Dominion (63 page)

“Nah,” Ellis said. “Heard all that stuff when we was kids. Didn’t do me much good, did it?”

“Maybe you didn’t apply it. It’s not enough to hear it, you know.”

“That’s for sure, bro, that’s for sure. But I been talkin’ with some of the brothas, Nation of Islam, you know? Harley told me to look for ’em, said they’re in every prison, even in Oregon. He’s right. These guys are clean. Tough. And they don’t take no crud. They tell it like it is. Talk about bein’ black and proud, not lettin’ whitey push us around. Massa, that’s what they call these white prison guards totin’ around their shotguns.”

Ellis went off on a familiar litany, a scenario in which he was just a political prisoner rather than a hood who robbed a store, nearly killed a man, and wasted who knows how many kids through drugs.

You sold the dope, you robbed the store, you pulled the trigger, you stabbed the guy in the pen. White man didn’t do that. It was you.

“Malcolm was a prisoner, just like I am. And he made something of his life. Maybe I can too.”

Clarence thought about Malcolm X. Well, his faith in Allah and the moral standards of Islam had certainly redirected his life. But Clarence reflected on the power of the cross to not just change you from the outside in, but the inside out. He wanted that for his brother. Yet he felt guilty that these days he seemed to be drawing on it so little himself.

Clarence looked in his brother’s eyes and saw the pain, the vacancy, the regrets, the hopelessness. He’d heard of prisons where they learned skills, where they could work their time off, subtract days from their sentences through hard work and restitution, get ready for the outside world. As far as he knew, Ellis had experienced none of that here. The state pen was a place to sit and stare and do nothing but think of yourself and loathe yourself and others and learn criminal skills to bring back to the outside world and hustle and hang with gangsters and look at pornography and watch shoot ’em up videos and pump iron to get ready to fight the pigs when you got out and be angry and lonely and think about knifing somebody or cutting your own wrists to get out of this hell.

“Ellis, Tyrone’s been hanging with some gangbangers. He’s been doin’ some dope. Anything you want to say to him?”

Ellis looked at Ty long and hard, his face first soft, then stern. “How old you now, Ty?”

“Fourteen.”

“Two years younger than I was when I got started. All I can tell you is, get clean while you can. I told myself I was gonna get clean, but I never did. You can be somebody. I got a stack of letters in my cell, letters from yo’ mama. She used to brag about your grades, what a good boy you was. Don’t throw it away. That’s what I did. And now look at me. I haven’t been out there since before you was born, six years before. Life here is hell. No privacy, always noisy, always television and radio. Threats and fights and hits. Guys drop their soap in the shower and they don’t dare bend to pick it up. It’s no life. Whatever you do, little bro, stop now.”

Even as he said it, Ellis saw in Ty’s eyes what fifteen years ago he’d seen in all the eyes around him, including those that looked back from the mirror. But he was determined to get through anyway.

“They talk big time, like ‘three hots and a cot man, that ain’t so bad.’ But you get in here and they forget about you, just like I forgot about my buddies in jail, my stickman Big Freeze and my homie Trig. The letters come at first—you get a few visits from yo’ girlfriend till she finds someone who can touch her. But except for Daddy and Clarence and Harley and yo’ mama, nobody stay in touch. I had a big rep, means nothin’ here. You mess up bad and get the double digits, you lose hope, boy, you lose hope. You do time alone, nobody there to help you. You think they yo’ friends, but they ghost on you. You get in trouble inside, they put you in solitary. I went three weeks not seein’ a human face. They take the staples out of magazines so you can’t use them as weapons. Every few years you dress up like a choirboy, spit shine and lotion yourself down, button yo’ top button, and try to convince that parole board you’re ready for the outside. And then you watch ’em look at the papers, the fights you’ve had and the drugs you’ve traded for and the time you popped a guard, and they close those folders, and you know they ain’t gonna forgive your sins, no way. Nobody gonna give you another chance.”

He stared straight through Ty, as if trying to find in him the one thing he might successfully hook on to. “When you see the sunshine out there, havin’ to stay in here, it’s like sittin’ on the electric chair at low voltage, dyin’ a little every day. I see the red in yo’ eyes, boy. I know you been doin’ the coke. Not too long though, huh? You not a cluckhead yet, but you be headed there. You listen to me, little bro, hear me now?”

“Yeah, I hear you, Uncle Ellis.”

“You tell da brothas in da hood, I’d rather be the geekiest guy on the street than the coolest sucker in prison. I’d rather be fryin’ the Big Macs any day than heatin’ up the cocaine, ’cause that’s what gets you here. Some folks say at least the black man rules in prison. Well, he don’t. No way. We don’t hold the keys. We don’t carry the guns. We don’t set the rules. It’s all a lie. You know how long it’s been since I seen the sky, boy? You know what it’s like to never see the stars for twenty years? You know what it’s like to live in a world without women? Ain’t natural. No mamas, no aunts, no sisters, no girlfriends, no wives. Most the guys here dealt drugs and robbed stores to impress the babes. Well, there’s no babes here. And guys start losin’ their manhood, and if you do, they’ll break you down, they’ll flip you sure as—”

Clarence shot Ellis a don’t-get-into-the-details look.

“Well, anyways, little bro, it ain’t normal. It ain’t a good scene.” He hesitated. “Make yo’ mama proud of you, boy. Make me proud of you.” The tears flowed freely now down the rough leather-brown face. “Don’t end up here spendin’ every day like I do, wishin’ I would have made
my
mama proud.”

The guard put his hand on Ellis’s shoulder and said “Time’s up.” Before Ellis stood up, he said to Clarence, “See you, bro.” He put his hand back on the thick glass, and Clarence matched it, wishing he could touch his brother’s skin, even for a moment.

Ellis looked at Ty one last time. “Stay outta dat chalk circle, little bro. ’cause if you run wid the bangers, chalk circle or this place i
s
all you gots to look forward to.”

“Sure do wish Tyrone and Jonah was comin’ with us to the ball game,” Obadiah said to Clarence as they packed the car Saturday morning.

“Ty wasn’t interested. And Jonah’s in soccer all day. Maybe next time.”

They drove to Ollie’s, where two passengers got in the back. “You’re gonna love these seats,” Clarence bragged to his guests. “Front row, halfway between third and home. Perfect. There’s some payoff to all those years as a sportswriter.”

Jake had called and said Carly wasn’t feeling well, she and Janet needed him, so he had to cancel. When Ollie heard it, he asked Clarence if Manny could go in Jake’s place. Clarence had reluctantly agreed, and now Manny sat in the back next to Ollie. Obadiah occupied the passenger seat beside Clarence, absentmindedly humming spirituals under his breath.

“We’ve got some things on the case, Clarence,” Ollie said, as they pulled onto 1-5 north. “Want to talk now or later?” Ollie looked at Obadiah, not sure how it might affect him.

“Now’s fine. What’s up?”

“Well, turns out Leesa Fletcher died from a cocaine overdose. But you knew that, didn’t you? How?”

“Confidential source.”

“I reread the
Trib
articles,” Ollie said. “All they mentioned was congenital heart defect. Proves you can’t trust newspapers. I’ve done some calling around. I talked to Jay Fielding, the principal at Jefferson, and a couple of other people who knew her well. Everybody swears Leesa wasn’t a user.”

“So what are you thinking?” Clarence asked.

“One, I think she was the original target. Two, I think we’ve got another murder. They tried the drive by and blew it. They couldn’t do that one again, so somebody gave her bad crack.”

“Or good crack, just too much of it,” Manny said. “If they forced it on her, it wouldn’t be crack, probably an injection of cocaine and water. It’s a lot easier to inject someone than try to make them inhale crack at the right moment. Either way it shows up as cocaine in the bloodstream.”

“Was there a needle mark?” Clarence asked.

“Several in the left arm, but she took allergy shots,” Manny said. “Nothing definitive.”

“Where does this leave us?”

“Years ago I investigated a counterfeiting operation,” Ollie said. “I learned a bad counterfeiter always circulates these crisp new bills fresh off the press. People look them over real close and often they figure out they’re counterfeit. But a good counterfeiter doesn’t do that. He soaks his new bills in a bottle of crème de menthe and some india ink, then dries them with an electric fan. Nobody takes a close look because they see these bills that look well-circulated. That way they blend in. The crime goes unnoticed.”

“Your point?” Clarence asked, knowing Ollie well enough by now to suspect there was one.

“Suppose the gang thing was a counterfeit, a cover for something else. I mean, it may have been bangers who pulled the trigger, but what if someone hired them, someone who figured we wouldn’t take a good look at it because gang crime is too common. The best cover is the one that looks most like something else, the one least likely to be thoroughly investigated over the long haul. Let’s face it, when gang stuff isn’t solved immediately, it tends to get buried under the avalanche. They weren’t counting on our persistence. Or yours,” he added, looking at Clarence.

“I’m still working on a profile of the Fletcher family,” Manny said. “Should finish it up Monday.”

“Anything you can tell me now?” Clarence asked.

“No. I need to put it all together first,” Manny said—rather stiffly, Clarence thought.

“Mariners and Yankees,” Ollie said. “Well, I’m pumped. I haven’t had a day off in three weeks. And I haven’t gone to a baseball game since I was a kid.”

“Where’d you grow up, Mister Detective?” Obadiah asked.

“Milwaukee. I was a Braves fan. Back then everybody talked about Mays and Mantle, but Hank Aaron just kept hitting those balls out of the park. Got his autograph one day. Biggest day of my life.”

“You knew him, didn’t you, Dad?” Clarence asked.

“Knew who?” Ollie asked. “Hank Aaron? No way!”

“Yessuh, I knowed the Hammer. He come into the league as a rookie my last season.”

“You played pro ball? The majors?” Manny asked.

“It was pro ball, all right,” Obadiah said, voice animated. “But not the majors. Not what the record books call the majors anyway. It was the Negro League. Shadow ball, folks called it. Henry Aaron spent his first year with us. So did Willie Mays.”

“You knew Willie Mays?” Ollie asked, slackjawed.

“Sho ’nuf. I introduced Willie to Mama’s pork rib sauce, and we was friends from then on.” Obadiah laughed like a little boy.

“What was the Negro League like?” Ollie asked. Both he and Manny leaned forward to hear the old man’s soft voice. Clarence could see Obadiah’s eyes sparkle. He had an audience.

“We was barnstormers. Played three games a day, travelin’ on our bus. Couldn’t stay in most hotels. Wrong color. But we was so tired we didn’t have energy to go where we wasn’t wanted. Lots of peoples come to see us. In the big cities it was mostly coloreds. The whites had their Major Leagues, but lots of white folks come to see us too. Out in the sticks everybody came, more whites than blacks. We was the only pro teams come to play there. They cheered us and wrote us up. Still got some o’ them old newspaper clippings. Played every city. They’d hitch up the team to come see us. If they didn’t have a buggy, they’d ride two to a mule. If they couldn’t find a mule, they’d ride an armadillo.”

Ollie laughed. Daddy was just gettin’ warmed up, Clarence knew.

“So who’d you play with?” Ollie asked. “I want some names. And some stories.”

“Well, in those days we changed teams a lot, so half the peoples I played against I ended up playin’ with, somewhere along the line. One year I’d be with the Kansas City Monarchs or the Indianapolis Clowns, next year the Birmingham Black Barons. You want names? How about Cool Papa Bell?”

The name drew a blank with Ollie and Manny both.

“Never seen a man so fast as Papa, and I seen ’em all, including Cobb. Only man who could hit himself with his own line drive. I watched Papa Bell run from first to third on a bunt, maybe a dozen times. They’d throw the ball to second thinkin’ they’d catch him, but he was already headed toward third. The second base-man throws to third, and Cool Papa Bell’s already standin’ on the base, brushin’ off from his slide. He always slid, that way he never had to decide whether it was necessary. One game I saw him hit three inside the park homers.”

“No joke?” Manny asked.

“The Lord is my witness. His roommate swore Cool Papa Bell could flip off the light switch and be in bed before the room got dark.”

Everybody laughed again, revving up Obadiah’s engines.

“You want pitchers? Early on I played with Smoky Joe Williams. Six foot five, and in those days nobody was six five. Whoa, boy, um um. Smoky Joe had a cannon. He threw so hard we had to change catchers two or three times a game. They’s hands would swell up the size of a melon.” Obadiah flexed his big loose-skinned left hand as if it were throbbing. “When ol’ Smoky joined our team, he was already a legend. I was just a rookie first baseman, just sittin’ against a fence, no dugouts for us, usually. I hears one of our catchers whinin’ about his achin’ hand. I thinks, with all that padding in his glove, he has to be puttin’ on. So I says, ‘Lets me catch Smoky an inning or two.’ In those days we always knew a couple of positions just in case. Anyways, the catcher, he’s lookin’ at me like I was crazy and hands me the mitt.

“First I calls Smoky a curveball and it curves all right, but it was the speed of a fastball and it really smarted. I thought, hey I’m not gonna call him a fastball. I was young, but hit me wid a two-by-four and I don’t ask you to come back and take a swing at me with a fence post! So I calls another curve, and he shakes me off. I calls a four-day creeper, and he shakes me off. I went through every pitch known to God’s angels, and finally I gives up and calls a fastball and Smoky just smiles, kind of like the dentist before he drills your teeth. Before I saw him wind up, that ball was in my glove. I heard thunder before I saw lightning. I don’t know how I caught it. Never saw it. I screamed and threw off the mitt, and the umpire and the batter laughed their fool heads off. Ol’ Smoky laughed so hard he was layin’ on the mound poundin’ the dirt. That was the end of me catchin’ Smoky Joe.”

Obadiah shook his head, chuckling from deep inside. Then he looked back at Ollie. “I faced Christy Matthewson and most the great white pitchers. Even young Warren Spahn. But none of them threw like Smoky Joe Williams.”

“You hit against Spahn?” Ollie asked. “But how did you play against him and Matthewson and Cobb if you weren’t in the majors?”

“We’d play exhibition games. Sometimes we’d go down to Cuba and play a long series against a Major League All-Star team. I remembers Ty Cobb’s Detroit Tigers and Pop Lloyd’s Havana Reds played against each other in a five-game series. Cobb batted .370; Pop hit an even .500. Cobb was the best base-stealer in the majors, and he bragged he was gonna ‘steal those darkies blind.’ Well, those darkies caught him every single time he tried. Cobb was an ol’ sourpuss. You could put his face on a buffalo nickel and nobody’d notice the difference. They used to say, ‘Nothin’s wrong with Cobb that couldn’t be fixed by hittin’ him upside the head with a skillet.’ After the last game in Cuba, Cobb announced he’d never play against blacks again. Well, we never blamed him for that. Cobb was ugly, but he weren’t stupid!”

Now Manny joined in the chuckles. Clarence hadn’t heard most of these stories for years. The pride in his chest showed on his face.

“You want a slugger? Josh Gibson. Hit more five-hundred-foot home runs than Ruth ever did. Only man ever to hit a ball clean out of Yankee Stadium. One season Josh hit seventy-five home runs.”

“So how come I’ve never heard of him?” Manny asked.

“Well,” Obadiah shrugged, “he was colored. I reckon it’s that simple. Nobody wanted to think a black man was as good as Ruth. But he was. Except Ruth struck out 110 or 120 times a year. Josh, maybe fifty. If Josh had been allowed in white ball, he would have had Ruth’s home run record. When Hammerin’ Hank went for the record, it would have been held by a black man. And Josh would have been so far ahead of Ruth, even Hank like to never catch him.”

“If this Gibson guy was playin’ in the majors today, what do you think he’d hit?” Manny asked.

“Oh,” Obadiah paused, “maybe .280, with thirty home runs.”

“That all?”

“Well, you has to understand,” Obadiah said, “he’d be over eighty years old.”

Ollie convulsed with laughter, slapping Manny on the leg.

“They tried a lot of things to get us coloreds in the majors. They’d paint a black man’s face light and make up the craziest stories. One team was called the Cuban Giants. They was mostly black waiters from a Brooklyn Hotel. Used to speak gibberish to each other on the field so people would think they was Cuban. Ol’ John McGraw tried to sneak Charlie Grant onto the Baltimore Orioles by claiming Grant was a Cherokee named Chief Tokahoma. But they figured it out. White people do catch on after a while!” Obadiah grinned.

“McGraw went on to manage the New York Giants. One of the best pitchers in baseball was a colored named Rube Foster. The size of a barn, old Rube, black as coal, black as Clarence and me. Rube musta been twenty years older than me, and he was runnin’ the colored league when I was playin’. McGraw hired Rube to teach Christy Matthewson how to pitch a screwball. That’s the closest Rube got to the majors. If they’d let him in, I guarantee you woulda heard his name.”

“Was Gibson the best you ever played with?” Ollie asked.

“No, Josh was great.” Obadiah’s eyes sparkled and Clarence knew what was coming next. “But one man was the greatest there’s ever been.” He paused, savoring the moment.

“Satchel.” Clarence said. Obadiah nodded vigorously.

“Satchel Paige?” Ollie said, voice cracking. “You played with Satchel Paige?”

“I’s not just black as coal,” Obadiah said, “I’s
old
as coal! Yeah, I played with Satch on two different teams, and I played against him more than I cares to remember. Satchel was older, but he was really somethin’. He was an inch shorter than Smoky Joe, but he towered over everybody else. And he was skinny—all arms and legs. No man never pitched like Satchel. He’d go into a game sayin’ he’d strike out the first nine men he faced. And usually he did. First baseman didn’t touch the ball for three innings. We used to clown around. Once we put a bat boy out on first base for two innings ’cause we knew he wouldn’t have to do anything. Another time all us unfielders sat down around second base and played poker till somebody finally got wood on the ball. It was the fourth inning. When I was with the Clowns, the catcher would bring out a rocking chair and sit in it. Yessuh, we knowed how to has fun!”