Dominion (107 page)

By now the boy was sobbing, and he couldn’t get out a full sentence. He kept saying, “I’m sorry”, and “I just got lost.” Rock came to an old bedspring propped up on its side. He tucked the boys hands into the big coils, and then tucked his feet in too. The boy couldn’t pull out his hands without cutting them. His eyes were full of fear.

Rock punched him in the groin like he’d seen in some movie. When the boy cried harder, Shorty got in on it, taking a swing at his face. Clarence felt as though he was going to throw up. He saw his friends looking at him. It was his turn. Suddenly he did something he would rehearse every day for the rest of his life. He jumped up a little and kicked the boy in the stomach. A karate kick, like on TV. Then he jumped and kicked him again. He yelled obscenities at him, any one of which his daddy would have whipped him for and washed out his mouth with a bar of soap.

But Daddy wasn’t there. No one was watching. Just he and his friends. Clarence kicked the boy first because he was probably a rich kid, although his bike wasn’t very fancy and his clothes looked kind of poor. He kicked him because he was probably a nigger-hater, although he hadn’t called them any names. He kicked him again just because he was white. And that much was undeniable. He kicked him again because they wouldn’t let his daddy play in the majors. Again, because his favorite aunt had died after she’d been turned away from a white hospital in Mississippi. Another kick because he had to live in the poor part of town while this boy probably lived in a big mansion with colored house help. He kicked him again even harder, because of those Mississippi white boys who pummeled him and Dani with the broken beer bottles, leaving scars on both of them. He kicked him again because the Mississippi cops tortured his daddy. He kicked him again because his mama cried when they wouldn’t let her family into the restaurant. And again and again and again for a hundred other reasons, running out of kicks long before he ran out of reasons.

Clarence didn’t know how many times he kicked the boy, but he heard Shorty and Rock calling his name. “Clarence! Stop it, man. He’s out. He’s out. Okay?” It was Shorty, looking scared, glancing every which way and saying, “Let’s get out of here.”

Rock and Shorty took off. Clarence was left alone, collapsed now from exhaustion and dizziness. He looked at the boy just hanging there limp, a red spot in his side growing bigger and bigger on his stained white T-shirt. He looked like a religious icon, as if he’d been crucified. The longer Clarence looked at him, the more he saw just a boy. Clarence started crying. He gently touched the boy’s face.

“Come on, white boy. Wake up, now. We was just scarin’ you, that’s all.”

He carefully removed the boy’s hands from their bedspring prison, cutting them a little as he pulled them out. It bothered him about the cuts. The boy was dead weight. Clarence lowered him to the ground, clearing away junk so he could lie flat. He bent over the still body. He thought he saw the boy barely breathing, or maybe it was just the wind rustling his T-shirt. It scared him worse than anything had ever scared him. The boy lay beside an old refrigerator, butted up against the bedspring.

Suddenly Clarence stuck his head in the refrigerator and vomited. He looked every direction. He took off running and didn’t stop until he came to his house. He knew he should tell someone, get help for the boy, but he was afraid of what they’d do to him, maybe put him in jail for the rest of his life.

To this day he didn’t know who the boy was and whether he’d lived or died. For the last thirty years, he’d relived those memories while taking a bike ride or seeing a bedspring or opening a refrigerator. Frequently the boy came to him at night when there was nothing to keep him away.

Clarence had always been taught God could forgive everything anybody ever did. All his life, he’d believed this was true for every sin he could think of. Every sin except one.

A man’s skin color is no more a predictor of his character than is his height, his blood type, or his cholesterol level. Racists exist in every group in America. Some whites who pride themselves on not being prejudiced against blacks can’t stand Hispanics. Some blacks who pride themselves on not being prejudiced against whites can’t stand Asians. So it goes. Prejudices aren’t a function of skin color but of small minds among men of all colors.

Clarence’s telephone rang at the
Trib
, answered by the machine. “Mr. Abernathy? This is Ranae Maddox, assistant district attorney.”

Clarence picked up the phone immediately.

“Yes, Mr. Abernathy, I just wanted to inform you that I followed up on the affidavit filed by Floyd Kost. I interviewed him personally, and even though he’s a bit quirky, I’m convinced he’s telling the truth. Based on that, and on the fact that our case hinged primarily on Gracie Miller, our office is dropping all charges against you.”

“You mean,” Clarence spoke the words slowly, “I won’t have to go to court?”

“No, you won’t. And we’re sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused you.”

Inconvenience? Try humiliation.

Clarence called Geneva, just getting out the news before he choked up.

“I’m so happy, baby,” Geneva said. “Let’s go out with Janet and Jake tonight and celebrate!”

“That sounds great,” Clarence said. “And thanks again for…standing by me.”

“I’d never consider doing anything else. I think there was something about that in our wedding vows, wasn’t there? I love you, baby. Get home early as you can, okay?”

Clarence felt deeply thankful for the news and for Geneva. But it’d been so long since he’d thanked God for anything, he felt as if he’d forgotten how.

Clarence went to Dan Ferrent’s desk, taking with him the names and numbers of Ranae Maddox, Floyd Kost, and Ollie Chandler. He wanted to make sure Ferrent wrote a follow-up story on him being exonerated. Even so, he knew many people would never read the follow-up and some who did wouldn’t believe his alibi. They’d always believe he’d gotten away with something.

The reputation he’d worked so hard to build was no longer under attack. Yet it would never be fully restored. Like the tide coming in and out, his emotions vacillated between relief and resentment.

Clarence walked the sidewalk, bundled up heavily. All the shops were decorated for Christmas, and holiday music permeated the city. He entered the Justice Center, realizing for the first time in his life he no longer felt nervous being in a building filled with cops.

“You really think the killers would leave graffiti behind Taco Bell?” Clarence asked Ollie. “Wouldn’t that be incredibly stupid?”

“To us, maybe,” Ollie said. “But the key to solving crimes is to stop thinking like yourself and start thinking like the perps. Put yourself in their place. Assume they’re from a heavy gang area in California, where graffiti is everywhere. It gets crossed out and painted over all the time. They rarely get caught, and even when they are, they never get more than a hand slap. You always keep spray paints in the car. Tagging becomes a habit, like spitting on the sidewalk. A guy does it long enough, he does it without thinking. Taco Bell’s a mile from what’s going to be the crime scene. They figure nobody’d recognize their tag up here. And even if they did, so what? Where’s the link between a Taco Bell wall and a shooting a mile away? What’s the risk?”

“More than they realized, obviously,” Clarence said.

“These guys don’t think about tomorrow,” Ollie said. “They think about the moment. They’re killing a few hours by a Taco Bell dumpster in a strange city, waiting for witnesses to get off the streets and the intended victim to be in her bedroom. They can’t do drugs, because they want to be sure they’re sharp for the hit. They get bored, real bored and jittery. So one of them pops the trunk, takes out a spray can, and lays a little tag on the wall. Why not?”

“So what can you do with Picasso’s translation?” Clarence asked.

“I’ve linked in with the L.A. gang cops and their network. I’ve asked for any info they’ve got on a Nine Deuce Hoover named Spider. They’ll come up with something.”

“But a Nine Deuce? Didn’t you say the HK53 was taken from the cop by Five Nine Hoovers?”

“I figure the Five Nines thought the cops would put the pressure on them, look for any excuse to search their cribs, even their safe houses. In fact, one of the L.A. cops told me that’s exactly what they did. Never found the HK. My guess is whoever nabbed it originally either sold it or traded it for drugs or weapons. And who would they deal with? An ally. The Hoover sets are confederates. A lot of Five Nines and Nine Deuces are going to know each other.”

Ollie’s phone rang. He answered, “Ho Ho Ho…Homicide. Ollie.” Clarence rolled his eyes.

“Oh, hello lieutenant,” Ollie said, feet suddenly shifting as though he needed to go to the restroom. “Yes, sir. I agree, sir. No, it certainly wasn’t appropriate. I’ll get the word out to the guys. Yes, public image is important, sir. We have to keep that in mind. No, not a laughing matter. I should say not, sir. Yes, sir, I’ll take care of that for you. Merry Christmas.” He put down the phone.

“How do they put up with you?” Clarence asked.

“I don’t know,” Ollie said. “Sometimes I can hardly put up with myself. But then I take a good look in the mirror and remember what an amazingly handsome fellow I am.”

“I have a suggestion, Ollie.”

“What’s that?”

“Get a new mirror.”

He had no name here. No new name, not even the old names. Not Raymond Taylor. Certainly not Gangster Cool. There was nothing to distinguish him from anyone else. In fact, there was no one else at all. He felt like an isolated piece of litter blown helter-skelter on the fringes of a dump. His existence was arbitrary and pointless now. The rep he’d worked so hard for meant nothing here. It was no longer a reward, but a punishment.

“Where is everyone?” He heard the loneliness in his voice, and it frightened him. Where were his homeboys who’d died—Buzzard and Stick Man and Li’l Capone and the rest? He knew they must be here, but where? What about his brother and cousin and grandma? They too had left the old world, but he knew instinctively they were not in this one. They’d chosen a different path while in the land of choice and opportunity. He would never see any of them again.

I’ll never be able to touch Mama, he thought, locked behind the invisible bars of eternity, serving an eternal life sentence. He could see occasional images, catch fleeting glimpses across the divide to the old world. He could see his mama’s tears, her grief, but also her faith in God. Seeing it did not comfort him.

Segregation ruled here. Not just segregation of the races, but each man eternally segregated from all others. Isolation. Loneliness. Parched and barren souls living alone, separate, unable to communicate with each other.

“What have I done?” Raymond clenched his teeth, hurting the inside of his mouth. He waited for the taste of blood. There was none. He was a bloodless man, able to feel pain but not able to destroy the body he’d be trapped in forever.

There was no family here, no gang, no hood, no turf. Only unending nothingness. Uninterrupted boredom. The tedium crushed him already, though he’d been here only a short time. What would a million years of tedium do to him?

At first he tried to rehearse his deeds that earned him his rep, his Original Gangster status. He now saw them for what they were—pathetic self-indulgent attempts to get recognition. No one was here to listen. Even if they had been, they wouldn’t be impressed, only absorbed in their own self-centered misery. The things he’d done and boasted of he was now being punished for. He had planted on earth. He was reaping the harvest here.

“What’s that?” Raymond cried out, cowering in fear at a horrid sight. He caught just a glimpse of a face, a terrifying face. Somehow he knew that in another place that same face brought endless delight, for it smiled with approval on its inhabitants. But here it brought unmitigated terror. He who by his presence made heaven heaven, by his absence made hell hell. And yet, somehow he must not be entirely absent, for his untempered holiness was the burning fire, his attributes the sulfuric air that caused Raymond to choke. In a moment of insight, he realized the Holy One had actually been here once, been here for him so he would not have to be here. Yet here he was.

He saw the haunting image of the Terrible One, and caught a glimpse of ugly scars on his hands and feet. They repulsed him. The thought of touching those hands or being touched by them appalled him.

He remembered Pastor Henley’s assurances in Los Angeles that everyone was good by nature, that people were not responsible for the bad things they did, that the fire and brimstone message of the Bible literalists was not from God, not Christlike. “God is love, and therefore there is no hell,” the pastor had said. “You and I would not send people to hell, and God is surely more merciful than we.” The words had sounded so reassuring. But it was all a lie, Raymond realized with startling clarity.

He cried out for the rocks to fall upon him, to obliterate him. But there were no rocks here. There was nothing here. Nothing familiar. Nothing comforting. Nothing at all.

Here there was no opportunity to kill, no opportunity to die, no one to dare or boast to, no one to jive or hustle or con or steal from, no one to seduce, no one to tell stories to, no loved one to embrace. He no longer had dominion. Perhaps he’d never had it, perhaps his sense of control over turf had been an illusion all along. Perhaps true dominion belonged only to one, the Terrible One with the monstrous scars.

His mother had warned him. She’d told him about Jesus. He’d never really rejected him, not in words anyway. When his life was in danger, he’d even prayed to God. But he’d never followed through on his vows made in moments of crisis, never accepted God’s one and only provision for his rescue.

There was no color here, no texture, no richness, no variety. The utter isolation meant there could be no culture here. Hell was not multi-cultural. It was non-cultural.

Across the far reaches of this nothingness, others he’d known on earth now existed as shriveled souls, husks of humanity. On one of these desert islands of misery, a pathetic nameless man once known as Pastor Henley engaged in an unceasing litany of telling God that hell was a violation of his love, that he had been a man of God, that he had preached a message of love and acceptance, and God had no right to keep him here.