“Celebrities are the exception,” said the doctor, “although we do get our share.” He pointed up at Governor Wallace, then down at a portrait of Jesse Helms that Macon hadn’t noticed. “Used to get a lot of Southern politicians looking to change their image one way or the other. If I told you one of these two came in to learn how to be a rock-ribbed racist and the other came in looking for black votes, would you be able to guess which was which?”
Macon shook his head. “No idea.” He nodded at a glossy of a broad-shouldered black man flaring his nostrils at the camera from beneath a do-rag. “That guy looks familiar. Should I know who he is?”
“Not at all. His name is Calvin Braithwaite. Just a regular Joe, trying to climb out of the corporate mailroom and jump-start his life. Tired of white people being intimidated by him. Came here to learn to make them feel more comfortable. Said to me, ‘Conway, I want to be a token.’ His exact words. That was three years ago. He’s married to a white woman now, making twice as much money as he did before. I think I have an updated picture of him around here somewhere. You’d hardly recognize the man.”
“So you taught him to sell out.”
“We taught him,” Donner said indulgently, “the skills to achieve his goals. A term like
sellout
really has no place in this world, Macon. It’s self-righteous. It denies the realities people are forced to live with. It implies that personal and racial identity are rigid, monolithic, which they certainly are not.” He pointed at the wall. “Is Calvin more of a sellout than, say, his next-door neighbor there?” Macon followed Donner’s finger and found himself looking at a photograph of Mark Wahlberg. “He came twice, matter of fact. Manager brought him both times. Once when he was a kid, doing his Marky Mark thing—they wanted to go all the way with that. And then again when he decided to switch to film and the old persona, which we’d been so successful in creating, had to go. Dismantling it was much more difficult than putting it together, I must say.” Donner turned from the photographs. “I never judge my clients, Macon. The regular folks, especially. Most people just want to be happy, be accepted one way or another.”
“So where,” asked Macon, unable to tear his eyes from the wall, “do you get most of your business?”
Donner shrugged. “It’s a mixed bag, nowadays. Lot of middle-class black families are starting to send their kids in. Telling me ‘I don’t want him to forget who he is, just to pull his damn pants up and speak proper English so he can get a job.’ ” Donner chuckled. “More and more of my clients come from the entertainment world. Everybody there wants to be black—actors, musicians, comedians, you name it. Russell Simmons sends me a new white rapper every month.”
Donner returned to the conference table, where twenty case files lay open. “Thanks to you, Macon, this country has got race on the brain. You’ve already brought me more business than O.J. Simpson, Willie Horton, and Rodney King combined. Just look at all these.”
Macon darted his eyes at the scattered folders. “White people panicking about their kids?”
“Some. But just as many are white kids who want to be black. Or want to become ‘race traitors,’ as some of them put it.”
“No shit?” Macon walked over to take a closer look.
“No shit. Which brings me to my proposal.”
The doctor eased into a chair and pushed away the closest files. Macon took a seat beside him, crossed his legs, and cocked his head.
“The time has come,” Donner declared, “to take this operation public. The world is ready for it. Hell, Macon, since you came along they’ve practically been begging for it.”
“Seems like you’re doing pretty good already,” Macon said. “You fall behind on your helicopter payments or something?”
Donner waved his hand. “This is penny-ante stuff compared to what I’ve got in mind. I’m talking national marketing campaigns, Macon. TV, radio, billboards. Investors. Franchises. I’m talking, frankly, about getting the kind of acclaim for my work that I damn well deserve. But more than that, I’m talking about letting every single American know that my program is an option, and that my clients have been their friends, neighbors, coworkers, even their idols, for forty years. I’m talking about brokering a major change in the whole racial landscape, Macon. I’m talking the two of us on the cover of
Time
magazine.”
“
Time
magazine, huh?” Macon interlaced his hands, leaned forward to rest them on the tabletop, and squinted over at his host. “And what am I doing there, exactly, Doc?”
Donner cleared his throat, composed himself, and dropped a hand on top of Macon’s. “I want you,” he said, brow knit above his gray, flecked eyes, “to be my official spokesman. The public face of the company. There’s not a soul in the entire world I’d rather have. You’re a human race card, Macon.”
Macon’s hands retreated to his lap. “I’m flattered,” he began, “but—”
“I’ve been discussing the finances with Dominique,” Donner broke in. “He explained how important it was for you to bring your own people along, and believe me, I wouldn’t have it any other way. As far as I’m concerned, both Mr. Lavar and Mr. Walker have more than proved their mettle at the Race Traitor Project, and I’m happy to take them on as consultants and board members. Especially given the human-interest potential there—the Anson, Donner, and Walker families in business together after all these years. That’s a dynamite angle in itself. Dominique and I also discussed in some detail the matter of stock op—”
“Whoa, whoa.” Macon raised his hands. “Hold up a second, Doc. You’re getting way ahead of yourself here.”
Donner nodded into his lap, duly chagrined. “Quite right, Macon. Quite right. You have my apologies. First things first.” He flashed a flushed grin, pushed off on the table, and rose creakily to his feet.
“Mr. Detornay,” Donner said with a slight bow, his formal air compromised by the transparent confidence behind it, “will you do me the great honor of accepting the position of official spokesman, at a base salary of five hundred thousand dollars a year?”
Macon, who had risen with his host, nearly stumbled when he heard the figure.
“That’s a lot of money,” he heard himself say.
“You’re a valuable asset. We have a deal, then?”
Macon stared down at the doctor’s palm, jutting expectantly from his sleeve. “No,” he said. “I’m sorry, Doc. We don’t.”
“Six hundred,” Donner replied, unfazed. “And the chance to reinvent yourself. Believe me, Macon, the other offers you’ve gotten aren’t anywhere near as attractive. They’ve come from law-enforcement agencies, mostly, and white militias. I can make all that disappear, son.”
Macon traced the table’s edge with a finger. “The only thing that’s going to disappear is me,” he said. “Nique probably neglected to tell you, Doc, but I’m retired. My passion for this shit got trapped in a tenement in Harlem. It burned up in the riot. Sorry.”
Donner laughed. “Who’s talking about passion? You think I want to work with a crusader? Hell no; I want a pitchman! You sold millions of completely indifferent people on the most outlandish scheme I’ve ever heard, Macon—actually got them off their asses, without them even understanding why. All I want is for you to do it again.”
Macon was pacing the room now, tracing half-moons around the conference table as Donner spoke and trying not to look over his shoulder at the photo gallery for fear of who he might find leering back at him. “That’s because I believed in what I was doing,” he said. “This shit, I can’t get behind at all. Why would I wanna convince white people to sign up for some kind of shortcut course in how to be me, or how not to be me? Fuck, Doc, I don’t even wanna be me, or not me. I’ve spent my whole life trying to be down. Paying dues. Caring as deeply as I knew how. And the only part that was real, that meant something, was the journey, the experience. The exact part you’re trying to do away with.”
He stopped in mid-stride and fixed Donner with a pleading, hangdog stare. “I don’t wanna be a pimp, Doc. I don’t want to play both sides against the middle and get rich. If you can help some folks get over, well, more power to you. Personally, I just wanna go the fuck to sleep. Like those kids you taught to go back to their Negro chauffeurs, back in the day.” Macon pulled a chair out and fell into it, suddenly spent.
Donner dropped his head, stroked down his whiskers with a thumb and forefinger, and sighed through his nose. “Well, I’m extremely disappointed, Macon. And more than a bit surprised. I was given the distinct impression that you would be quite receptive. That we’d be a perfect match.”
“Nique doesn’t know me as well as he thinks, Doc. I only came here out of respect for your grandfather, if you want to know the truth.”
“I see. Well, in any case, I thank you, Macon.” Donner extended his hand, and this time Macon took it. “I’m sorry we couldn’t do business. Perhaps, given some time, you’ll change your mind.”
“Why don’t you hire Dominique? I bet he’d be great.”
“Smart kid, but useless by himself. People wouldn’t recognize him if he wasn’t standing next to you. Come.” He threw an arm over Macon’s shoulders and walked him toward the door. “I don’t want to waste any more of your time, Macon. You’ve been generous enough in hearing me out. Least I can do is speed you on your way. Los Angeles, was it? Let me call the airport. We’ll get you on the next flight.”
Macon waved the favor off. “That’s okay, Doc. I’d rather you just drop me back at the bus depot. The trip’s kind of giving me some time to think, know what I mean?”
Donner forced a smile. “Fair enough.” He pulled the door of the records department shut behind Macon, and the security panel gave a sharp chirp. The broad staircase sloped gently before them. “Fair enough,” the doctor said again, and took the first step down in stride.
Chapter Three
Two hours later, Macon was alone in the parking lot again, as broke as before, growing hungrier by the minute, and with five hours to kill before the next bus arrived. Donner had taken him back from whence he came by land rather than air; the helicopter was low on fuel, so they’d peregrinated the back roads at a leisurely pace in a late-model silver Jaguar, once again letting Al Green and his organ do the talking for them.
Donner had shaken Macon’s hand, told him, “Until we meet again,” and pulled off, waving out the window until the car vanished down the far side of a gentle hill. As soon as it was gone, Macon spun away, cursing himself. Why the fuck hadn’t he asked Donner for a couple of bucks, a little traveling money? Would that have been so hard? But no; the thought hadn’t occurred to him until it was too late, until he stood facing the prospect of a ravenous future, a cross-country shoplifting spree—until he stood in the sweltering heat, dehydrating by the second, the only liquid in his system half a chocolate shake and three glasses of top-shelf country bourbon. Macon stalked across the lot and kicked a discarded Coke can as hard as he could, sent it rolling through the dust. Now what?
His head snapped up at the clang of the minimart’s bell, in time to see an obese woman waddle out into the sun, plastic shopping bags swinging from each fist. She climbed into the driver’s seat of a maroon SUV, and before Macon could properly contemplate jacking her for the stash of Twinkies, cigarettes, and Yoo-hoo she had no doubt just acquired, she gunned the mammoth engine and was off.
He traced her path back to the store and gave the door a cautious push, hoping to slip inside without setting off the bell. No dice: It rang, pinning the attention of the clerk on him, if only for an instant. The guy—bearded and baseball-capped, a pack of cigarettes rolled into the sleeve of his white T-shirt despite his fixed position in front of an entire wall of butts—looked up from the newspaper spread across the counter before him. Macon met his glance with a quick wave and swifted toward the snack department. The clerk responded with a two-fingered salute, unlit square in hand, then went back to his reading.
Macon exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and ambled down the bright, well-stocked aisle, out of sight. A familiar surge of frightened bravado suffused him, and memories of his days as a spray-paint thief bounced through his mind. The weight of Macon’s loneliness doubled, and he swallowed back a sudden sadness: What he wouldn’t give to see Aura’s face poke out from around the corner right now, smirking, giddy with the caper under way. Macon blinked. No time, no cause for that. Static was buzzing in his head now, the familiar vinyl-pops that herald the first notes of a favorite song. Any second, some rogue sunflower lyric was going to push itself up through the asphalt, toward the light— trick Macon into replaying the scene to the soundtrack, recalling some memory he should be trying to forget. He clenched his jaw, lifted the needle from his mental turntable, picked up the record, and smithereened it over his knee. Now. Where were the goddamn Fritos?
Burleigh the clerk closed his copy of the
Birmingham News
and passed it wordlessly to Johnnie, who was seated on an upturned milk crate to his left. They all took their lunch breaks at the Mart. It was in the middle, two miles from Johnnie’s engine shop and two-point-two from the insurance place where Anton worked. Burleigh was stuck in there alone, bored as a broke-dicked dog, and besides, the place was air-conditioned. You could read whatever you wanted, even a porno mag, provided you didn’t mess it up. And the diner next door made a damned good brisket sandwich.
Johnnie took the paper and swapped Burleigh the
USA Today
resting on the lap of his Pennzoil-stained jeans. “Wonder if my kid’s football calendar’s in here,” he mused aloud, flipping to sports.
“Believe they printed the fall schedules yesterday,” said Anton, next to him, through a mouthful of sandwich. He was curly-haired, darker than his friends and better dressed in a green tie and short-sleeved white dress shirt. “I still got it at my place. You’re welcome to it.”
Burleigh snapped open the
USA Today,
hairy forearms rippling with the slight exertion. He usually moved to sports and the advice columns pretty quick, but on principle Burleigh always looked at every page, from front to back. His daddy, during a regular half-hour breakfast before work, had been able to read every page of the
News.
“Quiz me,” he’d say, scraping up his last grits and handing his son the paper as he stood to knot his tie. Burleigh would open up to any page and give the headline, and his daddy would relate the story, adding his own comments and epithets.
Burleigh had inherited his politics that way, headed off to school each morning able to repeat his daddy’s take on things, declare a man a jackass or the best pitcher in baseball or nothing but an uppity colored boy. It was a simple fact of life that Burleigh wasn’t as smart as his old man, but he still read the papers just as thoroughly, both local and national, which in his mind was one virtue he could claim over his daddy: Burleigh was a two-paper man. He hunkered down over the counter, scanning headlines and photographs, then straightened and peered at the top of his lone customer’s head as it bobbed slowly along the fresh-mopped snack aisle. Burleigh frowned.
“Call me crazy,” he said slowly, folding the paper in half and holding Macon’s picture beside the video monitor that sat by Burleigh’s elbow. Anton and Johnnie looked up just as Macon walked onto the screen.
Anton stared back and forth. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
The three of them watched for a second longer, transfixed, as Macon scanned a shelf. Then Burleigh bolted from behind the counter, slapping Johnnie’s legs aside, high-stepping over Anton’s. He walked to the front door with a swaggering seriousness of purpose and flipped the YES WE ARE OPEN sign around, then jerked his head at his buddies in a follow-me command and started down the snack aisle.
Macon turned from his contemplation of a box of Garden Herb Triscuits to find the three men arrayed before him, Burleigh front and center with his hands on his hips and the others flanking him, a pace behind, arms crossed over their chests. The overall effect suggested early-eighties rap choreography: The three of them were arrayed in a classic Run-DMC pose. He would have smiled, but the near-audible rush of their adrenaline froze Macon where he stood.
Burleigh lifted his hat, held it aloft while he swiped a hand through his long, greasy hair.
“You who I think you are?” The beard masked the flush of his cheeks, but Burleigh’s nostrils flared.
Macon’s stare ricocheted off each of them in turn. He jammed his free hand into a pants pocket crammed with two-for-a-dollar peanut sheaths, and shrugged his innocence.
“I doubt it,” he said, trying to sound cavalier, and looked away, up at a shelf. As if ignoring them would make the bullies give up, drift away, go hassle some other infamous renegade-at-large a couple aisles down in Toiletries.
Burleigh narrowed his eyes, cracked his knuckles on the heel of his hand. Macon’s eyes jumped to him. “And who do I think you are?” More frightening than the question was the cat-and-mouse lilt to his voice, the silence all around, the over-the-shoulder smirk he threw his boys as their prey fumbled for an answer.
“I don’t know,” said Macon finally, cracking his own knuckles in unconscious mimicry. The Fritos bag in his clutch crinkled noisily.
“Well then, how do you know that you ain’t him?” Burleigh demanded, triumphant. Macon ventured a laugh, as if to say,
I get it,
good one, see you later.
He was one step into his getaway stroll when Burleigh pulled a finger like a pistol and aimed it at Macon’s chest.
“Don’t move,” he said. “Wait right here.” The clerk whirled, stalked up the aisle, and disappeared. His cohorts leaned back to let him pass, but their feet stayed planted, their arms crossed.
A twitchy smile cracked Macon’s lips. “C’mon, fellas,” he implored, “isn’t this the New South? What’s with all the
Deliverance
shit, huh?”
“Just wait,” said Johnnie patiently, palm patting down the air. Then Burleigh was back, his
USA Today
clenched in his hand. Macon saw it and his heart plunged to his bowels, ripping through his stomach during free fall. Burleigh stood before him and made a careful face-to-photograph comparison, his speckled green eyes flitting left-right-left. Macon stood motionless, unbreathing, as gray as the newspaper.
“Yup.” Burleigh nodded at last. “We got a celebrity in our midst, boys.”
“How about an autograph, Mason?” said Johnnie, leering at him.
“Macon, dumbass.” Burleigh reached over and slapped his buddy in the chest with the folded paper. “Like the capital of Georgia.”
“Helluva name for a nigger lover,” chuckled Anton. “Boy, folks in Macon must be fixing to change the town name as we speak.”
“Ex–nigger lover,” said Macon.
“Beg pardon?” asked Burleigh lightly, turning to face him by gradual degrees. “Are you suggesting that
USA Today
has misrepresented you, Macon? Did you not say, and I quote, that white folks should waste a perfectly good Friday apologizing to the various and sundry niggers of New York?”
“I’ve had a change of heart since then,” Macon answered, weak-voiced, eyes averted.
“Since Friday, Macon?” asked Burleigh knowingly, as if amused by the transparent fibbing of a favorite nephew. He stepped forward a pace, so he and Macon were nearly chest to chest, and smiled. “Or since you made my acquaintance and realized you were gonna be held accountable for your actions?”
“This ain’t New York City, boy,” piped Johnnie. “You’re in America now.”
Burleigh turned his head just far enough to wither his friend with a glare. “Johnnie, would you please shut the fuck up?” His eyes darted back to Macon. “Known him since we both was two,” he said, quiet and confidential again. “He’s been a retard since then, truth be told. Now, where were we?”
The clerk dropped his head, shook it as if to clear it, walked back a pace, then spun and looked Macon up and down. It was a sequence cribbed straight from some courtroom drama, Burleigh the prosecutor and Macon the hostile witness, Johnnie and Anton the jury to whom he played.
“Robbing white folks and giving the money to niggers.” He lofted a chuckle at the ceiling. “Whoo, boy. Have to admit I laughed when I read that, Macon. Said to myself, ‘This country’s finally gone plumb batshit insane.’ ”
Burleigh plucked the bag of Fritos from Macon’s limp hand, pulled it open, and popped a morsel in his mouth. “Maybe you came to town to educate us,” Burleigh mused. He crunched loudly, then passed the chips to Anton, behind him. “Show us the error of our ways. If so, I’m game. I sure do love to learn. Is that it, boy?”
Macon gave a tight head shake, eyes following the Frito bag.
“Well then,” continued Burleigh, “maybe you been sent here so we could educate you some. What do you think?”
Burleigh inhaled deeply through his nose, and Macon winced as he heard the phlegm pulling together at the back of the clerk’s throat. A moment later, a rank wad was sliding down Macon’s cheek, cool and hateful. His heart bucked with fear and fury, but he stood and took it, like a real civil rights pioneer. There was nothing else to do.
“I said,” Burleigh thundered, “what do you think?” He reared back and his thick hand flew at Macon’s cheek, the slap connecting with enough force to turn his head. Macon cringed and shielded himself with an arm, waiting for another blow. None came. The slap was no introductory remark, but a full statement in itself.
After a moment, Macon lowered his meager defenses and straightened, trying to disguise his fear and yet display a pointed lack of aggression. He touched his hand to the blooming redness and felt the sting, the smeared mucous. “Yes, sir,” Macon eeked out, over the surge and churn of his insides.
Burleigh unfurled his shirtsleeve and produced a pack of Marlboros. “Gentlemen?” he offered with a flourish, knowing both Anton and Johnnie had quit, then lit up, shook out the match, and resumed pacing. “The thing is this, Macon,” he began. “I ain’t without certain sympathies for the—”
A tentative rap at the door cut Burleigh off. He twisted toward it, exhaled a plume of blue smoke through his nose, and strode manfully toward the front of the store, arms forming a wide horseshoe at his sides.
“Are you closed so early?” inquired the man standing on the threshold. He was a pleasant-looking older gent, his close-trimmed Afro rimmed with silver, his eyes dry and kind.
“No, sir,” Burleigh responded gaily, plucking cigarette from lips. “Open for business. Damn kids musta flipped the sign. Come right on in.” He ushered the man inside and relocked the door behind him.
The customer nodded his thanks and walked toward the refrigerators lining the back wall, his gait stiff with travel or with age. Anton and Johnnie turned wide-eyed to look at him, and as they parted the old man saw Macon standing between them, cheek red and raw from Burleigh’s slap and distress blaring from his face.
The interloper gasped, and vivid fear raced down his spine. “Good Lord! What’s going on here?”
Burleigh was right behind him. “That’s a damn good question, mister,” he said, jolly as all hell. He grabbed the man by the back of his neck and shook him at Macon like a rag doll.
“Look who dropped in, Macon. It’s your ace boon coon from the ol’ melon patch.” He pulled the guy close, shoulder to shoulder, still squeezing his neck. “My name’s Burleigh, stranger. What’s yours?”
“L-Leo,” he stammered.
“Well, all right then, Leonardo. I got a question for you. If I may.” Leo’s whole body was shaking. “You ever done anything for this man here?” He walked Leo toward Macon, tightening his grip on his captive’s neck. “You saved his life, lent him some money, tap-danced for him?”
Leo shook his head ecstatically. “No, sir. I never even seen him before.” His voice was older than he looked. Sixty, perhaps.