Darktown by Thomas Mullen

the comment. Their two opposite hands had hovered there like a couple of mismatched shoes. Peterson had repeated his comment and kept his left hand dangling. Who the hell shakes hands with his left? Rake had thought. Then Peterson had pulledhis hand back and walked away without another word. It wasn’t until Rake saw Peterson have a similar encounter with another rookie cop that Rake put a few things together. That time, Peterson and the other cop shook with their left hands, the fingers loose, almost like two fish flopping against each other. They’d noticed Rake watching them then, and had glanced at each other, which was when Rake realized that the left-hand thing was a secret Kluxer greeting.
    And the first time he’d walked with Helton, they had arrested an old Negro who had simply been walking home along Juniper Street at midnight. Helton had demanded the Negro’s work papers, wanting proof that he was employed at a night job and therefore had reason to be out so late. There was no official curfew in Atlanta, yet most of the cops enforced one on the colored population. Helton had made such arrests in Rake’s presence three times now, and every time it happened, Rake silently vowed that next time he would protest, insist that this was ridiculous, or at least refuse to go to the call box. Yet every time it happened, he went along with it, reluctant to win himself a new enemy.
    â€œYour informant may have actually been wrong about Bayle,” Rake said to Dunlow.
    â€œReally, now?”
    â€œRookie doesn’t seem to understand how valuable it is to have friendships,” Helton said.
    Rake took his time finishing his coffee, then put the mug down. “Don’t call me rookie, Helton. I got four years’ combat experience while you were over here arresting elderly Negroes for illegal-­pedestrianism-after-curfew.”
    After a second of silence, Peterson laughed. “Kid’s got sand, Dunlow.”
    â€œDamn right he does,” Dunlow vouched. “Had my back at Triple James’s while you two and everyone else was trying to find him on the wrong side of town.”
    â€œI would like to hear him further explain his opinion on Nigger Bayle,” Helton said, seething from Rake’s comment. “Seemed to me there that he was supporting Bayle over Dunlow. That doesn’t sound like having your partner’s back.”
    Rake realized he was wading deep into waters he’d been trying to avoid. Lord only knew where the sudden drop was.
    â€œThe city isn’t going to change its mind,” he told them. “The Negro cops are here to stay. I’m not saying you have to like it, but I am saying, if we want to keep from driving ourselves crazy, we’ll learn to deal with it.”
    â€œOh, we are going to deal with it,” Dunlow said. “Make no mistake on that.”
    â€œI just mean y’all are looking at this the wrong way.”
    â€œEnlighten us, Officer Rakestraw,” Peterson said. “Share with us your higher worldview.”
    â€œLook, you two patrol over in Kirkwood, so what do you care about colored cops? They’re miles away from you. But me and Dunlow are in downtown, just blocks from Darktown every night.” He decided not to add the fact that Dunlow made a point of going into Darktown every damn night to reassert his ownership. “Right now, sure, it’s awkward with us being so close to them. But once they’re up to speed, once they’ve proven themselves decent cops, or close enough, the city’ll hire a few more—”
    â€œThe devil you say,” Peterson nearly spat.
    â€œâ€”and then they’ll have the manpower to police their part of town by themselves. Which means us white cops can police the white neighborhoods, and we won’t need to spend another moment down near Auburn Avenue or Decatur Street or the West Side.” He paused a moment for them to get the point.