Ragtime - E.L. Doctorow [61]
The musician quickly strode back to the corner and headed toward the business district. After ten minutes he found a policeman operating a stop-and-go traffic signal. The policeman listened to his complaint and shook his head and spent some time removing his handkerchief from under his frock coat and blowing his nose. Those boys don’t mean no harm, he finally said. I know them all. Go on back now, they’re probably tired of the sport. Walker may have realized this was probably the maximum support he could expect from a policeman. At the same time he may have wondered if he’d been oversensitive to what was intended as no more than a prank. So he went back to Firehouse Lane.
The fire engine and horses were withdrawn. The road was empty of volunteers and his car stood off the road in the field. He made his way to the car. It was spattered with mud. There was a six-inch tear in the custom pantasote top. And deposited in the back seat was a mound of fresh human excrement.
He went across the street to the firehouse door. Standing there with his arms folded was the Chief in his white military cap and green bohemian tie. The Police Department advises me there is no toll road anywhere in this city, Coalhouse Walker said. That’s right, said the Chief. Anyone is free to come and go on this road anytime he thinks he has to. The sun having set, the electric lights were on inside the firehouse. Through the glass panels in the door the Negro could see the three matching grays in their stalls, the great nickel-plated pumper with its brass fittings backed up to the rear wall. I want my car cleaned and the damage paid for, he said. The Chief began to laugh and a couple of his men came out to join the fun.
At this moment a police van drove up. It carried two officers, one of them the traffic policeman to whom Coalhouse Walker had appealed. He went into the field, looked at the car and came back to the firehouse. Willie, the policeman said to the Fire Chief, did you or your boys do any desecratin? I’ll tell you exactly what happened, the Chief said. The nigger here parked his damn car in the middle of the road right in front of the firehouse. We had to move it. It’s a serious business blocking a fire station, ain’t that so, boys? The volunteers nodded righteously. The big policeman came to a decision. He took Coalhouse aside. Listen, he said, we’ll push your tin lizzie back on the road and you be on your way. There’s no real damage. Scrape off the shit and forget the whole thing. I was on my way when they stopped me, Coalhouse said. They put filth in my car and tore a hole in the top. I want the car cleaned and the damage paid for. The officer had now begun to appreciate Coalhouse’s style of speech, his dress, and the phenomenon of his owning a car in the first place. He grew angry. If you don’t take your automobile and get along out of here, he said loudly, I’m going to charge you with driving off the road, drunkenness, and making an unsightly nuisance. I do not drink, Coalhouse said. I did not drive my car off the road nor slash the roof nor defecate in it. I want the damage paid for and I want an apology. The policeman looked at the Chief, who was grinning at his discomfiture, so that the issue for him was now his own authority. He said to Coalhouse I’m placing you under arrest. You’ll come with me in the wagon.
Early that evening the telephone rang at Broadview Avenue. The caller was Coalhouse and after quickly explaining that he was at Police Headquarters and why, he asked Father if he would consider putting up bail so that he could get to the city and not miss work that evening. It is to Father’s credit that he responded at once, holding back his questions until there was the leisure to have them answered. He called for a cab and went down to the station house and there wrote a cheque for the amount, which was fifty dollars. But as he reported the incident to Mother he was put off because Coalhouse Walker was barely civil in his gratitude and rushed off to the train station saying only he’d make good the sum.
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