Standing at the Scratch Line (58 page)

At the hour of sunrise there is a low-lying mist that stretches across the marshlands of Louisiana like a thin gossamer blanket. It brings a cool, wet, tingling sensation when it touches the bare skin. There are patches of land, hillocks, and knolls that rise above the reaches of the mist, and it was on one of these that King had situated himself. He rested in a clump of oleander between two magnolia trees. The sun was a pale yellow disk on the eastern horizon that had not yet burned through the cloud cover. King picked up his rifle and sighted down the barrel. The balcony upon which his target sat was still hidden by the mist, but the sun would soon make its presence felt and would burn away the shrouding haze.

King had been in position for nearly an hour. Mosquitoes and gnats buzzed about his face, but he kept still. Perspiration dripped down the side of his face. His body was tired and sore from the activities of the last evening. He wanted to stretch his legs and rub the soreness out of his joints, but he maintained his position. The key to any ambush was stillness.

Neither he nor Sampson had slept since the night before. The night and early morning hours had been spent raiding Harley and Sheriff Mack’s liquor storehouses. Yet King realized that his next actions were the most critical of all. He had to kill Sheriff Mack; otherwise he would be hounded by law enforcement until he was brought to ground. He glanced back through the trees behind him and saw the grove in which the horses were tethered. He knew that Sampson was nearby but could not see him.

He found that whenever he was sitting in a blind or waiting for the enemy to appear, it made the time pass faster if he allowed his mind to travel and roam over the people and events that were impacting his life. He smiled at the fate that had brought Willie Lake to the villa the day before. The old man had turned out to be a treasure trove of information. And when King had challenged him as to how he got his information, the old man explained that there was a flue that connected Harley’s office and the kitchen. If there was no fire in the office hearth, every word said in the office could be heard if one stood close enough to the kitchen flue. King had questioned him for more than an hour and that is how he had learned that Corlis Mack was going to have an early morning meeting with his closest captains and lieutenants at the Lafayette Social Club.

The mist was thinning. There were now motionless tendrils of fog where the land had previously been blanketed. King curled the strap of the rifle around his wrist and waited. It appeared that the time was drawing near. He allowed the barrel of the gun to rest on a thick oleander branch and sighted through the scope the hazy outline of the balcony. His concentration had to be unbroken.

Corlis Mack called for another urn of coffee and Willis Markham appeared and quickly refreshed the pot on the table from a pitcher. “Don’t splash anything on this table,” Corlis warned. “We’ve got important papers laid out.”

“Yes, suh. I’ll do my best, suh,” Willis said, pouring the hot black liquid slowly to the top of the urn.

“Bring some more of those biscuits and some more jam,” Captain Hennesy requested. “LeGrande as usual ate more than his share.”

“You must be quick as a cat if you want to enjoy more than one biscuit,” LeGrande rejoined, and the table rippled with laughter.

“I want some biscuits too,” said one of the lieutenants with a chuckle.

Willis went out and returned with a large, covered straw basket filled with biscuits and a small tureen of jam. After he had placed the items on the table, he asked, “You wants anythin’ else, suh? ’Cause otherwise I goes back to ironin’s the linen fo’ this mo’nin’s breakfast.”

“No you won’t,” Corlis countermanded. “You’ll stand outside that door and ensure that we won’t be interrupted. You know that I don’t want anybody to know that I’m here or that I’ve been here. Have I made myself clear?” Willis nodded his head. Corlis continued, “And I know you’ll follow my instructions to the letter because you want to please me, don’t you?”

Willis nodded meekly and was backing away from the table when he heard a soft plopping noise. Then he saw Captain Hennesy fall across the table and drop the biscuits he had taken out of the basket. Blood and bits of bone were visible in the large hole in his back. Several of other men at the table stood up in surprise. The man directly across from Sheriff Mack jumped to his feet and was spun around simultaneously with another plopping sound. Inadvertently, the man had saved Corlis Mack’s life. His body had obstructed the bullet intended for the sheriff.

After the second bullet, Corlis was on his feet and running heavily for the glass-paned door leading to the safety of the hallway. As he neared the door, the glass pane immediately in front of his face exploded as a bullet smashed through it. The shards of glass flew in all directions, stinging him in the face and blinding him in the left eye. Corlis staggered backward in momentary shock, then headed for the door again. Corlis’s leg was knocked from underneath him before he reached the door and he fell to the floor, hitting his head forcefully on the ceramic tile. He lay unconscious, out of King’s view and the hail of bullets that killed many of his subordinates.

King slipped his rifle into a leather sleeve and searched for spent bullet casings. He was disgusted with himself. He knew that he had not killed the sheriff. He would now have to leave the state of Louisiana. It was a given that Corlis would leave no stone unturned in pursuit of him. King dropped a hood that he had taken from the klavern headquarters. It had someone’s initials on it. The sheriff’s men would find it in the process of their investigation. King didn’t think that it would throw Corlis off for long, but it would confuse things for a while.

He moved swiftly but without haste through the underbrush toward the horses. Sampson was mounted and holding his horse as he emerged from a thicket. King shook his head and shrugged his shoulders in response to Sampson’s silent question. The two men rode off through the trees, knowing that they had at most twenty-four hours to be packed and out of the state.

Willie Lake stood by the flue in the kitchen and smiled. He could hear Major Harley in his office ranting to a sheriff’s deputy. The looting of his liquor storehouses had the major in a rage, and the news the deputy brought had done nothing to improve his mood. Willie stepped away from the flue and went to the stove to taste the bubbling soup. It was a thick broth of okra, corn, and shrimp. He ladled out a small bowl and tasted the steaming liquid. He nodded his head in approval. It was among the best that he had ever made. He looked at the large clock over the table and saw that it was fifteen minutes to noon. He knew that the major liked his lunch promptly at twelve. Willie began to prepare the luncheon tray.

Before he went down to the storm cellar to get the wine, Willie stopped by the vent. He could hear the voice of the sheriff’s deputy informing Harley that Corlis had been shot and that everything possible was being done to investigate the crime. The deputy told Harley that a Klan hood had been found at the scene and asked whether he knew anyone with the initials LT. Willie smiled broadly. It was too good to be true. He almost whistled as he descended the stairs to select a bottle of wine.

He chose a bottle of Merlot that had been imported from France. It was the special reserve that Harley kept to impress his most prestigious guests. The opening of such a bottle would anger Harley even further. Upon his return to the kitchen, Willie checked the bread that was baking in the oven. It had risen nicely and possessed a golden crust. Willie decided to give it a few more minutes to ensure that it was perfect. Everything was almost ready. He looked at his apron and saw that it was stained. He went and pulled out the white satin apron that Harley had him wear at important social events. It was important that Willie look his best. After all, it was going to be a celebration.

The stairs creaked as the deputy descended them, and then Willie heard the front door open and close. Above his head, Willie could hear the sounds of the major pacing back and forth across the wooden floor. Willie busied himself with the tasks necessary to preparing the tray. The bread was removed from the oven. The major’s special silver service was laid out on his finest linen. Soup was ladled into a large bowl and placed on the tray. The finest of the crystal goblets was chosen. Willie was slicing the bread when the clock struck twelve noon.

He heard the major walk to the head of the stairs and shout, “Where the hell is my lunch, Rastus? You better get your black ass up here with my food!”

The tray was ready except for the last item. Willie went to the sack in which he carried his personal effects and withdrew the object that King had given to him. He placed it on the tray next to the steaming bowl of soup. When he picked up the tray, the hand grenade rolled into the porcelain bowl with a clank. Willie wrapped the napkin around it, to keep it in place.

“Rastus, do you hear me? Nigger, I’m talking to you! If you don’t get your ass up here with my lunch this minute, there’ll be hell to pay!”

“I’s comin’, suh,” Willie answered as he exited the kitchen. He would not even pull the pin until he set down the lunch tray. King had explained the workings and operation of the grenade. All Willie had to do was get within a couple feet of the major and it would be all over. Harley was right, there’d be hell to pay, only it was coming for the major sooner than he thought. “I has yo’ food, suh. I’s coming! I’s coming!” Willie said with a broad smile as he mounted the stairs.

•  •  •

Serena stood on a small wooden box, swathed in a dress of white satin. It was the most beautiful garment that she had ever seen. The shiny material was smooth and cool to the touch. She could hardly believe that she was wearing such a dress. It really looked like Serena’s lifelong dreams would come true. She held her breath and pinched herself, half expecting to wake up on her father’s farm. Journer Duryea was kneeling beside her, basting the hem and insuring that the material hung evenly. Martha Mack, a short, plump blonde in her late thirties, was trimming the veil with satin.

“This sho’ is a beautiful wedding dress,” Journer said as she held a needle between her lips. “We was blessed to find a seamstress with a dress ready-made,” she mused as she moved around the hem of the dress, tacking the uneven sections.

“From what Mack tells me, Serena, you young folks is more’n blessed. You got folk who care about you and yo’ future’s in front of you,” Martha observed. “We just got to get you out of the state alive. Corlis is turnin’ over the countryside lookin’ for Bordeaux! That’s why Mack didn’t want you all to get married at the mill.”

Across the warehouse, in a room that served as the office for Duryea Drayage, sat King, Sampson, Captain Mack, Claude, and Phillip. The men were seated around a scuffed wooden table drinking shots of whiskey.

King raised his glass. “Here’s to Will Lake. May he rest in peace.”

Phillip raised his glass. “And here’s to William Harley, may he burn in hellfire!” The men laughed and downed their alcohol.

Mack raised a glass and said, “To me brother’s leg, may it pain him all the way up to his ass!” There was another round of laughter.

“Now, why did you pick Bodie Wells?” Claude asked. “That isn’t beyond the reach of Corlis Mack.”

“I bettin’ that he won’t find out that I’m there. If you the only ones that know, shouldn’t be no problem. You see, Bodie Wells is close enough fo’ me to sneak down here every once in a while and check on my bootleggin’ business. You Duryeas should come in with me. Money’s comin’ in hand over fist. You can buy all the trucks you want after just one year.”

“I appreciate the offer, but we’ll pass. There’s too much gunplay for my blood,” Claude said, pouring himself another whiskey. “I still don’t see why you’re going to Bodie Wells. You could hide in Mississippi or Texas and be closer.”

“I’m goin’ there ’cause it’s a colored town, run by colored folks, and lived in by colored folks. I ain’t ever lived anywhere where colored people made the rules without fear of the white man. I want to see what that’s like and whether it will make any difference in the way I feel when I get up in the mornin’. Plus, they the only colored town I knows of that gots electricity. After the army, I don’t much care for the smell of kerosene lamps. Anyways, I’s just plannin’ to stay there six months or so ’til I get all the kinks out the bootleggin’ business. After that we’s on to New York or San Francisco, dependin’.”

“Watch yourself,” Mack advised. “The only difference between colored people and whites is the whites have the power. If colored folks had the power, the world would be the same; there would be just a different colored people on the bottom.”

Serena stepped back up on the box and rubbed the material of the dress between her fingers. “I never wore anything that cost thirty dollars before. I bet my whole wardrobe wouldn’t sell for half that.”

“And we didn’t even pay full fare,” Journer added. “Manda was probably gon’ sell it to that Mrs. Long fo’ a hundred dollars, befo’ the woman reneged on her. Yes, you was blessed to get this dress in one day, sho’ ’nough.”

Serena nodded in agreement. She closed her eyes, clasped her hands together, and sent a silent prayer of thanks. She was really leaving behind the unremitting toil of the farm and she was getting married, married to someone who planned to live in San Francisco. The city’s name had a magical sound. It seemed to roll off the tongue. It evoked images of tall buildings, long bridges, and electric lights everywhere. She was so excited, she had trouble standing still. If only her brother and sisters could see her. As soon as she thought of her family, a cloud of doubt and guilt began swirling through her mind like mud stirred up by the rushing of clear water. She would not see her little brother and two younger sisters again for many months. Nor would she be there to help them or represent them before their father’s tyranny. She wondered, for what seemed the thousandth time, if she was doing the right thing.

Serena took a deep breath and tried to quiet her internal butterflies. A knock on the door interrupted further introspection. A male voice beyond the door said, “How’re you doing in there? The truck’s nearly loaded. You folks need to get on the road before eight and it’s half passed seven now.”