Echoes of a Distant Summer (2 page)

Sampson nodded and slid the written note across the bar. The bartender glanced at the note and a look of suspicion crossed his face as he asked, “Why do you want to see Mr. Tree?”

Sampson wrote another note and pushed it toward the bartender. The bartender asked, “Can’t you talk?” Sampson shook his head and with a gesture indicated that he couldn’t speak. The bartender read the second note and questioned, “You have some information about King Tremain? Who the hell is that? Why would Mr. Tree be interested in him?”

Sampson took the note back and wrote at the bottom:
Just tell Zeke Tree. He knows who King Tremain is. He’ll remember the father of the man who gave him his scar
.

The bartender shook his head after he read Sampson’s addendum. He leaned forward and whispered, “A word of advice, old-timer, Mr. Tree doesn’t like being called Zeke. His closest friends call him John, but everyone else calls him Mr. Tree. And nobody who likes their health talks about his scar. I’m going to do you a favor and tear up this note. You can write another asking to see Mr. Tree.” He tore the note in pieces and dropped it behind the bar.

Sampson nodded his thanks and wrote another note, which he handed to the bartender. The man took the note and went to a phone by the cash register. Sampson watched him as he talked. The bartender’s demeanor was one of deference. Whoever was on the phone was of some importance. When he hung up the phone, the bartender returned the note and said, “Somebody’ll be out soon. I hope you know what you’re doing, old-timer. These are serious people you’re messing with.” He turned and went down the bar to serve some other customers.

Sampson did not have long to wait. Two black men came out of the back and made their way to the bar. One was a large, hulking man with
a flattened nose and short, kinky hair, while the other was of medium build and was sporting a Jheri Curl hairstyle. They both appeared to be somewhere in their twenties. The hulking man was chewing on a cheap, pungent meat stick as he followed his smaller companion.

The smaller man stepped up to the bar and asked the bartender as he pointed to Sampson, “Conway, is this the guy who wanted to see Mr. Tree?” Conway nodded and hurried to occupy himself at the far end of the bar.

The man stalked over to Sampson, his Jheri Curls swaying sickeningly back and forth, and demanded, “What’s your business with Mr. Tree?”

Sampson started to write a note in response when the larger of the two men stepped forward and slapped the side of his head. “My brother Frank asked you a question! Answer him, goddamn it, or I’ll really give you something to worry about!” The big man had the face of a boxer who had, without proper preparation, stepped up in class too many times. He continued to bite off big chunks of his meat stick as he watched Sampson.

Sampson looked back at the man who had hit him. He was not afraid; if he was to die, so be it. It would be better than dying alone in a hospital. His only regret was that he had not met this particular fool even twenty years earlier. He would’ve enjoyed killing him. Sampson simply gestured to his mouth to indicate that he couldn’t speak.

“What the fuck does that mean?” the big man demanded, pulling back his arm to slap Sampson again. “I told you to answer my brother!”

Conway, the bartender, came over and volunteered, “The guy’s a mute, Jesse. He can’t talk. That’s why he’s trying to write an answer.”

Jesse nodded his head as this information sank in. “He can’t talk, huh? Why the fuck didn’t he say that?”

Frank turned to his brother. “Don’t show what a dumb-ass you are, Jesse. The old coot can’t talk! That’s why he didn’t say nothing!”

Jesse didn’t like the fact that he had once again publicly displayed his dullness, and he held Sampson responsible. He grabbed Sampson’s jaw in a tight grip and squeezed. “How we know he ain’t jivin’ us? He could be tryin’ to run a game on us!”

Sampson made no move to struggle or get away, even though he was getting short of breath. If he lived he hoped that this man would be among those who would come after him. These men without history,
rootless men, moving like tumbleweeds across the landscape. The earth would not miss them.

An older man in his fifties wearing rimless glasses appeared and he ordered, “Get your hands off of him! Can’t you see there are people watching you? Are you two absolute fools? I told you, check the man out till I get off the phone with the boss. I didn’t tell you to rough him up. Especially out here in front of witnesses.”

Frank began to explain, “He ain’t hurt, Mr. Gilmore. Jesse was just trying to make sure he knew we meant business. That’s all.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Jesse confirmed. “I was gettin’ him ready for you.”

“Get the hell out of my sight and let me talk to the man!” Frank and Jesse backed away respectfully and walked down to the end of the bar. Gilmore turned to Sampson. “Who are you?”

Sampson wrote:
Sampson Davis. I used to work for King Tremain back in Oklahoma. I managed his general store after he left
.

“What do you want with Mr. Tree?”

I have information that he may find very valuable. Maybe even willing to pay for
.

“What information?”

It’s information for Mr. Tree’s eyes only. If he thinks it’s worth anything, he can reach me tonight at the Golden Gateway Hotel at Sixth and Howard streets
.

After Sampson finished writing his note, he took the envelope out of his pocket and placed it on the bar.

Gilmore read the note quickly and picked up the envelope. He felt the envelope between his fingers, trying to determine if there was only paper in it. After he satisfied himself he said, “Okay, you delivered your message and we know how to contact you. Anything else?” Sampson shook his head. Gilmore gestured toward the door with his hand and said, “All right, you can go. If we need to contact you, we’ll reach you at the Golden Gateway Hotel.”

Sampson got up from the stool and walked slowly toward the door. He wasn’t sure he could move his jaw. There was considerable pain when he attempted to open his mouth. It didn’t really matter, he wasn’t planning on eating again anyway. He stopped concentrating on his mouth and focused on his breathing. He didn’t want a coughing fit in here. He had to get away before someone read what was enclosed in the envelope. He walked through the arcade, pushed open the door, and stepped out into the darkness of the street. He turned to his left and it did look like a long walk to the corner. He couldn’t even
see
the
corner; his night vision wasn’t what it used to be. He kept moving, step after step, toward Fillmore. Once he reached the corner, the black Cadillac pulled out of a parking space and drove up alongside him. The driver jumped out and ran to open the door for him.

He sat back in the plush upholstery of the backseat and could not concentrate on anything but his wife, Wichita Kincaid, and the thought that he would soon be joining her. He just wanted to hear her laugh again, watch the way she moved her head when she was trying to make a point, taste some of her smothered chicken and dumplings again. It was hard for him not to daydream about her. She had opened his eyes to the world with her far-ranging interests and she had introduced him to literature. King Tremain had taught him to read, but all that King had ever read was newspapers and occasionally the Bible. Sampson had no idea that novels even existed until Wichita brought home Richard Wright’s
Native Son
. From then on he read with a rabid frenzy. She introduced him to a world where his still tongue was irrelevant, a world where he could commune with philosophers and kings and dialogue with rogues and roustabouts. He was captured by the lyricism, the imagery, and the ideas expressed in the written word. He was stimulated and touched in ways he had never imagined possible. He actually gobbled up books, then he and Wichita would stay up late into the night discussing the questions the books raised, or pretended to answer. The seventeen years they were married were the best years in Sampson’s life. She changed him from a virtual illiterate into a man who thirsted for knowledge. Then she died because the nearest hospital didn’t treat Negroes.

He was embittered after her passing because she had died needlessly. Her appendicitis could have been easily treated. Nor did it make it more palatable to know that famous people like Bessie Smith and Robert Johnson had died in similar circumstances fifteen to twenty years earlier. Sampson felt that his life had been violated, that the one person he valued most had been stolen from him by the ignorance and hatred of whites. There were only two people he had ever met with whom he could spend unlimited time in harmony. The first was King Tremain and the second was Wichita Kincaid. He had never been a social being anyway, but after she died, Sampson lost the desire to travel far from home. King, who had come to the funeral, had visited him a few times after that, but otherwise they had kept their friendship alive through
letters and assisted phone calls. Wichita’s death had left Sampson with an abiding intolerance of his surrounding society, and over time he became a recluse.

The Cadillac pulled up in front of the hotel, which was a dilapidated three-story affair with a large pink neon sign. The sidewalk was alive with the south-of-Market nightlife. There were homeless people, leather queens, dope dealers, cross-dressers, sailors, drug addicts, narcs, people trying to sell a cheap trick and others trying to buy a cheaper one all wandering the street as if they had lost the way to where they really wanted to go, but were nonetheless in a hurry to get there.

Sampson passed the driver a note. The driver read it then turned back to him and asked, “Are you sure you want to go through with this? El Negro said that you could change your mind and it wouldn’t be a problem.”

Sampson nodded his head and held out his hand for the bag. The driver held back reluctantly then handed over a shopping bag.

The driver explained, “It’s just like the one you practiced on in Mexico City. It’s already wrapped in a dirty T-shirt. I suggest you pour the bottle of urine that’s included on it and that will prevent people from picking it up.”

Sampson wrote another note and handed it to the driver. The driver stared at him then conceded with a shrug. “You want the poison too? Okay, but if you take it too soon, you’ll be dead before our friends come calling. Once you take it, you only have five minutes max, and given your age it might be much less. Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?”

Sampson merely nodded. There was no doubt in his mind. This night, God willing, he would join his cherished Wichita and put an end to the pain of his mortal flesh. His eyes had seen too much, his heart was weighted down by unresolved grievances, and he could not let loose the anger and indignation he felt boiling inside of him. He did not want to live in a world where history dictated everything yet meant nothing.

The driver handed him a small vial. “There are three pills in there in case you drop one or two. You only need one; if you take all three you may not have as much time as I originally indicated. Good luck to you. I hope this evening goes as planned.”

Sampson smiled and nodded his thanks. He got out of the car and
walked through the hotel’s front door and went over to the registration desk, where he wrote a note and pushed it in front of the desk clerk.

The desk clerk, a thin, pale white man with stringy, dark hair and a sunken chest, looked over the note as he popped his chewing gum. After he finished reading he looked up at Sampson and said, “Sure! Sure, we’ll call you if you get any visitors. That’s hotel policy. We ain’t going to treat you any different than our other patrons.”

Sampson took two hundred-dollar bills out of his billfold and tore them in half. He gave two halves to the clerk and wrote on the bottom of the note he had previously written. He now had the clerk’s full attention. The man’s whole demeanor changed as he read the note.

“Mr. Davis, you don’t have to worry. Your money talks! I’ll make sure that everyone who works the desk and the switchboard knows that you want to be called the moment your visitors arrive.”

Sampson turned and headed for his room, which was situated on the old mezzanine floor at the back of the hotel. There were only two other rooms on the mezzanine floor, which was part of the original hotel that had burned down in the forties. The rest of the hotel was newer, but it certainly wasn’t visible to the eye. Like most flophouses that served the local down-on-their-luck stiffs, prostitutes, and small-time criminals, it was covered with the scum of years. Dim lighting in the halls and rooms helped hide the filth, but the smell could not be ignored. As he started up the stairs, he saw a white woman in a very short shift and fishnet stockings coming down with a muscular, black john. He recognized her. She had the room down at the end of the hall. The woman, whose makeup was so garish that she looked like a circus performer, gave him a professional smile as she passed. The john shouldered roughly past him, bumping him into the wall without a word of apology.

Sampson continued on up and entered his room at the top of the stairs. He set immediately to preparing the bomb. He lifted it out of the shopping bag, pulled back the T-shirt, connected the leads to their appropriate terminals, and took the bomb out into the hall. He placed it on the floor in the corner by his door then poured the strong-smelling urine on the shirt. Using the shopping bag to protect his hand, he reached up and broke the lightbulb at the top of the stairs and sprinkled the pieces on the floor in front of his door. When he went back inside his room, he pulled a rickety chair close to the door, moved the phone
within easy reach, got himself a glass of water, which he set on the floor by the chair, then sat down to wait with the remote in his hand.

He did not feel even a twinge of regret that he planned to kill the men from Tree’s before he himself entered the ether. They were men without history, tumbleweed men who raised only dust with their passage. This new, modern world seemed populated by such men. Sampson had read somewhere that an Uncle Tom had been appointed to some high panel over California’s college system and that the fool had espoused getting rid of all affirmative action programs, as if racism no longer existed. Whoever he was, he definitely didn’t know his history. Sampson wondered where was this man when the whites rioted in Tulsa in 1921 and burned down the black community, killing more than five hundred black people, many of whom were women and children; where was this man in the forties, when the water was diverted from the black-owned farms surrounding Bodie Wells and the land was squeezed dry. Where was he in the fifties and sixties, when only white farmers could get agricultural loans from the government? Where was this man when sad-eyed black people were driven by hunger and bank foreclosures off the farms on which their ancestors were buried? Where was this man and others like him when Wichita died in a pickup truck after being bumped around on rutted roads on the way to the closest hospital that would serve blacks?