South of Haunted Dreams by Eddy L. Harris Read Free Book Online Page B

nothing. He took the wallet from my pants pocket and went through that too.
    â€œI think we’re going to run you in,” he said. “How would you like that?”
    I had to think about it. I didn’t want it, but I wasn’t about to give in to them and cooperate. Finally I raised a finger to the woman waiting for me, just to make sure she knew it was me, and to tell her I’d be a moment or two. If they dragged me off to jail, I didn’t want her to think I had stood her up.
    â€œIs she waiting for you?” the black cop asked, as if that made a difference, as if a shoplifter wouldn’t have a friend waiting, wouldn’t want to break for lunch.
    I didn’t answer.
    The white cop got a brainstorm. He decided to call in the information from my driver’s license. In a second he came back.
    â€œI think we can let you go,” he said.
    â€œWhy? Did some bozo cop catch the real thief?”
    â€œNo,” he said. “It turns out that you don’t match the description after all. The guy we’re looking for is five foot three.”
    â€œFive foot three,” I shouted. “Does he have a beard at least?”
    â€œWell, no. But he is black,” he said, as if that justified everything. “Sorry, but hey, you understand how it is.”
    â€œWell you can just kiss my ass,” I said. “Because no, I don’t know how it is.”
    â€œHey, hey, hey,” the black cop said, trying to calm me down. “You don’t have to make a scene.”
    â€œYou pull up, snatch away my helmet, rip the jacket off my back, search me like I’m some sort of a criminal and I’m the one making a scene? You must be out of your mind.” I was shouting, going crazy.
    â€œDon’t make this any worse than it already is,” he said.
    â€œIt can’t get any worse than it already is,” I said.
    I put my finger in the black cop’s face. “You especially,” I said through gritted teeth. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
    Being black is still the crime. And every cop, black or white, is Bull Connor to me. Every cop is a southerner at heart.
    And now here in Hartford was another one. A southern one.
    He had a slight paunch that hung over his belt, but otherwise was lean. He wore a clean white shirt, sweat stains at the armpits, collar buttoned to the last button but one. Clipped to his belt was his pistol. I waited for him to touch it, was sure he would before long.
    Hartford is the county seat. The courthouse sits up on a grassy hill. At the base of the hill is a retaining wall. On the very corner is the phone booth. That’s where I was when the cop, a deputy sheriff, came to me.
    I was thumbing through the little phone book hanging from a small chain. You hardly ever find directories hanging in phone booths anymore. People rip pages out of them. People steal them.
    I was trying to find a phone number for the Coon Hunters’ Club. It wasn’t listed. When I dialed directory assistance, they didn’t have a number for them either. So I stepped out of the booth and leaned against the wall. The cop was waiting for me.
    â€œHow y’all doing?” he said.
    â€œOkay.” Suspicious. Cagey. “How about you?”
    â€œAbout as well as can be expected,” he said. And then he touched the gun. He tugged at the waist of his pants and adjusted the way the gun hung on his belt.
    His accent was soft, hardly southern at all, almost midwestern but slower and with a slight twang.
    â€œSure is hot,” he said. He pointed with his chin across the street. “Is that your bike over by the bank?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œSure is a pretty thing,” he said. “How’s she run?”
    â€œSmooth,” I said.
    â€œAnd fast, I bet.”
    â€œFast enough,” I said. “Speed limits, you know.”
    â€œYeah, right.” I don’t think he believed