“Kaz, will you give Cosgrove an update first thing tomorrow? He wanted a call tonight, but let him sweat it out. Press him on what he isn’t telling us, maybe you can get him to loosen up. And then maybe swing by the Dorchester and grab some gear? I could use a change of clothes and my thirty-eight Police Special. Boots, too.” I’d started the day dressed in my Class A uniform, and I hadn’t expected to be doing field work.
“I will call Walter and have him pack bags for both of us,” Kaz said. Walter worked the front desk at the Dorchester and could be counted on to get things done. Everything from vintage champagne to firearms. “But before we leave, you need to tell the rest of the story.”
“What story?” By that time I was pretty interested in the stew myself.
“About you and Tree in Boston. If we’re going to work that case on the side, you owe us the truth,” Kaz said. Big Mike nodded in agreement. I sighed, and thought back to the summer of 1936 once again.
I got really good at sweeping that first week, not to mention mopping and scrubbing. Dad had told me to expect some ribbing from the guys at headquarters and not to let it get to me. It did, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
“You didn’t tell me I’d be working for a colored man,” I said to my father when he got home that night.
“You work for Mr. Jackson, Billy,” he said, hands on his hips and his jaw clenched. “Don’t you forget it. He’s a man, not a color.” I knew right away I’d made a mistake. I should have let Dad settle in to his easy chair and talked to him when he was more relaxed. It never was a good idea to talk to Dad at home when he still had his tie knotted around his neck. Even my little kid brother Danny knew that. I could tell he was angry, so I stepped aside and followed as he went into his den.
“You could have told me,” I said. “About Mr. Jackson,” I added, trailing in his wake.
“Better for you to learn how to deal with people on your own. How you act when confronted by the unexpected says a lot about a man,” Dad said, turning to face me. “I hope I hear a good report tomorrow.” He took a deep breath and put his hand on my shoulder, gave me a pat, and smiled. Then I knew I’d be all right, as long as that good report came to him tomorrow.
“Do you know Mr. Jackson?” I asked as Dad sat in his chair. He pulled his tie off and threw it on the floor. He tossed his head back and I noticed, for the first time, a line of grey hairs at his temples.
“Not well. He’s a proud man in a tough spot. He has a decent city job, but things aren’t easy for him.”
“Why? I mean, beyond the obvious,” I said.
“He wanted to be a police officer. He’s a veteran, fought with the 366th Infantry Regiment in France. It was one of the colored units attached to the French army, so they saw real combat. I met him the day your Uncle Dan and I applied for jobs with the force, after the strike. We got to talking as we stood on line, and he was hopeful that the city would be hiring Negro officers. He’d been a sergeant in the army, and seemed like he’d do okay.”
“What happened?”
“They told him they had enough colored cops, but they needed a janitor. The next time I saw him, I was in my patrolman’s blues and he was pushing a mop. I told him it wasn’t right, and you know what he said?”
“I can guess. If you’re black, get back. If you’re white, you’re all right.”
“It’s a hard truth, but he was right. Just the way things are. He was starting a family, so he grabbed the job that was offered. We’ve been friendly, but I can’t say we’re friends. When I told him I’d gotten you this summer job, he didn’t seem thrilled. Probably worried you wouldn’t work out and he’d be stuck with you. Hard to fire the son of a detective.”
“Yeah,” I said. I got it that my father didn’t know about Tree, or at least that Mr. Jackson had hoped for him to have the job. I didn’t say anything. I told myself I didn’t want Dad to feel bad. I had a selfish motive too. If he knew, he might make me quit, and at the age of sixteen nothing was more important to me than getting that Indian Scout. Today, I feel ashamed to say it, but back then I couldn’t see beyond my own desires, which now seem pretty foolish and shallow.
I also didn’t tell my dad about the taunts that began the next day. It seemed a lot of guys didn’t want a white boy taking orders from a Negro, even if the kid was only sixteen and the Negro was a combat veteran of the Great War.
It began with Basher McGee. If Basher ever had a real first name, no one remembered it, or how he got his nickname. That it was deserved was not in doubt.
“That’s a nigger mop, ain’t it?” Basher said that morning, twirling his nightstick as he stood in front of me, grinning. I’d just finished the entryway to the Berkeley Street headquarters, and was wringing out the mop between the rollers on the bucket.
“It’s a City of Boston mop,” I said, avoiding the yes or no question, not to mention his eyes.
“Then use it,” Basher said, and gave the bucket a swift kick, sending dirty water cascading over the tiles. He gave one sharp laugh and sauntered off. It was as if Basher sent a message that I was fair game. The story about young Billy and his nigger mop made the rounds, and plenty of guys found it hilarious. Some lectured me on how to deal with coloreds, and that it was wrong to take orders from them. Others spilled full cups of coffee on floors I’d just cleaned, and then complained to Mr. Jackson. Garbage cans in the rear of the building were overturned each night and ugly wads of chewing tobacco stained the hallway in front of the chief’s office. They wanted me gone, and it was getting to me.
“You fixing on doing what they want?” Mr. Jackson said at the end of the fourth day.
“Might be easier,” I said. “For all of us.”
“Running is the easy part,” he said. “I learned that over in France. Living with yourself afterwards, that’s the hard part. I ran once, fast as my legs would carry me. Still bothers me. But if you want to go, go.”
“Could your son take over? If I quit?” I wasn’t trying to do the right thing or anything like that, I just wanted a good story to tell my father if I did quit. Things weren’t working out like I’d planned, and for the first time I began to think I could do without that motorcycle.
“I had a chat with your daddy this morning. You talk with him tonight, then you decide. It’s up to you, Billy. You ain’t a bad kid, you’re just in the middle, that’s all. Whatever you want to do, it’ll be fine with me.”
I didn’t like what I heard. All week, Mr. Jackson had ridden me hard, snapping orders and checking my work. Now he seemed weary. I didn’t know what was wrong. I didn’t know a lot of things.
Dad had to work late that night. There was a murder out on Revere Beach, and it was past ten by the time he got home. He draped his suit jacket on the back of a kitchen chair, poured himself a whiskey, and motioned for me to sit down.
“I talked with Mr. Jackson today,” he said, and then took a good belt. “He told me what’s been going on.”
“It’s not my fault, Dad, honest.”
“I know, Billy. Basher’s always had it in for me, and he doesn’t like colored folk. This is his doing. I tried to stay out of it, but things have gone too far.”
“You knew they were giving me the treatment?”
“I expected something, but not this. Good-natured ribbing is one thing, but disrespect and threats are another.”
“What are we going to do? Can you talk to Basher? Or should I quit?” I still didn’t know if Dad knew about Tree, but he pretty much knew everything sooner or later.
“Billy, there’s more going on here than meets the eye. You can’t quit, and I can’t do anything with Basher. He’s beyond words.”
“Sure I can quit,” I said, indignant. “I know you’ll be mad, but you don’t know what it’s like!”
“I know exactly what it’s like,” Dad said. “It’s not about you. Basher is trying to get Mr. Jackson fired. That’s why he and his pals are riding you. They want to prove he’s an incompetent supervisor. As soon as you overreact, it will go to the chief. If you quit, it will be more evidence that a Negro can’t be expected to supervise a white. Either way, they’ll lay the blame on Mr. Jackson. I’m sorry, Billy.”
“Oh,” was all I could say. “You mean Mr. Jackson could lose his job, unless I knuckle under and take it?”
“That’s about it, Billy. I’m sorry, I had no idea it would come to this. I never would have gotten the job for you if I had any notion it would get you in the middle of things. Or that it would cost young Jackson his chance.”
“You know about Tree?”
