The Last Ballad(105)

“What about them white girls?” Albert asked. “They seem sweet to you?”

“No, sir,” James said.

“What were their names?” Tom asked.

“I can’t say I remember,” James said.

Albert saw Tom reach into his pants pocket, and he heard the sound of coins clinking together.

“Would a quarter dollar help your memory?” Tom asked. He waited. James didn’t move, didn’t speak. “I’m serious,” Tom said. “Would a quarter dollar help?”

“It might, sir,” James said.

If Albert had had time to realize anything, he would have realized that he could not control himself. He was on top of James before the man had a chance to lift his hand toward Tom’s open palm, where the quarter dollar awaited him. Albert knocked James over instead, clutched his hands around the man’s throat, and said something along the lines of “This damned nigger thinks we’re playing.”

He didn’t realize that he might have made a mistake until he felt James’s fingers close around his wrists and all but pry his hands from around his neck. Albert straddled James’s chest, and as he watched he saw his own hands be lifted as if they were doll’s hands. The axe lay only a few feet to Albert’s left, and he considered struggling free of James’s grasp and lunging toward the axe. Then he remembered his pistol.

Albert freed one of his hands and unholstered his gun and pointed it at James’s face. Both of them were panting now, staring one another in the eyes. Albert suddenly found himself stone-cold sober, as if he’d awakened from a drunken stupor unable to remember how he’d come to be sitting atop a colored man’s chest with a gun in his hand.

Tom crouched down beside them and lay the quarter over James’s left eye. The right eye watched Albert and Tom, and as it shifted from Albert’s face to Tom’s, Albert watched the quarter jump with each flick of the eye. Tom held a second quarter in his hand and raised it so that James could see it.

“Now, I’d hate to have to use this quarter for your other eye,” he said, “because that would mean that you wouldn’t be getting to spend it. You understand?”

James nodded his head, looked from the quarter to the barrel of Albert’s gun.

“A little bit ago I asked you for names,” Tom said, “and you don’t want me to have to ask you something I’ve already asked you.”

“Ella,” James said. He swallowed hard, looked over at Tom. The quarter over his left eye trembled slightly. “That’s all I remember. One of the white ladies was named Ella.”

“That’s all you remember?” Tom asked.

“Yes, sir,” James said.

Tom sighed. He looked over at Albert.

“I don’t think that’s going to be good enough,” he said. “I reckon you’re going to have to shoot him.”

Tom made to stand, and when he did James all but lifted his hand and reached for him.

“Tonight,” James said.

“What about tonight?”

“They going to vote,” James said. “They going to vote to let colored in the union. Tonight.”

“Tonight?” Tom asked.

James nodded his head. His breathing slowed.

Tom stood, tossed the quarter onto James’s chest. It bounced off and disappeared into the dark grass. James lay there without moving, the first quarter still covering his left eye. Albert climbed off him, stood, holstered his pistol. He looked down at the man, wondered how long he’d lay there without moving once they left.

“You can go on and get up,” Tom said. “Get back to your wood chopping.” He looked at Albert, smiled. “We’ve got to settle up inside, Roach, get down to Loray in time to cast our vote.”



Albert and Tom didn’t even make it to Loray Street before they encountered a crowd of strikers marching on a picket line in front of the mill. The people hoisted signs and placards over their heads, and Albert could hear them chanting slogans. Lights burned inside the mill, casting a greenish glow on the street in front of it, and Albert saw men and women leaning from windows inside Loray to get a better look at the crowd in front of the mill.

Adrenaline coursed through his body. He felt his heart pound against his ribs and he almost forgot that he’d been drunk all night. He looked at the hand that had pulled his pistol and held it to the colored man’s face just minutes earlier. The weight of the gun was still there.

“Pull over,” Albert said. He pointed to the curb opposite the mill. “Pull over,” he said again, but Tom kept driving.

“We can’t park near that shit,” Tom said. “Last thing we need is somebody spotting my auto.”

“It don’t matter,” Albert said. “This is police business. Some nigger from New York running around with white women.”

Tom pulled a U-turn and parked along the curb a few blocks west of the mill. He killed the engine, looked at Albert.

“You ain’t the police,” he said. “Not until Chief takes you off suspension.” His eyes fell to Albert’s waist. “Give me that gun.”

Albert laughed. “You ain’t serious.”

“I am,” Tom said. “Hand it over. I ain’t taking the rap if you go out there and shoot somebody, drinking like you’ve been.”