Colored Heat-Chapter 33

Chapter Thirty-Three

                By the time I was up and dressed on Sunday morning, the good people of Ransom were all at church.  It was a Southern Baptist town that had once been voted dry, and they took their church time seriously.  My grandmother counseled me wisely that I wouldn’t get anyone on the phone much before noon, so I didn’t try.  It was about 12:30 when the phone rang.  It was Sheriff Martin.

                “You ready to settle this thing once and for all, Carey?” he asked.

                “Yeah,” I replied.  “What do you have in mind?”

                “I’ll call Lester Jr. and arrange a meeting in his office at the bakery.  We’ll get the man from the loading dock who hit you to come down and see what this is all about.”

        “Sounds good.”

                “I’ll call you after I speak to Lester,” he said, and hung up.  About twenty minutes later the phone rang again, and he said to meet him at the bakery at 1:30.  I was dressed and ready, and I told my grandmother I was off to do some more detective work.  She laughed and kissed me on the cheek.  “Be careful, baby,” she told me.

                It was a hot day as usual as I drove down to the bakery.  My favorite bank clock read 100 degrees on the nose at 1:22 p.m.  I arrived at the bakery in plenty of time, and Sheriff Martin’s police cruiser was parked in front.  The glass doors were unlocked and we went inside the bakery building and climbed the stairs to Lester’s office.  The receptionist was nowhere to be seen on a Sunday afternoon, to my great disappointment, and Lester himself ushered us into his office.

                It was decorated with a mixture of tastes, both good and bad. There were golf trophies on one wall, and animal heads mounted on another, presumably from some African hunting expedition he’d been on.  His desk was teak, and there were two comfortable chairs in front of it that the sheriff and I settled into.  I wondered where Sally Ann was but didn’t get the chance to ask.

        “Well, here we are again,” said Lester with a smile.

        “Yes,” replied Sheriff Martin.  “This time it’s on your turf.”  Lester laughed.

        “Lately, the only turf I see is on the golf course,” he said, motioning to his trophies.  We all laughed at that.

                 “Where’s Lester III?” I piped up, and Sheriff Martin shot me a warning glance.

                “I haven’t heard from him,” his father said.  “I suppose he might have gone up to Dallas for the weekend.  He’s a bit too old to check in with me every time he goes for a drive, you know.”

                Sheriff Martin looked serious.  “Lester,” he began, “you know why we’re down here.  Did you bring them?”  I looked at the sheriff and then at my wealthy cousin.  I didn’t say a word.

                “Yep,” Lester said.  “They’re in the other room.”  He turned his head toward a door on the side of the office and raised his voice: “Come on in, fellas,” he said.

                Through the door came three black men, one of whom I recognized as the man who had hit me outside the loading dock the week before.  “Do you recognize any of them, Carey?” asked the sheriff, and I nodded my head, staring. 

        “It’s him,” I said, pointing to the third man.

                “Okay, you other two can go home.  Thanks for stopping by.”  Lester waited until the other men had left and then addressed the remaining man.  “What’s your name, boy?” he said, with a hint of anger and more than a hint of superiority in his voice.

                “Tyrone Johnson,” said the man in a low voice.  Lester did not invite him to sit.

                “Do you know why you’re here?” Lester asked.  Sheriff Martin and I sat quietly and watched the exchange.

                “No sir,” Tyrone replied.  He was looking at Lester but his eyes were cast downward, so he probably was staring at the top of his desk.

                “Look at me, boy,” Lester snapped.  Tyrone’s eyes snapped up in response.  “Do you recognize my cousin, boy?”  Lester indicated me with his head and Tyrone looked over at me for the first time.  His eyes grew wide.

        “Your cousin, sir?” he said.

        “That’s right.  Do you recognize him?”

                Tyrone just stood there looking at me for a few moments.  I felt very nervous and uncomfortable, not angry and resentful as I thought I’d feel.  I didn’t like the power the three of us seemed to have over this black man.  Still, I was glad I didn’t have to settle things with my fists.

                Lester turned in his chair and addressed me.  “Carey, you say this is the man who attacked you?” he said.

        “Yes, that’s him.  I’m quite sure of it.”

                Lester looked at Sheriff Martin.  “Sheriff?  What do you suggest?”

                “Mind if I ask him a few questions, Lester?” he said.

        “Be my guest,” replied Lester.

                Sheriff Martin stood up and walked around the room a bit, sizing up Tyrone Johnson as he stood there.  Finally, he spoke: “Why don’t you have a seat, Mr.  Johnson.  I’m not going to arrest you.  I just want to talk to you.”  Sheriff Martin pulled a chair away from the wall behind Johnson and set it off to one side of Lester’s desk.  Johnson sat down in it hard, like air going out of a balloon.  He put his head in his hands.

                “What happened the other day between you and Carey here?” the sheriff began.

                Johnson spoke again, not as scared this time.  Lester was still watching him like a hawk, but Johnson did not raise his head as he spoke.  “I was just lookin’ out for someone,” he said.

        “How?” the sheriff asked.

                “Well, Mr. Carey here, he was walkin’ aroun’ the bakery with Mr. Macaboo--not this one, sir, but the younger Mr. Macaboo.  And some of us fellas heard him askin’ questions ‘bout Raymond Mackenzie and his little sister.”  He paused.

        “So?” the sheriff prodded.

                “Problem is, I don’t know what Mr. Carey got in mind.  He a young fella from out of town and I just thought he wouldn’t make no trouble if he had a little sense knocked into him.”

                “You black son of a bitch,” growled Lester from behind his desk, and Tyrone Johnson flinched in his chair.

                “Hold on now, Lester,” said Sheriff Martin.  “Let me handle this for now.”  Lester said nothing.

                “Why did you want Carey to stay away from Raymond?”

                “It wasn’t that,” Johnson replied.  “There wasn’t no way he’d find Raymond anyhow, sheriff.” He looked up and chuckled quietly.  “Earl seen to that.”

                That remark sat for a few moments as we all digested its meaning.  Then the sheriff spoke.  “Earl who?”

                Johnson looked as if he had just swallowed something the wrong way.  He tried to look puzzled, replying “Earl?”

                “You just told us that Earl saw to something.  Who’s Earl?  And what did he see to?”

                Johnson paused a moment, then appeared to think better of holding back information.  “You know, sheriff, Earl Pernell, over to the beauty parlor.” 

                “What beauty parlor’s that, Johnson?” the sheriff asked.

        “Ruby’s,” he replied, “over on South 12th.”

                I had seen the yellow sign advertising Ruby’s Palace of Beauty on the corner of Maple and South 12th a hundred times, as I’d turned down South 12th to head for the highway on the outskirts of town.  The building behind it wasn’t much more than a little shack, one story tall, with a green wooden screen door swinging free from time to time in the light afternoon breeze.  I figured black women went there because I’d never known anything more about it.

                “Now this Earl Pernell,” the sheriff continued, “is a fellow I don’t think I know.”  Johnson chuckled.  “But I’m beginning to wonder if I shouldn’t get to know him.  What does he have to do with Raymond Mackenzie, and why were you trying to protect him?”

                “Earl’s my cousin,” Johnson replied.  “On my mama’s side.”

                Lester was clearly getting frustrated with all the talk.  “What the hell does this all have to do with my bakery?” he said all at once, the words exploding from his mouth in an angry burst.  Johnson got quieter than ever and muttered that he didn’t know.

                “I just know I’m sorry I hit you, Mr. Carey.  I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”  It was the first time he’d spoken to me since the day we’d met in the bakery’s parking lot, and I felt bad for him.  But not too bad.

                “You all just better talk to Earl, that’s all,” he added.  “I don’t know too much ‘bout what you’re talkin’ ‘bout, and I don’t want to get no one in trouble without need.”

                “Well, someone’s going to get in trouble here,” Sheriff Martin said, “and it don’t look like you’re alone.”  He was looking straight at Johnson.

                “There’s only one thing to do,” I said.  “We’ve got to take a ride over to Ruby’s Palace of Beauty.”  All three men looked at me in surprise.  “I’ve seen the sign,” I added.

                “Why don’t you come with us, Lester,” said the sheriff.  “Johnson, you’re coming, too.”  Lester and I stood up.  We filed out of his office and headed down the stairs and out to the parking lot.  Lester locked up and said he’d follow us.  Sheriff Martin and I got in his police cruiser, and he handcuffed Johnson and shoved him into the back seat.  There was bulletproof glass between him and us and there were little air holes in it, but he didn’t say anything throughout the ride that followed; at least, nothing I could hear.

                We drove across town to South 12th Street and parked along the Maple Avenue side of Ruby’s Palace of Beauty.  Lester Macaboo Jr. pulled his Cadillac right up behind us and got out.  Sheriff Martin and I got out together and left Johnson sitting alone in the back of the car.