Femme Noir (17 page)

“I’m strong, I can take it.”

“Okay.” Jack downed one shot. I sipped my gin and tonic, Max momentarily on the back burner. “Well, you know her family is in oil, right?”

I nodded. “Now I do.”

“Big oil. Really big oil. You know at the beginning of the twentieth century that Tulsa was
the oil capital
of the world, don’t you?”

I nodded even though I had not known that.

“Tulsa was famous for its rich economy. There was actually a reverse
Grapes of Wrath
thing happening. People from everywhere flocked to Tulsa to cash in. It flourished and grew nonstop until the eighties, when the bottom dropped out of oil. But by then, fortunes were already made. And oil doesn’t stay down for long. Look at the prices now, for God’s sake.” Jack seemed to be growing more sober and alert and eloquent with every sentence.

“Mmm-hmm,” I said, wondering how in the hell this tied to Michelle.

“When you have enormous wealth, any town is small, New York, Los Angeles even, but especially Tulsa, where there are primarily two very big oil families and two giant oil concerns. The McKerrs and the Wilsons.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of them,” I said, remembering their ubiquitous logos and wondering at the secret power that was held here in this tiny town’s heart.

“Well, our great-great-grandpas or some such ancient history came here to Tulsey Town, as it was then known by the Native Americans before statehood, and our kin started to build their fortunes wildcatting.”

“Wildcatting? What’s that?”

“Oil prospecting. One who stakes money on very high-risk and probably unsound ventures. The odds are bad, but when they pay off…well, look around.”

“Oh. Go on.”

“Well, everybody got pretty rich even by today’s standards and the ones who emerged as chief competitors were the McKerrs and the Wilsons. The Wilsons had the most, and that just galled old Great-great—or just Great?—Grandpappy McKerr. He was rumored to be a hateful, hard, mean son of a bitch. I’m being almost criminal by simplifying this much, but this is about all I know. Anyway, years pass, oil profits grow, the Wilsons are winning in the oil fortune acquisition and by now, it’s about 1905. Naturally, the two families both have a black staff to help around the estates and the Wilsons have a little scandal of their own. Seems years ago, old man Wilson had had a
black
son by their maid. Now you know and I know that that stuff went on all the time and we can be grown up about it. But back then, it was humiliating and shameful, heaven knows why. This son, God help me, was black as night. Not a drop of white in him, it looked like. But I’ve seen photos. He was Wilson’s boy all right. Not the color, but the features and bone structure. It’s like you took a transparency photo of the old man and laid it on this boy’s face. And the old man was crazy for that boy. Old Man Wilson defied all convention and just doted on his son to the point of making people sick. Apparently, he was infamous for saying things like, ‘Love is love and blood is blood.’ Anyway, they kept him and raised the boy as a gentleman’s butler, which was pretty much as high as they thought he could go.” Jack took a breath. I wiped sweat from my face, on the edge of my seat, not knowing how much to believe. He continued. “So because this boy couldn’t inherit and the odds were against him having an education or a career, his daddy signed over the rights to one of his own
best
oil fields in Glenpool and gave it to this boy, who was by now a man.”

“Are you sure this is the secret?” I asked, feeling tired.

“Patience, woman.” Jack sipped his second shot. I crunched ice and smoked. Jack was getting low on cigarettes. “So this grown son now had total ownership of part of the richest oil wells in the world. He left his daddy’s house. This was about 1910 or so, and he moved to the Greenwood district. The intersection at Greenwood and Archer was known as Deep Greenwood or Little Africa.” Jack laughed, his voice harsh and dry. “It has been called the Black Wall Street, but really, it was the Black Main Street. It had
everything,
all kinds of shops and shit
.
The son, now financially set, bought a home there, married, started having children, opened his own business, I forget what it was, and just lived his life. He was a rich man, settled and happy. He was well on his way to becoming deacon of his church and maybe his own elected official position someday. The McKerrs watched this drama with vengeful glee. They kept track of the son and his family and waited. By now, it was May of 1921. The Wilsons were way ahead. We McKerrs were floundering. Bad investments, embezzlement, gambling, and inattention to business were bleeding our once powerful, albeit new dynasty dry. Old Man McKerr felt we needed just one push, just one leg up to restore us to previous recent glory. He sank millions into drilling that came up dry. He was desperate. A fanatic maybe. His family never saw him. He went to Texas looking for the next huge well. His plan was to cash in just one more time and then he would make the money inaccessible to the bad elements and wastrels in his family.” Jack smiled sourly. “Everyone would live very well, but the principal would stay with the company and the McKerr legend would be set. The name would be mighty forever.”

“So?” I looked at my watch.

“So, then, on May thirty-first, 1921, when the race riot began,” Jack said, assuming I knew the particulars; though I did not, I didn’t reveal it. Jack continued, “The McKerrs, belonging to the KKK, all thronged the courthouse and were eventually deputized by the Tulsa Police.”

“
That’s
the big secret? There’s KKK blood in the family? That’s nothing. Most whites probably have a KKK ancestor or two if you go back far enough. No one would kill Michelle for knowing that. Hell, there’s probably black blood running in your veins too. Probably Native American blood. Maybe Chicano too.”

“Do you want to hear this or not? I’m not finished.” Jack drank his second shot and lit up his last cigarette. “Wow, I’ve smoked a lot tonight.”

“All right, go on then.”

“Well, when things spun out of control on June first, the McKerr men headed straight for Deep Greenwood. The McKerrs and hundreds of other whites looted and burned, all with impunity because the cops were KKK too. Most of the blacks were disarmed, rounded up, and held helplessly in custody ‘for their own safety.’”

“That’s sickening.” My stomach clenched in rage at this news. I knew of race riots and was no stranger to racism and abuse, but to hear blatant details like this was unbearable.

“I know,” Jack said. “It wasn’t a race riot at all. Not like LA after Rodney King. The blacks back then didn’t do anything. They were
disarmed.
They were rounded up and their homes and businesses and churches were destroyed. It was an assault. A unilateral
war.
Anyway, the McKerrs went straight to the Wilsons’ son’s house and held his family hostage while they made him sign over his rights to his oil field at gunpoint. The McKerrs swore they wouldn’t hurt him if he did as they asked and he did. But…” Jack trailed off.

“They killed him anyway,” I finished in a fierce whisper.

“Yes. They got the papers, made it look like it was a sale, shot him point-blank in the head, and left his wife and three kids screaming after they set the house on fire. That oil field was the turning point for the McKerrs. They regained their supremacy and never looked back. They’ve been the richest and most successful oil corporation ever since. They even have a division that makes
diapers
and one that manufactures
software.
” Jack sighed. “The Wilsons suspected, of course, but nothing could be proven. So much happened that night. So many murders. So much waste and confusion. Old Man Wilson just snapped after that. It broke him. The family carried on the business, and to their credit, they are a close second to the McKerrs, but the father was no good after his favorite son was murdered.” Jack rested for five beats. “So that’s what Michelle was blackmailing about and why they would kill her.” Jack lit another cigarette.

“Now wait just a goddamn minute!” I held up my hand. “If this is so secret, how did the families know everything, including Michelle?”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Grow up. The best way to make something public is to try to keep it a secret. You know that, come on.” He puffed furiously on his cigarette. “As for proof, I’ve never seen any, but Michelle claimed she found plenty when she went through their trash over the years. She loved Dumpster diving anywhere she could. Yep, she was a classy lady.” He laughed ruefully.

I sat stunned, stricken, silent.

“She needed money, so she thought she’d make a deal with the devil and get enough to live on. And her secret would keep her safe. But it didn’t. And I have this to prove it.” Jack opened his coat and removed a letter. He handed it to me, I unfolded it, glanced at the date—six months ago—and skimmed the contents. Of the hysterical scribble, I made out the words “slander,” “libel lawsuit,” “pathetic, scheming little bitch,” “can’t prove anything,” and “filthy liar.” “Troublemaking cunt” was underlined. I handed it back to Jack. “It’s unsigned.”

He sighed. “I know. She gave it to me for safekeeping. She seemed to think it was incontrovertible proof. But I think it’s a slim reed.”

I stared into space.

“Well?”

“I just don’t know anything, do I?” I asked.

“No, but don’t let that stop you.
Knowing
hasn’t done much for me.”

“That’s fucked up. It’s
evil.
”

“I know.”

“How can you be a part of that family?”

Jack snorted, rolling his eyes. “I was born to it. And drinking helps.” Jack laughed and raised his empty glass, tipping it for the last drop. “I did change my last name, though. And after Michelle told me all this and showed me the papers, I started donating money every month to the Negro College Fund and sending cash anonymously to one of the survivors I know about. I’ve considered personally apologizing, but I’m too afraid. What I do isn’t much, but it’s what I can do. And you know, if everyone just did a little bit, this would be healed. If every white person, not just the McKerrs, stepped up and did just a little bit, if they
took some fucking responsibility,
” Jack bellowed, his face red, “racism would disappear. Or if not, the playing field might at least be leveled. Some of the hurt would be healed,” he said again.

“Maybe,” I said in wonder. I didn’t even donate to the College Fund and felt ashamed. “I don’t think whites feel much sense of responsibility about these things.” I pulled a deep breath of hot molasses air.

Jack turned on me. “
I know.
And that’s the problem.
That’s the fucking problem
!”
he yelled. A couple at a near table glanced over and went inside. “Blame the victim, that’s the white man’s creed,” Jack said viciously, then aped a cracker accent, “I didn’t have nothing to do with it. I love niggas, some a my best friends are niggas, spics, chinks, wops, and faggots. Callin’ someone ‘nigger’ don’t mean nothin’. A
white
person can be a nigga.” Jack was breathing hard. “It happened too long ago to make reparations. It is in the past, we can’t change the past. Generations have lived and died since then; the world was different then; now we’re much more civilized. That event ‘way back then’ has nothing to do with us progressives now. It’s too late to apologize, it’s pointless to make amends, that would be like admitting fault when it probably wasn’t even completely our doing, if you take the circumstances in context.” Jack stood and began pacing.
“Bullshit!”
he screamed.

I was rapidly going into tipsy shock. Jack certainly was different than I thought. This whole family is a clutch of chameleons, I mused.

“Blame the women for their abuse and rape; blame the gays for the bashing; blame the Jews for the Holocaust; blame the Japanese for the World War II internment; blame the Native Americans for just, I’m sorry,
living
here and trying to cooperate with us and trusting us, and don’t get me started on that; blame the Mexicans, blame other Hispanics for not being white; blame the Middle Eastern people for domestic terrorism perpetuated by disgruntled
white men
; blame the African Americans for slavery and everything since then. Have I left anyone out? Oh, my fucking God! It is too much. Thank goodness China has thus far had the sense to keep to herself. Although human rights violations there are a
nightmare,
again, you don’t wanna get me started. I’m already on my soapbox.” He grinned. I smiled back automatically in response. Jack sat again. “When I drink, I go off. Some people get horny when they’re drunk. Me, I get mad. I don’t know, maybe that’s just how it is with the ruling class. Whoever is in power is corrupted. Maybe if the blacks or the Cubans were the majority in power, there would be terrible civil rights and criminal racism too. Maybe…what is that saying?” Jack peered into my face, expecting an answer.

“I don’t remember it just now,” I replied.

“That saying…power corrupts perfectly? Is that it? Maybe that’s just the way of the world since man stood erect. There will always be evil in power and everyone else is a victim. I just happened to be born now, in this country while white males are in power. I could’ve been a Christian in Roman times.” Jack laughed. “They used to persecute and kill the Christians. Don’t you wish they still did that today?” Jack clapped his hands over his mouth. “See? I’m corrupted. I’m no better than Old Man McKerr and all his elitist, murderous, racist, asshole sons.”