Disaster Among the Heavens by Don E Peavy Sr (macos ebook reader .TXT) 📖

and determination of Skinny Minnie who reopened his club and booked one of the country’s greatest Blues singers to breathe life into Beale Street. The Mayor, worried about declining city revenues, successfully persuaded the governor to remove military personnel from the famed street with the promise of a greater undercover police presence.
No wonder then that Rodney and others now packed this icon of blues venues, which had struggled beyond the grave and back to keep hope alive on Beale Street and maintain some semblance of Black culture in this city of music. A recess had been called in the violence and death that ran rampant over the city for the past few months. Now Rodney and his fellows were out in mass to celebrate it. Still, Beale Street was a long ways from its glory days; it would be several decades before its resurgence. Nevertheless, tonight was a grand start.
“What’ll it be?” asked a brown skinned, short waitress whose name tag indicated her name was “Tonya.”
Tonya wore black hot pants and black stockings which faded into a pair of white mid-calf boots. She had on a pink silk blouse which curved into a v both in the front and in the back and around her neck she wore a Black power medallion formed out of shoe laces. Her hair was black and short and was teased out into what was commonly referred to as a natural or Afro.
Rodney undressed her with his eyes then said, “What happened to, er, ah, uhhh …”
“You mean Roslyn, she went on break. She’ll be back once the band starts,” explained Tonya with a smile.
“I can dig it,” responded Rodney. He gave her the once over then continued, “Bring me a Schlitz Malt Liquor and bring my friend a … What are you drinking partner?”
Shannon smiled at the word partner then answered, “Vodka on the rocks with a twist of lime, and bring me a glass of water.”
“You got it,” said Tonya. She then let out a loud pop of her gum and walked away. The two men watched her move away as if she were floating on air. Rodney paid particular attention to what he described as a “well-defined ass.”
“Man, I’d like to have some of that!” exclaimed Rodney.
Shannon smiled and said, “I’d like a piece of that.” He motioned across the room to where a blond haired, tall and muscular white woman had just entered and sat down at one of the tables closest to the stage. She was accompanied by five other rather healthy looking white women.
Wonder what the hell they’re doing here? mused Rodney. There was a time several years ago when the presence of whites on Beale Street would not have caused any concern. Times were different in this age of desegregation and fear engendered by the revolution. Rodney’s years of working vice suggested that something was amiss about this sextet, but he could not pinpoint what it was. He decided to keep an eye on them and continued to watch as they took their seats and ordered drinks.
“Here ya go. Gotta hurry. My main man’s about to hit the stage,” laughed Tonya. She placed the drinks on the table. “That’ll be four dollars and fifty cents.”
Rodney handed her a ten-dollar bill and said, “Keep the change. Say, anyone ever tell you, you be one fine momma!”
Tonya laughed, took the money, popped her gum and walked away.
Rodney turned to Shannon. “Man, how could you be gone so long from a woman like that?”
“Ever seen a belly dancer?” Shannon asked. He smiled.
“Belly dancer? Hell, man, I don’t want no woman whose stomach is bigger than her ass!”
The two men joined in a hearty laugh. Finally, the ice had melted and they were enjoying each other’s company. Shannon was about to explain the misconceptions about belly dancers when the jolly pair was disrupted by noise coming from the entry door. They turned around to see a dark skinned male of about five feet and four inches and weighing about 240 pounds enter the club dressed in a lime green double breasted walking suit with a long black fur coat draped over his shoulders. He had a huge gold lion’s head on a thick gold chain around his neck and perched on top his head was a lime green stove pipe fur hat which tilted to the left side.
This curious fellow was surrounded by four other Blacks who wore black pants with green Nehru jackets over black shirts and each had a large Afro which sparkled under the colored lights of the bar. They took the table next to the white women which sported a reserved sign.
Rodney and Shannon watched the two groups interact as the night wore on and the drinks flowed and Bobby Blue Bland sang the blues. First, he belted out “St. James Infirmary,” and then he did the classic, “If You Gonna Walk On My Love, The Least You Can Do Is Take Off Your Shoes!” He followed up with many of his other hits.
“Man, they don’t make music like that anymore,” Rodney observed. “Not since the British invasion took over the airways. Hell, all you hear about in music now is drugs and getting high.”
Shannon did not respond. He had no idea what was happening on the American music scene; although he always enjoyed the Blues.
“Here’s to the Blues!” Shannon raised his near empty glass the length of his arm then took a long swallow.
“For sure!” agreed Rodney, who did likewise. He shifted his attention to the two tables to monitor the interaction between the two. His ill feeling about both groups continued. He was on his third drink when his suspicions came to fruition.
Bobby Blue Bland was singing “Stormy Monday” when two of the white women got up and headed to the back towards the bathrooms. After a few minutes, the blond got up and winked at the Black in the lime colored walking suit who followed her to the back. A few more minutes passed and then came a loud, crashing sound from the back.
The remaining three white women jumped from their seats and pulled out pistols, which they pointed at the Blacks who had accompanied the man in the lime suit and the tallest of the three shouted in a masculine voice, “Don’t move, or I’ll blow your freaking brains out!”
“Ah shit!” shouted Rodney. He pulled out his gun and pointed it at the white women/men and shouted, “Freeze, assholes!”
This distracted the whites and gave the Blacks an opportunity to pull their weapons. Pandemonium exploded. The band rushed for cover as the crowd hit the floor. Gun shots rang out. Shannon remained in his seat with a cool that contrasted the heat of the disturbance.
When it was over, four of the whites and three of the Blacks lay mortally wounded while the remainder were seriously injured and had to be rushed to the hospital. The blond and the man in the lime suit were among the dead. Five customers were killed and twenty-three were injured.
“What the hell happened?” shouted an angry Captain as he approached Rodney and Shannon who were standing at the bar. Shannon remained silent.
“Who the hell are you?” the Captain asked as he faced Shannon.
Shannon took out his identification and flashed it before the Captain.
“Oh, sorry, General McMillan, I did not recognize you,” apologized the Captain.
“What is the CIA doing in Memphis?”
“Captain, that’s top secret,” answered Shannon. He gave Rodney, who was still straightening his clothes, a quick glance. “Were you not given any information as to my mission?”
“Hello, no. Just told me you were coming. But you can bet your sweet ass I’m gonna find out. Meanwhile, don’t you fart without my knowing it.” The Captain then turned to Rodney and asked, “All right, now what the hell happened here?”
Before Rodney could speak, a police officer came over and said in rapid fire, “Captain, the blond over there is Curly Mulestep, a local bail bondsman. The fellow in the ice cream suit is Jessie Brown—he’s out on bond for murder. It appears he skipped bond. Curly had a warrant for him. These other white guys are also bondsmen who double up as bounty hunters, and the Black guys are cronies of Jessie. Looks like one helluva mess here,” concluded the officer.
“That’s putting it mildly. I ...”
Shannon interrupted the Captain. Pulling a piece of paper from his inside coat pocket, he read off six names.
“Yes, sir, that’s them,” answered the police officer.
“You know those fellows?” asked the Captain.
“Yes, sir,” answered Shannon.
The Chief of Police appeared before the Captain could fire off any more questions.
The Chief was a big, burly man of about sixty-four with balding gray hair. It was obvious he had been at home for he wore a pair of blue jeans overalls over a lumber jack shirt. He wore his police hat and his badge pinned to the left strap of his overalls. Because of the gathering crowd, he had to force his way past an angry mob threatening to erupt into a new round of rioting and violence In addition, the Chief had to contend with a throng of news reporters and camera persons.
He walked straight to the bar and spoke to Shannon. “General McMillan, I just received a call from The President. He wants you in Colorado now! Rodney, I want you to accompany him.”
The Chief turned suddenly looking around the club. He saw a champagne magnum behind the bar which he got then spit chewing tobacco into it.
The Chief then leaned across the bar and continued. This time he looked squarely at Rodney. “We can’t afford you around here. Dammit, you’ve killed more people tonight than I have in the twenty-five years I've been Police Chief.”
“But Chief,” complained Rodney.
“No ifs, ands and buts! You’re damn lucky I don’t have your ass hauled in or better yet, thrown to that crowd outside.”
The Chief looked across the room, which contained a plethora of crime scene search personnel, police officers and sheriff’s deputies and now military personnel and members of the coroner’s office. Spotting Sergeant Higgins, he called to him, “Sergeant Higgins, over here!”
“Yes, Sir,” reported Higgins.
“I want you to take -- -- The Chief spit once again. As he spoke, he continued to hold the magnum in his left hand and pointed with his right hand. -- -- General McMillan here and Rodney and slip out the window in the men’s room and go by Rodney’s house so he can pack a few things, then take them to the airport. Take no detours, no excuses and no shit. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Chief.”
Rodney started to reurge his protest but thought better of it. He joined Shannon – together they followed Sergeant Higgins through the packed disaster area to the bathroom and out the window and beyond. Along the way, Shannon filled Rodney in on their mission. It was only then that Rodney realized that he had not escaped the revolution. What he thought was peace now seemed the calm before the storm. For he was now headed for a direct confrontation with the Director’s assistant at the centre of an all encompassing storm or, as others might put it, at ground zero.
As he and Shannon left Memphis and headed toward Colorado, neither of them knew nor suspected that beyond the storm lay a disaster among the heavens.