Tak would love to get his hands on this guy, Poppy thought. He took a long gulp of coffee, glancing from the paper up into the mirror again. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled — Coopersmith had joined the group of slick men. Poppy took a deep breath, thought about leaving, then exhaled slowly. He surveyed the room. He was the only Negro in the place, so he figured his departure might cause notice. He studied the group. Coopersmith was the top dog; the others leaned in when he spoke and nodded like acolytes to a great master.
Poppy wondered how many bloody knives Coopersmith had cleaned off since that night in Buffalo.
When a group of rowdy workmen came in to grab coffee and day-old donuts, Poppy scurried out behind their hubbub. He headed toward police headquarters, his mind racing as he approached the 14th Street entrance. He pulled the soggy paper from his back pocket and reread the article about the misbehaving ADA. He took out his notepad and scribbled some questions down, not sure of whom to ask them.
White folks do not like to be questioned. Poppy couldn’t think of a time when he didn’t know this fact, but questioning people was his job. Who’d be safe? He headed to the public library on 14th and Grove and asked the librarian for the newspapers from the past few weeks. He combed the Tribune and the Post-Enquirer for stories about Coopersmith or his beleaguered colleague. The district attorney had been railing hard against corruption in the city and county governments, so this case had legs. Surely Coopersmith’s name would come up soon.
Over the next few weeks Poppy dropped a few lines about the case in the Negro newspapers on both sides of the bay. He got Negroes wondering how much deal-making had impacted their judicial outcomes. Stories began to swirl. Coopersmith and his leadership were called into question, which put the district attorney’s office on notice.
In no time, patrol cops started to stop Poppy for the most minor infractions: jaywalking, tossing a gum wrapper on the street, loitering while he was waiting for a light to turn green. When he related these incidents to his buddies at the barber shop on 7th Street, they were not compassionate.
“You may be a reporter but you still a colored man,” the head barber told him. “Don’t let that byline think you above it. You ain’t.” All the fellas in the chairs nodded their agreement.
When a pair of cops stopped him walking out of the Roxie Theatre on 17th Street, they were unusually rough. One smacked him in the face when he asked why they were stopping him. The other called him Raincoat Jones and said he was wanted for questioning. And though Poppy tried to assure them that he wasn’t Raincoat, they prevented him from reaching into his pocket to pull out his driver’s license or his reporter’s ID. Detective Webster pulled up as the policemen had Poppy’s face pressed against the hot hood of their squad car, his arm bent high behind his back. He grimaced in pain, clenched his teeth.
“Let him go,” Webster instructed coolly. The cops released him but they didn’t retreat far enough for Poppy’s comfort. Webster shook a cigarette out of a pack, lit it, then studied the burning tip. He was calm.
“What’s up, Webster?” Poppy asked, straightening his clothes. “Why does everybody all of a sudden have a hard-on for Poppy Martens?”
“They just like you, I guess.”
“These guys called me Raincoat when you all know who he is. What am I getting shaken down for?”
“You piss people off, Poppy. Always have.”
“What did I do?”
“Putting your nose in someone’s business, messing in things you don’t understand.”
“What don’t I understand, Webster?” Poppy felt his anger rise.
“Lots. You can’t understand how things in a city work. People have to maintain relationships in order to get things done, to keep the city functioning, growing. You get my meaning?”
Poppy shook his head. He got someone’s meaning, but it wasn’t Webster’s. He knew Webster well enough to know that these were lines he had heard someone else say.
“You can’t go around getting people riled up about something that impedes progress.”
Poppy squinted, intrigued by the transformation in Webster’s diction. “Can I go? Are you arresting me for... something?” he said with his arms outstretched.
“You just mind yourself. Stop being a busybody. And know that the paper that hired you can easily fire you.”
“On what grounds, exactly?”
“On poking your big nose where it don’t belong!” Webster dragged on his cigarette. He blew smoke in Poppy’s face.
“Does any of this harassment have to do with Coopersmith?”
Webster’s eyes widened. “What about Coopersmith?”
“He’s the one who fired the young turk in his office. Whatever that kid was doing, Coopersmith must’ve known about it. Had to have sanctioned it. Right?”
Poppy knew he was treading on thin ice. One nod to the rabid cops behind him and Webster could have him pummeled into the sidewalk. But it was a chance worth taking. He realized Coopersmith was now the big boss, with his own henchmen who had their own bloody knives. No need to get his hands dirty unless Poppy came too close. Like he had at the Athens Athletic Club.
The next time Poppy went to the Athens he walked right through the front door, his reporter’s ID pinned to the lapel of his coat. A man from the front desk stood up, startled, and asked him if he had a delivery to make.
Poppy looked at his own suit then at the man, but decided to ignore the question. “Is Mr. Coopersmith here?”
“The whereabouts of our clients are private. This is a private club.”
“Yeah, I know it’s private. I’m not here hunting a membership. Just Coopersmith.”
“If I see him, who should I say is looking for him?”
Poppy had to think on this. Coopersmith must know his name if he was behind these run-ins with the police. He drummed his fingers on the desk and scanned the lobby of potted palms and tranquil white faces. Then he left the building.
He walked home with images of that night so many years ago coursing through his mind. He felt now that he had been hiding all along. If not from Coopersmith, then from all the rotten shit that he had to endure just to have a life, to thrive in that life. Coopersmith had gone about his business, had reinvented himself, safely, successfully. Poppy wondered why he couldn’t. For the first time in a long while he felt himself unlucky.
Poppy came home to a darkened apartment. He flipped on the light switch, tossed his keys in an ashtray, and turned to find Tak sitting on the couch. His arms were raised above his face, shielding his eyes. Poppy walked closer and saw that Tak had a split lip and a black eye.
“Man, who did this to you?”
“I fell down the back stairs. I told you those stairs were going to kill me one day. Well, today they almost did.”
Poppy studied Tak’s face. His nose wasn’t broken, but his lip would take some time to heal. “You are the worst liar in the known world. Who did this?”
“A couple of guys. I don’t know them.”
“Where’d it happen? Here?”
Tak closed his eyes and shook his head. “No, man. I was on 18th Street, coming from the bus terminal.”
As Tak iced his eye, Poppy looked around the small apartment that so many people had found safe harbor in during his time there. He didn’t want to run. He hailed from a family of runners, fleeing captors, family, and responsibility. Oakland felt like home — warm and nurturing, the way a home should feel. This raggedy apartment was the first stable house he’d had since leaving his family. As he studied his friend’s battered face and eased him out of his bloodied shirt, Poppy Martens decided he wasn’t going to run anymore. This shit stops now.