CHALK MEN
Spotting a parking space near the side entrance of Frederick Douglass Savings and Loan, Winfield pulled in. There wasn’t time to park in the underground garage. Negotiating the narrow spiral ramp and dodging the support columns took at least two minutes, and Win was running late. The monthly English Department meeting had dragged on until eight-thirty the night before. There had been endless debates about the merits of a new anthology. The African-Americans disputed the ratio of Alice Walker-James Baldwin entries to the number of Shelby Steele-William Raspberry pieces. Hispanics and Native Americans battled over an article denouncing Columbus. The next-year-in-Havana Cubans were most vociferous. The feminists were neutral. The gays angry. Winfield pouted. They weren’t going to adopt his book, so he didn’t care. He stayed until the vote was taken so he could abstain out of spite.
Afterwards, he solaced himself with double Jamesons at The Black Shamrock, flirting half-heartedly with Moira whose Dublin accent and centerfold cleavage never failed to cheer him up. He began scribbling notes on a napkin. No doubt the debate he had endured was echoing through English departments across the country. It might just be possible to strike the right balance with a series of pro and con articles to get a textbook past a faculty committee. Fifty sections of freshman English with twenty students in a thousand colleges meant a million copies a year. Just ten percent of the market at five-fifty a book would mean a neat half million. After a Guinness chaser, Winfield pocketed a stack of ink-smeared napkins and stumbled home.
His temples still pounding, Win glanced at his watch. He had a finance report to drop off before his nine o’clock class. Grabbing his briefcase, he hastily inserted the red handled Club into his steering wheel and rushed to the back door. Climbing the stairs, he caught a glimpse of people gathering in front of the main entrance.
Passing the conference room, he noticed Brooks Adams peeking through the black mini-blinds to the street below.
“What is it? Accident?” Win asked.
“Take a look,” Brooks answered quietly without turning around.
Winfield walked to the window. On the sidewalk a half-dozen employees had formed a tight ring around the chalk outline of a man. A splash of red suggested the victim had been shot in the head.
“Jesus! Somebody get killed?”
“Look up the street.”
Cupping his hands against the glare of the morning sun, Winfield saw half a dozen figures chalked against the sidewalk. Drawn in different positions, they resembled dancing gingerbread men.
“Looks like the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.”
“We’re not the only ones. They’re outside City Hall, the police stations, the Hyatt, US Bank, even the main building at MITI,” Brooks said softly. “Lionel’s been on the phone since seven-thirty. We’re the only black outfit to be hit.”
Winfield looked out the window again, trying to understand the significance of the bleeding chalk men. A light snow was blowing off the lake, sprinkling the red splotches with dusty flakes.
“Did you hear it on the radio?”
Winfield had been listening to Sinatra Duets II in the car. “No, what’s going on?”
“Moses. This is his work. He’s laying the dead of the community on ‘appropriate doorsteps.’ All the black homicide victims. It’s not crack, it’s not gangs, it’s us. The white politicians, the banks that redline, the businesses that don’t hire enough brothers, the hotel that only hires blacks to bus dishes, the hospital with only two black doctors. And we’re the only black-owned outfit on his list.”
“He won’t let go.”
“He can’t. He can’t let us accomplish something. We pull off Brewer’s Court, and we disprove his whole philosophy, so he has to demonize us. If we succeed it has to be because we’ve sold out. Oreos. Damn!”
Winfield could not resist smiling. Two months before Moses had gained national attention by mailing Oreo cookies to Clarence Thomas, Tony Brown, Lisa Bonet, Montel Williams, and five thousand others. Every African-American employed by Microsoft, every black general in the Pentagon, and every woman of color on the staff of Cosmopolitan had received an Oreo. Sealed in plastic discs used for rare coins, the cookies arrived without comment.
Shunned by Oprah, also a recipient, Alderman Moses revealed his strategy to Touré. He, too, had been sent a cookie, something MSNBC interns evidently dismissed as a Nabisco promotion. Now Moses was mounting a new campaign, marshaling the homeless on another mass mailing. Every Republican member of Congress was being sent a miniature wooden cross and a match. Due to costs, GI Joe’s in Klan sheets waving Confederate flags were restricted to the Supreme Court.
“What are we going to do?” Winfield asked.
“I don’t know,” Brooks said, biting his lip. “If we rub them out, we’ll look guilty. Ashamed. Hell, a lot of blacks in the hotels and banks are going to be burned, too. Plus, he tagged the school board.”
Winfield stroked his chin, lost in thought. As Communications Director, his job included crisis management. “Listen, Brooks, I have class until eleven. Let me think of something. I suggest we take an ad out in the community papers. Full page.” He paused, then raised a finger, his whiskey-numbed mind clearing, “What about this? We steal his thunder. OK, our ad shows a chalk man on the sidewalk. In the center of the guy we list everything we’ve done. Loans to small businesses. People we hired. United Negro College Fund donations. The Urban League dinners you sponsored. The midnight basketball teams. The computers we donated to the House of Peace. Don’t run from it. Use it. But don’t even mention his name. We take over, make it our own. At the bottom of the ad, under the chalk man, in big letters, we put, ‘What are you doing to help?’ Something like that.”
“That might work. Sketch something out and email it to me. I can get Kevin to handle the art work. We can’t wait for ads, we have get it online today. Facebook. Twitter. YouTube. Something to send the bloggers.”
Win glanced at his watch. “Wow! I have to run!”
Crossing the faculty parking lot, Winfield noticed a Channel 12 van double parked in front of MITI’s main building. Her hair heavily lacquered against the wind, Jill Goodwin was bathed in camera lights. Chalk men, their heads and hearts splashed with red paint, lined the sidewalk. The artists had been inclusive. Small figures represented children and triangular women’s room logo skirts had been chalked on female victims.
Students paused, made comments, then cautiously stepped over the outlines. As Winfield neared the building, someone called out to him.
“Dr. Payton, is this an art project or something?”
He thought about blaming it on the NEA, then demurred. “Shawna, it’s a political statement.”
“Oh, ‘po-litical,’” she sighed, stepping back to ponder the figures as if they were original copies of the Magna Carta.
Winfield expected the bleeding chalk men to be the subject of discussion in the English Department that morning. Two female professors were chatting with the secretary Janet when he ducked in to collect his mail. Conversation stopped. He turned, noticing all three women staring at him.
“You have a message,” the secretary cooed in a breathy voice.
“Message?” Winfield asked, his heart sinking. His female colleagues were unpredictable, their reactions to single males ranging from radical feminist contempt to adulterous lust.
Janet waved a pink “While You Were Out” slip. “Shelly Bronfman called. At 8:30. She just has to have dinner with you tonight. She sounded urgent.”
Victoria Peterson, PhD, former Panther and Moses supporter, smirked. Strange be the ways of white folks. Her officemate, head shorn to politically correct Sinead O’Connor perfection, tossed imaginary locks, “Oh,” she breathed heavily, “Young, young, young man! Has anyone told you look like a Prince out of the Arabian Nights?” She broke into an earthy laugh.
“She’s got to be almost sixty, Win,” Janet snorted, “and she’s had more facelifts than Joan Rivers.”
“I thought Ms. Bronfman stuck to paperboys and pool men. You’re a step up,” Victoria said.
“Listen, make sure she takes you shopping first. Have her buy you a watch, something you can return for cash. And don’t take a check. And, consider taping a few phone calls. Good insurance for when she dumps you for a Chippendale’s dancer,” Janet suggested.
“I’m sure it’s just a business dinner.”
“I wouldn’t boast about being her client, Win. Unless you moonlight as a hit man.”
The tone in his own office was no better. Quickly shuffling through his papers for his first class, Winfield turned to see Baldwin leering in the doorway.
“I hear you got a dinner invite.”
Christ! Had he no privacy?
“Just a legal matter, Tim. You know how it is.”
“Oh, yeah. I know.”
While his students worked on an in-class exercise, Winfield sketched out an ad listing all the community services Frederick Douglass Savings and Loan had provided in the last two years.
Between classes, he dashed to his office to pound out his copy on the computer. He was emailing it when the phone rang.
Brooks’ voice was strained. “Win, get over here as soon as you can.”
“Sure, right after my noon class. What’s wrong?”
“Reverend Johnson just decided to pull out of Brewer’s Court. We’ve got to move fast. And another thing,” he said, his tone lightening, “you received a message from Shelly Bronfman. Dinner at eight at the Blue Room.”
God! Did she have to leave messages for him all over town? An audible moan escaped his lips. No doubt there would be a message on his voicemail at home, a message at the health club, one at his dentist’s, another at his hair salon.
Glancing once more at his attachment, he hit SEND and raced to class. His students’ debate over whether or not Willy Loman had Alzheimer’s was so engaging that Win almost forgot about Moses, Shelly Bronfman, and the bleeding chalk men.
Brooks and Lionel Adams were studying the street below when Winfield entered the conference room. It was two in the afternoon, and already customers and passersby were stepping over the chalk men without pausing. Like New Yorkers navigating around the homeless, they skirted the chalk figures, who remained defiantly unsmudged.
“It’s going to snow tonight. Six or seven inches. We’ll let nature and the snow blowers take their course,” Brooks decided.
“I just wish that would be the end of it,” Lionel mused.
“What’s this about Johnson?” Winfield asked.
“He released a statement to the press. Moses hit home. Johnson and the whole church crowd have decided to pull their money out of Brewer’s Court. It’s just a few hundred thousand, but it leaves us as the only major blacks in the deal. He’s just whitened it up, leaving us to twist in the wind. He was on the radio at noon, saying he feels churches should build homes for the poor not the rich. Leaves us looking like a bunch of Toms.”
“Shed is even worse,” Lionel said. “I called the Community Journal. His column this week will name us. He is going to accuse us of tricking black churches into bankrolling a tax haven for the rich and the white.”
Brooks tapped the mini-blind in thought, “We have got to bring in more investors. We promised community investment. We need more NWA’s. And fast.”
Winfield nodded. NWA’s—Niggas With Assets—were the very lifeblood of Frederick Douglass Savings and Loan. “Brooks, what about Veraswami? Has he had any more luck?”
“We’re having lunch tomorrow. I just called him. He’s been in contact with some African investors who might be good for a few million, but it could be dicey. If we could get a mil out of them, it would make up for the church money and give us something to play up in the media. God, Win, if you were black, I’d want your pension.”
“We need money,” Lionel said, “but who says it’s gotta be black? I mean that would be ideal, but suppose we could attract some other minority investors. Money no other black outfit could get a line on and from folks Reverend Johnson would never dare question. Diversity comes in all types, you know?” He raised an eyebrow and jutted an elbow toward Win.
Winfield swallowed.
“Win, you have a dinner date with Shelly Bronfman. The Bronfmans are some of the heaviest hitters in town. Last year they gave half a million to the symphony. Plus, her sister is married to one of the Blomberg brothers in Chicago. He’s like three-fifty or better on the Fortune 500 list. Has to be worth seven or eight hundred million at least.”
“I don’t know,” Winfield stammered, “couldn’t that be risky. I mean Shed and Moses . . .”
“Right. If we get some Jews to invest, we can do some real healing in this town. Would make those two clowns shut up or self-destruct. They go off on some anti-Semitic rant, they show everyone what bigots they are. Either way, we come out on top.”
“Well, yes . . .” Winfield agreed cautiously.
“Win, all we ask is that you put in a few good words for us. After all, we aren’t asking for charity. We have a double A rating. The tax breaks alone would make it attractive to people in her league.”
“Just whisper in her ear,” Lionel smiled.
The black and gray Rolls Royce bore Winfield and Shelly Bronfman down Lake Drive. The iced surface of Lake Michigan shone brightly under the full moon. Hung snowmen and bosomy snowwomen rose over Bradford Beach, their eyes and genitals formed from beer cans and wine bottles, debris from a fraternity frolic.
Winfield turned and smiled. Dim pink lights on the bar illuminated the passenger compartment with rose tones. Zaftig Shelly Bronfman reclined, extending a plump leg encased in seamed nylon. Her white fur coat was parted to reveal her full breasts. A wire-reinforced half bra lifted them into torpedo formation. Licking her surgically-inflated lips, she smiled at Winfield.
Their first stop was the Hyatt. The Rolls drew up under the blue canopy. Winfield hoped they could duck up to the Polaris and spend the evening sipping drinks as the restaurant rotated above Milwaukee, away from friends, away from public humiliation.
The humiliation began with a doorman’s unguarded smirk. Stepping from the car, Winfield stood a head shorter than his date. They strode through the sliding doors and ran into a reception. Cameras flashed. Eager reporters waved notebooks. A pair of ballerinas twirled atop grand pianos.
Oh, God.
“Mrs. Bronfman, on behalf of the ballet company, I thank you for your support.” The director, a short effusive man kissed her gloved hand and guided her to an impromptu receiving line.
“I adore fundraisers, don’t you, Win?”
Winfield smiled and brushed his hair nervously. He followed Shelly, keeping a pace behind her in hopes of staying out of camera range.
From the Hyatt, they went to the Pfister for dinner. Max seated them at a prominent table. Fortunately, the Mason Street Grill seemed full of out-of-town businessmen. Winfield ordered a salad and ate slowly, tying to confine the rest of their evening to a restaurant populated by Toledo accountants and Florida developers.
“Listen, Win, I’m so excited I can’t think about food. Take me to a disco. Let’s go to Victor’s. I haven’t been there in years.”
Victors! Tim Baldwin would be there. The whole eastside crowd would be there. Moira from the Black Shamrock. Friends of Barbie. His students. Anything but that.
What to do? Feign a migraine? Slip the waiter a twenty to call his cell with a fake emergency? But if he ducked out now, he’d lose the chance to plug Brewer’s Court. He thought about his promise to Brooks. To the community. He thought, too, of his own dream condo. The Jacuzzi. The fireplace. The skylights. The cocktail bar on the marble dais. Something he could never afford on his own.
You know what you got to do, cowboy.
“Shelly,” he said, leaning across the table, “I have some important business to discuss with you. Money matters. Important to the city, the community. Of some importance to me. But somehow. . . somehow . . .” he said taking her hand, “I can’t think about that now.” He squeezed her hand, the diamond rings cutting his palm. “Shelly, let’s get a room and order some champagne.”
“Oh, Win, I’ll get Max to call the front desk. The Presidential suite. The one with the hot tub!”
In the mirrored elevator Shelly pressed against him, crushing her breasts against his cheek. “You know, Win,” she cooed, “this is my high school fantasy. Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Troy Donohue?”