Calvin Shepherd’s Bronze Star
Here’s an outtake from A NEW PROSPECT. Pre-publication reviewers seemed to like the scene, but I thought it sent the main story off to the sideline, causing things to slow down. But I’m into recycling.
Calvin Shepherd’s Bronze Star.
By Wayne Zurl
Copyright 2006
An outtake from A NEW PROSPECT. Published January 2011 by Black Rose Writing.
(Inspired by an actual incident. North Bellport, Suffolk County, NY, 1974)
(Fictional character, former NY detective turned Tennessee police chief, Sam Jenkins narrates the story)
We finished at ten-minutes-to-five. I should have gone home and poured a stiff drink. Instead, I walked into my office and sat down, wondering what I’d do next.
I sat back in my chair, put folded hands over my mid-section, and leaned back with my eyes closed, letting things run through my mind. I envisioned the famous New York detective, Nero Wolfe, in that posture contemplating a difficult case, his lips moving in and out; his faithful assistant, Archie Goodwin, waiting patiently for the genius to come up with a foolproof plan. Junior Huskey interrupted my thought process.
“Sam . . . you busy?”
I opened my eyes. “No, kid, I’m just thinking. Sit down, what do you need?”
He sat in a guest chair in front of my desk.
“I jest wanted ta git back ta my question.”
“You want to know what schlep is? Okay, here’s my best answer and advice. You schlepped through that job just fine, but don’t ever be a schlep, that’s not good. Understand?”
He looked more confused than before.
“No, sir, I meant the question I asked ya the other day, about why you took the job here. You didn’t git a chance to finish yer answer.”
“You actually listened, didn’t you?”
He nodded, and looked at me patiently.
Bettye walked in. I looked at my watch. It was five o’clock. I assumed she’d be ready to leave for the day.
“I just came in to say good-night,” she said.
“Thanks. Have a good evening. I’ll see you in the morning. I’m going to answer Junior’s question and then leave myself. We’ll be right behind you.”
“I heard what Junior asked. You mind if I stay and hear what you have to say?”
Great, my past will be an open book.
“No, I don’t mind, if you don’t mind getting bored with my story.”
“Sam, so far you’ve been anythin’ but borin’.” She smiled and took the second chair next to Junior.
“Well . . . as I was saying . . . about having a purpose. This happened at least thirty-five years ago while I was working. I knew this middle-aged black man who gave me the idea.
“My sector car partner and I got a call to his house. We didn’t know any more than some neighbor called in a disturbance or altercation. I found my friend sitting on his front stoop, not looking too happy.
“I’d known him for the couple of years I worked that sector. Calvin Shepherd was a hard-working man—had a good job with the Long Island Railroad, and was a World War II vet, a paratrooper with the all-black 555th Infantry. He once told me he won a Bronze Star over in Europe. They weren’t easy medals to come by in the second war, especially for a black soldier.”
My audience sat nearly mesmerized. I thought I might enter one of those Appalachian story-telling contests.
“Most everyone called him Shep, but he was about my father’s age, and I thought calling him Mr. Shepherd would be more respectful. Anyway, he always called me Mr. Sam, so it seemed like the right thing to do.”
Bettye interrupted. “Did you work in an all-black area?”
“I guess about ninety-eight-percent black. That community built up just after the Korean War—a place with cheap housing for the returning veterans. After a while it became mostly black people who stayed.”
She nodded and looked anxious for me to continue. Junior listened attentively.
“I asked Calvin why he called and he started by saying, ‘Mr. Sam, I work ever’ day. I bring home a paycheck ever’ two weeks. I keep my house nice, and on Sundays I like to sit back and rest.’”
I told the story using my version of Ebonics to give the performance a theatrical atmosphere.
“Then Calvin pointed to the house and said, ‘She tol’ me I ain’t got no purpose. Said to me, a man’s got to have a purpose. I axed her, how’s you get food on this table if I ain’t got no damn purpose?
‘Mr. Sam, she cussed at me like no man should have ta hear. A man don’t got to take that if he make a good livin’ an’ he bring home honest money an’ don’t drink it away. I only hit her once an’ she do this to me.’
I switched back to my own voice and continued. “Shep moved his hands away from his stomach. The unbuttoned jacket he held pressed against his body swung to the side and blood showed on his fingers. His shirt was torn apart and soaked red. I should have seen it before. He showed me a wound made by taking both barrels of a twelve gauge shotgun, loaded with birdshot, square in the midsection. He was having a hell of a time keeping his intestines from falling out of his hands.”
Bettye winced at the thought, and Junior sat forward a little more waiting for the punch-line.
“I yelled to my partner, who told the dispatcher to contact the medics. Louie, the guy I worked with, ran over with the first-aid kit. We did as much as we could, packing the massive wound with the biggest trauma bandages available. The ambulance arrived quickly and took Calvin away.”
Bettye and Junior made the best audience I can remember. Both waited silently for the ending.
“I went into the house and found Mrs. Shepherd standing in the kitchen washing dishes. I asked her why she shot her husband, and she denied it.
“I found a shotgun propped up against the wall behind the front door. It smelled of cordite and I found two spent shells in the breech.
“The evidence technician who responded for me did a Harrison test on her hands and found gunpowder residue. She still denied it.”
Time to end my story and head home.
“So folks, I figured I had better get me a new purpose in life lest somebody might do something bad to me. Besides, all the tension I’ve built up over the last fourteen years will probably dissipate as soon as I can rip off some bad-guy after a long high-speed chase. Know what I mean?”
Neither Junior nor Bettye responded to my late attempt at humor.
“Did Mr. Shepherd make it?” Junior asked.
I shook my head.
He followed up with, “What happened?”
“He held on for a couple of days, but then he finally passed away.”
“Oh, Lord, what a shame,” Bettye said.
“A couple of weeks later,” I said, “they received a phone call for me at the precinct. His daughter, who lived in another part of town, wanted to see me—something about Calvin’s will.
” Lou and I drove to her house. I went in and told her how I knew her father and thought he was a stand-up guy. I said how sorry I felt when he never recovered.
“She handed me a cigar box. Calvin left me his Bronze Star, three campaign medals, jump wings, combat infantryman’s badge, and a photo of himself in uniform with two other soldiers.
“She said her father didn’t know my last name. He just left those things to Mr. Sam from the 5th Precinct.”
“That’s really beautiful, Sam. Do you still have the medals and picture?” Bettye asked.
“No, I kept a picture of them and donated everything to the Airborne Museum at Fort Benning. I figured other people should know something about Calvin Shepherd, too.”
“Shoot,” Junior said.
“Lord have mercy. That’s so sad.” Bettye touched the corner of her right eye.
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