Nobody Said Amen. Tracy Sugarman

started down here now that the students have arrived. They’ll need your help. Nobody knows Shiloh and Magnolia County like you do.”

      Billings raised his hands in mock surrender. “Breeding, Mendelsohn. How many people you know have cousins in Magnolia County, Missafuckingsippi? That’s why I am so knowledgeable. Been a captive audience to my father’s second wife whose family is still in Tunica, just down the road. I’ve been down here on school holidays since before Emmett Till was killed over in Money. That was a cautionary lesson for a nice northern Negro like myself. Lucky for me, I never learned to whistle. What I don’t know, I can usually find out. Not talent, just breeding, Mendelsohn.”

      Dale Billings always broke him up. Ever since the magazine had sent Mendelsohn to cover the first demonstration when Howard students picketed the Woolworth’s in Washington. Max had been prescient about its newsworthiness. Dale Billings had been the cheerleader, seemingly oblivious to the catcalls from a hostile crowd of whites that swiftly had gathered. His tough welterweight body was in constant motion, leading the students, what do we want, when do we want it, chanting, clapping, freedom! freedom! now! now! Celebrating the moment and making the others braver. Mendelsohn couldn’t take his eyes off him. When the picket line passed his part of the crowd Ted had called out “Talk to me later, I’m with Newsweek.” Billings was being hustled away by the police when Mendelsohn asked the cop, “What’s he done?” The cop shouldered his way past him. “Butt out. What the hell is it to you? You with them?”

      Mendelsohn had flashed his press card and the cop had grunted, “He’s blocking traffic.”

      Dale had grinned at him. “Newsweek? Why’d I think you were with the Amsterdam News or Ebony?”

      Since Mendelsohn was the only white reporter who showed up to cover the story, it started a long friendship with Dale Billings. When he’d run into him again at the Ohio orientation, the kid was hot to trot, couldn’t wait to join the group going into Shiloh in Magnolia County. “Gonna be Communications Director, Ted!” And Ted had teased him. “Is the movement that hard up? Don’t know if you can make the weight, Dale.” And Dale had shot back “Pound for pound I’m the toughest kid on the block. But they made me Communications Director because I am so smart and communicate so well. But mostly,” he laughed, “because I know where Magnolia County is in Missafuckingsippi!”

      “What do you know about a family named Claybourne, Dale? It’s a long story, but I’ve been invited to the Claybourne house. It’s occurred to me that I may be getting set up.”

      “Invited to the Claybourne house? You kidding? Other than the Tildon place, Lucas Claybourne has the biggest plantation in Shiloh. Must have more than forty tenant families on the place. Lucas invited you?”

      “Not Lucas. I met Wilson, Mrs. Lucas Claybourne, and she recognized a gentleman and invited me to visit her on this Wednesday afternoon. It’s not talent, Dale. It’s just breeding. What I want to know is, should I go?”

      Billings cocked his head and his eyes grew serious. “Don’t rightly know. Her husband gonna be there? If he is I don’t know if you ought to go. If he ain’t, I don’t know if you ought to go. I’d watch my back, old timer. He ain’t Klan, but he knows everybody who is. His wife, Willy? Been honey to all the Shiloh bees who wear pants and want to invite her into the hive for a little sportin’. But she’s more fizz than sarsaparilla, and folks think Lucas keeps her on a pretty tight lead. But she’s been news in Shiloh since she was Magnolia Cotton Queen in ’56, first summer I came to the Delta. Beautiful chick, sexy. Got one kid, Alex, and has another on the way. What’s she want with a wanderin’ Jew like you?”

      Mendelsohn laughed and started for the door. “Age adds a certain dimension of allure, son. I explained that I was twenty years older than you agitators and that might have done it. So in my estimation as an old and very experienced journalist, I think she wants to entertain me, not kill me. However, I could be wrong. And as Communications Director, I’d like you to make sure I’m right. So if I’m not back by four o’clock, please come and get me. Or communicate with the new FBI office in Neshoba.”

      “And what will I tell Newsweek when they call askin’ what happened to old Mendelsohn?”

      “Tell them I’m on the case and the check never arrived.”

       Chapter Eight

      Bobby Joe Kilbrew nodded to Luther Lonergan. “That’s him.”

      They watched from the gas station as Mendelsohn walked down the dirt road and paused at the Sojourner Chapel. When he methodically kicked broken glass from the steps, the two men grinned. “It’s too bad we missed the fucker the other night, Luther!” Minutes later they saw him start to cross Highway 49 then halt as four huge trucks carrying newly sawed pines rumbled past. Bobby Joe squinted through the waves of heat. “He looks younger than Em said.” He picked up a tire iron, swinging it like a pendulum into the hollow of his left hand, back and forth, “Let me do the talkin’.”

      When the trucks passed, Mendelsohn trotted across the highway, crossed the baking asphalt, and strode into the office. “Is one of you Bobby Joe Kilbrew?”

      “Yeah.” The arc of the pendulum continued, ending each time with a soft plop. “I’m BJ.”

      Mendelsohn grinned. “I’m the guy with the fucked-up tire. I think your sister told you about it.”

      “Yeah, she did. Said this reporter from New York needed help.”

      “I sure do. Hard to do my job down here without wheels.”

      “Depends. What is your job down here?”

      “Reporting. I write about what’s happening so folks understand the news.” He smiled at the man at the desk. “So I need wheels to go talk with people. If I wasn’t staying so close, I would have had to use a car to come talk to you.”

      “Luther and me’ve seen what New York reporters write about us rednecks.” Kilbrew turned to Luther. “Ain’t that so, Luther? Lot of us don’t think those Jew reporters write very patriotic stuff.” Kilbrew carefully laid the tire iron on the desk. His eyes met Mendelsohn’s. “That what you do for work?”

      “My boss sent me down to write about what’s happening in the Delta now that the Negroes are starting to try to register to vote. He never said anything about rednecks, Mr. Kilbrew.”

      Kilbrew turned to Luther. “You hear that, old buddy? Reporter here says that niggers are tryin’ to register to vote.”

      Luther grinned. “Naw. Sure haven’t heard about no niggers here tryin’ to vote, BJ. You sure you mean Shiloh?”

      Mendelsohn turned to Kilbrew. “Were you able to patch the tube?”

      “Yeah. Em said you was lookin’ for a little Christian charity, so me and Luther here fixed the tube and replaced the tire. Hope your magazine’s payin’ for your little accident. Not really charity, but it was the Christian thing to do. Comes to fifty-six fifty. Cash. Tire’s just inside the door of the garage. Luther’ll show you where.”

      Mendelsohn took bills from his wallet and fished two quarters from his jeans. “I’m mighty grateful, Mr. Kilbrew.” He placed the money on the desk. “About that accident to the tire.” He looked at Luther and then at Kilbrew. “I’ve been driving for almost thirty years, and never saw a tire get into that condition. Either of you got any idea how that could happen?”

      Kilbrew sat motionless, looking up at the reporter. “Yeah, I got a good idea.” His tall, lanky body unfolded from his chair and he picked up the tire iron as he stood. “Luther tells me you’re stayin’ with Deacon Williams, over in the Quarter?” His large hand holding the iron pointed toward the highway. “Accidents happen all the time over there in nigger-town. It’s a dangerous place for outsiders who don’t know about how to avoid accidents, not bein’ from nigger-town. Probably not too bright