If Albert had had time to realize anything, he would have realized that he could not control himself. He was on top of James before the man had a chance to lift his hand toward Tom’s open palm, where the quarter dollar awaited him. Albert knocked James over instead, clutched his hands around the man’s throat, and said something along the lines of “This damned nigger thinks we’re playing.”
He didn’t realize that he might have made a mistake until he felt James’s fingers close around his wrists and all but pry his hands from around his neck. Albert straddled James’s chest, and as he watched he saw his own hands be lifted as if they were doll’s hands. The axe lay only a few feet to Albert’s left, and he considered struggling free of James’s grasp and lunging toward the axe. Then he remembered his pistol.
Albert freed one of his hands and unholstered his gun and pointed it at James’s face. Both of them were panting now, staring one another in the eyes. Albert suddenly found himself stone-cold sober, as if he’d awakened from a drunken stupor unable to remember how he’d come to be sitting atop a colored man’s chest with a gun in his hand.
Tom crouched down beside them and lay the quarter over James’s left eye. The right eye watched Albert and Tom, and as it shifted from Albert’s face to Tom’s, Albert watched the quarter jump with each flick of the eye. Tom held a second quarter in his hand and raised it so that James could see it.
“Now, I’d hate to have to use this quarter for your other eye,” he said, “because that would mean that you wouldn’t be getting to spend it. You understand?”
James nodded his head, looked from the quarter to the barrel of Albert’s gun.
“A little bit ago I asked you for names,” Tom said, “and you don’t want me to have to ask you something I’ve already asked you.”
“Ella,” James said. He swallowed hard, looked over at Tom. The quarter over his left eye trembled slightly. “That’s all I remember. One of the white ladies was named Ella.”
“That’s all you remember?” Tom asked.
“Yes, sir,” James said.
Tom sighed. He looked over at Albert.
“I don’t think that’s going to be good enough,” he said. “I reckon you’re going to have to shoot him.”
Tom made to stand, and when he did James all but lifted his hand and reached for him.
“Tonight,” James said.
“What about tonight?”
“They going to vote,” James said. “They going to vote to let colored in the union. Tonight.”
“Tonight?” Tom asked.
James nodded his head. His breathing slowed.
Tom stood, tossed the quarter onto James’s chest. It bounced off and disappeared into the dark grass. James lay there without moving, the first quarter still covering his left eye. Albert climbed off him, stood, holstered his pistol. He looked down at the man, wondered how long he’d lay there without moving once they left.
“You can go on and get up,” Tom said. “Get back to your wood chopping.” He looked at Albert, smiled. “We’ve got to settle up inside, Roach, get down to Loray in time to cast our vote.”
Albert and Tom didn’t even make it to Loray Street before they encountered a crowd of strikers marching on a picket line in front of the mill. The people hoisted signs and placards over their heads, and Albert could hear them chanting slogans. Lights burned inside the mill, casting a greenish glow on the street in front of it, and Albert saw men and women leaning from windows inside Loray to get a better look at the crowd in front of the mill.
Adrenaline coursed through his body. He felt his heart pound against his ribs and he almost forgot that he’d been drunk all night. He looked at the hand that had pulled his pistol and held it to the colored man’s face just minutes earlier. The weight of the gun was still there.
“Pull over,” Albert said. He pointed to the curb opposite the mill. “Pull over,” he said again, but Tom kept driving.
“We can’t park near that shit,” Tom said. “Last thing we need is somebody spotting my auto.”
“It don’t matter,” Albert said. “This is police business. Some nigger from New York running around with white women.”
Tom pulled a U-turn and parked along the curb a few blocks west of the mill. He killed the engine, looked at Albert.
“You ain’t the police,” he said. “Not until Chief takes you off suspension.” His eyes fell to Albert’s waist. “Give me that gun.”
Albert laughed. “You ain’t serious.”
“I am,” Tom said. “Hand it over. I ain’t taking the rap if you go out there and shoot somebody, drinking like you’ve been.”
“You’ve been drinking too,” Albert said.
“But I ain’t on the outs with the chief. You are. So hand it over.”
Albert removed his pistol from the holster and handed it to Tom. Tom leaned his chest against the steering wheel and tucked the pistol into the back of his pants waist.
“I thought we were friends,” Albert said.
“We are,” Tom said. “That’s why I’m taking your gun.”
Being there on the sidewalk on this warm night while something like a parade raged up the street before him reminded Albert of the afternoon they’d just spent in Charlotte, how he’d stood on a sidewalk just like this one and wished he were a better man than he was. He was drunk then and he was drunk now, but in Charlotte at least he’d had his pistol.
The chanting and cheers grew louder as they approached the crowd. Automobiles headed east and west rolled past on Franklin Avenue, honking their horns and flashing their lights, people leaning from the windows and taunting the strikers as they passed. Albert saw mostly women of varying ages, but there were a few men, boys really, walking alongside the women. He looked for weapons, but he knew that most of the men were cowards and refused to picket without their rifles, choosing instead to stay close to the headquarters where Fred Beal allowed them to stay armed.
“Let’s split up,” Tom said. “I’ll start at the mill and head north. You start up north on Loray Street, and we’ll meet in the middle. You see any niggers, you tell them you’re police, and you hold them there. There hasn’t been any coloreds at a one of these rallies, so there shouldn’t be any here tonight.”
Albert didn’t say anything. He just stared out at the crowd, some of whom had started to look their way. He and Tom didn’t look like police officers, but it was clear they didn’t belong here with this ragtag group.
“You hear me?” Tom said. “Split up.”
“I’d feel better about this if I had my pistol,” Albert said.
“You’ll get it back when we’re done,” Tom said. “Ain’t no reason to worry about it until then. You ain’t going to miss it.” He walked off down the sidewalk and disappeared into the crowd. Albert saw a few of the strikers note Tom’s arrival among them.
Albert crossed to the other side of Franklin and walked along the storefronts toward Loray Street, where the edge of the crowd gave way to the open road that led to the train tracks and the tent colony and strikers’ headquarters just beyond it. He felt small and lost among this mass of people, all of them shouting and marching. He felt like he didn’t belong to anything.
“Pig!” someone yelled. “Get out of here, pig!”
Albert looked in the direction of the voice and saw a young woman holding a sign, her face pinched in anger. She spit at him, but he was too far away for it to touch him.