The Chief shot one stubby finger into the air. ‘So we got the FBI, the Justice Department and the new city government, all of them wanting to get me out of office so they can put themselves or somebody they like in my place.’ He grimaced at the gall of such a conspiracy. ‘Lord, boys, we got to watch our backs.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Luther said immediately.
The Chief walked over to Ben and put his hand gently on his shoulder. ‘Go home and get some sleep, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Nothing more to do tonight.’ He laughed. ‘Even the Nigra leadership’s over at Gaston’s, all tucked in, nice and peaceful.’ He laughed. ‘They’re getting their beauty sleep so they’ll be all rested up for the mess they’ll be making tomorrow.’
Ben nodded.
‘And try not to think about all this shit too much,’ the Chief added in a deep, paternal voice. ‘Just remember, you’re like everybody else that’s still on two feet in this business. You’re lucky to be alive.’
But Ben did not feel lucky, and as he slumped down in the swing on his front porch, loosening his collar in the thick summer night, he could sense, however vaguely, that his days were numbered in the department. For a long time he tried to imagine some other work that might suit him. Men had left the force before, but what had happened to them after that could hardly be thought encouraging. Some ended up as pot-bellied security guards at the local hotels and country clubs. Others, already addicted to the ceaseless movement of the streets, took jobs as cross-country truckers, endlessly hauling tons of steel or food or diapers from one coast to the next. There had to be a better way to make your daily bread.
He slapped at a mosquito, then lit a cigarette. He knew that the smoke would drive them away, and so he took several deep draws, letting the smoke out in a steady stream as he turned his head slowly, seeding the humid air with tumbling clouds. It reminded him of the spray of tear gas he’d seen rising over the heads of the marchers the day before. That was all part of what he had not bargained for in 1949, when he’d come on with the department. He’d not bargained for the violence of recent days, whether it was on the streets or in the countryside, or simply in someone’s hate-filled mind. But more than anything, he realized suddenly, he had not bargained for doing wrong, being asked, being ordered, to do what he knew was wrong. He thought of that first young boy he’d pushed across the park, then shoved through the open doors of the school bus. He had not bargained ever to be looked at like that boy had looked at him.
He stood up restlessly, walked to the edge of the porch and leaned against the old wooden pillar that supported it. It creaked with the weight of his body, but he continued to press against it anyway, his eyes peering off across the street, then over Mr Jeffries’ house, to where he could see the blinking lights at the top of the Tutweiler Hotel. There were only a few of them. Everyone else was sleeping. The whole city was sleeping, it seemed to him, even the Negro leaders, as the Chief had said, tucked securely in their beds, deep in the heart of the Negro district. It seemed to him that they could probably sleep more soundly than anyone else in Birmingham. They were doing what they had to do. Their souls were full of purpose. And even at the practical level they were safe. At the Gaston Motel, they were at the dead center of the colored district, protected even from the white communities that encircled them. Only other Negros could get close to them, and because of that, at least until morning, they were …
He felt his fingers tighten around the slender wooden post as his mind flew back to the dark ground off Collins Avenue, the deep Negro voice of the man who spoke to Daniels, promising to deliver on his half of the bargain: GM, before morning, Thirty. He felt a slender rod of steel go through him, hard and cold.
GM.
Gaston Motel.
He rushed back into the house and dialed the Gaston Motel.
The desk clerk answered sleepily.
‘What room is King in?’ Ben demanded.
‘What?’
‘What room is King in?’ Ben repeated.
The man did not answer.
‘Tell me, goddammit!’ Ben yelled.
Silence.
Ben realized that his own voice was a white voice, a wild white voice. He softened it immediately. ‘Please,’ he began. ‘It’s important. I got to know.’
The clerk hung up.
Ben hit the button on the cradle, raised another dial tone, then called headquarters. It was on the second ring that he realized there was no one there he could trust, no one he could rely upon. He slammed the phone down and rushed from the house, leaving his front door wide open behind him.
At the car, he hit the ignition, then drove his foot down hard against the accelerator. The rear tires spun wildly, and the car lunged forward, peeling loudly on the smooth black pavement. He continued to press down on the accelerator. The dark lines of houses whisked by him in a blur. He could feel the wind ripping through the car, blowing back his hair, flapping loudly in his shirtsleeves.
The pale neon sign of the Gaston Motel shone dully ahead as he raced toward it, then pulled over to the curb. Sammy McCorkindale was snoozing in a patrol car only a few yards from the driveway. A lone young man stood in the driveway itself, his hands toying with a two-way radio.
It was Leroy Coggins, and he stared quizzically as Ben’s car thundered toward him, then screeched to a halt.
‘What room is King in?’ Ben yelled as he got out of the car.
Coggins stared at him, astonished. ‘What are you doing here?’
Ben grabbed him by the shirt collar. ‘Is he in Room 30?’
Coggins’ eyes narrowed angrily. ‘You think I’d tell you?’
Ben shook him hard, jerking his head violently. ‘Is King in Room 30?’ he screamed.
The anger drained from Coggins’ eyes. ‘Look, man, I can’t just …’
Ben ripped the radio from Coggins’ hand and pressed the transmitter button. ‘Get King out!’ he cried. ‘Get everybody out of Room 30!’
He handed the radio back to Coggins. ‘Go make sure they’re getting out of there, Leroy,’ he demanded frantically.
Coggins backed away, his hand grappling with the radio, bringing it to his mouth. ‘Get everybody out!’ he yelled as he ran toward the motel.
Ben backed into the street, staring at the plain, cement-block facade of the motel. He could see figures moving on the second landing, and even from the distance, he could hear their fists knocking on doors, their voices crying desperately.
He glanced toward the patrol car. McCorkindale was still snoozing obliviously.
When he looked back toward the motel, the second landing was clear, and he could see several people making their way quickly down the stairs and out into the parking lot.
The explosion came in a sudden flash of white light. The men in the parking lot dove onto the pavement, some of them scrambling under cars to escape the falling glass and cement that showered down upon them from the blast on the second floor. The door of Room 30 had been blown from its hinges and now tumbled over the metal railing and smashed through the windshield of the car parked beneath it.
The parking lot filled with people almost instantly. They stood, staring thunderstruck, as the first white light of the explosion spread out in a wave of orange flames. For a moment, an odd, unworldly silence descended upon everything, and there was nothing but the sound of the crackling flames. Then, suddenly, the cries of the people began to break the air, and along with them, the distant wail of scores of sirens. Within minutes police cars began screeching up the streets, and behind them, the fire engines.
Ben stepped back across the street and watched as the people around the motel began to mass themselves, shouting angrily and tossing rocks and bottles at the police and firemen. It was as if this small motel, burning in the night, had become their final redoubt, the place where they intended to make their ultimate stand. The police moved forward under a hail of debris, their nightsticks drawn. Behind them, waves of state troopers stood in tight ranks, waiting for their signal.
It came almost immediately, and Ben stood, staring in disbelief, as the troopers drove fiercely into the crowd, firing tear gas before them. But the crowd continued to resist, retreating slowly, but fighting as it retreated, pausing
