at Kilbrew. “I’ve been driving for almost thirty years, and never saw a tire get into that condition. Either of you got any idea how that could happen?”
Kilbrew sat motionless, looking up at the reporter. “Yeah, I got a good idea.” His tall, lanky body unfolded from his chair and he picked up the tire iron as he stood. “Luther tells me you’re stayin’ with Deacon Williams, over in the Quarter?” His large hand holding the iron pointed toward the highway. “Accidents happen all the time over there in nigger-town. It’s a dangerous place for outsiders who don’t know about how to avoid accidents, not bein’ from nigger-town. Probably not too bright of Deacon Williams puttin’ you up there, where these kind of accidents can happen. Some people ’round here, Luther for instance, and me, just don’t understand why a good old Christian man who never had an accident before would do that for a Communist. Take that kind of chance. Got any idea how that could happen?”
Half-smiling, the reporter nodded. “Yeah, I got a good idea.” He picked up an empty beer bottle that rested on the edge of Kilbrew’s desk. Holding it by its neck, he patted his other hand. “Still had one bottle left, Mr. Kilbrew? If you got to ask the question how come Deacon Williams took me in, I guess you wouldn’t understand the answer.” His smile disappeared. “But you ought to understand this, Mr. Kilbrew. The FBI knows about my tire, and they know all about the attack on the Sojourner Chapel because I told them. It’s the kind of work a good reporter does. And they know that my magazine is worried about the continued good health of Deacon Percy Williams who lives at number 17 on Mulberry Lane in Shiloh. I made sure they got it right.” He repeated the words slowly. “17 Mulberry Lane. Your Senator Tildon is eager to have our magazine’s understanding, if not always its support, come election time. He sure wouldn’t appreciate anything embarrassing happening in his hometown of Shiloh this summer. So let’s hope that there won’t be any more accidents.” He stepped around Luther and tossed the bottle into the empty beer case near the door. It bounced but remained intact. “They don’t break too easy, do they? I guess you really have to throw ’em hard. You don’t have to come with me, Luther. I’m sure I can find the tire.” He nodded to Kilbrew. “Remember to thank your sister for me.”
Deeply troubled by the naked confrontation, Mendelsohn headed directly to the Freedom House, eager to share his concerns. Dale and Jimmy met him as he crossed the porch.
“What’s happening, brother?” Dale asked. “You look unhappy.”
“I just got my wheels back from Kilbrew and I think everybody in Sanctified Quarter ought to expect trouble. Those are mean bastards. The Coke bottles don’t mean anything. They want us gone. Period.”
Dale nodded. “Those guys play hardball. I’ll pass the word through the Quarter and call down to headquarters at Jackson.”
“I called the FBI and filled them in about the attack on Sojourner. I didn’t get the impression that they were going to do anything but ‘investigate.’”
“We all could be long gone by the time Hoover’s guys move on any of this,” said Dale. “I think you should lay it all out for Dennis Haley, the sheriff, Jimmy. This is his turf. He ought to know that we expect violence when we have our organizing meeting. And Mendelsohn ought to go with you. The man from Newsweek.” He grinned. “That’s going to get the sheriff’s attention.”
Jimmy said, “Call him, Dale. Tell Haley that Mendelsohn and I want to see him and that it’s urgent, even make it this afternoon. We can get some lunch at Billy’s Chili before we go.” He chuckled. “Wait till you meet Billy, Ted. He’s tough, he’s smart and he gives the Shiloh cops nothing but grief.”
Mendelsohn settled into the uncomfortable booth at Billy’s Chili with Dale and Jimmy. Billy, who had fought during the war in the battle for Anzio with a colored Sea Bee construction group, left two fingers of his left hand on Anzio beach. Now he pulled three beers from his ancient fridge and banged them on the table. “Law says I gotta serve these brothers,” he said, “but don’t say nothin ’bout I have to serve you. However, since you seem to be a kindly old white person who is a friend of these niggers, you may have a cold beer also. What you-all doin’ this close to downtown?”
“They going to see the sheriff man, Dangerous Dennis Haley. All things to all people is Dennis,” said Dale. “But you and I can just relax, Billy, and enjoy your Pilsner.”
Billy brought a fourth bottle to the table, studying Jimmy with curiosity. “Why you do that, James? You lose a bet or somethin’?”
Jimmy laughed. “No, I don’t owe the sheriff nothin’, and he owes me, but he won’t admit it. So I’m just taking our Wandering Jew reporter to make his presence known before the mass meeting. Figure it couldn’t hurt.”
“Power of the press, Billy,” Ted said, and raised his glass. “To the press! Awesome in its potential but usually lousing up in performance. I invited myself to come.”
Billy lazily surveyed the empty room then watched as a police car drove slowly by, paused, and eased back. When Billy jovially waved, the cruiser squealed its wheels and sped away. He chuckled. “Those meat-heads been embarrassed by my cordiality since I got back from Italy in ’45. Since I saw the real racial Supermen penned up like sick pigs on our beachhead, I was just never able to be a-feared of these local Supermen. Gives ’em aches and pains every time I smile and wave. Here, piggy, piggy, piggy!”
Jimmy emptied his glass and untangled himself from the booth. “Time we go make nice to the sheriff, Ted.”
Ted put some bills on the table. “Thanks, Billy. Any messages?” Billy nodded. “Yeah, Tell him his Supermen got no manners. They never wave back.”
Mrs. Skinner, the secretary, stood awkwardly in the entrance to the sheriff’s office. “They’re here, Sheriff Haley.” She looked anxiously at her notes. “The New York reporter, Mendelsohn?” She frowned, checking her message. “And that Nigra organizer, Mack, Jimmy Mack.”
“Well, send them in, Hilda.” Haley smiled at her discomfort. “Not armed, are they?” When he noted her wide-eyed concern, he said. “Not to worry Hilda. Assassins don’t make appointments first.”
With affection, he watched her scuttle back to her office where Jimmy and Mendelsohn waited. He settled back in his chair at his desk. Hilda Skinner. She’d been with him at Shiloh High in ’39 when he was coaching the football team and she was leader of the Pep Squad. And when he got back from the Pacific and got elected sheriff, she’d been the first one he hired. He chuckled, remembering how many years it took before she stopped calling him “coach.”
Jimmy Mack in his dark glasses entered and Mendelsohn followed. “Come on in and sit down,” said Haley. “Mrs. Skinner told me you had called and wanted to meet. Seemed like a good idea because Mack and I have seen each other about everywhere in Shiloh and we haven’t spoken before.” He turned to face the reporter. “You must be Mendelsohn, from New York. Newsweek? Why don’t you tell me what you have in mind?”
“Not me,” Ted said. “I think that you should be talking with Mr. Mack. He’s the one with questions. I’m just a reporter.”
Haley reddened, noting the rebuke, but nodded. “Mack?”
“I’m director of the Shiloh group that came here to help Negroes organize to get the vote, part of SNCC. I’ve come because I think the non-violent volunteers I brought here are going to be violently harassed at our first countywide organizing meeting. I’m hoping that you can help us avoid that.”
“Have you been harassed down here,
