The Unwilling(83)

“And he saved Darzell’s life?”

“Fourth day of boot camp.” Charlene cocked a round hip, and spread plump fingers on the counter. “They were three miles out on a six-mile run, twenty or thirty boys in full gear, half of ’em puking up their breakfast. Darzell and Jason were out front when it happened, but they were always out front. Competitive, you understand…” Her gaze got a little smoky, remembering something only she could see. “With all those boots pounding sand, I guess no one heard the snake rattle. And a canebrake will disappear into pine needles and sand; you can trust me on that. It could have been your brother who got bit—side by side like they were—but it was Darzell who stepped on the canebrake, and your brother who carried him back to base, three miles at a dead run.” She smiled again, and it was like sunshine. “You’ve not met my Darzell, but he’s six-two, two-twenty, and so hard you can’t kill him with a tire iron. Not like this little one…”

She hooked a thumb at her husband, but I saw the love in her eyes.

“You kids like soul food? Jason loves it like Sunday morning.”

“Actually, Mrs. Washington…” I met Becky’s eyes, and she nodded. “What I’d really like to do is talk to your son.”



* * *



Darzell’s address was not far away, but we were nervous about going there. When Becky spoke, I heard it in her voice. “About what the old man said…”

I was driving in four-lane traffic, but risked a glance at her face. Not nervous, I decided.

Wary.

That was the right word, the right emotion. During our conversation with his pleasant, round-faced wife, Nathaniel Washington had barely looked our way. He’d tended the mush and the ribs; smoked a cigarette or two. But when Charlene told us where to find her son, he’d spun so quickly from the grill that dark grease flicked from the end of his spatula. You’re sending these white kids into Earle Village? Are you trying to get them killed? Or is there some kind of foolish in you I’ve not discovered in forty-two years of marriage? He’d tried to talk us out of going, but I’d explained my reasons, and he’d listened with care, nodding several times. Afterward, he’d kissed his wife and picked up his keys. I’d best trail along, then, see people stay on the right side of things …

Charlotte wasn’t Baltimore or Detroit or any of the other cities that burned after James Earl Ray gunned down Dr. King at the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, but riots on the coast had sparked bloodshed across the state, and tensions were still high. Desegregation and forced busing. Black Panthers and the KKK. It wasn’t all about race, either. People were angry about Vietnam and inflation, communism and Watergate, crooked leaders and the price of gas. Resentment, though, burned hottest where people were poorest, and that was Earle Village. Good people, my father often said. But so damn angry.

Nathaniel Washington saw things the same way. In a truck almost as old as he was, he led us down the narrow streets; and when we reached public housing, he parked and met us on the curb. His face was seamed with deep, dark lines, and he couldn’t hide the worry. “You still want to do this?”

“It’s important.”

He studied me with yellowed eyes. “And if my son can’t help?”

I didn’t answer because I had no answer. He frowned but nodded. “We don’t see a lot of white folks in here unless they’re cops, so be cool. There’re good folks in the village, but they’re not all good. If someone hassles us, let me do the talking. And maybe don’t mention that your daddy’s a cop.”

He had a point about my father. Black Panthers and the Organization of Afro-American Unity both operated out of Earle Village. That meant surveillance, harassment, resentment. I understood the pattern.

“All right, then.” A frown appeared on his leathery face. “Let’s go find my Darzell.”

He led us down a block of sidewalk, then into one of the public units. On the second level, he stopped at a blank door, and knocked. “Darzell. It’s your father.” The door opened to the length of its chain, and a dark, distrusting face appeared. “Relax, Russell. They’re with me.”

Nothing in the eyes changed. Pure hostility. “Darzell’s at the Cue.”

The Friendly Cue was a pool joint two blocks down. We caught a lot of unhappy stares on the walk there, but no one said a word. Inside the pool hall, it was smoky and dark, and Darzell stood alone at a table, a big man over green felt. We watched him run three balls off the table. When he missed the nine, he straightened and met his old man’s eyes. “Middle of the day, Pops. Who’s minding the grill?”

“Your mother’s watching things.”

“Sweet Lord, help us all.”

Darzell had unflinching eyes, five-inch hair, and no smile for us as the old man made the introductions. “Good kids, son, and looking for help. They’re here on account of Jason.”

“Jason French? Is that right?”

“He’s my brother.”

“I don’t doubt that. You look exactly like him. Come on. Let’s sit. You, too, sweetness.” He winked at Becky, and we followed him past the bar, and into a booth, Becky sitting beside me with Darzell and his father across the table. “You want to talk about Jason, huh? What is it you want to know?”