Streets of Fire

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.