Sleepy hadn’t been sure what the old man and his son-in-law were up to at first, not even after he saw the big man put on the heavy backpack and walk into the newspaper office. But Sleepy recognized the deep red glow coming from the shattered door well enough. He’d seen that same glow on the night they burned out Albert Norris. A small crowd had gathered to watch the landmark shop collapse into itself while the firemen vainly played their hoses over the ruins, and Sleepy had been among them.
A lot of grown men and boys had cried that week. Others had cussed a friend, punched a stranger, or spat in some cracker’s mashed potatoes before they served his plate. But despite this anger, a deep and shameful fear had been born in the hearts of many black men in the parish that night. That fear had ultimately driven Sleepy away, all the way to Detroit. For if the Klan could kill a respected businessman like Albert Norris and get away with it, what chance did he have?
Sleepy thought about Albert as he watched the red glow rising in the Beacon’s door. Albert had given Sleepy his nickname because of the perpetual haze in his eyes—a haze induced by the reefer Sleepy and his cousins regularly ferried up from their auntie’s house in New Orleans. Sleepy had always wanted to work for Albert, like Pooky did, but Albert didn’t tolerate drug use among his employees, even though it was epidemic among the musicians he served. Still, Sleepy had loved the old man (“old” to the boy he’d been then, anyway—Sleepy was now ten years older than Albert had been when he died). Somehow, Albert had sensed that Sleepy had a tough home life, and always had a kind word for him. He’d also made sure that Sleepy stayed employed as a musician, usually with road bands.
When he wasn’t on the road, Sleepy had lived part of the year in New Orleans and part over in Wisner, a few miles from Ferriday, but he often slept in the attic of a cousin who lived near Albert’s store. That was where he’d been on the night he heard the explosion that changed his life. Running out into the empty road, he’d seen three white men leap from the window of the burning store. One had been the man whose name was now painted on the door of the truck parked in front of the burning newspaper building. In 1964, talking to the police was not an option for a black boy, and Sleepy had left town as soon as he could. But not before the next afternoon, when Pooky had come to him wild-eyed with terror, crying that the Klan was combing the parish for him with dogs. Sleepy had known Pooky was fooling with a white girl, and he’d warned him about it, but Pooky wouldn’t listen. The fool had * on the brain and couldn’t think straight. And back in those days, white * was a powerful drug—a lot more powerful than the weed Pooky filched from Sleepy’s stash when he thought his friend wasn’t looking.
The furnace glow from the Beacon’s door pulled Sleepy’s gaze like the fires of hell. Waves of heat distorted the air above the building. Why are they doing this? he wondered. They already stabbed poor Henry Sexton. Guilt made Sleepy squirm in the seat of his truck. He knew the reporter had been looking all over the parish for him. He thanked God Pooky’s mother had kept her promise and held his name back.
Sleepy looked down at his cell phone and thought about dialing 911. It would be so easy. All he’d have to do was report that a Royal Oil truck had smashed open the door of the Beacon, and some men had set the building on fire. He wouldn’t even have to mention Old Man Royal. But he could …
“And then what?” Sleepy wondered aloud. He could still see the hawk-eyed white devil he’d known as a boy. And if Brody Royal could order a hit on a famous white reporter like Henry Sexton—even today—what chance did a retired electrician’s helper have?
“Ain’t nothing changed down here,” Sleepy mumbled. “That motherfucker still owns this town. That’s why he’s burnin’ up the newspaper like he don’t care who comes along. He don’t. He don’t have to.”
At bottom, this was the reason Sleepy hadn’t contacted Henry Sexton. Because in spite of all the progress since the bad old days, nobody could protect you from bastards like Brody Royal. Henry Sexton couldn’t even protect himself. Oh, they’d sing your praises at your funeral for doing the noble thing, but you’d still be dead.
Sleepy touched the baseball card he’d taped to his dashboard before driving down from Michigan. The card bore the image of Gates Brown, one of the black stars of the 1968 Detroit Tigers team, which had won the World Series. Sleepy had actually made it to three of those games, and not much in life had come close to the joy he’d felt there. Feeling a part of that season was what had finally enabled him to tolerate living in the North. Ever since, he’d carried the Gates Brown card as a good luck charm, and it had often brought him peace during tough times.
“I could throw my cell phone in the river,” he thought aloud. “After I called 911.”
Then Sleepy realized that he knew too little about technology to feel safe even if he did that. Brody Royal probably knew people who could backtrack a 911 phone call and tell him exactly who’d made it. Sleepy was still arguing with himself when Royal stumbled out of the burning building and leaned against the side of the truck. The sight of the old man in such a vulnerable position made Sleepy want to drive down the street and squash him between the two trucks. His hand was rising to his ignition key when Royal’s son-in-law ran out of the building and pulled off his heavy backpack. Sliding down low in the seat, Sleepy watched the two men from beneath the arc of his steering wheel until the truck backed away from the burgeoning fire and disappeared down the dark street.
With shaking hands, Sleepy cranked his own truck and followed them.
CHAPTER 49