Free Common Ground by J. Anthony Lukas

Mayor Kevin White. Anyway, this country owes James Brown a great debt and we’re lucky to have him here tonight with us. Give a great round of applause to James Brown.”
    The audience thundered its approval.
    Then Atkins went on. “I’d like to bring now to the microphone the manwho is making the program tonight possible, the man whose foresight and leadership has given the city of Boston and the whole metropolitan area a new lease on life. He’s a man who’s young, he’s a man who cares, and he’s going to make this a great city. The Honorable Mayor …”
    Dapper in a dark blue suit, button-down shirt, and rep tie, Kevin White ducked into the spotlight. The crowd’s response was—at best—subdued. It was the first time since King’s assassination that the Mayor had confronted a large group of blacks. Sensing the ghetto’s new rage at whites, Atkins and other black advisers had urged him to stay off the streets. Gazing now into the vast arena, squinting against the klieg lights, White feared that someone up there in the balconies might try to avenge the prophet’s death.
    Sensing the Mayor’s anxiety and the crowd’s hostility, Brown took the microphone. “Just let me say,” he assured his constituency, “I had the pleasure of meetin’ him and I said, ‘Honorable Mayor,’ and he said, ‘Look man, just call me Kevin.’ And look, this is a swingin’ cat. Okay, yeh, give him a big round of applause, ladies and gentlemen. He’s a swingin’ cat.”
    With the crowd more receptive now, the Mayor said, “All of us are here tonight to listen to a great talent, James Brown. But we’re also here to pay tribute to one of the greatest Americans, Dr. Martin Luther King. Twenty-four hours ago, Dr. King died for all of us, black and white, that we may live together in harmony. Now I’m here tonight to ask you to make Dr. King’s dream a reality in Boston. This is our city and its future is in our hands. So all I ask you tonight is this: Let us look at each other, here in the Garden and back at home, and pledge that no matter what any other community might do, we in Boston will honor Dr. King in peace. Thank you.”
    As White finished, Brown cried, “The man is together!” Then he launched into the distinctive routine which had earned him the sobriquet “Mr. Dynamite.” Flanked by two moaning saxophones, lit by pulsing strobes, he batted the microphone between his palms, bringing it close, pushing it away, gyrating, twisting, and sliding. His skin slick with sweat, he stripped the jacket from his three-piece suit, tossed it into the wings, then began a frenetic rendition of “Has Everybody Got the Feeling?”
    At that, his young fans in the front rows could no longer contain their enthusiasm. Jumping on the stage, they grabbed at their idol’s hands and hair. Police pushed them back, while Brown pleaded, “Let me finish the show! We’re all black. Let’s respect ourselves. Are we together or are we ain’t?”
    “We are,” the crowd chorused back. And they were. Scattered violence erupted in Roxbury that night, but the downtown riot never materialized. As expected, thousands of young blacks stayed home to watch the concert.
    But three days later, the city’s delicate deal with Brown came close to collapse. On Monday morning, Greg Moses called Atkins to say the city was backing off. Atkins quickly dialed the Corporation Counsel, Herb Gleason.
    “We never really gave the guarantee,” Gleason said. “We were only discussing it.”
    “Herbie,” Atkins said. “It was a firm agreement.”
    “Well, I don’t know where we’re going to get the money.”
    “Write a damn check on the city treasury.”
    “We can’t do that.”
    “Well, I’m not going to let you back off,” Atkins said, warning that if he hadn’t heard from Gleason by noon, he was going to introduce a resolution in the City Council laying out the whole story and calling on the Mayor to fulfill his commitment.
    At 11:50, Gleason