Recurrence Read online

They all laughed, and the tension was broken. After they got home, Burl promised to let Floyd know what happened when they talked to the sheriff.

  Sheriff Hawkins was surprised but skeptical after hearing that the boys had found the van. He was more interested after having his office check into what they had told him. The results from the phone call were the same as they had received. Henry’s Appliance didn’t exist, and the license number was for a different vehicle.

  “You’re sure about this number?” he asked.

  “Positive,” both of the boys responded.

  “Well that tag is registered to a Homer Allen of Wakefield, about fifty miles from here and it’s for a fifty-three Plymouth.” He paused and then continued, “I believe you, and you’ve done a good job, but you need to stop right where you’re at. Here’s what I’ll do. Even though you found that van outside my jurisdiction, I’ll follow up where you told me but in a private vehicle.”

  “Once I can testify to spotting the van myself, I’ll turn it over to the state police. I need statements from each of you boys.” He turned to Tilman, “I need written permission to take their statements from you and Bert, too.”

  They complied, and he promised to keep them informed.

  Over four months passed and John was back in Michigan before he heard anything about the cattle rustlers. Burl had included a news clipping with the letter.

  Four suspects and two deputies were shot in a lengthy gun battle when sheriffs’ deputies from Suffolk and Chesapeake counties, along with Virginia State Police, raided a rural homestead south of US Highway 13 on or near the county line.

  Two of the suspects died at the scene. Others, including officers, are recovering from their wounds. Police arrested a woman and two men subsequent to the raid. A police spokesman stated that a lengthy surveillance was necessary due to limited access and heavy foliage in the Dismal Swamp area. Officers found a major operation with a business office and both freezer and refrigerated buildings at the site.”

  City and state police carried out subsequent raids in Portsmouth, Franklin, and Petersburg, where they found stolen beef channeled through otherwise legitimate businesses. A spokesman for the agencies involved commended unnamed citizens for supplying information that led to the investigation.

  John read the letter and the news clipping, speculating on the crime and their ultimate detachment from it. The criminals had engaged in a high-risk operation involving a lot of hard and dirty work under miserable conditions and had been willing to kill to protect their endeavor. “Stupid,” he said aloud.

  Less than two years later, he found out about a different type of crime, one that personally affected him. When he returned to Michigan for the start of his junior year, his grandfather was not there to meet him at the depot in Grand Rapids. He waited for two hours and then tried calling from a phone booth.

  The mechanical voice stated, “This number is no longer in service.”

  John decided to hitchhike and arrived just after dark. He found the home abandoned and a foreclosure notice posted on both doors. It barred him from access to the home and to his personal property. He slept on the screened-in porch that night and visited the neighbors on both sides the next morning.

  They were unable to tell him anything useful, saying that there had been no signs of anyone moving furniture or bulky items out of the house. John had already peered through the windows and determined that the furniture was still in place, but the Pontiac was gone.

  His grandparents had disappeared. When businesses opened for the day he learned from local agencies and court documents that the home had been purchased with money from a trust fund, one that was established for him from a settlement over his parents’ and sister’s deaths. A court appointed public defender helped him to interpret the documents.

  His grandparents had been taking gambling junkets during the summer months for the past three years and had wound up heavily in debt. The house they had originally bought outright wound up with a double mortgage. It was foreclosed the week before.

  John would later receive a long-delayed letter of apology from his grandmother, postmarked Laredo, Texas. The only time he would ever hear from them.

  Meanwhile, after a day’s search for answers, John had no place to live and school would start in a few days. He called Tilman in Virginia but got no answer. Next, he tried Burl’s house and was able to talk to his mother. She told him that Tilman was in the hospital at Franklin, Virginia for some kind of surgery. After a brief hold, she provided him with the phone number.

  When he got through, Tilman told him that he had fallen from a TV tower and broken his left leg above the knee and a rib, which punctured a lung. It had taken him all night to crawl to the highway.

  “Damned copperheads,” he muttered, still partially sedated. “I’ve been diagnosed with pneumonia too. Now I’m institutionalized for an indefinite period.”

  John told him what had happened in Michigan.

  Tilman was silent for a minute. He mumbled an apology and then suggested that John contact Mrs. Farmer back in Carter.

  CHAPTER 7

  Mrs. Farmer was in failing health but again she seemed glad of the opportunity to provide a temporary home for John. She said, “I know you’re a good boy, and I won’t mind having another pair of hands around the house either.”

  John did help her, but her needs were few. Her children had left for lives of their own in other parts of the country years before. She had resigned herself to a life of watching television.

  John felt like a stranger in what he considered his hometown. Most of his early childhood friends had moved away or dropped out, while others had developed new friendships. He was now at an age where competition and jealousy were more prevalent. Those who were life-long residents had formed alliances and considered him an outsider.

  He had a rough first year and got into several fights, nearly being expelled. A sympathetic teacher, who had lost both parents as a child, intervened. She insisted that John only needed counseling and suggested the local police chief, who was also a youth counselor.

  Chief Clinton was sincerely interested in steering troubled youths away from the discouragement and indifference that ultimately led to failures and a possible life of crime. His main approach was to channel the aggressive hormones in their physiques into outlets that were more productive and rewarding. Some were steered toward joining building projects for the community or assisting with outdoor and animal husbandry endeavors. Others were encouraged to sign up for the Police Athletic League boxing teams.

  The chief knew within minutes of talking with John that he would not tolerate planting bushes in the parks or dealing with animals in the dog pound. He was surprised to hear that John had been to Dismal Swamp and had dispatched poisonous snakes for several years, even though he didn’t really have any interest in hunting or wildlife. The chief recommended the boxing team, referring to it as P A L.

  John was older than most of the kids in the boxing program, but he quickly adjusted to being knocked down a few pegs by some of the smaller and younger kids who had already been in the program for a while. He learned quickly and had the internal discipline required to be a boxer and to stay in the program. The chief’s trainers reported that John accepted his early losses as a learning experience and was willing to follow orders. He was also a scrapper, indicating that he would do all right with training.

  Boxing was the outlet he needed to vent his frustrations. It helped to overcome the negative feelings he had acquired from losing his family and restored some of the stability inherent to family life. He felt a sense of belonging as well.

  Early in the school year, the athletic director wanted him to try out for football because of his size. He knew that football team positions and hierarchy were already set and that none of the players would willingly sacrifice their position for a newcomer. John disliked clique initiations too and to
ld him that he wasn’t interested.

  His schoolwork improved after he joined the boxing league as a one-hundred-and-fifty-five-pound middleweight. He made new friends as well but with a different kind of camaraderie. Out of necessity, the league had merged with the bigger city nearby.

  John mingled with the tougher, hardened inner-city element. Even though the program was police sponsored, a criminal element survived. Some of the youths already had criminal records and some had spent years in reform schools. A few had been in full-fledged prisons.

  Only those who were smart enough to not get caught were able to stay in the program. New arrests or known involvement in criminal activities would expunge them.

  John earned acceptance as someone who wouldn’t turn tail if a fight was not going his way and one who would keep his mouth shut if he overheard, or had knowledge of, an illicit activity.

  Stimulated by this knowledge, he acquired friends along with lessons about crime. The structure of the boxing teams included travel to, and interaction with, other cities. This in turn led to more contacts and a few additional friends.

  John stayed on in Carter through the intervening summer and his senior year and would soon graduate from high school. He speculated that he would have to support himself, without a clear idea of how he would do that. He’d had a driver’s license since he was sixteen, but he didn’t own a car. Now there wasn’t even enough left from his share of what they’d taken from the theft ring in Michigan to buy one.

  Mrs. Farmer’s health worsened, and her medical bills were forcing her to sell cherished pieces of jewelry and furniture one by one. John told her that he had some money saved and would pay her for room and board, but she refused.

  “You’ve been like a grandson to me and helped me around the house and with personal things. Most boys wouldn’t have done half as much. How many of your friends do you think have trimmed an old woman’s toenails?”

  John’s face reddened, and he said, “None.”

  She continued, “You don’t ask for much and don’t even take my car except when I ask you to drive me somewhere. Like I said before, you’re a good boy. You will be a good man too, but soon enough you’ll have to support yourself, and before you know it, a family. It won’t be long before they’ll be taking away my house and putting me in a nursing home.”

  She stopped abruptly and waved John out of the room. He saw her wiping her eyes with a handkerchief as he left.

  Later, while he was outside, he recalled a brief but rare lecture from Tilman.

  “The world doesn’t owe you a living or any other damned thing for that matter. When you become a man, you are obligated to make your own way and not depend on others to support or take care of you. Those who don’t adhere to this are worthless and won’t have any self-esteem. They’ll wind up with nothing but the knowledge of their own failures. Get all of the education you can, but don’t expect to get it free.”

  His boxing coach and one of the coaches from Fort Wayne had both told him that he was a good enough boxer to turn professional. After his initial rocky start, he had won most, but not all, of his fights. The few that he hadn’t won convinced him that being a professional boxer wasn’t what he wanted for a long-term future. Observing the step up in level of the Golden Gloves fighters over the PAL fighters convinced him even more.

  Very few of the Glovers ever made it to the Pro’s either. He liked the excitement, camaraderie, and travel, however, plus the exhilaration of winning against a tough opponent.

  He had become friends with one of those who had beaten him, and the only one to score a knockout over him. Benson Levine, a black boy from Fort Wayne, was the same age as John. They had trained together and became friends before the fight. Benson had lived in foster homes since childhood. He wasn’t quite as tall as John, but he had broader shoulders and a longer reach. Both of them had moved up into the light-heavyweight division during their time in the boxing league.

  After the fight Benson stated, “You was whipping my ass good for the first two rounds. If I hadn’t got in that right uppercut, I would’ve run outta gas. You’d have knocked my ass out instead.”

  “What I remember is how God-damned hard you were hitting me all the way through the fight,” John replied.

  In truth, he knew that he had been scoring well. He had landed some solid punches, staggering Levine in each of the first two rounds. Benson was quicker, but most of his punches were to John’s body or deflected by his arms. They were all hard punches though, and John didn’t even remember the uppercut or being on the canvas.

  They were talking while working out one evening, and John mentioned that he wouldn’t be around much longer.

  “Why not,” Benson asked.

  Referring to Mrs. Farmer, John replied, “I’ve got to get out of my grandmother’s house, and I don’t have a job.”

  “So, what are you going to do?”

  “Go to Virginia, I guess. I can stay with my grandfather down there, and I’ve got some friends there too.”

  “Huh, you ain’t never talked about them before since I knowed you.”

  John shrugged.

  They had stopped moving and Benson grabbed his arm pulling him aside to where they couldn’t be overheard.

  He looked directly into John’s eyes. “You ain’t flim-flammin me. Do you want a job and a chance to make some extra green on the side?”

  John knew that a yes to one, was a yes to both. “Doing what,” he asked.

  “Working on cars in my uncle’s garage during the day and making parts runs at night.”

  John grinned, “Midnight Auto Supply?”

  Benson grinned back with the whitest and straightest teeth he’d ever seen. It was something he’d noticed about Benson the first time they’d met.

  “You’re on, but I don’t know shit about it.”

  He went to work for Martin Levine two days after his high school graduation.

  When John showed up at the garage, Martin said “Youze dee only one ever work in here wit a high school diploma.”

  John laughed, and they shook hands. Martin was a smaller and older version of Benson but was bald on top with a thick fringe of mixed black and white hair on both sides and in the back. He even had the same grin but with longer teeth.

  “I don’t know much about working on cars,” John said.

  “You ain’t gettin paid much neither, and you be dee only white boy ever work here too. You’ll learn.”

  John did learn and was amazed at how much knowledge Martin, Benson, and the three or four others who seemed to come and go at random, all knew about cars and how efficient they were when working on them.

  Once, while John was studying the inside of a transmission Martin had torn apart, Martin came up behind him and said, “What’s da matter?”

  “Nothing’s the matter. I’m just surprised at how much all of you know about mechanics. That’s a mystery to me.” He pointed to the guts of the transmission.

  “We have to know, or we be walkin. When one of us learn somethin new, we show it and teach it to others. If we break down along the road who’s goin to stop and help us out? Not one white man out of a hundred, maybe not even one out of a thousand will stop. Less, o’course, he’s got us outnumbered and wants to make a killin.”

  John nodded his head and laughed, knowing it was true.

  Over the next few months, he learned a lot about automobile engine-and-body repair, as well as the workings of engines and transmissions. He learned about jimmying, hot-wiring, boosting and stripping. He went on parts raids with Benson and his friends and occasionally drove in predominantly white neighborhoods while the others slouched in the back or covered themselves with blankets. They only worked in those areas when they had a specific order that they couldn’t fill elsewhere.

  Sometimes others tried picking on or testing him at work or in all-black areas.
Those who had brought him in never failed to support him, usually with diplomacy. It helped that John was ready to defend himself.

  He observed that the work was hard, dirty, and high risk. Late one night, John drove the getaway car while three of them were in a city residential area of upper middle-class homes. An armed homeowner caught Benson sliding out from under an early-sixties Studebaker Avanti on a concrete driveway. He had jacked the car up, crawled under, and removed the driveshaft in less than five minutes. His head and shoulders were out from under the car and he was handing the driveshaft to a man named Irons, when two men with shotguns came running around the corner of the house. One ran up and stood over the still-prone Benson, his shotgun pointing down at him.

  The other man was running toward Irons with his shotgun held across his chest. Irons pitched the driveshaft at his face, knocking him down. He ran the opposite way and dodged around a corner of the house before his assailant could regain his feet and pursue.

  John was waiting seventy-five yards beyond the driveway in a Chevrolet station wagon, headed the other way. He had slid over to the passenger side to watch their progress. The plan was for him to open the rear power window when they approached so that one man could dive in through the window to receive the driveshaft from the other who would follow it in.

  The driver was to escape without exposing himself if any of the others were caught. Martin had ordered them all to avoid confrontations. John observed what had happened and realized that he couldn’t help Benson. When the second man disappeared in pursuit of Irons, the first man divided his attention between Benson and the foot pursuit. John started the car and slowly drove away with his lights off, turning left at the next corner.

  He continued in this direction for two blocks with both front windows down and then turned left again. He hoped to intercept Irons but didn’t see him or hear any commotion. Still driving slowly, he turned left again after four blocks. Seconds later, he heard the boom of a shotgun. The sound came from his left and some distance away. He eased to the curb and switched the ignition off, listening. In less than a minute Irons appeared from behind a hedge twenty-five yards ahead of him. He was difficult to see with his dark clothes and John almost missed him.