The Lightning Rule (16 page)

By the time Emmett returned home, Mrs. Poole had tidied the living room and swept the floor. Everything was back where it belonged. Clean as it was, he couldn’t scrub the mess Caligrassi’s men had left from his memory. It was as if the curtain had closed on a play and reopened to a set change. The stage was the same, and the anger was still there.

“Check this out, Marty.” Edward was awake and holding a compress to his injured eye. He pointed at the TV with a lit cigarette. “The riot’s all over the news.”

On the screen, footage depicting masses of people outside the Fourth Precinct hurling bottles and stones was intercut with figures streaking past pillaged stores. Whirling police lights created a strobe effect on the film. Mrs. Poole came in from the kitchen during the reel of a flower shop being consumed by flames.

“Mercy me. I been to that store. They had such pretty flowers. Now look at the place.”

“The state police and National Guard have been called in,” Emmett informed them. “I saw troopers at the station.”

“Staties and the Guard, huh?” Like Emmett, Edward was dubious that the military presence was a move in the right direction. “Well, it’ll
take awhile for the Guard to get to full capacity. Reservists’ll have to be called up from throughout the state.”

“Puts me at ease to hear they’re coming.”

Edward didn’t share Mrs. Poole’s optimism, and Emmett hadn’t been at ease since leaving the precinct, far from it.

“Is Freddie still in bed?”

“Uh-huh.” Edward peeled off the compress. His eyelid was mottled in colors flesh shouldn’t be.

Mrs. Poole took the washcloth from him. “I’ll run this under cold water again. Should help the swelling.”

While she was gone, Edward said, “I’d be asleep myself, no thanks to you, Marty.”

“You needed the rest for today.”

“What’s today?”

“I don’t know yet. That’s the problem.”

Emmett put on the police band radio to get an update. The transmissions mainly concerned burglaries and vandalism and requests for officers to take dispositions. The cops calling in weren’t wracked with panic as they had been the night before. By then, they were tired and tense. Outrage had displaced fright.

“The shopkeepers must be arriving at their stores.”

“They’re in for a hell of a shock,” Edward scoffed.

Mrs. Poole reappeared with a fresh compress and a cup of coffee for Emmett. “Feels like it’s gonna be hotter today than yesterday, don’t it?”

As she spoke, the police frequency unexpectedly went mute.

“Something I said?”

“Did the radio break?” Emmett twisted the volume knob and played with the tuner.

“Let me see that.” Edward waved for Emmett to bring his creation to him. He inspected the moving parts. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”

The dispatcher came back on the air, clearing his throat as a preamble to the announcement. “The governor has issued an emergency proclamation under the National Defense Act of New Jersey. According to the regulations of the proclamation, all vehicular traffic in Newark will be prohibited between the hours of ten p.m. and six a.m., excluding
authorized vehicles and traffic using the major highways. The proclamation also imposes a curfew from eleven p.m. to six a.m., during which the sale of alcohol is banned. The ban extends to the possession of alcohol as well as narcotics, firearms, or explosives. This emergency proclamation will be in effect until further notice.”

The dispatcher’s mechanical cadence made the message more surreal. His disembodied voice stopped as abruptly as it had started, followed by dead air that was filled by the reporter on the television relaying details of a bombing in Vietnam.

Edward exhaled a stream of smoke through his nose. “They’re turning the city into a demilitarized zone.”

“That sort of thing doesn’t happen here in America,” Mrs. Poole said. “Not here.”

“As of today, apparently it does,” Edward railed. “They’re locking down Newark. None of us are going anywhere. Or should I say almost none of us.” He glared at Emmett.

“Mrs. Poole, would you be so kind as to get me a refill?”

She got the hint, took his cup, and retreated to the kitchen.

“Gonna leave a cripple to keep the home fires burning and ‘stand guard’?” Edward slapped his feelingless knees to underscore the pun.

“What choice do I have?”

“Marty, you have choices. But you can’t stand the idea of making a decision and having it come out wrong. You can’t always be right. Not always.”

“I’m not.” A nod at his brother’s bruises was Emmett’s proof.

Their argument ended in a draw. Edward ceremoniously squashed out his cigarette while Emmett went and got the telephone directory. He needed to talk to Tyrone Cambell’s family. Their residence was listed on the police report as Prince Street, putting it in the Stella Wright projects. Emmett wanted to hedge his bets and call ahead. He dialed the number. It rang and rang.

“Whoever it is, Marty, they ain’t home. Hell, I wish I wasn’t home.”

Emmett hung up. He considered the fact that his own phone number and address were unlisted. The lieutenant claimed not to have given the information to Sal Lucaro. For a change, Emmett had believed Ah
ern. As he closed the phone book, Emmett realized how Lucaro had found him.

“I have your coffee, Mr. Emmett.” Mrs. Poole was peeking into the living room to see if the skirmish was settled.

He ignored her, hurrying from window to window, lowering the shades to the sills.

“What’s the fuss?”

“Those men from yesterday were watching the house. They probably tailed me from the precinct. Last night, they couldn’t find Freddie at his mother’s place.”

Edward finished the thought. “So they’ll come here again, hoping you’ll lead them to him.”

Mrs. Poole was unconsciously backing away from the windows. “They’re outside? Now?”

“Only one way to be sure.”

“Mr. Emmett, don’t,” she begged.

Edward agreed. “You can’t just go take a stroll, Marty. They’ll figure you’re onto them. Today’s newspaper should be on the stoop. When you get it, you can check.”

“That’s an idea,” Emmett conceded.

“I’m full of ’em.”

“You’re full of something.”

“Do you hear the mouth on him Mrs. Poole? Would you believe he was gonna be a priest?”

She registered the remark but said nothing. She seemed to be biting her tongue, which Emmett appreciated. This was hardly the ideal occasion for him to unfurl the indiscretions of his past. Emmett opened the front door.

“Act natural,” Edward coached.

“Thanks. That’s real helpful.”

The early morning mugginess had clotted into a solid wall of heat. He bent to retrieve the paper from the top step. The headline was facing skyward: “New Violence in Newark.” A picture displayed a trash can embedded in the window of a police car. Below it was a larger photograph of Lyndon Johnson sitting on a sofa beside General Westmoreland, looking
chummy. The words “LBJ to Ask for Tax Hike” hovered above the president like a banner. The war was halfway around the world and it got better coverage than the riot brewing right under the city’s feet.

Pretending to read the front page, Emmett surreptitiously surveyed the cars parked on his street. A crystal blue Oldsmobile Delta 88 was snuggled into the curb midway down the block. The model and color stood out among the family sedans. The coupe was too showy to be Lucaro’s. It was likely the property of his stubby sidekick. Glare from the sun prevented Emmett from seeing if anyone was behind the wheel.

“Well?” Mrs. Poole asked, when he came back inside.

“Were they there?” Edward’s voice took on an edge.

Emmett tossed him the newspaper. “I’m not positive, but I’m pretty sure it’s them.”

“I thought you said gangsters didn’t wake up this early, Mr. Emmett.”

“I guess I was wrong about that.” He directed the admission to her and to Edward, who met his eyes for an instant, then dug into the newspaper. “I understand you’re frightened, Mrs. Poole. I’ll take you home.”

She nodded, relieved, and went upstairs to collect her purse.

“So you know, I have to go check on something after I drop her off.”

“You gonna be gone for long?”

“As long as it takes.”

“Great. More babysitting. What do I do when the kid wakes up? Play Parcheesi with him?”

“Whatever. Just keep him here.”

“He could waltz right out the front door. What would I do? Chase him?”

“You’re the one with the gun.”

“I’m not going to point a loaded weapon at a sixteen-year-old.”

“Take the bullets out. He won’t know the difference. But if you do, remember to put them back in.”

“Get this,” Edward said and began to read aloud, holding the newsprint to his good eye. “‘Negro looters smashed into the heart of Newark’s shopping district early today. They turned an entire mile of Springfield Avenue into a shambles and laid siege to the same police station that was
attacked Wednesday. The gangs of Negroes—mostly teenagers—looted stores, beat elderly whites, pelted police cars with stones, and ran amok in a wide area.’ Sheesh. Why can’t those mob hoods go after some of these teenagers?”

“I’ll bring them the paper. Ask if they’ll put them next on the list.”

“They’ll follow you to Mrs. Poole’s house, you know. Might think she’s involved.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“Gonna try and shake ’em?”

“If I can.”

“If not?”

Emmett shrugged.

“That’s reassuring. Maybe I should give you the twenty-two back.”

Mrs. Poole came down the stairs.

“Ready?” Emmett asked. “Where’s your pocketbook?”

“I’ll have to take a rain check on that ride home.”

“Really? Why?”

“If I leave, he’s alone.” She put her hand on Edward’s shoulder. “I go home, I’m alone. Seems silly. Anyhow, I never missed a day’s work in my life and I am most certainly not going to start today.”

Emmett admired her conviction. Maybe some of it would rub off on him. Because he was the one who was going to be alone.

Barricades had been erected at every major intersection, funneling streams of cars to a standstill on Broad Street, including Emmett’s. Cones and sawhorses marked the roadblock, which was being regulated by a pair of state troopers. One would question drivers while the second stood guard with a Reising Model 50 submachine gun at the ready. Emmett was in the middle of the line. The blue Oldsmobile was three cars behind him. In his rearview mirror, the figure of a lone driver was outlined by the sunlight.

Emmett slid the police band radio under the seat and waited. The traffic light ticked through green, amber, and red countless times, but the line barely moved. When an army green personnel truck pulled up, the trooper motioned for the cars to hold their positions so it could pass the blockade. Through the truck’s rear flap, Emmett saw a dozen National Guardsman in fatigues, M-1 rifles sandwiched between their knees. The truck drove on and the line resumed.

“Unless you have real important business in this section of town, sir, you oughta go home,” the trooper recommended when it came Emmett’s turn. He was in his midtwenties and his accent said he was from southern Jersey. Sweat was purling down his sideburns.

“It’s pretty important.” Emmett produced his badge.

“Oh, sorry, Detective. You’re the first person to come by who ain’t been colored. You going to the Fourth?”

His answer was noncommittal. “I’m headed in that direction.”

“Sure could use as many hands as we can get. You see that Guard truck go by? Driver told me there’s already six personnel carriers at the armory and nine battalions en route. Plus there’s five hundred of us troopers. Sounds like a lot. Sure doesn’t feel like it.”

Nine battalions tallied out to be about four thousand Guardsmen. Added to that were the hundreds of troopers and the city’s fourteen hundred cops. It was a formidable force on paper and a drop in the bucket against the Central Ward.

“You and your pal had any trouble?” Emmett pointed at the trooper with the machine gun.

“Not so far. We’re taking turns. I do the work. He gets to stand in the shade.”

The other state trooper donned mirrored sunglasses and was holding the Reising on his hip, aloof.

“You’ll get your turn in the shade,” Emmett said.

“From your mouth to God’s ears.” The trooper patted the hood of Emmett’s car. “Gook luck, Detective. You’re gonna need it.”

If Emmett was the first white face the trooper had seen, whoever was driving the Delta would have to concoct a decent cover story to get through the barricade. Saying he lived in the neighborhood wasn’t going to fly. That would buy Emmett a little time.

By taking side streets, he managed to avoid any more roadblocks. He had lost the Olds but didn’t doubt that the driver would comb the area for his car. It was what he would have done.

Emmett dug through the glove compartment, his ersatz file drawer, and confirmed Tyrone Cambell’s address, then parked on Prince Street, a short distance from the Fourth Precinct. Considering the location, whoever was tailing him might hesitate to make a scene.

Cambell’s last known residence was in the Stella Wright Housing Projects, a minimetropolis of seven thirteen-story tenements, identical as a daisy chain. The address was an apartment on the fourth floor of a building that overlooked the street. Emmett had been there before
when he busted a guy for selling stolen stereos off the roof. If a stereo was too heavy for the buyer, the guy would put the equipment in a laundry basket and lower it with a rope over the side to the ground. Emmett hadn’t been back to Stella Wright since then. He imagined that the guy had taken his business elsewhere and was hawking stereos off some other rooftop.

As he walked the tenement’s halls, Emmett experienced the same uneasiness he had when he was at Hayes Home, suspecting trouble around every corner. He knocked on the Cambell’s apartment door repeatedly. Like the call he had placed earlier, nobody answered.

“They gone,” a teenage girl said from a neighboring doorway. She had curlers in her hair and an infant cradled in the crook of her arm. The baby was clothed only in a diaper.

“The Cambells? Where did they go?”

“Dunno. South, maybe. Where they kin from.”

“Do you happen to have any idea how I could get in contact with the family?”

“Nope. You could talk to they uncle, though. He hangs at that bar Franklin’s on Howard.”

Franklin’s Lounge was infamous for being a gay bar. Foot patrolmen dreaded being assigned to that beat during the evening shift. Fights were as common at Franklin’s as they were at Woody’s. Only these brawls usually involved women, big ones who would belt an officer for acting as referee, and the scuffles drew a cavalcade of onlookers from inside the bar who would cheer and clap, rooting the women on. Many a patrolman had earned the ridicule of their fellow shift mates for making the blunder of getting in between some of “Franklin’s girls.”

“What’s this uncle’s name?”

“Uncle Papa. ’At’s all I heard him called by.” The girl cuddled the baby to her. “Come on, darlin’,” she cooed. “Mama’s got to feed you. Yes, yes, she does.”

“Thanks,” Emmett said. The girl had shut the door.

He left his car for the guy in the Oldsmobile Delta to hunt for and walked to Franklin’s, two blocks away. The neighborhood was uncommonly quiet, yet people were perched at their windows, monitoring
every occurrence. Emmett sensed eyes on him as he went into the lounge.

A jukebox was blaring and colored Christmas lights blinked over the bar. Paper lanterns were swagged from the ceiling. At Franklin’s, it was a party every day of the year. Liquor sloshed on the bar as patrons clamored for drinks, getting their fill before the ban on selling alcohol set in at six that evening. It was as though Prohibition was about to be reinstated.

Emmett had to wade through the crowd to get to the bar. “You want a drink, suga, you gon’ have to wait,” the bartender informed him. The man’s pale brown skin was rouged, his shoulder-length hair twirled into ringlets.

“I’m not here for a drink. I’m looking for Uncle Papa.” Emmett felt awkward uttering the name.

“Business or pleasure?” the bartender inquired, putting a feminine arch in his spine.

“Business.”

“Figures. That old queen is holding court in her favorite booth. Be a doll and tell her to pay her tab, will ya?” The bartender wiggled his fingers in the general direction of the booth and continued pouring drinks.

“Hey. Watch it,” a black woman with closely shorn hair growled. Emmett had accidentally stepped on her foot while weaving through the bodies jammed at the bar.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“You should be.” She popped a tin of Dixie Peach pomade from her pocket and smoothed her coif, as if the incident had considerably mussed her style.

Emmett was out of his element, and the farther back in the bar he went, the more he felt like a gate-crasher. There in the last booth, an older black man in a silky indigo tunic was presiding over a small audience of fey men. Bracelets jangled from both of his wrists as he spoke. He was telling a story and gesticulating with his slender hands as though conducting an imaginary orchestra.

“Pardon me,” Emmett said. “I hate to interrupt, but are you, um, Uncle Papa?”

“Why, yes I am, and you, my dear, could interrupt me any day.” Uncle Papa’s southern lilt spun the sentence into a purr. His companions giggled at the innuendo.

“I need to talk to you, sir. Privately, if possible. It’s important.”

“I prefer privacy myself.” He shooed the men from the booth, and Emmett sat opposite him. “To what do I owe the honor, Mister….” Uncle Papa held out his hand limply, anticipating a handshake and a name.

“Detective. Emmett.”

“Quite a grip you’ve got, Detective. Can I interest you in a cocktail?”

“No, no thanks. By the way, the bartender wants you to close your tab.”

“Oh please. She says that every single day, the whiny cow. Works my last nerve,” he moaned, chewing the olive from his martini. “So, pray tell, what brings an officer of the law into an establishment such as this?”

“I’m here to discuss Tyrone Cambell. I understand you’re a relative.”

That sapped the flirty glimmer from Uncle Papa’s eyes. “I’m Tyrone’s uncle.”

“His real uncle?”

“Yes, his real uncle. People been callin’ me ‘Uncle Papa’ since before my sisters had their kids.”

“Why?” Emmett was curious.

“’Cause I be kind, like the uncle you wished you had, and take care ’a folks better than they daddy did.” Seconds earlier, he would have played up the veiled sexuality. Now he was defending the origin of his nickname.

“How close were you to Tyrone?”

“Ain’t right to say you got a favorite when you have as many nieces and nephews as me. Sixteen,” he said, fanning himself, as if the sheer number raised the temperature in the room. “Some ’a them be bad too. Uncle Papa is not much for whoopins—had too many myself and see
what it done—but I’d take a switch to most of ’em faster than you could say ‘Hallelujah.’ Not Tyrone, though. That boy had sense. Didn’t cuss. Minded his mama. And he didn’t shy away from me for what I was neither. He was grown. He understood. Didn’t matter to him. He even gave me a birthday present once. A wooden plaque with hooks for hanging keys. Ty made it in shop class. Me, I don’t have but one key. I didn’t care. I hung that key rack on my wall like it was the
Mona Lisa.
” Uncle Papa had stopped conducting with his hands and folded them on the table. There was no music in his story, only sadness.

“Can you account for Tyrone’s whereabouts the day he went missing.”

“All’s I heard tell was that Ty had gone to the corner store for a soda pop on a Friday night and never did come back. Simple as that.”

Emmett’s expectations deflated. The deeper he dug, the further down the hole he wound up. Tyrone Cambell had evaporated from the face of the earth like the others.

“I say something wrong, Detective?”

“No, no, you’ve been very helpful.”

“Why you asking about Tyrone anyhow?”

“His murder is unsolved.”

“You solvin’ it?”

“I’m doing what I can.”

“Shouldn’t you be out beatin’ on brothers with the rest ’a the police?” Uncle Papa quipped, batting his eyes coquettishly. “Or are you playin’ hooky?”

“Yeah, I thought it’d be safe to hide in here.”

“You feel safe with a bunch ’a queers?”

By the standards of the Catholic faith, everyone in Franklin’s Lounge was a patent sinner, irrevocably damned if they did not repent. Emmett had spent the better part of his life repenting, and he wasn’t convinced God was listening.
Be grateful for your sins, they are carriers of grace.
The Jesuit prayer was a fateful reminder that from ill deeds sprang goodness. If that was true, then after the riot, there would be plenty of grace to go around.

“I’m not in the habit of casting stones,” Emmett replied.

Uncle Papa sipped his drink, bangles clanking. “No? Isn’t that part of your job, deciding who the bad guys are?”

“The manual I read said ‘protect and serve.’”

“You been outside lately, Detective?” All of the wit and cheer had been wrung from his face. Uncle Papa was speaking to Emmett man to man. “By the looks of it, you’re the only one who read that.”