2
PEEP’N TOM
Downtown Belle Chasse (pronounced bell – chase) was situated lengthwise between River Road which edged along the Mississippi River to the north, and the railroad track to the south. The town’s main street, Osage, ran from north to south – Mississippi River to the railroad track, hereby slicing the rectangular downtown into two square sections.
Osage Street met the section of track coming north from the housing and plantation populated inland and splitting into the East Railroad to the west and the West Railroad to the east. The inaccurate names bequeathed to the two sections of track must have been a joke or ignorance. Nobody owned up to it.
The heat of Louisiana in August hung thick and heavy in the air. There were several local businesses in the 12-block downtown area comprised of six blocks on the east and six on the west. In the eastern half, Jonathan Wilkinson’s Drug & General Store prominently consumed the block closest to the river on the Osage thoroughfare. His residence was on the block behind. The first-floor of his house was converted into Millie Wilkinson’s Dress Shoppe for his enterprising wife. Next door to the general store was the Plaquemines Bank, also on one whole block. The last block (abutting the West Railroad) featured Doc Miller’s two-story home and office combination, where he lived with his daughter. The locksmith’s shop shared the block. Churches essentially for Whites hunkered on the two rear blocks inland from the Wilkinson house; Catholic and Protestant with a vicarage/parsonage attached to each. In the center of town the noon day sun cast hard shadows against Bob’s gas station and the closed silent movie theater that dated back at least thirty years. At night the marquee was inadequately lighted by a few dusty bulbs which seemed ageless.
The western half of downtown was the home to the Owl’s Nest Club & Pool Hall; the Belle Chasse Diner, over the door a white sign hung obliquely specifying whites only; and various other stores and services. The western section petered out to the north-to-south running Plaquemines (pronounced plack ‘ –eh-mine) River, where a small cluster of Negro-owned homes clung to the river-bordered land.
Most businesses were owned and run by White citizens but some lenience was given for trades that White men felt beneath their dignity. These isolated livelihoods included the blacksmith shop run by Sampson Oliver, a Negro, and a shoeshine stand out front that his two sons operated when school classes didn’t interfere. Fat Libby sold her homemade pies to the Belle Chasse Diner. Everyone knew Beatrice Wingate did alterations at Millie Wilkinson’s Dress Shoppe and lived in a small house on that farthest northwestern end of downtown where Mississippi and Plaquemines Reivers met. Dwayne and Celia got permission to erect their fruit, vegetable, honey and fresh fish stand just beyond the main cluster of buildings where the paved walkway ended and Osage Street headed out to the residential area. Since only one permit was allowed for such a stand, Dwayne and Celia took other Negroes’ produce in under-the-table and split the profits.
Negroes had their own houses of worship located in their housing area which was on the lower west side of the inland railroad track, most notably in an area called Gnats Alley that bordered Plaquemines River, east of the track were White homes and plantations reside. These finer properties also branched out behind the eastern section of town and extended along the Mississippi. Marshland interspersed both sections and was considered inescapable for the fertile land.
Belle Chasse had law enforcement, however… since Belle Chasse was in Plaquemines Parish, and West Pointe-a-la-Hache (pronounced pointe-la’hash) was the parish seat, the Plaquemines Parish Sheriff’s Station, jail and courthouse was 35 miles east of town down the Mississippi River in tiny Pointe-a-la-Hache. The town was called west because the Mississippi on the east side was plain old Pointe-a-la-Hache. It was an easy 15-minute drive up River Road to Osage Street.
Five employees manned the Plaquemines Parish Sheriff’s Department. The sheriff and four deputies. All sworn personnel were deputy sheriffs, regardless of rank, and reported to the sheriff. The men spent a great deal of time in Belle Chasse for two reasons: it was the hub of activity, and the Belle Chasse Diner was a popular draw. The diner often seemed like a substation.
The sheriff’s station had two broad wooden steps up to the entrance, then opened into a narrow reception area that was manned by the Deputy Officer when he wasn’t needed elsewhere.
To the left was a small office, or interrogation room, and behind the Duty Officer’s desk was the roomier sheriff’s office. A hall leading to the back of the building from the rear right side of the Duty Officer’s desk was bordered on the left by the wall of Sheriff’s office. The corridor led to the clink, four cells, in the rear of the building. The back door was bolted when prisoners occupied cells. Otherwise, it served as a breezeway to offset the heat.
In Sheriff Stevenson’s office, he perched his trademark size 13. Wide version, black snakeskin, narrow-toed, Stetson boots atop the corner of his desk. He leaned back in his oak swivel chair and clasped his hands behind his head while looking at his nephew seated in a chair in front of his desk. The desk chair creaked from the weight of the sheriff’s six-foot-five, 300 pound, rotund frame, because of his size, it was as far as he could go without risking a fall backward.
Undersheriff Clifford Stevenson glanced down at his own worn, black leather, western boots and silently envied those of his uncle. Clifford was the same height as his uncle but had 15 pounds on him – the flabby kind of weight that jostled when he walked and rode a horse. Fat Libby’s pies contributed.
He waited expectantly for his uncle to get to the point. Clifford could tell something was on his mind when his uncle suggested they go into his office after Clifford’s Tuesday shift was up, then closed the door. Surrogate father … that’s what Uncle Carl was since his own father ‘bought the farm’ 20 years ago when he was just 10. Maybe his uncle was going to talk some more about giving him the sheriff’s job. All indicators led to the conclusion it would be soon.
Clifford glanced at this morning’s haircut in the window’s reflection; black, neat pompadour with a dab of brilliantine. Yeah, Sugar will like it, he decided.
“Clifford,” Sheriff Stevenson began in a bass pitch while working on a bulge of tobacco in his left cheek, “I’ve been hear’n some good things ‘bout you from Glenn Hanson. He said you’ve become a sharp recruiter for the Klan. ‘Cause of you, membership here is way up.”
Clifford suppressed a grin, “Couldn’t have done it without his help,” he replied, hoping the modesty of his words belied his well-deserved praise.
“Yeah, I’ve heard him speak at Klan rallies and the man is smooth. I swear he could weave chink silk out of horse shit.” Carl laughed heartily. “Wish your father was alive to see this. He would have been as proud of you as I am. You know the good Lord didn’t see fit to give me kids, Clifford, but I’ve always considered you a son.”
The younger Stevenson’s chest expanded. “Thank you, Uncle Carl.”
“We were all cut from the same mold.”
Clifford leaned forward, “How do you mean?”
“Well, when your father and me was about your age, we had more energy than a sky full of light’n – and were as wild as timber wolves. When I see you, I see William and me 20 years ago. The sins of the fathers are born by their sons.” He expectorated into the spittoon on the floor … and most of his aim was true.
Clifford wondered if that was a compliment or criticism.
“As you well know, although Bill’s the Assistant Sheriff, a rank below you, despite be’n in law enforcement work longer, I’ve been groom’n you for the job of sheriff when I retire.
Above the two men, the ceiling fan groaned from the task of cutting through heavy stale air.
Sheriff Stevenson sank back in his chair. “After 30 long years of serve’n this community, I’m look’n forward to some good ole fish’n and hunt’n.”
So, my future’s still on track. Better not ask when he’s packing his bags so I can take over. Don’t want to seem too eager. “You ever thought ‘bout join’n back up with the Klan?”
Clifford asked casually.
“Who? Me?” Carl Guffawed. “No, son. I’m too old. The good ole days of the Klan was long ago, a different day entirely. Besides, there’s a change come’n and I don’t want any part of it.” He squirmed in his chair.
“What change?” He demanded hastily. “Time will never change when it comes to keeping niggers in their place.” Clifford continued.
“Several years ago, the Klan had over four million members. Those were the days to be live’n in. In ’25, they had a 40,000-member demonstration in Washington, DC. They had the real idea then. That’s when the White race was united. Now, Klan members done dwindled down to ‘bout 600,000.” Carl took a swig from the lukewarm Coca-Cola bottle on his desk. “The old days are gone. There’s no doubt about that,” he said sadly. “Noth’n stands still. You grow old and die.
I’ve seen the rise of the Klan and all its glory. Now, this is the sunset of the organization – the afterglow … the begin’n of the end for the White way of live’n. don’t get me wrong, there’ll always be a strong follow’n here in the Deep South, folks in these parts hold tightly to things they know best and love the old days. They’re true to tradition in which they had been reared.
Besides, without the presence of a strong Klan, niggers are get’n too defiant, the Jews are too powerful, and the White man who built this country is be’n squeezed in the middle.” Carl lifted his feet off the desk and solemnly addressed is nephew, “it’s your generation that’s gonna have to bear the torch by take’n a stand.”
Clifford and Carl turned toward bull necked Commander Horace Womac as he opened the office door, “Sheriff I hate to interrupt, but just got a call from Mrs. LeBlanc. Somebody was peep’n in her bathroom window when she was in the tub. Bill’s on patrol. Should I have him handle the call?”
“No, I’m ‘bout to leave now and it’s on my way home. I’ll look into it,” the sheriff replied, standing and reaching for his hat off the wall peg. “Clifford, you ate supper yet?”
His nephew stood and stretched, his belly overlapping his belt, “No. I was plan’n on stop’n over at the diner. Today’s special is fried chicken and mashed potatoes.”
“And Fat Libby’s pies, no doubt,” chuckled Carl. “Well, not today, son. You’re come’n home with me. Horace, call Ruth and let her know to set an extra plate at the table.” He gave Clifford’s back a firm pat, “Besides, she ain’t seen you for some time.” Carl adjusted his hat as they left the office at 7:15 PM.
Sheriff Stevenson drove his patrol car up River Road, deserted in both directions, heading 25 miles out to the LeBlanc place. The air was thick as the car gained speed. The late evening sun was a ball of crimson, and was far down in the sky. As they reached the half way point, the crimson glow had gradually darkened and faded like a memory.
“Isn’t it ‘bout time you thought about get’n yourself a wife, Clifford? I mean with the sheriff’s job come’n up and all. You’re 30 now … old enough to get hitched, son. Then you wouldn’t have to be eat’n at the diner all the time.”
Clifford chortled, “Aw, nobody would have me, Uncle Carl. I’m not the housebound type.”
“Well, you oughtta be think’n ‘bout it. I know you’re boisterous. Don’t need to be housebound – just married. It adds respectability to your position and plenty of young girls would think you to be a catch. You need someone quiet and smart – like your Aunt Ruth.”
Clifford felt if he remained silent, that would be the end of the discussion – one that had come up before. I’ve got myself someone. But, nobody can know.
By the time they pulled onto the dirt road leading to the LeBlanc house, the sun had sunk beyond the western horizon, leaving a charcoal sky. The 150-mile-wide Mississippi floodplain supported cotton, rice, and various crops in its rich soil but the payback was muddy roads and potholes. A bumpy quarter-of-a-mile from the dwelling, in the path of the headlamps an object came into view, it was a young Negro boy walking along the road.
“Well, what have we got here?’ the sheriff exclaimed, braking the car in the middle of the road. He threw open the driver’s door, eased out and slammed it shut. “Hey you! Come here, Boy!” he ordered loudly.
Clifford exited from the passenger side and braced his foot on the bumper as the boy gingerly approached the car.
“I ain’t done noth’n,” the boy said, pulling his slender five-foot-six frame up in an I-have-nothing-to-hide attitude..
The elder Stevenson spit black juice then stared at him piercingly. “Now, don’t you push me, Boy. I said come here!” Carl stood as firm as an oak tree as the boy edged nearer. “What’s your name, Boy?” Clifford demanded suddenly. The question came out of his lips like a shot.
“Luke, Suh.”
“Luke! Luke what? Come on Boy, I ain’t got all day here!”
“Luke Johnson,” he replied hesitantly.
“We got us a report of someone peep’n in the bathroom window of a White lady who was take’n a bath. Right in this here neighborhood. So, if I have to tell you to come here one more time, I’ll make you pay for it!” The sheriff’s patience was wearing thin and his mind was drawing pictures of Luke doing the peeping.]
“It wudn’t me, Suh. I ain’t done no such a thang.” Luke defended vehemently.
“Well, what you do’n in this part of town?”
“I mussa loss my way,” the lad explained lamely, his voice fearful.
Now, the sky was black. Clifford lowered his foot from the bumper and approached Luke in a bully’s swagger. “Well, you get back on your own part of town – on the other side of them there tracks!” He paused. “But first, you got to shine my boots, Boy.”
“Uh, I ain’t got noth’n to shine’em wit,” his brown eyes mirrored panic as he looked at Clifford’s big boots.
“Well then, looks like you’re just gonna have to use your tongue, now won’tcha, Boy?”
“No, Suh!” Luke responded defiantly.
Clifford’s face flashed with anger. His voice exploded, “Did I hear you right? Are you refuse’n a direct request from an officer of the law? Or are you deaf and dumb?”
Sheriff Stevenson interjected, “I believe that boy needs to be taught a lesson.”
“I do believe you’re right, Sheriff,” Clifford agreed menacingly. “Get me that nigger stick off the back seat.”
The boy froze as Carl handed the sap to Clifford. Luke looked up at the undersheriff’s hard eyes as he slapped the club in his left palm for effect.
“Now, I’m only gonna tell you one more time, Boy. Come over here and shine these here boots!”
With false bravado, Luke stated, “No, Suh!” and stood his ground.
Clifford’s jaw tightened as a growing red anger surged up in him, the veins in his neck protruded and h is right hand tightened around the sap.
“Looks like you got one of them rebellious niggers,” Sheriff Stevenson snickered, his hands on his hips, “He’s make’n you look bad, son.”
Undersheriff Clifford couldn’t take the reproach from his uncle. With fury etched on his features, his left hand grabbed the front of Luke’s shirt and forced his head toward his right boot.
The boy used all of his strength trying to break free. “Le’me go!”
Clifford’s anger grew more and more violent, until finally raising the sap and then bringing it mightily down on top of the wriggling boy’s skull with a crack. With a groan, Luke slumped onto the muddy road, face first, in a convoluted pose, his limbs akimbo and a gurgle coming from his mouth. Clifford forcefully kicked him hard in his left ribs, propelling Luke’s form on his back.
“Get up, you Nigger! Get on your feet! Or I’m gonna boot your butt all the way to the nigger side of town!” Clifford prodded the convoluted form with the toe of his boot. No reaction.
Blood seeped from the gash in Luke’s head … and now, from both corners of his opened mouth.
“Goddamn it!” Carl barked. “Son-of-a-bitch, Clifford! What’d you go and do that for, you goof?” he squatted on the balls of his feet, near the boy, and peered intensely for a minute.
“Why I believe you killed him!” then the sheriff dropped down on one knee beside the boy and checked his pulse. Clifford looked on, breathing hard. The club dropped from his hand.
“Is he … dead?” Clifford asked. The “dead” stuck in his throat.
Carl’s white face went crimson, he drew a deep breath, “No, but his pulse is real weak and I’d say we got a hell of a problem here.”
“What we gonna do now?” the assailant asked, his question implicating both of them.
With years of damage control under his belt, Carl ordered, “You grab his feet. I’ll lift his shoulders, so we can carry him to the car.”
Under night’s sullen gaze, the men transported Luke’s limp body to the car, opened the back door and slid it onto the seat.
The sheriff took his place behind the wheel and backed up before turning the car around on the dirt road towards the main road. A weak choking sound came from the back seat and Clifford looked back, but could only make out the boy’s features from the di, moonlight that filtered into the car. Shortly, the sound stopped.
“Where we go’n?”
“To the river,” Carl replied abruptly.
They rode in uncomfortable silence, each lost in panicky thoughts, until they reached the gravel parking area that led to the side of a fishing pier, by the Mississippi River’s shoreline.
Without hesitation the sheriff turned off the ignition, opened the door, got out and quickly walked around the car, and swung the rear door opened. He stared hard at the motionless body; there were neither motion nor sound. He spat, wiped his sleeve across his mouth then cautiously looked around. Nothing moved, nothing made noise – not even the insects known to inhabit the murky depths of the nearby woods. Clifford lumbered out of his door and stood there unsure what to do next .
Carl kept his voice low, “Don’t just stand there, damn it! Grab his feet and pull him out on your end. I’ll come around. Do it now!”
Clifford opened the rear door and yanked the boy’s legs. Carl came around, bent down and caught him under his shoulders as the body was pulled out. Luke’s bloody head dropped downward as it cleared the seat. Carl used his forearms to support it. The undersheriff followed the sheriff’s lead as they shuffled to the pier. Both men walked sideways with their burden.
“We gonna throw him in the river?” The younger Stevenson asked, as they stood at the end of the wooden pier. The faint moonlight pricked the darkness and its rays streamed across the eerily still water.
“Got any better ideas, Clifford?” You ready to explain how this boy got his head bashed, down at Charity Hospital?” Carl snapped. “Okay, now on the count of three. One … two … three! ”
In unison, they heaved the body into the waterway’s liquid arms with a loud splash. Water rebounded on their pants and boots. Luminous moonlight emerged from behind a web of thick clouds glistened off the water. They gazed at the boy’s body as it begin sinking face up, into a wet grave. As they watched the descent, both lost in thought, Luke’s eyes snapped open.
“Holy shit!” exclaimed Clifford. “Is he …?
“Alive?” Carl finished the question. “Well, it’s either that or he’s dead for sure. Eyelids open after you die. Either way, it’s too late.” When the only sight was burbling bubbles on the restless water’s surface, Carl snapped to attention. “We gotta get outta here!” He turned back, heading toward the patrol car, with Clifford trailing. By the car, the sheriff pulled out a small silver tin of tobacco. It slipped through his fingers onto the gravel. “Damn!” Carl said as he stopped to retrieve it. The tin had been emptied and tobacco was scattered o the gravel. He gathered some up and placed a pinch between his lower lip and gum.
When he stood, Clifford stared at him in alarm. “You got blood all over your uniform!”
“You seen yourself?” he responded, eying Louisiana mud caked on the front of his nephew’s shirt, pants and under his arms – from Luke’s shoes and the boy’s collapse on the boggy road.
Clifford got into the car next to his uncle. “What about the LeBlanc broad? We were supposed to check that peep’n thing out.” He turned at the back seat in the moonlight, “There’s blood back there, too. That’s gotta be cleaned up. What are we gonna…”
“Stop beat’n your gums, Clifford!” Carl snarled as he turned on the ignition. “You’re gonna come home with me for dinner. As planned. You must not tell anyone what happened. As far as anyone is concerned, this thing with the boy never happened, you hear me?” He backed out of the parking area and onto the road.
What about Aunt Ruth? What’ll she think when she sees…”
“Shut up Clifford! You worry too much. My wife done seen worse – believe you me.
She’s gonna be our alibi. She’ll clean these clothes so no one will know better.” Carl turned and grinned at Clifford. “Another reason you need a wife, son. And she’s got one of Fat Libby’s pies at the house.” He turned his focus back to the road.
The car headed toward the older Stevenson’s homestead as Clifford silently wondered if Uncle Carl had picked up the sap he dropped on the dirt road.