Five Smooth Stones

  He stopped, and David said evenly: "I remember. Later we all went to Marblehead for a shore dinner. Then came back and spent most of the night around the piano, drinking beer and singing. It was a long time ago. But my memory's good."

  "Still like that, eh?"

  David turned to him, eyes shadowed. "Your mother ever tell you that you were born with a veil?"

  "If I haven't developed intuition in twenty years, I'm in the wrong racket."

  "You seen Sara lately?"

  "Two, maybe three, months ago. She was at the house for dinner with Suds and Rhoda. She was only in the U.S. a couple of weeks. She's in West Germany now, Düsseldorf. She went over to teach at some summer art classes. They ought to be over about now."

  "Hunter Travis?"

  "Why do you think I'm so well informed? He's still the faithful two-way channel for information."

  "Does Sutherland still hate my guts?"

  "Don't be an ass. He never did. And he's mellowed."

  David carried rice from stove to drainboard. "I read something about an exhibit of Kent's—"

  "At the Kershaw Gallery in London. In about two weeks. That's close to the top, very close—"

  "Fine. That's fine. Hand me one of those soup plates, Chief."

  David spooned rice into one side of the plate, filled the other side with steaming gumbo, and handed it to Brad, then did the same for Luke, who had been standing quietly in the background. "Let's eat it in the living room," he said. "It's cooler there."

  On their way through the dining room Luke stopped and pointed a finger. "Piano," he said. "There. Where's that guitar you had, man?"

  "In the hall closet. After you've eaten you want to make a little music, kid?"

  There was always some anodyne for pain there, in the ends of his fingers and the sounds they made.

  CHAPTER 69

  On Sunday morning Luke appeared in the doorway of David's room dressed in tennis shoes, slacks, and a sports shirt of bilious green splashed with impressionistic orange flowers. David groaned, said: "Take it away. Take it outside. Take it off. Jeez! Take it away till I've had some coffee."

  "You don't like this shirt? Man, it's a fine shirt. Cost me plenty. I got it in New York."

  "I don't care where you got it. Just wear it someplace I'm not."

  Luke grinned. "What makes you so conservative, boss? Look, I gotta go to a youth meeting. Take pictures. One of the churches on the other side of town. They're holding it after the service. Then I'll make the scene at the picnic."

  David sat up, noted that the coffee maker beside the bed had stopped percolating, and poured coffee. "Want some? Get a cup."

  "I've eaten, man. Coffee, eggs, bacon, toast, the works. I'd have had more only I'm hung over."

  "You wash the dishes?"

  "Me and the cat. Can I go now?"

  "Yeah. And hurry. Out of my sight."

  "Yes, sir. See you—"

  David listened to Luke's feet padding through the house, heard the front door close and a car start up. It was a used car that Luke had acquired the day before after negotiations too complicated for even Brad or David to follow. His own car was a necessity for Luke now. Showering, shaving, David thought of how he'd miss the kid, of how dependent he had grown on Luke's need for him. It must be a little like seeing your child start off for school the first day. If there were only a few more years between us we'd be like three generations: Brad, me, and Luke, he thought. He knew he'd miss Luke, even when he was in Boston.

  He was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee, wondering what a man had to do to get rested besides sleep, when Brad appeared in robe and slippers.

  "I wasn't going to call you," said David. "Somebody in the joint ought to get rested. Luke's off and running, hung over some, and I feel like I've been digging ditches all night, and I haven't even had a drop."

  "Comparatively speaking, then, I'm in fine shape."

  "What time you planning on leaving for Cainsville?"

  "One o'clock plane to Capitol City. I'll phone Chuck to meet me." He sat down, wincing, caught the expression on David's face, said: "It's all right. For God's sake, it's all right. It always stiffens up in the night, and wears off in an hour or so. Especially on a warm day. Forget it. If I mentioned breakfast would anything happen?"

  "Breakfast. That's what would happen." David got up and walked to the pan cupboard. "Grits?... Eggs?... Ham?... Toast?... Look, don't you even know how to say 'no'!"

  After he had eaten, Brad drew his coffee cup toward him, cradling it in his hands.

  "Let's talk about real estate," he said.

  "Talk about what?"

  "Real estate."

  David grinned. "Remember what old Higginbotham used to say to a new class on opening day?"

  Brad laughed. "Yes. 'The ramifications, complications, involvements, and general cussedness of the laws governing real property are such that a man must either have great courage or be a damned fool to own it Personally, I rent. Now, gentlemen—'"

  "I agree. Why do we have to talk about real estate on a muggy Sunday morning?"

  "Pour yourself another cup and listen. This real estate is in Cainsville. It belongs to an old lady named Towers. She's the only Negro I've run into there whom even the whites call by a last name. She's known as 'ol' Miz Towers' to everyone. She is, I believe, incredibly old to be so active. I've never asked her age because I knew I wouldn't believe what I was told. All estimates are in excess of ninety years. She has a son, Abraham, who lives with her. He is about fifty-four. His wife is dead and his children—four, I think, in the teen-age bracket—live with his sister."

  "Who would be Miz Towers's daughter."

  "Right. Said sister has a son of her own named Jim Towers. Lightish. His father is generally believed to be the man who is now chief of police. There's a touch of rape involved."

  "That's not rape. That's the white man's privilege."

  "I know. Anyhow, Jim works as porter at the Grand Hotel on Main Street."

  "This is real estate?"

  "Shut up and let me get on with it. Miz Towers owns the land her house, originally a cabin, stands on. She also owns a large piece of property to the west of it. We'll forget the land she lives on and that she and Abraham farm for themselves. It's not involved." Brad got up and walked to the desk that had replaced the buffet in the dining room, came back with a pencil and paper. "That's what I like about you, son. A place for everything and everything in its place. Like a damned old maid."

  "Lay off. What about this west forty?"

  "It's a lot more than forty." Brad was sketching as he talked. "The land is shaped like a pyramid with one straight side, with the base of the pyramid on the south, extending west. Actually, the boundary is roughly the road that runs to Heliopolis, and is a continuation of the southern boundary of the smaller piece of land. The lower, southern—I'd say eighth—of the land is nothing but an uncultivated field. The Negroes call it Flaming Meadows. There's some local superstition regarding it, and it's never been touched. It looks flat, but actually rises gently to a wooded area on the north. The rise becomes sharper there, continuing to the peak of the pyramid. Now. The eastern boundary is a river in the northern portion, Angel River. A little way south of the peak of the property there is a waterfall, quite a big one, and very beautiful. Below that, the river meets a diversion and splits, one branch of it running eastward, the other due south. The east branch doesn't concern us. The one that flows south is small, and it becomes known as Angel Creek. It seems wider than a creek to me, but only in California could it be called a river."

  "Wait a minute. It's not actually a boundary after it reaches the Towers farm land? That land doesn't run as far north?"

  "You're doing splendidly. It is not. It's merely a wide, flowing creek, or a narrow flowing river, whichever you prefer, passing through her property. There's an old-fashioned plank bridge over it in the roadway. If you're a good swimmer, it's grand on a hot day. The current's a little too strong for weakl
ings."

  "Are you planning on building a resort or some such?"

  "Quiet. I've just begun. Have some more coffee, and pour the old man some. Thanks. Now." David saw him draw a double line across the top of the lopsided pyramid he had sketched, then Crosshatch it. "Railroad," said Brad. "A branch line of the A and C. They leased it while ol' Miz Towers's husband was alive. A ninety-nine-year lease. The money changed a one-room cabin into a house, bought stock, and made it possible for the old man to set Abraham up in his own auto-repair garage. He's been at it ever since. Naturally, they didn't get what it was worth, but the railroad wasn't too unfair, considering railroads."

  Brad turned the sketch he had been working on around, pushed it across the table until it lay in front of David, then leaned back in his chair. "So!" he said.

  David studied it a moment, and looked across at Brad. "All right. So. What am I supposed to say?"

  "Look at it again. Doesn't anything jump out at you?"

  David obeyed, said, "Nothing but those phony trees you've sketched into the wooded area." He frowned. "Wait!" He looked across at Brad, eyebrows raised. "Industry?"

  "Congratulations."

  "Don't be sarcastic. I'm growing old, slowing down. Somebody wants the land. Specifically, a white somebody. Or somebodies. Possibly acting as a front for a northern or eastern industry, or trying to buy it for a song and resell at a big price." He studied the sketch again. "The obvious question: If whites are involved, how good is the title?"

  "It's perfect. Not even a southern court could upset it. The land was bought by the first Towers to be freed from slavery, passed from father to son, again to son, and then from that son, Miz Towers's husband, to her. She has left it to Abraham. I've even seen her will, drawn up by a man named Murfree, a white attorney whose practice has been wrecked, whose home has been stoned, and who is close to being driven out of town because of his outspoken defense of the Negro cause."

  "Watch out, Chief—"

  "The chips have been down a score of times, David. He's never backed off. He's another Chuck Martin."

  "God help him. And I hope you're right."

  Brad shrugged. "I'm beginning to understand the desperation back of the Negro saying 'Man's gotta trust someone.' It's not misplaced in this instance, David."

  "All right, go on. Or shall I?"

  "As it was in the beginning? When I used to insist on reviewing a case detail by detail, before trial, and put the screws on the starry-eyed young idiot—"

  "I like Luke's phrase better."

  "It's more imaginative, I'll give him that. You were right, of course. It's northern industry. But a group of white city and county officials and the town's leading banker have apparently—I say 'apparently' because I haven't a shred of proof—banded together to buy the property, or acquire it somehow, then sell it. And, again apparently, they have given the impression that they have, or are in the process of acquiring, title. And they probably think they are. My God, these people are stupid when they deal with Negroes!"

  "I've said it for years, Brad. I mean years. Long before I ever went to college. Basically, it isn't the hate, it's the stupidity."

  "Right. They're pressed for time. Any minute it might occur to the interested parties to search title for themselves. The local people want to make some move, put over some gimmick, that will put them in control."

  "How about Miz Towers? Abraham?"

  "So far she's been adamant, but the pressure's mounting. It's the reason I stopped off before coming here."

  "I assume it's still in the benign phase? People she used to work for suddenly remembering her with little gifties, if they're kin to, or friends of, the locals involved. Abraham getting white business, maybe offers of an easy deal for new equipment, farm machinery, that kind of thing."

  "That's about it. Abraham says when his mother dies he wouldn't mind 'being shet of all that land. But he doesn't want to be cheated."

  "Another question. How did you learn all this?"

  "Jim Towers, Abraham's nephew. The Grand Hotel, where' he works, is everything the name implies, used in the old sense. Old, built by slave labor, derived from Greek architecture, porticoed, pillared, still the luncheon and cocktail hangout for the town's leading business and professional men.

  Rotary meets there, that sort of thing. It's even so old-fashioned they have a smoking room where ladies aren't allowed. That's where the spittoons are that Luke mentioned. The hotel is on Main Street, directly facing the colored section. A few months ago a man came down from the North and stayed at the new hotel uptown, but conferred frequently with the town's leading banker, a man named Spangler, at the Grand. Couple of weeks later he came back with two other men, and this time the luncheon and dinner conferences, the talks over drinks in the smoking room, were with the banker, the mayor, the city attorney, and a few other assorted local rascals. Practically everything that was said in the smoking room after a certain date got back to the dinner table in Jim's house, where Abraham eats every night, after the old lady goes to bed at sundown."

  "You know, Brad, I don't know whether to pray, and I do sometimes, for my own people or the blasted whites."

  "I know. I'm getting dry. More coffee? Jim probably wouldn't have paid any attention if it hadn't been for a crack by Spangler. Jim's not the curious type. All he wants is to get the day's work over, pick up a few tips, and get the hell out. One afternoon in the smoking room one of the outsiders reprimanded the local characters rather sharply. That room is usually deserted in midafternoon, and Jim picks that time to dust and tidy up for the cocktail period. On this day he was the only person in the room besides the aforementioned group. However, the reprimand was unmistakable; the man took them to task for discussing the project so freely in the presence of outsiders. Spangler looked around, said, 'But there's no one here,' and the visitor indicated Jim."

  "And the banker said, 'Lord, that's only Jim. He don't count.' Or words to that effect."

  "Yes. Jim moseyed on out through the curtains to the bar —Chuck says they still call them portieres—and naturally from that time on never missed a chance to listen. He said it riled him considerable. And, of course, after that they made it difficult for an eavesdropper. Jim even took to going through the wastebaskets after a meeting broke up. The only thing of value he found was an envelope with the return address of the man who had come down first. He brought that home. His mother, God help us, threw it out. No one seems to remember what was on it. Abraham says he remembered for a time, then disremembered.

  "I had him trying to remember so hard he was losing weight. Then I told him to put it out of his mind, as I would tell a witness, forget it, then someday I'd ask him and it would pop to the surface of his mind. Or it would do so spontaneously. So far it hasn't."

  "There ought to be some way. If this man, Murfree, is such an upstanding liberal, couldn't he get at the register of the other hotel? Don't answer. He couldn't. They wouldn't give him a damn thing. No idea, no idea at all, what the whole thing is?"

  "The gov'mint's involved, according to Jim. And, I gather, the reaches of outer space. Or maybe missiles. Hell, I don't know, except it's big, it's important, it's fairly secret and, Jim says, these outsiders seem to be becoming impatient. Which means the Cainsville syndicate is going to have to come up with the property soon." Brad stood up, sighed, and said: "I haven't talked this much since the last time I was in court. I'm going to shower and shave. Meanwhile, you can come up with the solution. Think."

  He left the room, and David called after him. "It's easy— hey, Brad!"

  He heard a voice from the bathroom call, "Think!" then the sound of the door closing and the rush of water in the shower.

  ***

  Brad came back into the kitchen while David was washing up. "Ready, brat?"

  "You mean to leave? It's too early."

  "I mean with a solution to the problem of how to keep ol' Miz Towers's property and save her and Abraham from pressure."

  "Oh, that," said Da
vid airily. "If you'd listened you'd have heard it half an hour ago. Option."

  "That's what I told Abraham."

  "You'd already thought of it. I should have known."

  "Of course I had. I wanted you to come to the same conclusion. Abraham agrees. I explained it to him carefully, and he's waiting until his mother is in the right mood. Murfree can draw it up. Abraham trusts him, and trusts me, but not all of the colored trust me."

  "That's the way it would be."

  "I told him to tell his mother an option would be like a steel wall around the property. It would be better if someone who hasn't been connected with present activities took it. Only a nominal sum would be involved. Then we'd be in a position to deal directly with the principals, get a fair price for the old lady, if she changes her mind, or stymie the whole deal indefinitely."

  "Options expire."

  "And can be renewed. When she does die—"

  "They'll have picked a site in Wyoming, and someone's left holding the option. Now I know it was your idea first, I'll shoot holes in it."

  "You think if it's desirable enough for these people that others won't be interested? If that happens we'll be acting for Abraham."

  David stopped wiping a plate and looked at Brad closely. "Listen, Chief, what's this 'we' routine you're sneaking into?" He laid the plate down on the drainboard with exaggerated care and said, "Why you low-down, conniving, illegitimate, legal son of a bitch!"

  "I've heard you do better—"

  David turned his head, called "Chop-bone!" There was an answering chirrup from the living room, and Chop-bone came padding rapidly into the kitchen. "Chop-bone, y'all want to be a cat of property? Y'all want about steen dozen acres to hunt mice in? Your old Uncle Bradford's real thoughtful that way."

  "I'll put up the dough. You can see why, if it got out, my own motives in being there might not appear disinterested. You're so identified with ALEC now, they might think you were fronting for ALEC. Which would be all right. There's already been talk about ALEC building a school for social and governmental studies."

  "All right, all right. I won't argue. You can even use my dough. I haven't spent any for more than a month. Just get me off the hook when the time comes. If there's one thing I don't want, it's real property in any place called Cainsville."