Free Magic City by Jewell Parker Rhodes Page A

could’ve told him there wasn’t any fairness.”
    â€œAmen,” “Yes, sir,” “Un-hunh,” floated out of the listeners’ mouths. Lying Man was testifying.
    Joe and Gabe waited just inside the door.
    â€œI told David every plantation only has one master. Always been that way. One master, then lots of poor whites to do the dirty work and lots of blacks to do what was beyond dirty. But this Jew kid believed he could make things better. He’d come into town ready to organize. Called himself a ‘friend of Negroes.’ Maybe he was too.
    â€œFolks called him a Red, a Bolshevik. Other choice words too. He was seventeen like you, Joe.”
    Joe cocked his head.
    â€œYep, weren’t any older than you, Joe. Tulsa don’t like unions. Never has.” Lying Man whistled air through his teeth. “His parents moved from Chicago and made him a farm boy. They weren’t any good at it. Nearly starved every season. David wanted to do carpentry. Instead he learned all the different ways a bossman had of saying no. In the city, he was ‘poor white trash.’ But no trash in David. He was as sweet and righteous as any prophet.
    â€œY’all know I like my music?”
    Everybody knew Lying Man lived for the blues. “David could play harmonica like you wouldn’t believe.” Everyone was entranced by Lying Man. Herb and Ernie didn’t touch their checkers. Nate didn’t wipe the lather off his chin. Joe stared at Lying Man, pot-bellied, surrounded by pomades and cans of tobacco, his razor slicing the air.
    â€œDavid even wore a white hat. Said his mam had given it to him. He truly believed in unions. But he’d no more sense than a babe.
    â€œIf he’d been a Negro, he would’ve been told, ‘Don’t be disrespectful…don’t antagonize whites with money. Don’t think you’re better than anyone else. Certainly don’t believe you’re equal, unless you’re ready to die.’”
    The men nodded their heads. Nate pounded a fist against his thigh. Gabe rocked, his arms crisscrossed over his chest. Lying Man gazed solemnly at each man in the room.
    Joe wasn’t fooled. Lying Man was talking to him. Telling him something Lying Man felt he needed to know.
    â€œDavid thought he was as good as the white man who owned the feed store, slaughtered the pigs, sold the ham, and still had oil gushingin his back field. I tried to teach him. But they bombed his house. Klansmen thinking about Jews killing Christ, worried about Reds overrunning the country.
    â€œIt was a Sunday morning. David’s folks died in their beds.” Lying Man set his razor on the counter. “I didn’t have no power to do a damn thing.
    â€œDavid came to me. He wanted to play his harmonica. Here. In the barber’s chair. He talked about wood, building houses and schools. He stayed for almost an hour, harmonica wailing, playing the saddest blues.
    â€œWhen the men came for him, I thought they’d come for me too. But they didn’t pay me no mind. I don’t think they even saw me.” Lying Man closed his eyes, ashamed of how helpless he’d been when David was dragged from the barbershop. “But I had power enough to watch him die. I owed him that. Owed him a witness.
    â€œLots of folk watched. But I witnessed it. Do you understand? I ain’t told nobody. The time’s not been right. But I’m telling you.”
    Lying Man looked first at Gabe, then at sallow-faced Billy, Chalmers, then Nate. Joe realized they’d all fought in the 369th with Henry.
    In the grip of some power, Lying Man tottered forward, clasping Joe’s wrists. “But I’m telling you now, Joe. I woke up this morning knowing I was supposed to testify. I never told anyone this story but I knew I was supposed to tell it today. I dreamt it.”
    Terrified, his dread returning, Joe tried to pull away. Lying Man held