Byrd Man — Roleplayer Guild

Mike Norman plopped down on one of the wooden chairs beside John's kitchen table and looked up at his grandson, squinting. "You got any beer?"

"Not for you," John said coldly. "Smells to me like you've had your share tonight."

"You ain't my daddy," he grumbled. 

John opened the fridge and pulled out a beer. He popped the top and sat down at the other chair at the kitchen table."Since I'm not kicking your ass and beating your momma, I'd say that's a pretty safe bet I'm not your daddy. How'd you get in here?"

"Pulled my car around back and jimmied the back door," Mike said proudly. "Did it in thirty seconds. Goddamn door wasn't even deadbolted."

"That's my fault. I guess I never expected an old sot like you would darken my door."

Mike silently stewed. John could tell from the look on his face that he was trying to push his drunken brain to conjure up a comeback. Failing, he just shook his head and leaned forward on a shaky elbow, his bony right index finger stretched out and pointing at John.

"I'm here doing you a favor, boy."

"Not that I'm not grateful for your charity," said John, "but I'm not. Probably be best for all of both of us if you stated your business and got the fuck out of here as fast as your legs can carry you."

"Goddammit," Mike roared, slapping the table with his hands. "You best watch your fucking mouth, boy! You know who you're talking to?"

"Yeah," John said with a nod. "An old drunk who can't stand the fact nobody gives a goddamn about him anymore."

Mike stared at John through narrow slits and leaned forward on the table to stare harder. "You think you're so much better than me, don't you?"

"It's more of a fact than an opinion."

"Well," he said. "You ain't. You may think you're hot shit because you grow a little pot. But who the fuck do you work for? Billy goddamn Brown! Think of all the shit he's done to our family. Your uncles-- my brothers -- and your own goddamn daddy! You're fucking trash. Just like your father, and me, and my daddy, and his daddy. "

John stared back at his grandad, not wanting to give the son of a bitch the satisfaction of looking away. "You got a minute to tell me what you came here for, old man. Take too long and I will beat you half to death. I am not afraid to kick an old man's ass"

"Fine," he said, holding his hands up. "Fine, I'll say my peace. I ran into Mary Johnson at the store earlier today. She said you were asking about Carol. A lot of folks said you been asking around about her and some tweaker she was fucking. Just a few days after some sheriff boys was asking about them. Words getting around town that you're working for the cops. Jed came to see me too and he wasn't too pleased."

"Happen to ask him if he knew where Carol was?" John asked.

"No, but he said you'd do well to stop asking about her. Wanted me to come over here and talk some sense to you."

"I got a job to do," John said with a shrug. "It's either find this meth head or go to jail for a long fucking time. I'm sure you can understand that, can't you? I mean, you being such a force in Pickett County for so long... pick the battles you can win and run away from the ones you can't. That's why you're still standing and all those brothers of yours are in the ground, right?"

"Look," he sneered. "I don't give a good goddamn what you think about me, but think about what Jed said, alright? That man you don't fuck around with. The guy he works for you especially don't fuck around with. I know the two of us have had our differences--"

"Like how I always wanted something to do with my grandpa, but he felt apparently different?"

"You may not believe it, boy, but me staying the fuck away from you was the best thing I ever did for you."

"I'm not your boy," John spat. "And asshole behavior is asshole behavior any way you try to square it."

"Same with your daddy," Mike said without acknowledging John's insult. "He died before he had a real chance to fuck your life up."

"Get the hell out now," John said quietly. 

Mike stared at John and tried to read his face for a bluff. John brought both hands down on the table, slamming his big fists against the table. The blow caused Mike to jump from his seat. "NOW, GODDAMMIT!"

"You asshole," Mike said, standing. "Just remember what I said, stay the fuck away from Jed and his girl, alright?"

Mike scurried out the kitchen and towards the back door. John sat there, slugging down his open and beer and listening to his grandfather's car stutter a few times before it turned over. He stayed seated at the kitchen table while the car pulled out the backyard and left. He simmered in the darkness of early evening. Ever since John could remember, the son of a bitch had been taking his anger out on him. Mike Norman always felt hurt that John ended up working for Billy, the man who took everything he had from him.

John sat at the table in silence and contemplated his next move. Mike was an asshole, but he was rarely a liar. There's no way in hell he would have made up that story just to sling more abuse John's way tonight. Jed had talked to him sometime today. And he had told Mike to give him a message that was more like a warning. Good, John thought. That meant he was starting to get somewhere. Also meant that there could be more to this piece of shit job than he first thought.

It was ten past nine. This time of night, Jed had to be only one place: Ray's. John stood up from the table and went into his bedroom. He pulled the metal box from under the bed and opened it. Inside was a black Colt 1911 with brown grips inside a holster. John checked to make sure there was a full clip in it, double-checked that the safety was on, and then tucked the holster into the small of his back so that his shirt and jacket covered it.

It wasn't often that he armed myself, he got by on rep alone, but he'd much rather have it and not need it than to need it and not have it. John had been through a few rough situations since he started growing and dealing, but most of them he got out of without much bloodshed. If he was going to deal with an already pissed off Jed, he was certainly bringing backup. John checked to make sure the gun was secure one last time before he headed for the door and towards the trouble that was waiting for him outside.

Boston

Elliot Shaw felt out of place in the swanky restaurant. The headwaiter brought him in through the back. Elliot walked through the kitchen in the waiter's wake. Italians chattered in their native tongue while music blasted out a radio above the stove. A steak sizzled in a pan of oil. Fire flared by Elliot's shoulder. He flinched while the Italians laughed and said something to him he couldn't understand. The waiter shot them a look and reeled off a stream of words in Italian. He apologized to Elliot and pushed through the kitchen door into the rear dining area.

The restaurant was made up to look like the old dining cars trains had. Big booths, small tables, cheap steak and watered down hooch all for the low low price of twenty bucks a plate. Liam Kane sat in a booth in the rear, his head down and in his plate. The waiter led Elliot to the booth. Kane looked up at him and gnoshed a rare porterhouse with a baked potato and asparagus. A buck fifty soaking wet and he could put away amounts of food that would make a fat man blush. Off to the side of the plate sat a tumbler of scotch. Food crumbs flaked his expensive suit. The white shirt collar stained with steak sauce. Elliot did the math. It would take him at least four well paying jobs to buy a suit like that. His own outfit, a checkered sports jacket and white shirt with a blue tie and matching pants, had been glommed from a department store.

This year marked Elliot Shaw's sixth as a private investigator. He worked for members of the Commonwealth's elite through their high-priced lawyers. He was used to sites like the one in front of him, a man gorging himself on a steak that very few could afford. While the rich and powerful made their messes, guys like Elliot Shaw were the ones that they always called when they needed them cleaned up. The corridors of power were filled with men like him, men who stood just off to the side with supressor fitted pistols.

"Mr. Shaw," Kane said with a mouth full of food.

"Councilman Kane."

The waiter left quickly. Elliot sat and watched Kane continue eating. His eyes darted towards the scotch. The sight made his mouth water. Two years since his last drink and the shit still smelled like heaven. Kane wiped his mouth and finally took a break from the food.

"Thank you for meeting me here today. Do you want something to eat? Something to drink?"

"I'll pass."

Kane nodded and dug into his baked potato. 

"Morty Hartman at Hartman-Leverett turned me on to you. He said you've done good work for the Kennedy family in the past. You made your bones as a detective, yes?" Kane asked between bites. "A BPD sergeant before you became a gumshoe. Can you tell me why I wanted to meet you here today?"

Elliot sat up and adjusted his tie. He focused on the slop on Kane's plate while he spoke. Elliott didn't want to meet his gaze, he was afraid of what he might say or do at the sight of the man's smug little face.

"You need something done quietly. If you're reaching out to me then you know my reputation. I get things done with no muss and no fuss. I know enough about you to know that you're upwardly mobile, councilman. I'd say you're eying a new job down the line, either mayor of Boston or something in the state legislature. Whatever it is that's plaguing you, it's enough of a problem to where you have to call in outside help and not get some BPD goons to help you with it. You want whatever it is handled fast and with as little noise as possible."

Kane nodded slowly, biting a piece of steak and slowly savoring its taste. When he was done, the man wiped blood from his lips with a cloth napkin.

"Right on all accounts. '82 will be an election year and I plan to run for the state Senate. From there who knows where I land up? There are a lot of people out there interested in getting in the Liam Kane business, Mr. Shaw, and me owing you is something I'm sure you'll appreciate."

"Where do I come in?" Elliot asked. "Want me to be your running mate? I imagine a Kane/Shaw ticket in '84 could at least win Massachusetts."

"Funny," said Kane. "Morty said you were funny. No, I need you to find someone for me?"

Elliot raised an eyebrow. "Who? Your father? Long lost cousin? An illegitimate son you put up for adoption?"

"Nothing that sexy. It's actually an employee of mine. Jane Wilson is part of my office's secretarial staff. She's been missing for two days now."

"And this doesn't go to the BPD why?"

Kane flashed a tight smile. "She went missing shortly after some very sensitive documents missing from my office. I have good reason to believe Miss Wilson took them. If those documents fall into the wrong hands.."

"Then the Liam Kane business will be a short lived endeavor. It's not about finding your secretary, right? To hell with her as long as I get those documents back."

"You got it."

Elliot started to open his mouth before Kane silenced him by pulling out a wad of bills. He peeled off two one hundred dollar bills before peeling off a third.

"Tell me when, Mr. Shaw."

Elliot said when after Kane got to the ninth bill. The city councilman calmly put his wad of bills up and slid the nine hundred dollars across the table to him. He tucked the money into his jacket pocket.

"Mr. Kane, you have got yourself a PI."

"That's for the first week. More forthcoming upon your successful return of those files."

Kane winked.

"By any means necessary, Mr. Shaw."

*****

Detroit

Billy Carter stepped into the batter's box and choked up on his bat. Eight teenage black boys covered the baseball diamond at all the positions. Clark Johnson stood on the mound, his lanky arms down by his side and the worn old cowhide ball in his left hand. Petey Harris squatted behind Billy and slapped a chubby fist into the catcher's mitt.

Every evening about twenty of them gathered to play ball, enough for two teams of nine and a few bench players. They all knew each other from around the neighborhood, all of them were between the ages of twelve and eighteen. Joe Leroy out in centerfield was about to turn nineteen and was the oldest by at least six months. Most of them worked jobs, having dropped out of the local high schools from lack of interest or the need to work and help support their families. Billy was part of the latter. He'd turn seventeen back in May and was already an old hand down at the machine shop where he ran a lathe. He made shit pay and worked from six to six, but he was the oldest of five brothers and sisters and was expected to help his mother and father. 

"C'mon, Clark," Petey said with a heehawing laugh. "Burn his ass up."

"The only thing about to burn is the soles of my shoes," said Billy. "You sumbitches ain't ever seen a man run like me."

Clark went into his windup. Billy felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up as Clark's long left arm snapped forward like a rubber band. The old leather ball was hurling towards Petey's mitt so fast the stitches were a blur of color. 

The next thing Billy felt was the delicious tingle that ran from his hands and up his arms. The vibration from the bat making solid contact with the ball. He saw the thing hurtling towards the outfield in a low line drive before he turned towards first and took off. Billy was shorter than average, which was why his speed surprised so many people. The secret was that he had a short torso, but long and spindly legs that chewed up baselines like a fat man chewed up bacon. 

The ball landed in the outfield as Billy was rounding first. Joe Leroy was upon it like lightning. He took his momentum from running up on it and put it in his throw to second. Billy was halfway to second when Joe let the ball fly. Mike Maxwell was already on second, watching the ball rocket towards his glove while keeping track of Billy out the corner of his eye. Billy knew it was going to be close. He went into second diving head first. Dirt filled his eyes as he slid towards the bag. The snap of the glove followed the feel of his chest hitting the bag, followed a micro second later by Mike's tag on his bag. Too late.

"What'd I say," Billy shouted as he stood up and brushed the dirt from his chest. "The boy is just too damn fast for his good."

"And his mouth is too damn loud for his own good," Devo Baker said from third base. 

"Keep talking, Devo," Billy said with a wide grin. "I'm coming for yo ass next. I'm about to show you up like I showed Mike up."

"Try it, Negro," Devo snapped back. "And suffer the motherfucking consequences."

Dougie Turman came up to bat now. Dougie worked at a stockyard near the outskirts of town, shoveling cow shit and throwing huge bales of hay for ten hours a day. The work made Dougie's muscles ripped. Of all the kids playing, Dougie was the biggest home run threat among them.

Billy took a wide lead as Clark got set. A quick snap of Clark's head back to second sent Billy sliding back into to the base to avoid a quick tag from Mike. Clark went back to face the batter's box and Billy took another long lead. Clark, trying to throw fast but not trying to throw something Dougie could hit, tossed a ball into the dirt at Petey's feet. Billy was headed to third halfway through Clark's throwing motion. Petey bobbled the ball and Billy went into third standing upright. 

"Sorry, Devo," Billy said with a wink. "Didn't get a chance to show you up. Petey saw to that."

Devo rolled his eyes and went back to covering third.

"Coming for you, Petey," Billy called out from third. "You bobble that damn ball again, and I'll be able to take my time stealing home."

"Fuck you, Billy," Petey barked. "Always gotta take this shit too seriously."

Billy smiled and started to take his lead. It was true what Petey said and he realized it. Most of them were just looking to have fun and bullshit in the few hours of daylight they had left when they got done with work. Billy always had fun, but it was always more fun when he won. He needed to be the best. He worked for twelve hours a day in a shop where he was the only black man, making half pay for doing the same job the other white men at the shop did. 

Detroit wasn't Mississippi, but it wasn't much better. About two miles away from their sandlot was a wall the decent white people of Detroit erected to keep the black people from spreading into their neighborhoods. They weren't as outward with their hate like the people in the south, but they hated just as much. They couched their hate in economics and used words like 'self-improvement' and 'earn their share.' For guys like Billy, they had to work twice as hard to earn half as much as white people. That was why he played so fiercely. Out here on the diamond, a strike was a strike and a steal was a steal. He could out hit, out run, and out throw any white man this side of the Tigers and he knew it. He needed to make sure everyone else knew as well.

Clark tossed Dougie a fastball high and tight. Billy was halfway down the baseline and headed towards home when Dougie made solid contact. What looked like a home run ball sailed to the right at the last minute and went foul. The game took a five-minute break while the boy in right field dug through the field beside the sandlot to find the ball. When they came back, the count was 1-1 and Clark prepared to wind up. Billy knew the heat was coming, so that's why was already running.

Another fastball scorched towards Petey's mitt. It was low and bounced off the plate and Petey awkwardly tried to grab at the ball. Dougie jumped out of the way when he saw Billy thundering down the baseline. He was almost to home plate when Petey got a firm handle on the ball and tried to block the plate with his chunky body. Billy kept going and prepared his body for the collision that was about to happen.

Petey flew back from the force of Billy's body slamming into his. Billy bounced away and went sideways, falling into the dirt beside home plate. He reached out and slapped a dirty hand on the plate as Petey smacked into the ground and cried out in pain. Billy saw the baseball rolling past him and coming to rest in the dirt. He'd knocked the ball loose from Petey's mitt. He was safe.

"Goddamn," Petey said between sobs. "I fucked my shoulder up."

Billy stood and brushed himself off, looking down at Petey as he held his arm and began to cry.

--

Billy sat in the grass beside the sandlot by himself. He was alone. Everyone else rushed off to take Petey to the doctor. He thought about going but thought better of it at the last minute. Crickets chirped as dusk was giving way to early evening. 

"He dislocated his shoulder," Clark Johnson said as he walked through the field towards Billy. "Doc popped it back into place, but it's at least gonna take a few weeks to heal right. Might not ever be right again."

"Shit," Billy said softly. "I never meant anything by it."

"He knows," Clark said as he sat down beside Billy. "We all know. That's just how you are."

The two of them let the silence envelope them for several minutes as what was left of the daylight disappeared and the stars started to show up in the sky one by one. Billy tucked his legs under his chin and sat there, lost in thought.

"I'm going down to Ohio," Clark said after a few more minutes of silence.

"What's down in Ohio?"

"Jobs. Good paying jobs. Down in Toledo, there's supposed to be an entire industry that's in need of workers. I weld over at Spartan Tool, you know, but old John is looking to sell his business. They're supposed to have unions with plenty of room for black men in them down in Toledo. I bet I can find a nice union job down there, work as an apprentice welder and get all kinds of money. Would you wanna go, Billy?"

"Why?" Billy asked lazily. "Don't wanna be no welder, don't wanna to be in no union."

"But you want to play ball right? They got a few minor league ball teams down in Ohio, one right in Toledo. You got the talent to at least make a team and they don't have many qualms about negroes playing with white folks like some of the ones around here."

"Why?" Billy asked again. "Why you pick me, Clark?"

"Because I see that look your eyes that I see in my eyes every time I look in the mirror. You're tired of the same shit every day. Tired of being in a rut you don't know how to get out of. You don't want to so much go somewhere, as you want to do something. Come with me to Ohio and we'll be doing something."

Clark laughed and Billy thought he saw a wide smile in the dark.

"Plus, I get you out of Detroit before you end up killing one of them fools we play ball with."

Billy laughed and shook his head.

"When were you thinking of going?"

"Soon as I can get the money put together. Two men traveling instead of two makes it cheaper. What do you think?"

Billy thought about what Clark said, about wanting something more. He also thought about his family, his parents and brothers and sisters. They needed support... but Hank and David were a few years younger than Billy and almost ready to go to work. They could find work and help the folks better, with two of them working instead of just him. He knew that, even as young as he was, this may be his last chance to make a break before something like a woman and children had him working in that machine shop until he was gray-headed and stooped shoulder. Clark was right. He wanted something more, and now he had at least an opportunity for that to happen.

"I think I'd like to see Ohio."

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