GIMME SHELTER
“I’ve ordered two more cases of Asti,” Lionel announced, consulting his leather-bound executive planner. “That should be enough. Twelve jugs of Chablis. Six Rhine. Ten rosé. Ten red. Miller’s giving us five cases of Lite and three cases of Sharp’s. Win, you ordered the water, right?”
“The distributor donated ten cases.”
“Ten cases!” Lionel shook his head. “We don’t want to drown anybody.”
“Probably the only product they’ll move in Milwaukee this year,” Ted Kaleem muttered. “That was not the best venture capital scheme. Horicon Springs Mineral Water. Christ! Horicon Marsh is a waterfowl sanctuary. How can you call a mineral water Horicon? Makes everybody in Wisconsin think of swamp water and goose shit.”
“It tastes as good as Perrier,” Lionel insisted. “And they’re coming up with a new label. One without a bird on it.”
“It’s selling in California,” Keisha added hopefully.
“OK,” Brooks said, “We’ve got the beverages lined up. Kresson is donating the buffet. He promised Leo will be doing the supervising. No more screw-ups like the Urban League dinner. I told him I gotta have some brothers doing more than slicing prime rib and stacking napkins. And we’ll have a vegetarian line. Organic and gluten-free.”
Ted flipped through his notepad. “Security is as tight as we can get it. I don’t expect any problems. Parking lot surveillance is top priority. Can’t afford to have any investors carjacked.”
Brooks nodded. All the dot matrix boxes on his planning sheet were checked off three times—once in pencil and twice in ink, blue and red. Frederick Douglass Savings and Loan was set. In two weeks, the one-hundred-and-eighty-two-million-dollar Brewer’s Court project would be announced to investors.
Bijan raised his hand. “I just wonder if we can expect any trouble from our good friends on the Inner City Redevelopment Commission. A demonstration? Picketing?”
Brooks pursed his lips, nodding, “Ted, any word on the street?”
“Right now those gimme’s are too busy hustling the mayor for next year’s budget. Word is they are late on their grant proposal. Hector Marquez is leaving to be treasurer of the Minority Chamber of Commerce. Cesar says most of the Hispanics are going to follow. That gives Shed some problems. He’s gotta make more squeaks to get the grease. He might pull something just to get attention—to show folks he’s still a player.”
Brooks tapped his chin with the cap of his fountain pen. “OK, OK, it wouldn’t hurt to create a low level diversion for the twenty-first. The school board meets that night. Maybe we can deflect some attention that way.”
Ted smiled. “I’ll sound out Leotha. She can put something on the minority teachers’ website.”
“Some parents are concerned about the university pulling out of the Bridge to Success program,” Winfield added. “I read about that yesterday. Could be an issue.”
“Right. Let me get Leotha on this. I don’t think we should be involved. She can make a few calls. We don’t want anything too big or too loud, just a few pickets to keep the gimme’s and Demi-More’s out of our hair. If we get them pumped to picket the school board meeting, they might just forget about us.” Ted leaned back smiling, “You can’t be in two places at once.”
Lionel twisted his bow tie and leaned over the oak conference table, “What about Moses?”
“Oh, Christ,” Ted moaned.
“Would he try anything?” Win asked softly. Moses was not a man to be trifled with. Eager for publicity, Alderman Moses recently took to brandishing a Zulu war shield at campaign rallies, giving press conferences in maladroit Swahili, and sponsoring a petition to have his district secede from the City of Milwaukee to become New Kemet, the first independent African nation in urban America. He claimed to have approached Ghana for diplomatic recognition. Whether clad in an assortment of tribal costumes no African had worn in a century or a forbidding Papa Doc black suit and Amish hat, bearded Moses was made for television. He had earned a national reputation, and the local media covered his every move, hoping their shots and sound bites might be picked up by FOX.
“God knows what he will come up this time,” Ted sighed. “Maybe a mock lynching. Ever since he made PrimeTime by blowing whistles at Jimmy Carter rehabbing houses in the ghetto, he sees himself as a mover. Face it, Moses wants the gimme’s to understand one thing—‘yo down a hole, and I gots the only ladder in town.’”
“Let’s not forget the Muslim angle,” Winfield said. “I think Singh’s presence may dampen some of the protest. After all, he’s no Donald Trump. How can anyone object to having African investors?”
“That’s true,” Ted said, his brow furrowing with displeasure. “But we’re going for maximum press coverage. We’ve got national black press coming. That’s enough to make Moses rut.”
“Win, what about local TV?” Brooks asked.
“Channels Twelve and Six are on board for sure,” Winfield said. “Let’s just hope a Russian coup or a plane crash doesn’t bump us off the air. Sedlov has promised a big spread in the Sunday business section with pictures. BET may send a crew; they’re taping in Chicago the day before and promised to come if they can. I offered to send a limo to pick them up and have them stay at County Galway. The hotel rooms are on me. O’Brien owes me a favor. He’s got two rooms for the twenty-first. And I have a film student shooting video we can package for cable distribution or cut up for podcasts.”
Brooks’ Mount Blanc scratched off the last dot matrix box a fourth time for emphasis.
“Well, guys, I don’t think we can do anymore until Wednesday night. We pull this off, and we’re on our way. National players. No more tavern loans and duplex mortgages. We’ll have a base of investors to leverage.” He raised both hands and crossed his fingers. “It’s after six, let’s break for dinner. We all have a long day tomorrow. Win, how about joining Lionel and me? We’re heading to the Casbah.”
Winfield nodded, his stomach clenching at the thought. Another meal at a client’s. He wondered why so many pseudo-North African restaurants had opened in Milwaukee. Operated by the Diaspora of Palestine and the South Bronx, these converted discos and renovated daycare centers featured Moorish arches, ceiling fans, blazing New Wave neon, and sickly palm trees in brass pots. And all the food was black—black bean soup, blackened salmon, blackened steak, pepper-encrusted lamb, and black rice drenched in charcoal-flavored teriyaki sauce.
“The Casbah has a salad bar, doesn’t it?” Win asked.
“Sure thing,” Lionel said, “but the blackened chicken is the best. Get the special with bitter-chocolate and almond sauce and the caramelized yams.”
Caramelized yams! Winfield thought of Dr. Tanner, the Victorian lecturer who espoused total fasting. He claimed to have a patient who had not touched food in fourteen years. He must have seen a Casbah menu.
Balancing desire with discretion, Winfield judiciously plucked a few corrugated carrot sticks from the salad bar and added them to his plate of limp lettuce strewn with slices of petrified turkey and strips of shiny ham. He found a few semi-crisp celery spears and a lone edible radish. Ignoring the ceramic bowls of clotted dressing and rancid bacon bits, Winfield returned to the table and ordered a double Jameson. Whisky and salad always go well together. The booze gave the cold vegetables a smoky warmth. Far different from the fresh garden salads he ordered at Twin Oaks to accompany an afterschool martini. Tanqueray gave everything a delicate pine flavor.
Brooks carefully dissected his blackened herbal chicken, carving through the seared crust to reveal strips of darkened but still unburnt flesh. Chewing energetically, he started to speak, then raised his palm for a pause as he swallowed and winced. “Win, do you think we can pull it off?”
“If Singh can get us ten to twenty million from new investors, why not?”
“I can’t wait for this to be over. We should know by Friday. I figure if we don’t hear any opposition by the end of the week, we should be home free.”
Brewer’s Court. Winfield smiled. Having slaved for weeks over the text accompanying the glossy pictures for a battery of promotional booklets and blogs, Winfield had memorized all the details. Given enough investor capital and public support needed for zoning changes, the old abandoned brewery on the banks of the Milwaukee River would be transformed into a European hamlet within walking distance of the central business district. Yuppies, Buppies, and Wanna-be’s with credit could live in energy-efficient, high-tech condos featuring saunas and secure parking, sip espresso in a bay-windowed Starbucks, stroll cobbled streets, or open offices on the upper floors of the remodeled malt house. The ornate warehouse would camouflage a 300 car garage offering plenty of free parking for retail customers.
“It’s a big step for us,” Winfield said.
“Especially for you, pal. We pull this off and you can think about setting up your own consulting firm. All the retailers will need promo work. We’ll need brochures to sell the condos. We can even open an S&L branch. Think of the built-in clientele.”
Win chewed his carrots carefully. Tension was mounting, welling inside him. He would have a sleepless night, even though his work was over. It was too late to make any changes or additions. The slick press kits, the impressive investor pamphlets were already packed for delivery. The website, with its virtual walking tour and 3-D architectural model, was registering six hundred hits a day.
There was nothing to do but wait. In the meantime, he needed to unwind. Crunching the last of his carrots, he excused himself and walked through the Moorish arches to the men’s room to use his smart phone.
Two hours later, eyes closed, he felt soft cool fingertips brush his temples and run down the sides of his neck. Barbie tentatively massaged his shoulder. Winfield winced.
“I hope you didn’t pull a muscle.”
“I’m OK,” Winfield muttered, clenching his teeth. It had taken a hundred swats with a studded leather paddle to coax Barbie into a ballgag muted orgasm.
“I wanted to go for two,” she said, “but I know topping takes a lot of energy. Being a bottom, I just have to get on my knees and feel. But tonight, I dunno, my focus just wasn’t there. But I owe you one. Care for some oral?” she asked, like an Appleby’s server told to push the desserts.
The lobby of the Alhambra Hotel, its canopy of gold-leafed moldings, recently patched and painted, slowly began to fill. Tugging at his bowtie, Lionel surveyed the main bar where red-jacketed black men swiftly and silently produced drinks with robotic precision. Waiters moved gracefully through the crowd, carrying napkin-covered bottles of Horicon Springs to reticent Baptists.
Winfield mingled, shaking hands, greeting acquaintances, and counting faces. Clicking his teeth to keep a mental score, he noted two aldermen, a state senator, two former Congressmen, a covey of contractors, and a knot of cautious bankers. As instructed, he made his presence known to the restless group of white prospects. He shook hands, mentioned his father, and did all he could to lend a Caucasian tinge to Frederick Douglass Investments.
His role over, Winfield slipped into the ballroom and ascended the stage where a long row of tables had been erected. Brooks was moving about briskly, checking charts, and testing the video monitors. He glanced at Winfield, “Ready to go?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Winfield took his place and studied his notes. No college lecture, not even his dissertation defense, had made him this nervous.
Impressed by the red carpeted glitz and video cameras, the guests, fueled by patriotically domestic champagne, began to assemble in the ballroom. Dressed in a flowing white robe fringed in gold, Dr. Veraswami walked across the stage to greet Winfield and Brooks with pressed palms and bowed head.
Brooks stood, adjusted his red power tie dotted with GOP elephants and addressed the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are here tonight to unveil a piece of the future. This community, this country is facing a crisis. We must learn to create jobs and expand our economy without destroying our environment and worsening the deficit. We have to raise revenues to combat drugs, rebuild our cities, and care for our elderly without curbing free enterprise. Too often these issues are viewed in opposition. But if we are to prosper, we must achieve a balance and work together.
“Brewer’s Court will increase the city’s tax base by eighty million dollars, create 200 housing units within minutes of the central city, provide unique office and retail space, and create scores of new jobs. There are larger developments in this town, and there are grander rehab projects. But this marks a unique minority enterprise uniting African and African-American investors and entrepreneurs. This partnership has attracted interest on two continents and promises to be a catalyst for the twenty-first century.”
Winfield glanced at his notes, calculating what tone to adopt. He was so absorbed that Lionel had to tap his knee twice to get his attention.
“Check out who just came in,” he whispered.
Looking up, Winfield saw a bearded black man in a black rabbinical hat and belted jumpsuit lead half a dozen uniformed men to vacant seats in the back row. They wore dark glasses beneath black-visored Pullman caps and sat with arms crossed like Egyptian mummies.
Father Moses! The school board meeting ploy hadn’t worked. Perhaps this was to be another silent protest. None of the men appeared armed with whoopee cushions—their customary weapons of choice used to disrupt the mayor’s press conferences. The audience was still focused on Brooks. The elbowing and head turning hadn’t started. If I can only get through my presentation, Winfield prayed.
Brooks wound up to a finish and introduced Win, “Perhaps one of the most unique aspects of this re-development project is its commitment to community education and training. Dr. Winfield Payton, our Communications Director, will explain how Brewer’s Court will create educational opportunities for minority youth.”
The applause was more than polite. It lasted long enough for Win to shuffle through his notes and situate himself behind the podium.
“For the past twenty years,” he began, “both the university and MITI have promised to make a meaningful contribution to inner city job development. A dozen plans have come and gone, but Brewer’s Court provides the first real opportunity for these two institutions to help the community. The university has committed half a million dollars to create an educational partnership with MITI. Together, they will train minority job seekers and work directly with local employers. The construction and rehab will provide on-the-job training for twenty students in MITI’s carpentry and plumbing program. Six minority architecture students will have a chance to learn the entire building process from design to construction. They will master. . . .”
Winfield droned on, punctuating his remarks with words like “community,” “investment,” “hope,” “progress,” and “jobs” that scored high with the focus groups. Win had also tested them with his black students, weaving them into innumerable subject-verb agreement exercises and comma drills.
He talked on and on, gathering inspiration from the sea of upturned faces. Every time he said “jobs,” he noticed the smiles widen, the eyes brighten. The audience was in the palm of his hand. He ran on auto pilot, his eyes sweeping over the intent, supportive faces in the front row. On the horizon of his vision the half-dozen black clad figures sat unmoving, stoic, lifeless.
Time was flying. He cut some details and went for the kill. “When completed, Brewer’s Court will endure as a living monument of what we can do. It will preserve our heritage while pointing to our future. Brewer’s Court will remind us that in the future when we work together almost anything we can imagine we can create. . .”
“Yo!”
He was being addressed. Winfield turned, at first detecting nothing but a moving blur in the back of the hall. Father Moses was standing. Tall. Massive. Bearded. In his black Amish coat and black rabbinical hat, he loomed over the audience like a demented John Brown. His voice boomed.
“Yo, people! Yo, people! Bruthers ‘n Sistuhs! This was ‘posed to be a Black Thang! A Black Thang! Building homes for the ‘hood! Not some Yuppie palace for a bunch of crackers and Oreos, man! Read yo history, people, read yo history!
“That land was set aside when them German beer people who got tired of selling us malt liquor to kill our brains skipped town owing ten million in back taxes. The city set this land aside for low-income housing. Low-income! Not six-hundred-an’-fifty-thousand-dollar condos! Not three-thousand-dollar-a-month apartments! And not for no goddam Starbucks! Homes for the ‘hood, not a bunch of wanna-be-whites and their bleach blonde ‘hos.
“You know the type,” he cried, fanning his hands over the crowd. “The type of black folk who look white, talk white, dress white, dream white. The type of black people who every time they vote Republican run to the baffroom ‘n look in the mirror to see if they lightened up any. The type of black folk who wouldn’t be caught dead eatin’ fried chicken or catfish, no suh!”
“Sit down!” A voice shouted from the front row.
Winfield, his knuckles gone white on the podium, swallowed hard and felt his knees quiver. He glanced sideways. Ted Kaleem had left the wings. The off-duty cops he hired were slowly moving up the aisles.
“Sit down!” The speaker was a middle-aged black man in a double-breasted jacket. “I came here . . . I paid to come here to listen to a presentation, not attend a demonstration.”
Moses drew himself to his full height and bellowed, “Don’t none of you sheep see what’s going on? Don’t none of you niggers see at all? Check out them wanna-be’s up there. Crook Adams and his faggit bruther Lyin’ Nell. Check out their so-called dream team. You got that Desi Arnez Cuban dope dealer Carlos up there. That towelhead rug merchant Bijan somethin’ or other. That New York Jew Waldheimerstein or whatever. Keisha Washington! That ‘ho help raise fifty grand for Romney but not one dime for the community. And Pay-ton!”
Winfield’s knees buckled like the Scarecrow’s before the Wizard of Oz.
“Pay-ton! That muthah-fucker flunked my son in English! And that Very-Slimy Afican. He ain’t nuthin’ but a shoe-polished Englishman. He is from India. He ain’t no real Affican! Hell, he whiter than Prince Charles. And you people lissen to his ass? Don’t you know that when they was putting yo gran-daddy in the slave ship, his grandaddy was standing on the dock counting his money? Who you think sold us? You think white men could go into the jungle and catch us? Hell, they played on the beach and chased pussy while them African high hats did all the dirty work”
“Shame! Shame!” An enormous woman was standing, waving a white handkerchief as if to dismiss an evil presence with an incantation. “Shame on you for your language! There are church people here.”
“That may be, people. I offer you a vision, and it ain’t got nothing to do with the horseshit being sold heah. Keep it real, people. Keep it real!”
Winfield found himself talking with the calm, assuring voice of an airline pilot announcing an unintended water landing. “There is no need for alarm. This presentation offers one vision of the future. One plan to repair one part of a single neighborhood. It doesn’t cancel anyone else’s plan. It does not prevent anyone else from making progress. We are simply trying—the best way we know how—to help make something positive happen. We may not succeed. There is a lot against us. But we’re lighting a candle. You can snuff it out, or light your own.”
The ministers in the front row were nodding, and for a moment Winfield wondered if he had missed his calling as a televangelist.
“That may be Pay-ton! Light yo’ candle. Leastways you ain’t hidin’ yo honky hide behind some black mask. Hell, all you folks up there is white. White as Klan sheets. The only thang black you got is black hearts. Look at them people up there. That rainbow coalition of crooks. I know you all thinking how precious it is to see whites ‘n blacks, Jews ‘n Muslims, boys ‘n girls all workin’ and smilin’ together,” he continued in a sing-song voice. “Well, so what? They’re too busy filling their pockets with the people’s money to hate. Don’t let a little color blind yo! The color of the people oppressing and rapin’ yo don’t matter! Don’t let these house niggahs sell you out to their white massahs!” Moses stretched out his arms to the audience. “Lissen, people. You can all sit here and lissen to this shit and drink yo French champagne and write out yo checks and think yo doing something—or—you can come across the street and be down with the brothers. The Bruthers of Struggle who is locked up for nuthin. The sistuhs selling themselfs to white men to feed their kids. You can stay here or meet with us ‘cross the street. We be real. Real food. Real music. Rap soul, people, not some faggity Bobby Short Wanna-be playing Cold Porter. But something with guts. Yo choice, people! Yo choice!” He raised his fist, “Keep it real, nigguhs! Keep it real!”
He turned and marched out, his followers filing quietly behind him. Brooks picked up a microphone and marched to the podium. “I think tonight we have seen why Brewer’s Court is so important to our community. There seem to be two kinds of folks in this town. Those who wish to challenge the poor with opportunity and those who use them as a powerbase. We have to ask ourselves if we want to take pride in black accomplishments and be a vital force in our country or become nothing more than a sideshow of whining clowns as other people of color take our places at the table.”
Confused applause spattered across the room, giving Winfield just enough cover to scurry to his seat. The media people were in a frenzy. They had just enough time to make the ten o’clock news.
After the audience settled down, Dr. Veraswami took the podium.
“My friends, oddly enough, this makes me feel very much at home. Nothing of consequence is accepted easily. Remember your own Civil Rights movement. The demand to simply sit at a lunch counter sparked riots. And yet, even in this country, where we are only a minority, black people have achieved so much more than in Africa. Yes, you honor Africa, you recall her past glory, but I know her sad present.” His soft, British accent soothed the crowd. He smiled, spreading his palms in an all embracing gesture. “Recall the heartache of Biafra, the genocide in Rwanda. The conflict of our race is not eliminated by the absence of white people. We can either join together to build temples or squabble over spare change in the marketplace. The vision challenges us, frightens us. We must embrace the future if it to be ours. We are a great people. To proclaim this fact one need not denigrate any others. To claim that your wife is beautiful is no insult to other women. To say that we have the ability to achieve does not mean we must ostracize those of other races who share our vision. To protest against progress, to blindly adhere to tribal ways is like the child who wants the benefits of adulthood without the responsibilities. These antics of protesters are only a sad commentary on the immaturity of their vision. Like impatient children they stamp their feet, they bully, they huff, they puff. But, my people, we know better. The Jewish gangsters and Irish thugs who terrorized New York a century ago have evaporated into history. Dismissed and forgotten by their great-grandchildren—doctors, lawyers, bankers. Mr. Moses decries us as the enemy. One should hope that we, too, shall make progress, and these childish mobs will be forgotten. In the future I hope black school children will see his type only in a history book. They shall be the stuff of legend, but bearing no more influence on the young than Billy the Kid and Jesse James have on white freshmen at Yale or Harvard. The choice is ours.”
The audience appeared soothed. Winfield, no longer feeling on the verge of collapse, sighed with the relief of the acquitted. When the presentation ended, he strolled easily to the lobby where knots of interested parties lingered around drinks and hors d’oeuvre. Waiters served coffee and amaretto. The pianist, evidently flattered by his comparison to Bobby Short, played a flamboyant version of “Night and Day.” Winfield walked over to Brooks, and together they moved from group to group, shaking hands and sharing Moses stories. No one seem offended or intimidated. But the laughter was forced and nervous. For Win’s benefit, the blacks told gross jokes about Moses’ horde of illegitimate children, while the whites punctuated their comments with politically correct, obligatory “but-Moses-does-have-a-point” concessions.
Win and Brooks made the rounds and moved to the bar, deciding not to be too intrusive. Potential investors were pocketing flyers and watching videos. A crowd of drinkers stood around a poster-sized display of Brewer’s Court. They elbowed each other, pointing out features of the architect’s models.
“It’s selling itself,” Brooks smiled. “You did a good job on those promo packets. Look over there,” Brooks pointed to a pair of Chicago bankers. “When people pull out their calculators, you know they’re serious.”
They were sipping Crown Royal and basking in the afterglow when the searchlights hit them. Shielding their eyes from the stabbing light, they moved to the windows, blinking in pain. Winfield donned sunglasses.
“What the hell is it?” Brooks asked, trying to peer through the window.
Ted Kaleem ran up to them, puffing, “It’s Moses. I just came in from outside. He’s across the street, holding a rally. Those lights are his.”
“Did you call the police?” Brooks asked, wincing as he tried to get a better look.
“Already here, but there is nothing they can do. He’s got a permit.”
“Who issued him a permit?”
“He did. Signed it himself. He’s still an alderman. Unless it starts to get ugly or someone waves a gun, the cops won’t do a thing.”
Brooks glanced around the lobby. “OK, OK, show everyone out the side doors—they’re closer to the parking lot anyway.”
Fleeing the light, potential investors headed for the exits, spilling drinks and littering the floor with discarded brochures. Winfield felt deflated. All his colorful flyers lay like fallen leaves on an October sidewalk.
“Oh, Christ, Win, listen,” Brooks moaned.
Amplified by speakers, the voice of Moses rolled like thunder from across the street.
“People! Look at them fools over there. All them Oreos and crackers! We oughta take cookie cutters and do a Dahmer on ‘em. Cut ‘em up! Don’t let them fools use your poverty to line their pockets. They take money for the poor to build houses for the rich. Trickle down they calls it! Trickle down! Well, I say, you don’t piss on my people and call it rain!”
A crowd was gathering, hooting with delight. Black uniformed Moses supporters passed out fried chicken.
“Oh God, Win, let’s get out of here fast,” Brooks urged. “I wanted to celebrate tonight. Now all I want to do is run home and hide under the covers. Can you imagine what the media will say about this?”
They grabbed their coats, ducked down the stairs, and slipped out a side door to the alley. Moses had turned the platform over to a rap group chanting “Uzi! Uzi! Uzi!”
“God no, it’s the Uzi’s! I thought those guys were on the road,” Brooks hissed. Winfield caught a glimpse of the leather-clad rappers in visored caps dancing atop a flatbed truck. The lead singer, microphone cupped to his mouth like a harmonica, paced back and forth, the backup singers joining him in chanting refrains:
I rob me a house every day,
I fuck white bitches, what kin I say?
Uzi!Uzi!Uzi!
You take ma cash, mess with ma stash,
I gonna kick yo funky black ass.
Uzi!Uzi!Uzi!
Ya steal my crack, snatch my wife,
Get me a rope, gimme a knife!
Uzi!Uzi!Uzi!
Cut you up just for fun,
finish you off with my little Jew gun!
Uzi!Uzi!Uzi!
Ted glanced up and down the alley. “OK, let’s break for the parking lot. We gotta make sure we can get out of here. Keep your lights off and back up slowly, then peel out onto Third Street. Let’s rendezvous at County Galway. If you run into trouble, call me. If it’s really rough, hit 911.”
They were moving among parked cars, when a searchlight found them.
Moses, flanked by bodyguards blocked the alley. “Let them have it! Stone them for their sins! Give them a sign! Give them a sign!” he beckoned.
Fists raised against the light. Objects hurled toward them. Intifada!
Wi