A Blind Goddess

“Billy, you owe us a story,” Kaz said as we sat. “You never finished the story of what happened with Basher.”

“Yeah, Billy,” Big Mike said. “Last we heard Basher dumped a bucket of dirty water on Tree, but doused the boss at the same time.”

“Man, seems like months ago we were telling that story, Billy,” Tree said. “Time to wrap it up.”

“We need to bring Angry up to speed?”

“Tree tells that whole damn story every couple of weeks,” Angry said. “Glad you got most of it out of the way. Be a pleasure to hear someone less long-winded tell it for a change.”

“Okay,” I said, taking a long drink of ale. Stories are thirsty work.

Basher had kept quiet for a week or so after getting chewed out by Deputy Superintendent Emmons. Tree and I thought it was over, but that was because we were dumb kids. Basher was watching us, biding his time, waiting for his revenge. Mr. Jackson warned us to be careful, and so did Dad. But we thought we were smarter than them all.

After work I’d head over to Earl’s Garage where Tree worked. We’d talk, and I’d help him so his boss wouldn’t get mad. Tree was a good mechanic, and he taught me a lot about engines that summer. Basher brought his car in once to get the oil changed, and he watched Tree the whole time. I thought it was odd that he did that, since he wasn’t a regular customer. I told Dad about it that night, and the next day I found him down in Mr. Jackson’s office.

“Son, we both think Basher’s up to something. You and Tree need to lay low for a while,” Dad said.

“Best if you two don’t hang around together so much. White boy and a Negro boy can only be trouble,” Mr. Jackson said. “It’s not your fault, it’s just the way things are.”

“Is that what you think, Dad?” I wondered if Dad was getting pressure from his boss, or if he really believed that.

“I think Mr. Jackson knows what he’s talking about. It’s the smart move. Let Basher find something else to get all riled up about.”

“Okay,” I said, not willing to argue with two fathers.

“Billy,” Dad said. “Don’t soft-soap me.”

“No, really, I get it. We make a convenient target. And Tree would get the worst of it, so I understand.” They were relieved. The first thing I did after work was to run over to Earl’s and tell Tree.

“Yeah, Pop read me the riot act this morning,” Tree said. “What are we gonna do?”

“I don’t know. I have enough money once I get paid this week to buy the Indian Scout. But it needs work. I thought I could do it here.”

“You can,” Tree said. “Earl said it was okay, long as you help me out. He’s not a bad guy.”

“But what if we get caught?”

“They can’t stop you being a customer of Earl’s, can they? Are that’s what you’d be. Sort of.” It was with that twisted logic that we began to deceive our fathers, which was not a minor transgression in either of our households.

I bought the Scout, wheeling it in at night to Earl’s to avoid any chance of being seen. I’d sounded out my dad about getting a motorcycle, but Mom heard and before he had a chance to give his opinion, she’d weighed in. He went into his study and shut the door on us both. I kind of doubted he’d say yes, but he never said no, either.

Things were going well. Basher was leaving us alone, even on the few times Tree came to see his dad at work. I’d gotten a used oil pump and installed it, and was planning on working on the brakes next. My thinking didn’t really go much beyond that.

One day, as I was about to finish up at work, Basher brushed by me, giving me a hard elbow in the ribs. He grinned as he and two other cops made for their squad car. He was happy, and Basher was only happy when other people weren’t. I ran to the garage, and found Basher taking a statement from Earl. The place had been robbed, a window broken to gain entry, and a crowbar taken to the cash register. They’d gotten fifty bucks in cash.

And my 1922 Indian Scout.

They had Tree in the squad car, and wouldn’t let me near him. Earl swore Tree was a good kid and had had nothing to do with it, but they thanked him for his cooperation and drove away. There was only one thing to do.

Dad was working a homicide down on Fulton Street; he’d been in the station that day and told me to tell Mom he’d be home late. I jumped a streetcar and looked around until I saw the police cars. The coroner’s wagon was just taking the body away and Dad was talking to two beat cops. I waved until I got his attention.

It wasn’t pretty. Disturbing your dad at work to tell him you’ve been lying to him is never a good idea. When your dad is a homicide detective with a fresh corpse, it’s truly a horrible idea. The fact that he’d warned me about Basher meant that I had to endure the iciest glare ever. When Dad got mad, he got loud and yelled a lot. When he got really mad, he got quiet as the veins bulged on his neck.

He dispatched a couple of bluecoats over to Tree’s house, telling them to make sure Basher did everything by the book. When I asked him what he meant, his look went from stern and angry to weary, as if he didn’t want me to hear what grown men were capable of.

“Son, they’re going to find the money and your bike on the Jacksons’ property. That’s what this is all about. It’s what Mr. Jackson and I tried to tell you. This isn’t kid stuff. This is real life, the way it happens when you go up against guys like Basher without a plan.”

“You mean they’re going to arrest Tree?”

“There’s no way out of it, Billy. They’ll have evidence.”

“But you can tell them, Tree wouldn’t do this. Earl at the garage even said he was a good kid!”

“Evidence, Billy. They have evidence. It’s phony, you and I know that. The judge might even suspect it, but the law is the law. I’m sorry. Best I can do is make sure Basher doesn’t pull anything like claiming Tree resisted arrest. My men will keep an eye on him. Now go home, and we’ll talk later.”

I took the streetcar home to South Boston, wishing it would never stop.

They let Tree out on bail. Mr. Jackson had to put up his house for the bond. The prosecutor argued that the young man was a flight risk, and only the loss of his father’s home would serve to keep him around.

Of course, Tree lost his job. Earl said people wouldn’t trust the garage if the guy accused of robbing it still worked there. He had a point.

I knew Tree had been planning on going to college in the fall, and I figured that I could sell my bike, once it was out of the evidence impound, to help him out. It was only right, since the whole thing was my fault. We’d both jumped in feet first, but Tree was the one paying the price.

I decided to do some detective work of my own. I canvased the neighborhood, like Dad talked about. But since I was a kid, a lot of people didn’t want to be bothered. One old lady didn’t mind. Mrs. Mildred Bishop lived in a walk-up apartment overlooking the alley behind Earl’s Garage. She stank of cigarette smoke. Her house stank, her cat stank, and two fingers on her right hand were stained yellow with nicotine.

“I wake up coughing sometimes,” she said. I tried to hide my surprise. “So I get up and have a smoke. I always stand by the window, it helps me breathe. The other night, when they said the garage was robbed? Well, I was up a lot that night. I had just lit a Pall Mall when I heard a sound outside. It was warm, so the windows were wide open.”

“What sort of sound, ma’am?” I asked. I had my notebook out and was scribbling her statement, or what I thought a police statement looked like.

“Breaking glass. I thought maybe a stray cat had knocked some bottles over. People are always leaving bottles stacked in the alleyway. I didn’t hear much else, until near the end of my cigarette. A truck pulled up and stopped in back of Earl’s. Someone came out and loaded what looked like a motorcycle on it. They had boards out so they could run it up the back.”

“Did you see the person, Mrs. Bishop?”

“No, it was too dark to make out faces, dear boy.”

“Could you tell if it was a Negro or a white man?”

“Oh, it was a white man. I could see a bit of his face, no details, but I’d certainly say a white man.”