Thrown-away Child

King who at the time before they went and gunned him down was thinking about Vietnam where we went and birthed a whole mother-lode of thrown-aways —
    As I have walked among the desperate, rejected and angry young men, I have told them that Molotov cocktails and rifles would not solve their problems. They asked if our own nation wasn’t using massive doses of violence to solve its problems, to bring about the changes it wanted. Their questions hit home, and I knew that I could never again raise my voice against the violence of the oppressed in the ghettos without having first spoken clearly about the greatest purveyor of violence in the world today—my own government. Violence is refusing to give up privileges and pleasures that come from immense profits. Violence is when machines and computers, profits and property rights are considered more important than people. Violence is a nation approaching spiritual death, a nation that continues year after year to spend more money on Military defense than on programs of social uplift —
    Oh my but it does my sorry heart good to read a man like that. Dr. King is one dead man stronger than ten thousand live men. Dr. King I swear he sound just like Uncle Willis used to talk when he get good and righteous
    That first time I see Clete up to Shug’s, I tell him what I read about childrens roaming streets, and Dr. King and all. He listen to me careful-like.
    Then Cletus he say — Don’t matter, though, they done killed the head nigger. Now they got them a plan for us... Oh my gawd in heaven, they sure got them a plan.
     
    Slap!
    As if she had just drunk a whole pot of Mama’s strong coffee, Ruby’s head was clear of the fog of passing time and wanton forgetfulness. Suddenly one event connected with another, one person’s story to another, all of it constituting an avalanche of meaning.
    Daddy... Perry... the dirt lane... real estate... mutants, orphans, and misfits...
    All of it and all of them. Did Hock know?
    Ruby reached down to the floor beside the bed and collected the Big Chief notebooks in her arms. Then she rose and went to the smaller bedroom, where she put away the notebooks in her suitcase, for safekeeping.
    She ran downstairs to the kitchen, her heart in her throat. She took the New Orleans telephone directory out from the cupboard where Mama always kept it and searched for a number.
    She would have dialed that number. But an incoming call beat her to the punch.
    “What? Hello?”
    “Hey now—that you, Ruby?”
    “My Gosh! Claude?”
    “Yeah, it’s me.” Claude Bougart paused. He could hear Ruby’s strained breathing. “That’s some way to answer a telephone. What’s got you all jitters, girl?”
    “Is my husband with you?”
    “What makes you ask?“
    “Have you seen him? Please don’t fool with me, Claude.”
    “Well now, earlier this morning we hooked up. I’m looking for him again. Thought he might be back there by now.”
    “What do you want with him?”
    “Ruby, now you just tell him we got us another incident. You tell him—”
    “I said don’t mess with me.” Ruby was shaking but her voice did not betray this. “What have you got?“
    “Lot of boys been killed this time.”
    “You’re calling from the scene? You want Hock to come join you?”
    “Sound like you been through the drill before.“
    “I’m a tin wife.”
    Ruby took some comfort in this crisp back-and-forth with Claude. It was in direct contrast with the vague and roiling discomfort washing over her again. Again her mouth felt sour, her stomach faring no better.
    “You remember Di Moin Qui Vous Laimein?” Claude asked.
    “Tell me who you love.”
    “Don’t you be messing with me.”
    “Oh, no ... I don’t mean.” Ruby touched her forehead, surprised by how warm and moist she was. “Come on now, Claude. I mean Di Moin, the old rhythm-and-blues joint up past Nicholls wharf.“
    “Yeah, that’s it. They set up a command post there. Tell your husband it’s bad. Tell him I can’t afford to be around to make him introductions.”
    “He’s going to understand that?”
    “The man ain’t slow as most white people I know in my time.”
     

THIRTY-TWO

     
    “Sweet suffering Jesus! Stinks like a pool of goat piss from hell inside of there.” The sergeant stopped talking to let fly a big looge of tobacco spit. “Being a distinguished visitor, Detective, we best strap you up with the proper protection.”
    The sergeant—one Lavond LeMay—was as merry