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“And vandalized the car while you were at it?”
“The car was in a mishap. A friend of Miss DeMolay was learning how to drive.”
“We got a complaint about a darky looking in people’s windows. One driving an expensive car that might be stolen. Did you take a peek through somebody’s window tonight?”
“I will not speak on this level with you. I am also requesting that your friend take his hand off my arm.”
“What did you say?”
“Do not place your hand on my person. I will do whatever you ask. But you will not treat me as you normally treat people of color.”
“Maybe you should rethink that statement.”
“The issue is not me. Nor is it you. There is a struggle going on around us you do not understand. Your lack of education prevents you from seeing these things. If you are in the service of Arnold Beckman, he will take you to hell with him. Mr. Beckman may be in league with the Evil One.”
“That about rips it for me,” the officer said. He pulled his club from its rubber ring and pushed it into Andre’s breastbone. “Get into the backseat of our car.”
“You mustn’t do this.”
“I know the reputation of the DeMolay woman. She was a white slaver. I don’t know what that makes you. But we’re going to find out. Now you get your black ass in the car.”
“I have groceries to deliver to Mr. Holland. I cannot go with you. Miss DeMolay has given me orders to stay with Mr. Holland and to do what he says and make sure he remains safe. I do not have a choice. He has sent me for food, and that is what I have done. Maybe you can follow me to the ruins of the mission. He will tell you these things are true.”
“I think you’d make a great contribution to the workforce at Huntsville Pen,” the officer said. He began jabbing the club into Andre’s sternum.
Andre fitted his hand on the officer’s throat and lifted him into the air as he would a piñata. The officer’s eyes bulged, his mouth gurgled, his face turned from pink to purple while his feet churned in the air and his hands tore at Andre’s wrist.
“I will release you now,” Andre said. “I hope you will not bear me ill will.”
Then a flash and a sound like a firecracker exploded inside his head, and the sidewalk slammed against his face as though he had fallen from a ten-story building.
HACKBERRY HAD USED a pay phone in a drugstore on a corner where the streetcar stopped to load and discharge passengers, the connector rod sparking on the cables overhead. The car was open on the sides, and he could see women and men in formal dress stepping off the car and walking toward a lighted café. He had forgotten it was Sunday, a day for families and people in love and those on meager budgets who went from their church meeting to a warm café that was considered a treat. How long had it been since he had done these simple things?
Beatrice DeMolay picked up the phone on the second ring.
“Has Andre contacted you?” he asked.
“He’s not with you?” she said.
Hackberry closed the door to the phone booth. “We were watching Beckman’s building from the Spanish ruins. I asked Andre to take your motorcar and find us some food. He didn’t come back. I walked to town.”
“Did you have mechanical trouble?”
“Not exactly. The car is going to need a little external repair. The fenders and grille and bumpers and such. Maybe some touching up inside.”
“What happened?”
“I took over the wheel for a little while. The pedal got stuck. The one that controls the gas.”
“You wrecked my car?”
“We ran through some wash lines and a cornfield and maybe a fence and bumped into a haystack. I cain’t quite remember the sequence.”
“I don’t believe I’m hearing this. You let Andre drive off by himself with the car in that condition?”
“It probably sounds worse than it is.”
There was a long silence on the line. “I’ll call the police department. In the meantime, I want you to come to my apartment. You and I need to have a serious talk.”
