5


Ellis parked Lincoln’s Samson Drifter a few blocks away from Heritage Square. The LaValle Street sidewalks were busy with people headed toward the rally, though whether to participate or just to gawk, Ellis couldn’t tell. Maybe, like him, they were going there hoping to score, one way or another.

Oh, the ones with signs were easy enough to figure. “Equal Rights for All,” “End Segregation,” “I Am a Man.” Even a few “Make Love, Not War” placards scattered about. And more humorous ones like “This Is a Sign”—that one was carried by a long-haired white kid, probably from one of the local colleges. Ellis wasn’t surprised to see white college students in the crowd streaming toward the park—what better way to rebel against society than to support the burgeoning civil rights movement? He was surprised by the number of older white people he saw, many of them pulling along elementary school–aged children. Somehow, he didn’t think they were gawkers, or counter-protesters, but they looked more like Southern Union supporters than Freedom Marchers. Still, Ellis wasn’t one to judge a book by the color of its cover. Maybe because he was sick and tired of being judged all the time himself.

That was part of the reason he was here today. These rallies were a good place to pick up chicks, and after all the ribbing Lincoln and Sammy had given him up north about not having a girlfriend, he felt the need to prove to himself—and everyone else—that Casanova Clay was not the only smooth operator in the family.

Getting laid was easy for the son of a mob boss. At the rally, though, the girls wouldn’t be in the life, so getting in one’s pants would require a bit more finesse. He was sure he had the goods, but it didn’t hurt to exercise them once in a while.

He took a deep breath, checked his hair in the rearview one last time, and climbed from the car. He blended seamlessly into the sidewalk traffic, sizing up the women around him as he did. Most of them were not what he’d call prime pickings—chubby girls in tight bell-bottoms and multicolored striped shirts that accentuated their curves in all the wrong ways, thin girls in short shorts all but swallowed by long cotton tunics. Too short, too tall. That one was pretty until she opened her mouth—practically all gums—to bray out a laugh like a horse that smoked a pack a day.

Part of him wondered if this was why he didn’t have a girlfriend—because he was too damned picky. Another part wondered if it was just one more way of keeping them all at a distance. If none of the women he met were ever good enough, then no one could blame him for not being in a relationship, could they? And if he was never in a relationship, he didn’t have to worry about screwing it up. You couldn’t fail at something you never tried.

Then again, maybe fail was all you could hope to do in that case.

He shook his head. This much introspection couldn’t be good for him. He doubted he’d find a beer at the park, but maybe he’d get lucky and find someone dealing. Nothing hard—Sammy would freak—but a little weed couldn’t hurt. Might make finding a girl easier, too. Being high tended to lower his standards.

He saw a group sporting tie-dyed shirts and flowers in their hair and made a beeline for them. Today was his lucky day; peaceniks and pot went hand-in-hand.

But he’d wormed his way only about halfway through the crowd toward them when a gap opened up ahead of him and he saw her.

God, but she was beautiful.

Hair worn in a curly Afro that framed her face like a midnight halo, heavily lashed eyes that a man could drown in, lips so full and lush he felt an instant reaction below his belt. And then his gaze traveled downward.

She had a rack a Playboy Bunny would envy, even buttoned up behind the prim-and-proper dress she wore. But not too prim—the light blue muslin hugged her hips like a lover’s caress, then fell, cascading, just below her knees. The sight of her bare calves, shining like polished ebony in the sunlight, made Ellis’s mouth go dry.

His feet adjusted course, heading straight for her, peaceniks and their probable weed forgotten.

She caught sight of him when he was a few feet away and watched him approach curiously.

“Do I know you?” she finally asked, after he’d stopped and stood there speechless for several agonizingly long moments.

Ellis shook his head.

No, but you want to, he thought, knowing it was the kind of line he would usually use. Also knowing there was no way he could pull it off now, not with this one; he’d sound like an arrogant ass at best, a second-rate pickup artist at worst.

Instead, he thought the sincere, humble approach would be his likeliest play. “No, I don’t think we’ve met before. But you seem to know what’s going on here, and I was hoping you could explain it to me.”

He had no idea where that had come from, but he’d take it. Especially since it elicited a friendly smile and an outstretched hand.

“Well, you’ve come to the right place. I’m Vanessa Dautrieve, with CORE, and I helped organize this rally.”

“I’m Ellis Robinson. What’s CORE?”

“The Congress of Racial Equality. We seek to bring about equality for all people, regardless of race, creed, sex, ethnic background, what have you. Our methods are nonviolent, patterned after Gandhi’s. We believe civil disobedience can effect real change. That’s why we’re here today. To show them we’re not going anywhere, no matter what they do to us. We won’t give up until we get what’s rightfully ours.”

All Ellis really knew about Gandhi was that he’d gone on a hunger strike in India. He wasn’t even really sure why, or if it had been successful—though he supposed if civil rights groups in America were using the man’s tactics, it must have been.

He had his doubts about the nonviolence part, though. Bullies were rampant in his world, and turning the other cheek meant only that you’d get hit harder the second time than you had the first.

Still, he didn’t think admitting his ignorance—or his doubts—to Vanessa was going to win him any points, so he just nodded in what he hoped was a sage fashion. Then he remembered something.

“Weren’t you guys part of the Dryades Street boycott? ‘Don’t buy where you can’t work’ and all that?” Dryades Street was where all the black people bought their clothes—up until 1960, that is. Then some civil rights groups—including CORE, if Ellis was recalling correctly—organized a boycott of the white-owned and -operated merchants who sold to blacks but refused to hire them. Faced with economic disaster, some of the stores had started hiring blacks—but just as many had picked up and moved away, and boarded-up storefronts had become a common sight. Ellis wasn’t so sure the boycott hadn’t done more harm than good. “And the Freedom Rides?”

Vanessa nodded. “CORE was; I wasn’t. I didn’t become involved with the group until more recently.” She looked away then, as if she were embarrassed or ashamed. Ellis understood the look—he’d worn it often enough himself. It was the same expression he had when trying to explain why he couldn’t do something his friends wanted him to do, because either Sammy or Lincoln would frown on it.

“Your parents aren’t big supporters of the cause, I take it?”

Vanessa’s gaze rose to meet his, startled and grateful. She nodded again, this time with a small, rueful smile.

“You can say that again.”

Just then, another woman came up to them, and Vanessa introduced her as Oretha Castile, former president of the local CORE chapter.

“Oretha can tell you far more about the movement than I can; she’s been active here with various organizations in New Bordeaux off and on since—”

“—Boundary Street!” Ellis interrupted, sticking out his hand to shake hers.

Oretha smiled.

“Yes, that was me.”

Oretha and three other students had been arrested for staging a sit-in at the lunch counter at McCrory’s on Boundary Street—the whites-only counter. It had made the papers, and their case wound up going all the way to the Supreme Court, where they actually won. Maybe there was something to this civil disobedience stuff after all.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Ellis said, and meant it.

Oretha nodded at him.

“Likewise,” she said, before turning to Vanessa. “We need to get started. We have a few speakers lined up. You going to pass out buttons while they talk or try to sign up new members?”

“Janet’s doing membership this time; I’m on button patrol. I’ll take Ellis with me.” She looked over at him and winked. Ellis felt a thrill go through him.

“Sounds good. We’ll meet up after, then head to HQ. You can bring him along if you like. The movement can always use more guys.”

Oretha nodded at him again before striding off into the crowd.

“She likes you. That’s a good sign.”

“Glad to hear it,” Ellis said, wishing the “she” in question were Vanessa. “So, what exactly does ‘button patrol’ involve?”

Vanessa laughed. It was a musical sound that made Ellis think of angels.

“Nothing to it, really. You just hand them out to people as they’re listening to the speakers, or getting high, or whatever it is they’re here in the park doing. The hope is that some of them will come across the buttons later and their curiosity will be piqued and they’ll come look us up. Or, at the very least, that they’ll wear the buttons and be free advertising for us. Passive recruitment, you know?”

Personally, Ellis thought if they wanted to get more members, all they needed to do was have Vanessa go around flashing that smile of hers and she’d have a whole line of new recruits following at her heels, like some kind of Pied Piper.

But then he’d have to share her attention, and he discovered he didn’t much like the idea of that. Not at all.

“Buttons it is,” he said, gesturing for her to take the lead. “After you, ma chère.”

And as he hurried to follow her through the crowd, he realized to his surprise that he was no longer interested in simply scoring. He’d found something—someone—worth far more than a conquest he could brag to his friends about, and he damned sure didn’t want to be left behind.