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He saw the café on the corner and turned onto the gravel road beside it and parked. Inside he was blasted with the smell of coffee in the pot, frying bacon on the griddle, rising biscuits in the oven, and simmering grits on the stove. Over the years the smell had seeped into the old woodwork and was part of the texture of the place. It stirred in Wayne childhood memories of home.
The café had an assortment of tables and chairs – nothing matched, but no one seemed to care. It was impossible for Wayne to miss the silence that descended on the room as he entered. He took a seat at a small table next to the back wall. A blackboard on the counter spelled out the daily specials. There didn’t seem to be any menus.
A thin black woman in her fifties came to his table. “You lost, mister?”
Wayne looked around. Every eye was on him and there wasn’t a friendly face in the crowd of maybe 20 customers. “No, I’m not lost. I would like a cup of coffee and a biscuit with gravy on it. And after that I would like to speak with Ruby Hillard.”
The woman leaned closer and in a lower voice said, “We don’t need no trouble in here. You be better off if’n you go back across them tracks.”
Wanye opened his suit jacket so anybody who was thinking of jumping him would have second thoughts after seeing the gun under his left armpit. “There’s not going to be any trouble. Just bring my order and tell Mrs. Hillard to come and join me.”
There was a lot of mumbling at the other tables, but soon everybody was back at their food. A heavyset lady with graying hair brought him his order. “I be Ruby Hillard. What you want with me?”
Wayne stood up, slid out a chair, and said, “Please, have a seat, Mrs. Hillard. I would like to speak with you about the death of your husband.”
She pushed the chair Wayne had pulled out back under the table. “Don’t know what you up to, mister, but I’m not speaking about my Roy to no man from the government.”
Wayne watched in amazement as she turned her back and almost ran back into the kitchen. He heard laughter from a few of the tables. He sat back down and poured some cream into the coffee Mrs. Hillard had brought for him. He took a sip of it , but immediately spit it back into the cup – somebody had put salt in it.
Wayne threw a couple of bucks onto the table and walked out to the sound of laughter. He had just learned a hard lesson: a badge has no color. He had gotten the same treatment he would have gotten if he had been white.
He was about to open his car door when a voice called out: “Hey mister, go down the block, take a left, and wait.” By the time Wayne turned around, whoever it was had already stepped back around the corner of the building and disappeared.
Wayne drove down the street and turned left, pulled to the side, and stopped. He waited until a tall, thin black man in dirty overalls and no shirt walked around from behind a fence. Wayne checked his gun, got out of the car, and stood there beside it to make the man come to him.
The man approached and said, “I got info for you, but it ain’t free.”
Without a doubt, the man was looking for drinking money, but it was what it was. “Let’s hear what you have to say, and I’ll decide whether it’s worth anything. If it is, I’ll be happy to pay.”
The man’s hands shook and he kept rubbing his arms. He was in bad shape and really needed a drink. “It weren’t no Klan dat killed Roy; it be dat damn sheriff.”
Wayne’s mind spun around. “What the hell are you talking about? How do you know it was the sheriff?”
The fellow looked around and Wayne sensed the man’s intense fear. “Roy and me, we be drinking close to de tracks. Roy say he going home and walk out into the street. Nex, I look up an’ dere dat sheriff. He throw Roy in de back of his car an’ drive off. I don’ ever see Roy no more.”
Wayne leaned against his car and rubbed his head. He was thinking about what an unbelievable story this was. But it was so unbelievable, it had a strong ring of truth to it. He looked at the person standing in front of him and knew that no matter how true the story, this guy could never be brought into a courtroom.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a $10 and two $20s folded together. He peeled off a $20 and placed it in the outstretched hand. “Enjoy yourself, but keep this between us.”
The poor figure laughed and started back toward the fence. “Who I be a telling? Roy dead.”
Wayne started his car and drove back across the tracks. He had planned to go by and see Sheriff Banks, but now, instead, he called Bo Evans and asked him to meet him at the motel for coffee.
Wayne was on his second cup of coffee when Evans came to his booth and slid in. “What’s up? This is my day off.”
Wayne pushed his coffee cup away. “I was on the other side of the tracks and had a very interesting conversation with a drunk who had one hell of a story.”
Evans sighed. “Was he tall and thin, wearing overalls?”
Startled, Wayne nodded.
“You met the 60-Second Man. His name is Elmo James. You can’t believe a word that comes out of his mouth. The reason we call him the 60-Second Man is that after an hour listening to him there will be only 60 seconds of what he said that will make any sense or be true.”
Wayne now realized it was a mistake to think of Evans as an ally. The only difference between Evans and the men and women in the café was that Evans had been ordered to be his guide. And a white man had given that order, which made Wayne part of the white establishment. Wayne had to face the fact that he would have to keep his own counsel from now on. “I guess I shouldn’t have put any stock in what the man said, but he seems to be the only one in town who doesn’t believe the Klan is behind these murders – other than me.”
Evans looked out the window beside their booth. “I’ll bet he wanted money for that insight, didn’t he? Everybody in this town knows why you’re here – you’re looking for a serial killer. The Klan has been killing my people here for a couple of hundred years. Where were you black Federal Boys then? Why should we think this is different? It’s white killing black, the same as always.”
Before Wayne could answer, two men appeared at their table. Both had cowboy boots, denim pants and jackets, and a western shirt. The heavyset one did the talking, and he was staring down at Evans. “Boy, you know you’re not allowed in here. The law says we’ve got to let this other nigger eat here because he’s a guest of the motel. But you know to eat on the other side of the tracks.”
Wayne started to stand, but the other man pulled out a gun. “I wouldn’t do that, mister.”
Evans put a hand up at Wayne. “Stay out of this.”
Evans slid out of the booth. “I didn’t come here to eat. I’m here because Sheriff Banks ordered me to assist this Federal Man. I was just ready to leave, but – if you want and it will make you happy – I’ll call the sheriff.”
Both men took a step back upon hearing the sheriff’s name, and the heavyset one said, “Okay, if you were leaving anyway, you can get on your way.” Both men turned and walked away as if nothing had happened.
Wayne stood and shouted at their backs: “Pulling a gun on a Federal Agent is against the law.”
Evans patted him on the back. “Let it go. And from now on, if you want to meet with me, pick a parking lot somewhere. I’ll see you later. I’m going fishing.”
| Copyright © 2019, 2020 by Ed Rogers |
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