took a step back, away from the shade of the church, and turned for the squad car. Another dream spent. He’d had many of them. He supposed he was glad, really. He was off the hook. The responsibility, the magic that his grandmother had talked about was a weight he was not built to bear. Love, real love, was not for everyone.