Read Online Nobody Said Amen by Tracy Sugarman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tracy Sugarman
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do the talkin’.”
When the trucks passed, Mendelsohn trotted across the highway, crossed the baking asphalt, and strode into the office. “Is one of you Bobby Joe Kilbrew?”
“Yeah.” The arc of the pendulum continued, ending each time with a soft plop. “I’m BJ.”
Mendelsohn grinned. “I’m the guy with the fucked-up tire. I think your sister told you about it.”
“Yeah, she did. Said this reporter from New York needed help.”
“I sure do. Hard to do my job down here without wheels.”
“Depends. What is your job down here?”
“Reporting. I write about what’s happening so folks understand the news.” He smiled at the man at the desk. “So I need wheels to go talk with people. If I wasn’t staying so close, I would have had to use a car to come talk to you.”
“Luther and me’ve seen what New York reporters write about us rednecks.” Kilbrew turned to Luther. “Ain’t that so, Luther? Lot of us don’t think those Jew reporters write very patriotic stuff.” Kilbrew carefully laid the tire iron on the desk. His eyes met Mendelsohn’s. “That what you do for work?”
“My boss sent me down to write about what’s happening in the Delta now that the Negroes are starting to try to register to vote. He never said anything about rednecks, Mr. Kilbrew.”
Kilbrew turned to Luther. “You hear that, old buddy? Reporter here says that niggers are tryin’ to register to vote.”
Luther grinned. “Naw. Sure haven’t heard about no niggers here tryin’ to vote, BJ. You sure you mean Shiloh?”
Mendelsohn turned to Kilbrew. “Were you able to patch the tube?”
“Yeah. Em said you was lookin’ for a little Christian charity, so me and Luther here fixed the tube and replaced the tire. Hope your magazine’s payin’ for your little accident. Not really charity, but it was the Christian thing to do. Comes to fifty-six fifty. Cash. Tire’s just inside the door of the garage. Luther’ll show you where.”
Mendelsohn took bills from his wallet and fished two quarters from his jeans. “I’m mighty grateful, Mr. Kilbrew.” He placed the money on the desk. “About that accident to the tire.” He looked at Luther and then at Kilbrew. “I’ve been driving for almost thirty years, and never saw a tire get into that condition. Either of you got any idea how that could happen?”
Kilbrew sat motionless, looking up at the reporter. “Yeah, I got a good idea.” His tall, lanky body unfolded from his chair and he picked up the tire iron as he stood. “Luther tells me you’re stayin’ with Deacon Williams, over in the Quarter?” His large hand holding the iron pointed toward the highway. “Accidents happen all the time over there in nigger-town. It’s a dangerous place for outsiders who don’t know about how to avoid accidents, not bein’ from nigger-town. Probably not too bright of Deacon Williams puttin’ you up there, where these kind of accidents can happen. Some people ’round here, Luther for instance, and me, just don’t understand why a good old Christian man who never had an accident before would do that for a Communist. Take that kind of chance. Got any idea how that could happen?”
Half-smiling, the reporter nodded. “Yeah, I got a good idea.” He picked up an empty beer bottle that rested on the edge of Kilbrew’s desk. Holding it by its neck, he patted his other hand. “Still had one bottle left, Mr. Kilbrew? If you got to ask the question how come Deacon Williams took me in, I guess you wouldn’t understand the answer.” His smile disappeared. “But you ought to understand this, Mr. Kilbrew. The FBI knows about my tire, and they know all about the attack on the Sojourner Chapel because I told them. It’s the kind of work a good reporter does. And they know that my magazine is worried about the continued good health of Deacon Percy Williams who lives at number 17 on Mulberry Lane in Shiloh. I made sure they got it right.” He repeated the words slowly.
When the trucks passed, Mendelsohn trotted across the highway, crossed the baking asphalt, and strode into the office. “Is one of you Bobby Joe Kilbrew?”
“Yeah.” The arc of the pendulum continued, ending each time with a soft plop. “I’m BJ.”
Mendelsohn grinned. “I’m the guy with the fucked-up tire. I think your sister told you about it.”
“Yeah, she did. Said this reporter from New York needed help.”
“I sure do. Hard to do my job down here without wheels.”
“Depends. What is your job down here?”
“Reporting. I write about what’s happening so folks understand the news.” He smiled at the man at the desk. “So I need wheels to go talk with people. If I wasn’t staying so close, I would have had to use a car to come talk to you.”
“Luther and me’ve seen what New York reporters write about us rednecks.” Kilbrew turned to Luther. “Ain’t that so, Luther? Lot of us don’t think those Jew reporters write very patriotic stuff.” Kilbrew carefully laid the tire iron on the desk. His eyes met Mendelsohn’s. “That what you do for work?”
“My boss sent me down to write about what’s happening in the Delta now that the Negroes are starting to try to register to vote. He never said anything about rednecks, Mr. Kilbrew.”
Kilbrew turned to Luther. “You hear that, old buddy? Reporter here says that niggers are tryin’ to register to vote.”
Luther grinned. “Naw. Sure haven’t heard about no niggers here tryin’ to vote, BJ. You sure you mean Shiloh?”
Mendelsohn turned to Kilbrew. “Were you able to patch the tube?”
“Yeah. Em said you was lookin’ for a little Christian charity, so me and Luther here fixed the tube and replaced the tire. Hope your magazine’s payin’ for your little accident. Not really charity, but it was the Christian thing to do. Comes to fifty-six fifty. Cash. Tire’s just inside the door of the garage. Luther’ll show you where.”
Mendelsohn took bills from his wallet and fished two quarters from his jeans. “I’m mighty grateful, Mr. Kilbrew.” He placed the money on the desk. “About that accident to the tire.” He looked at Luther and then at Kilbrew. “I’ve been driving for almost thirty years, and never saw a tire get into that condition. Either of you got any idea how that could happen?”
Kilbrew sat motionless, looking up at the reporter. “Yeah, I got a good idea.” His tall, lanky body unfolded from his chair and he picked up the tire iron as he stood. “Luther tells me you’re stayin’ with Deacon Williams, over in the Quarter?” His large hand holding the iron pointed toward the highway. “Accidents happen all the time over there in nigger-town. It’s a dangerous place for outsiders who don’t know about how to avoid accidents, not bein’ from nigger-town. Probably not too bright of Deacon Williams puttin’ you up there, where these kind of accidents can happen. Some people ’round here, Luther for instance, and me, just don’t understand why a good old Christian man who never had an accident before would do that for a Communist. Take that kind of chance. Got any idea how that could happen?”
Half-smiling, the reporter nodded. “Yeah, I got a good idea.” He picked up an empty beer bottle that rested on the edge of Kilbrew’s desk. Holding it by its neck, he patted his other hand. “Still had one bottle left, Mr. Kilbrew? If you got to ask the question how come Deacon Williams took me in, I guess you wouldn’t understand the answer.” His smile disappeared. “But you ought to understand this, Mr. Kilbrew. The FBI knows about my tire, and they know all about the attack on the Sojourner Chapel because I told them. It’s the kind of work a good reporter does. And they know that my magazine is worried about the continued good health of Deacon Percy Williams who lives at number 17 on Mulberry Lane in Shiloh. I made sure they got it right.” He repeated the words slowly.
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