Darktown Read Online Free Page A

speaking. Perhaps he thought this was intimidating. The days when his bulk had been mostly muscle were gone, but he was still a man accustomed to cutting quite a wake.
    â€œLicense and registration, please.”
    Boggs had spent his entire life giving such white men as wide a berth as possible. Now he had to work with them.
    So Boggs concentrated on Dunlow’s partner. He walked up beside Rakestraw and leaned into his ear. If Rakestraw was offended at the proximity, he did not show it. They didn’t have much opinion on Rakestraw, who tended to hide in his partner’s long shadow. He likely would prove to be as much of a bastard as Dunlow once they got to know him.
    â€œHe had an adult Negro female in the car with him. She fled onfoot, at the corner of Hilliard and Pittman. He’d hit her in the head a block earlier.”
    â€œYou saw it?”
    â€œThey’d been circling around. It just happened a minute ago.”
    Rakestraw offered a neutral expression and the slightest of nods, which could have meant Interesting and could have meant Who cares? and could have meant that he would recommend to the colored officers’ white sergeant that Boggs and Smith be reprimanded for not pursuing the woman.
    The driver handed Dunlow his papers and joked, “They got you babysitting the Africans?”
    â€œUnderstand you fled the scene of an accident,” Dunlow replied.
    â€œWasn’t no accident. You hear any other car complaining ’bout an accident?”
    â€œIt was a lamppost on Auburn Ave,” Boggs said.
    Dunlow glared at Boggs. He did not seem to appreciate the colored officer’s contribution to the conversation. He extended the paperwork to Rakestraw, who walked back to their car to call in the information. Then Dunlow said to the colored officers, “That’ll be all, boys.”
    Boggs glanced at his partner. Smith was dying to say something, Boggs could tell, but was holding himself back. They hadn’t yet told Dunlow about the assault they’d witnessed. The victim was gone, sure, but a crime is a crime.
    Boggs opened his mouth. He tried to choose his words carefully. But before he could do so, the driver chimed in again, in a drunken singsong, “Back to the jungle, monkeys!”
    Dunlow cracked a smile.
    That approval was all the driver needed: he launched into a rousing chorus of “Yes! We Have No Bananas!”
    Dunlow was grinning broadly at the performance as Boggs met his eyes. Boggs held the look for a moment, hoping that he was passing on silent messages but knowing, despite all his effort and anger, that those messages would not be received.
    The song was getting louder. Boggs couldn’t even look at his own partner, as he would see the rage there, would see the reflection of himself, and he could not abide that.
    Boggs and Smith walked away. The flashing blues painted the top of an eastbound freight train on the crossing.
    â€œSon of a bitch,” Smith cursed.
    Boggs spat on the ground. A cockroach half as long as his shoe scuttled across the sidewalk.
    â€œTwo bucks says they don’t even ticket him,” Smith said.
    Boggs would not take that bet.

    A six-year-old boy named Horace was three blocks from his house when he saw the lady in the yellow dress running. She was pretty, he thought, even though he couldn’t much see her face. Then why did he think she was pretty? He would wonder that, later, when thinking back to this moment.
    He was walking alone late at night because his mother had woken him up and commanded him to. She was very sick and needed the doctor. She’d given Horace careful directions. He had to hurry, for her sake and because if he took too long, he might forget the directions.
    The lady was banging on someone’s front door.
    Horace watched her as he passed, and she must have heard him because she turned and looked at him. Looking at him and then not looking, the way adults do when they realize