Bad Boy Brawly Brown

— 19 —

I put on work clothes so that I’d blend in with the crowd at Mariah’s Doughnuts and Deli.

I made it in twenty-five minutes, my car rattling now and again along the way.

Strong wasn’t there when I arrived. But the large room was half filled with workmen and — women smoking cigarettes and downing coffee.

It was way down in the black neighborhood, but the room was filled with all the races of L.A. Black and white, yellow and brown. All sitting together and talking. Norwegian, Nigerian, and Nipponese derivatives all speaking the same language and getting along just fine.

“Coffee,” I said to Bingham, the nighttime counterman at Mariah’s.

“How you want it, Easy?”

“Black as it gets.”

He went to fill my order and I let my eyes roll over the three dozen or so late-night workers. The nearby Goodyear plant ran twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year. The people who worked there had simple, straight-ahead lives. They got up an hour and a half before they were supposed to be at work, then they worked eight hours, and maybe a little overtime. They were citizens of a nation that had won the major wars of the century and now they were enjoying the fruits of the victors: mindless labor and enough of anything they wanted to buy.

Everyone in the room looked as though they belonged there. No one was looking at me, and no one was looking away.

I sat at a small table near the cash register and guzzled the strong coffee. Every word spoken or cup banged down exploded in my ears. My fingertips were numb, and if I moved my head too fast, my vision shook a bit.

After my third cup of coffee things began to settle down. Strong came in the front door at 4:19 and strode up to my table. He had tried to dress for the occasion, wearing black slacks and a square-cut dark blue shirt with orange circles around the hem. But his head was too elegant for the clothes, and the clothes were too sporty for the twenty-four-hour diner.

Strong would have had a hard time fitting in anywhere he was not the center of attention.

“Coffee?” I asked him.

I gestured at Bingham, who called a waiter from the back to bring a plate of hot beignets and two fresh cups of coffee.

“You hung up on me,” Strong said.

“You woke me out of a sound sleep.”

The standoff lasted until after the young man had delivered our breakfast.

“I have to talk to you, Rawlins,” he said.

“That’s why I’m here.”

“But not here. There’s too many ears around here.”

“Here is where they ain’t gonna be listenin’, man,” I said, letting my country upbringing soak each word. “Here is where people mind their own business. They don’t care about us.”

Strong had a long face with deep, soulful eyes. He used those eyes on me.

“Are you a race man, Mr. Rawlins?”

“I can run if I have to,” I said.

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I know what you mean. You one’a them better-than-thou kinda Negroes tryin’ to explain everything by your own book. But I’m just a everyday black man, doin’ the best I can in a world where the white man’s de facto king. I got me a house with a tree growin’ in the front yard. It’s my tree; I could cut it down if I wanted to, but even still you cain’t call it a black man’s tree. It’s just pine.”

I had given him everything he needed to figure me out. If Strong was smart enough to read me, then I’d have to take him seriously; if not — well, I’d see.

His rubbed his fingers across his lips, digesting my words. He stared even more deeply into my eyes.

Then he smiled. Grinned.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m not trying to convert you. I just wanted to know where you stand in relation to the First Men.”

“Next question,” I said.

“What do you have to do with Brawly Brown?”

“I’m looking for him. For his mother, like I said.”

“Is that all?”

Strong was taller than I was and heavier by thirty pounds. His question had the hint of a threat in it. But I wasn’t afraid.

“This is a waste of time,” I said.

I sat back and bit into one of the best beignets I’d ever tasted.

“I’m worried about Brawly,” Strong said.

“How’s that?” I asked.

“I believe that he’s part of a radical fringe in Xavier’s group. Despite the name, the Urban Revolutionary Party is a cultural organization, Mr. Rawlins. They want to have better education for our children, to bring the proper nutrition and political clout to the neighborhood. But some of our youngsters aren’t patient with the process. They’re angry and want to lash out. I believe that Brawly is part of that element.”

“How’d you get my number, Mr. Strong?”

“I got it from Tina,” he said.

“I didn’t give Tina my number.”

“No, but you did give it to Clarissa. She went to Tina after you came to her house. She’s worried about Brawly, too.”

“She worried about his safety, and you worried ’bout what he might do to you.”

“Not to me, but to the group. You saw what the police did the other night. You know what they’re capable of. If we just get out in the street and urge people to vote, they break down our walls and put us in jail. What do you think they’d do if we formed into guerrilla squads armed to the teeth?”

“That’s what Brawly’s into?”

“I’m not sure,” Strong said with all the honesty of a hungry crocodile. “I know that they’re trying to raise money in order to buy weapons.”

“Maybe they want the money for the school,” I said.

“Don’t talk shit, man.”

“Okay. Okay,” I said. “You the one should know.”

“Why are you looking for Brawly Brown?” he asked.

“For his mother.”

In years past when I did favors for people, I lied all the time. Gave the wrong name, never admitted to what my true purposes were. As a rule, people believed my lies. This was the first time that I told the truth consistently and the result was that no one believed what I said.

“If that’s true,” Strong said, “then you had better get to Brawly and take him back home. Because the only thing he’s headed for is an early grave.”

“At least we agree on somethin’,” I said. “I would love nuthin’ better than to get Brawly into a room with his mother. But, you know, I seen that boy once — he threw me across the room and I don’t think he was even mad.”

“Maybe if I came along with you,” Strong said. “Maybe he’d listen to me.”

“You think so?”

“It’s worth a try. That Brawly’s a hothead. With him out of the picture, I might be able to reason with the rest of them. And with you there representing his mother, he just might turn around.”

From what I had seen, Brawly was more brute strength or blind hope — not so much a driving force. But what did I know? And even if my suspicions were right, that was no reason to disagree with Strong. If he was willing to help, then I was willing to let him.

“I know where he is,” Strong said.

“Where?”

“I could take you to him.”

He paid the tab and then walked me out to his car, which was parked across the street. It was an old Crown Victoria, as beautiful as the day it rolled off the production line. The radical leader was vain about his automobile. For some reason, that made me like him more.

But something was nagging at the back of my mind.

On the way I asked Strong, “Are Xavier and Brawly friendly?”

“I don’t really know.”

“No? I’d think the head of a group like the First Men would know all about what his people were doing and how they got along.”

“I’m not the head of the organization. As a matter of fact, I am not, strictly speaking, a member.”

“No? Then why they treat you like some kind of king?”

“I’m an activist from the Bay Area. I live in Oakland. I have a small following up there.”

“But they said that you started the First Men.”

“That was just an accolade of generosity,” he said. “I was a good friend of a man named Harney, Phillip Harney. He was their spiritual model. His aura spilled over on me.”

We drove down toward Compton. Down past Rosecrans Avenue and Alondra Boulevard not far from John’s tract of homes.

The nagging doubt stayed with me.

When the road turned to gravel I looked up at the temporary street sign, which read A227-F. It made sense to me that Brawly would hide out in some empty house near the construction site where he was employed for so long. He knew the area, the security systems, and the schedules of the workers.

That’s when it came to me. Strong didn’t strike me as the kind of man to pick up the tab for some stranger. Maybe for a pretty girl or for some political big shot, but not for some man he didn’t know and not for a fly in his soup like Brawly.

It wasn’t yet five, so the skies were still dark. We pulled up in front of a house that was almost completed. When Strong turned off the engine my heart was already pumping. I was excited, at the end of my search, but I was also leery.

“Let’s go,” Strong said.

“Go where?”

“In the house.”

“Excuse me for doubting you, Mr. Strong, but this isn’t exactly what I had in mind. I mean, why is the house so dark?”

“It’s dark because they’re not expecting us,” he said in a sensible, matter-of-fact tone.

“They who?” I asked just as reasonably, if a little more strained.

That’s when Strong produced a pistol.

“We have just a couple of questions, Mr. Rawlins.”

I held myself back from attacking the First Man. He was big, like I said. I didn’t even know if I could have taken him if he was unarmed.

“Get out,” he ordered.

I opened my door with him close behind, giving me no chance to slam the door on him or run.

We walked down what would one day be a concrete path to the house’s front door.

“Don’t get all worried, Mr. Rawlins,” Strong said as we walked. “We just want to make sure that you are what you say you are.”

I wanted to believe him, but the fact that there was no light on in the house made me doubt his intentions.

When we were halfway down that path the front door swung inward. I couldn’t see into the house but I did hear a sound: a snick and crack. Then the self-professed race man yelled, “No!”

Six months of battle on the front lines under Omar Bradley and Patton are what saved my life. I hit the ground, rolled over twice, was up on my feet running a zigzag pattern down the length of the neighboring house-to-be. Strong was right behind me, wasting strength by yelling for his life. All this while shots were being fired. Bullets whizzed past my head. Strong’s yell cut off on a sudden high note. I zigged to the right, heading for the cover of a house. I looked over where Strong had been. His body was on the ground and inert. A man was standing over him, shooting point-blank at his head. I took in that image in just a fraction of a second. Then I dove past the side of the house, jumped over a pile of rolled tar paper, and kept running hard. I heard at least two men yelling, and three shots were fired in my direction. But I kept running.

After two blocks I started wheezing. Maybe thirty feet after that I felt a terrible pain in my chest. I veered to the right and fell on the ground next to an unfinished porch. I laid flat in the shadows thrown by a security night-light, my ragged breath sounding like two vinyl records being rubbed together vigorously.

I almost lost consciousness.

After a few minutes a car drove by slowly. There was no flashing red, so I was pretty sure that it wasn’t the cops. It took at least fifteen seconds for them to roll past.

After they were gone, and I had caught my breath, I walked six blocks to the main street. By then it was a little after five and the buses were beginning their routes. The bus I boarded hadn’t gone more than four blocks when six county sheriff cars, sirens wailing and red lights flashing, sped in the opposite direction, toward the place where I’d almost died.