Summary: Kinch meets the local crime boss, and an old flame. Buddy meets some pals of his own.
Author's Note: A heartfelt thanks to Doc II for her super beta skills! She did her job; any mistakes are entirely my own.
RIP Ivan Dixon: On a sadder note, Ivan Dixon passed away at the time of this writing. An excellent actor and Class-A director, he will be remembered with great respect and fondness by his many fans. Rest in peace, Ivan--you'll always be a hero in my heart.
Disclaimer: Hogan's Heroes is owned by Paramount, Viacom and others; this is an original story that does not intend to infringe on their copyright. Feedback is welcome!
Copyright: February 2008
Hero's Welcome
by Syl Francis
Chapter 3
Freeman led Kinchloe into a large drawing room. At least that was what Kinchloe thought a room of that size might be called. It reminded him of some of the fancier ballrooms through which Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers had effortlessly danced their way across.
The room boasted floor-to-ceiling windows with heavy brocade curtains, drawn to admit the morning sun. He admired the glittering twin chandeliers that sparkled like a thousand stars above him and reflected off the glossy, mirror-like finish of the marble floor below. He took in the expensive antique furnishings, privately doubting whether anyone ever actually used them.
As they crossed the drawing room, Freeman nonchalantly pointed out the museum-quality oil paintings along the wall, as well as several marble sculptures. "My friend is what you might call a gen-u-wine art collector. He has plenty more stuff in storage some place. Someone said that he likes to rotate it every few months, so he don't have to see the same things all the time."
Even to Kinchloe's untrained eye, the art collection looked impressive, but by the same token, each item could also be a fake. While he had a journeyman's appreciation of art, this was a little out of his league. At last, they arrived at a set of closed double doors where a butler waited patiently. (At least, that was what Kinchloe believed the gentleman in tails and white gloves must be as he had only seen butlers in the movies.)
As they approached the doors, the stoic, expressionless valet, opened them and stood aside. Kinchloe smiled and said, "Thank you."
Visibly flustered at being addressed directly, the butler mumbled a hasty, "You're quite welcome, sir," in very British English.
Kinchloe mentally rolled his eyes. Whom did Buddy know that employed an English butler? He wondered. And what could he possibly want with me?
They stepped into a smaller, more comfortable room that Kinchloe instantly recognized as a library or study. This room he could openly admire without hesitation. He envied the floor to ceiling bookshelves, lined with leather-bound books. He wondered if anyone had ever bothered to open and read them, or if like the antique furnishings that he had just seen, they were purely decorative.
Unable to take his eyes off the books, Kinchloe made his way to the bookshelf, searched the titles eagerly, and selected one.
"That's my favorite. Are you familiar with his works?"
Kinchloe spun around at the sound of the disembodied, feminine voice behind him, almost dropping the book he held in his hand. He searched for the source of the voice, but could not find her.
"I said, are you familiar with his works?" This time the throaty voice was attended by a beautiful woman to match it. She was looking up at him from a wingback chair on which she had been quietly reading. Standing, she moved toward him, indicating the book he was holding. "Langston Hughes, I mean."
Kinchloe stared at her. She looked vaguely familiar. Trying to place her, he noted that she was tall for a woman, almost as tall as he. She was dressed simply in a winter-blue cashmere sweater and black skirt. A single strand of white pearls elegantly enhanced her lovely café au lait coloring. Kinchloe was immediately tongue-tied. He always felt a little nervous and shy around girls, which rendered him practically incapable of holding a coherent conversation with the opposite sex. As always, he was powerless to formulate any words.
"Dottie, I told you how shy Kinch was around women." Freeman slapped Kinchloe on the back, sounding amused. "Kinch, this here's the big man's main squeeze—Dottie Williams. You remember her from school, don't you?"
"Dottie--?" Kinchloe suddenly remembered her. He and Dottie had been in the same class year, but in totally different circles. Dottie had always run with the popular crowd, while he had been somewhat of an outsider.
"Buddy, I believe I've told you before, my name is 'Dorothea,' not Dottie…a name I absolutely detest."
Smiling up at Kinchloe, she raked him with a sultry glance that could have started a three-alarm fire. Walking up to him, she gave him a knowing look.
"James Kinchloe, as I live and breathe. After all these years…you haven't changed a bit."
"You have," he murmured. At her look of surprise, he added shyly. "You got even more beautiful."
She smiled disarmingly at him. "Why, thank you, sir." Nodding at the book in his hand, she added, "Most of the men who walk in here head for the wet bar. You pick up a book. Like I said, you haven't changed." She took the book from him and casually turned the pages. "Mother to Son," she murmured. "Probably one of his finest poems…It shows every Negro mother's greatest fear—losing her son to despair."
"A poem?" Freeman sounded scornful. He took the book from Dottie and read the first few lines silently, his lips moving as he mentally struggled to form the words. At last he shook his head. "Hey, it don't even rhyme." He glanced from Kinchloe to Dottie puzzled. "I thought you said it was a poem. Ain't poems s'posed to rhyme?"
Kinchloe, in turn, took the book from Freeman and returned it to its place on the bookshelf. "Not all poems rhyme, Buddy."
"Oh. Well, who cares about some dumb ol' poem anyway?" Freeman asked. "Give me some smoking hot jazz and something ice-cold and wet to chase it down with any time!" Grinning suddenly, he made a beeline toward the wet bar. "And speaking of something that's 'ice cold and wet'—"
Kinchloe shook his head as Freeman studied the contents of an ice box, quietly humming to himself. Freeman would never change.
"So, um…Dot—um, I mean, Miss Williams--?" Kinchloe began, swallowing a few times. "What did you want to see me about?"
Freeman guffawed at Kinchloe's words. "Kinch, my man, are you off base. Dottie ain't the one who sent for you--!"
"No…I sent for you."
Everyone turned at the quiet voice behind them. The English butler stepped aside from the opened double doors, revealing a handsome, well-dressed black man, who stood centered in the doorway. The newcomer was dressed to the nines in pinstripes and spats. His right hand was casually tucked half-in/half-out of his jacket pocket. The left held a lit cigarette that was dangerously close to burning his fingers.
"Thank you, William. That will be all." Dismissed, the butler bowed slightly and slipped out of the room.
The newcomer was surrounded by four bodyguards, all glaring at their surroundings with the same impassive expression; all standing at seeming attention like soldiers on parade. He snapped his fingers and held out his spent cigarette. One of the bodyguards immediately replaced it with a new one.
"Dorothea," he said, giving a slight jerk of his head. She was instantly at his side, hanging onto him. Kinchloe noted with some annoyance that they made quite a handsome couple.
"Theo," she murmured in greeting, kissing him on the cheek.
"Buddy." Theo nodded at Freeman, who looked ready to spill his drink. With a slight, amused grin, he turned to Kinchloe. "And you must be Buddy's friend."
Kinchloe remained silent, opting for a wait and see attitude.
"Theo, this is James Kinchloe," Dottie said.
"That's right, Mr. Baxter," Freeman interjected quickly. "This here's my friend, James Kinchloe…the guy I been tellin' you about. Everybody calls him Kinch."
Theo Baxter—one of the infamous Baxter brothers—had sent for him, Kinchloe realized. But why?
"I don't understand, Mr. Baxter," Kinchloe began. "What do you want with me? Buddy, what kind of tall tales have you been making up about me?"
"Tall tales?" Baxter asked.
"He's just funnin', Mr. Baxter. Ol' Kinch here…he's a barrel of laughs sometimes. Ain't'cha, Kinch?" He laughed nervously as he spoke, punching Kinchloe lightly on the arm. "Why, Kinch here is one of the smartest guys around—colored or white!"
Baxter continued to stare at Kinchloe, taking his measure. At last, he turned to his bodyguards and nodded at them to leave. When they had gone, Baxter walked over to the wet bar and poured drinks.
"How do you take your whiskey, Kinch? Straight or with water?" he asked.
"I don't drink before noon."
At his words, Buddy practically spewed his drink and started coughing violently.
Baxter kept pouring without speaking, but Kinchloe saw that the corners of his mouth had turned down slightly and that his hands shook a little. After Baxter poured the drinks, he looked up at Kinchloe.
"Kinch, I'll overlook what you just said because this is your first day here. But let's get one thing straight…when I drink, I don't like to drink alone. And when I pour a guest a drink, I expect him to drink it."
"No, I think maybe you had better get a few things straight, Mr. Baxter. First, only my friends call me Kinch, and I only drink with my friends."
"Kinch—" Freeman gasped, but Kinchloe ignored him.
"Second, since I didn't ask to come here, and I didn't come of my own free will, I figure that you're no friend of mine."
"Kinch, what are you sayin'--?" Freeman looked scared to death. However, Kinchloe noticed that Dottie had a certain pleased look of triumph on her features.
"Now, I'm going to walk out that door," he said, pointing, "and I'm going home." Kinchloe started toward the exit when Baxter's voice stopped him.
"Wait! Mr. Kinchloe, please. Don't go just yet."
Kinchloe turned slowly and faced him, surprised by his words.
Baxter shrugged. "I sometimes forget myself. As Dorothea here likes to remind me, I'm not the boss of the world." He grinned suddenly. "One day maybe, but not today." He indicated an easy chair. "Please, have a seat. Let's talk. Afterwards, if you still want to leave, you're free to go."
Kinchloe gave him a suspicious look, but finally shrugged. What choice did he have? Catching Dottie's eye, he was surprised to see a look of disappointment on her face. He wondered if he had done something to put it there.
Baxter picked up his drink, and raising an eyebrow at Kinchloe asked, "Are you sure you won't have anything?" At Kinchloe's nod, Baxter shrugged and sat across from him. "So, tell me, Mr. Kinchloe, what do you do for a living—that is, of course, if you don't mind my asking?"
"It's no secret," Kinchloe said. "I work for the phone company."
"Really? The phone company?" Baxter murmured politely. "Do you enjoy your work?"
Kinchloe nodded and shrugged. "It's a living."
"Tell me…about how much do you make in a year?" Baxter asked.
"Oh…about three thousand a year, minus taxes."
Baxter nodded sagely. "Three thousand a year—a fairly decent wage." He gave Kinchloe a searing look. "Let's cut to the chase, Kinch…I hope you don't mind if I call you Kinch. You see, I want to be your friend, and I'm offering you my friendship. Do you know what that means?" Answering his own question, Baxter shook his head. "No, I don't think you do. Buddy here says that you're not a player, that you've stayed clean all these years—nose to the grindstone and all that."
"Something like that," Kinchloe agreed, glaring at Freeman.
"And what do you have to show for it?" Baxter asked. "A guy like you…a guy with brains. You should be making twice that amount—three times, in fact! Instead, you're willing to let your white boss work you to the bone, only to tell you you're not worth the same pay as a white man."
Indignant, Kinchloe half-rose to his feet, but was stopped by the gleam in Baxter's eyes.
"And then you have to face the final indignity of being forced to ride home at the end of the day in the back of the bus." Baxter's pointed gaze held Kinchloe pinned in place. "Well…am I wrong?"
Shaking his head, Kinch slowly sank back into his seat.
"Kinch, if you work for me, I can guarantee you'll clear that amount and more—each month!"
At Kinchloe's look of shock, Baxter nodded and sat back comfortably on his easy chair. Kinchloe noticed that Baxter was working very hard to keep a casual expression; however, a smug look of triumph briefly flitted across his face.
Freeman reached over and slapped Kinchloe on the knee. "You're in, Kinch! See…I promised I'd put in a good word for you, and like I always say…my word is gold, man!"
"Three thousand a month," Kinchloe said with a shake of the head. "Sounds real nice." Holding Baxter's eyes, he asked bluntly, "And just what would I have to do to earn that kind of money? Strong-arm the local businessmen? Maybe break up their places?" He looked at Freeman. "Or knock a few heads around like what happened to Pete's cousin Ernie?"
Freeman held his arms up in mock surrender. "It ain't like Whitey hasn't done the same thing to our black brothers in the past. Kinch, us colored folks gots to stick together—not join their army and go fight their wars for them!"
Kinchloe stood up. There was little point in responding to such ignorant comments. "I'm sorry, Mr. Baxter. But I'm not your man." He nodded at Dottie.
"Dottie…I mean, Miss Williams, it was nice seeing you again."
"Now, Kinch…who said anything about knocking heads?" Baxter spoke reasonably. "I'm a businessman. My brother and I run one of the biggest operations in Detroit, and we have interests all over the state." Baxter stood. He was getting caught up in his own story. "My brother and me…we started with nothing. Our folks were killed in the big flu epidemic back in 1918—you're probably too young to remember it—but that's neither here nor there."
He waved his drink, spilling some of it. "What we have, Kinch, is even more important than money. D'you know what it is?"
Kinchloe shook his head.
"I'll tell you what it is. It's respect. My brother and I have respect. You ask anyone in Detroit who the Baxter brothers are and they'll tell you. You know why? I'll tell you why." He spoke without letting Kinchloe respond. "Because we earned it. Anyone messes with one of the Baxter boys, he messes with the both of us. It's always been this way, ever since we was kids. After our folks died, I took care of my little brother and he took care of me. We watched each other's backs, looked out for each other. Soon, no one messed with us. Why? Because of respect, that's why."
Kinchloe did not say anything, only listened. Privately, he knew that whenever the Baxter brothers' name was mentioned, others reacted to it not so much with respect but fear.
Local businessmen feared the Baxters and their influence in both the city council and state house. Rumor had it that they held several councilmen in their pockets and at least one state legislator who routinely passed through legislation that favored the Baxters' building projects.
More to the point, people feared the Baxters because of their strong-arm tactics. If they wanted to possess something—a business, building, tract of land—anything—woe unto anyone who stood in their way. Just ask Pete and his cousin Ernie. If the Baxters wanted Ernie's place, then they would resort to whatever means necessary in order to gain control of it.
The sad thing was when the Baxters moved into a neighborhood, a decidedly criminal element soon followed close behind. Before long, what was once a quiet, decent neighborhood was no longer a safe haven after dark.
The Baxters respected? Vilified was closer to it.
"In the end, Kinch, race and color and education don't matter. Nobody really cares about black or white—the only color that matters is green…the color of money! 'Cause if you have money, you have respect. And if you have respect, you have power. And power is the key to success."
Nobody said anything for a while. The only sound in the room was Baxter's heavy breathing from the exertion he had worked himself into. Finally, Dottie cleared her throat.
"Theo, perhaps you should tell Mr. Kinchloe what you want him to do?" Her quiet voice had a calming effect on Baxter.
"Yeah…yeah. You're right, Dorothea. I should tell him, shouldn't I?" Taking a few calming breaths, he gulped the last of his drink and sat down. "Kinch, we're opening a new club on West 79th in the next few months. A real classy joint—top acts, Louis Armstrong, Ethel Waters, Cab Calloway—you name it! And Dorothea here, she's got a voice like an angel, a regular Billie Holliday. I've got real plans for Dorothea and for the club. It's gonna be class all the way, baby…strictly high class."
"What does that have to do with me?" Kinchloe asked.
Smiling broadly, Baxter sat back comfortably. "I want you to run it for me."
"You want me to run a club for you?"
At Kinchloe's expression, Baxter did not try to keep in check the look of satisfaction that settled on his own hard features. "You sound surprised, Kinch."
"I am…and I'm flattered," Kinchloe admitted, "but I don't know the first thing about running a club. I'm a phone repairman…a telephone lineman."
"No, you're a smart guy who is doing the best he can—living by Whitey's rules," Baxter returned. "Which, if you don't mind my saying…isn't quite so smart. Come work for my brother and me, and you'll make a living by our rules!"
"I-I don't know what to say, Mr. Baxter. It's a real opportunity, I know, but—" Kinchloe shrugged uncertainly.
At the younger man's hesitation, Baxter smiled magnanimously. "But you're thinking about going to work for Uncle Sam, eh…? I tell you what, Kinch. Why don't you sleep on it? Say twenty-four hours? Give me a call tomorrow, same time, and give me your answer. What do you say?"
Kinchloe nodded and stood. "Twenty-four hours." The two men shook hands, and Kinchloe knew he had been dismissed. Catching Dottie's eyes, he saw a fleeting look of respect that quickly passed. As he turned to go, he wondered what was going on in her mind.
After Kinchloe and Freeman left, Dottie turned to Baxter. "So, what do you think?" she asked.
"I think that in twenty-four hours our new friend either agrees to my proposal, or he won't live to see the twenty-four hours after that. And that goes double for that loser, Buddy Freeman."
Dottie hastily took a gulp from her highball in order to hide her reaction.
Dropped off a few miles out of their way, Kinchloe and Freeman stood on the curb and watched resignedly as the black sedan drove off. Of course, Freeman expressed his vocal displeasure in no uncertain terms.
"You lousy jerks!" Freeman yelled, aiming an obscene gesture at the disappearing sedan. Abruptly, he kicked the corner lamppost in frustration. "We've gotta be at least ten miles from home."
"More like fifteen," Kinchloe replied, only half listening. He was still trying to digest Theo Baxter's proposal. He shook his head. There was something about the address on West 79th Street that bothered him.
After almost a half hour of steady walking, Freeman had managed to return to his usual devil-may-care demeanor. At last, his excited voice broke through Kinchloe's musings.
"Kinch, what did I tell ya, baby? You're a made man! Once you're in with the Baxters, you're in all the way! Ain't nobody gonna mess with ya!" Freeman threw his arm around Kinchloe's neck. "Man, you'n me, pal…tonight, we're gonna paint this ol' town red!"
Freeman's words brought Kinchloe back to earth with a resounding thud. He finally knew what had been niggling at him about the Baxters' proposal. Shaking himself free from his friend's grasp, Kinchloe hurriedly crossed the street. He needed to talk to Pete.
"Hey, Kinch!" Freeman's voice followed him. "What's your hurry, man? We got us all night to celebrate!"
Kinchloe did not bother to turn and answer. A few moments later, Freeman grabbed him by the arm and pulled him up short.
"What's the prob, Kinch? If it's money, don't let it worry you. Tonight's celebration is on me!" Grinning, Freeman flashed a huge wad of bills. "Just a little bonus from Ol' Theo…a finder's fee, you could say."
Kinchloe whirled on him. "Don't flash your blood money in my face, Buddy! You're nothing but a double-crossing skunk! I told you I wanted nothing to do with the Baxter brothers, but you wouldn't listen! Now, they expect me to work for them...run their club for them…be like them!"
Freeman studied his friend, knowing that Kinchloe was upset with him, but not clearly understanding why. After all, hadn't he just gotten him one of the cushiest job offers in the whole city of Detroit?
"Kinch…what'sa matter with you? You're gonna get to work alongside Dottie—man-oh-man, talk about a cream-filled dessert!" At Kinchloe's look of utter disdain, Freeman almost felt like giving up. "Kinch…don't you get it? You're working for the Baxters now. You'n me, pal…together…like it was before."
Kinchloe shook his head. "No, Buddy…it's you who doesn't get it. I am not now or ever going to work for the Baxters. The address on West 79th—where the club is supposed to be set up. Don't you recognize it?" At Freeman's shake of the head, Kinchloe explained. "Remember what Pete told us about his cousin Ernie's coffee shop? How he'd been beat up by some of the Baxters' goons?"
"Yeah? So?"
"So…his cousin's place is located on West 79th Street. Your pals the Baxters have either pushed him out already, or they're planning to sometime soon." He glared at Freeman. "You lied to me, Buddy. This morning at Pete's bar, when he brought up his cousin, you said you didn't know anything about the raid on the coffee shop. You knew about it all the time, didn't you? You were even involved in it."
Freeman shook his head in denial, but before he could reply, Kinch plowed on.
"What happened, Buddy? No, don't tell me. I can guess. You were let out of stir a few weeks early and immediately crawled over to the Baxters—"
"No, Kinch…it wasn't like that. I swear—!"
"Yeah…crawled over there on all fours, just like a well-trained lapdog and did their bidding!"
"All right!" Freeman yelled, angry. "It's true, everything you said. I got paroled a few weeks early. The Baxters arranged everything, hired me a lawyer and all." At these words, he suddenly became eager to explain. "See? Like I told ya…the Baxters took good care of me. If it wasn't for them, I'd still be serving out my sentence on that chain gang."
"But at what price, Buddy? Beating up on your own friends? People we grew up with?"
"I had to do take the deal, Kinch, don'tcha see?" He looked suddenly sorrowful. "My…um, my mother's sick. You know she's always been a bit sickly. I had to get out…to help out at home."
Kinch rolled his eyes at the blatant lie. "Buddy, if you'd stayed in and served out your sentence, you would've been free and clear once you got out. This way, you're never going to be free of them. The Baxters own you."
"It's not all like that, Kinch. Honest…there's a lot of great stuff, like money, clothes, cars, women."
"What about Ernie's coffee shop?"
"Okay, okay!" Freeman said exasperatedly. "You don't work for the Baxters without getting your hands a little dirty now and then."
"So, Pete was right…you were there that night when his cousin was beaten half to death."
"Yeah, I was there! But I didn't have nothing to do with what happened to Ernie, I swear! I was only there to break up a few things, y'know? A warning, just to scare him…make him see that he don't mess with the Baxters. But he was there, waiting for us. The other guys…they had to teach him a lesson…don't you see?"
"I see all right," Kinchloe said quietly. "I see that you're no friend of mine. Don't bother coming around anymore, Buddy. And tell your pal, Theo Baxter, that I'm not interested."
"What?" This time Buddy looked really scared. "Not interested? Nobody tells Theo Baxter they're not interested. Not if they want to stay healthy…and alive."
"Well, I'm telling him. And if I were you, Buddy, I'd get out, too. Before it's too late."
This time when Kinchloe walked away, Freeman did not follow him. Watching his friend disappear into the lengthening shadows, he shook his head and tsked.
I just don't get you, Kinch. Easy street's just waitin' 'round the corner, and you'd rather tote that bail for Whitey. Well, that ain't for me, pal. Buddy Freeman knows the score. To be a winner, ya gotta be part of a winning team. And the winningest team in the big Motor City just happens to be the Baxter brothers' organization.
Making up his mind, Freeman hailed a cab. Knowing that he was about to cross a point of no return, he climbed in the backseat. "West 79th Street."
"You got it, pal."
Fifteen minutes later, Freeman made his way across the back parking lot of a shuttered, used furniture store. It was part of large mercantile building that also housed a small café and used clothing store. While the latter had a "Going out of business sign" on its store front, the café was still in business. The darkened first floor indicated that it was closed for the night.
Freeman looked up at a particular darkened window on the second floor. The shades were drawn, but he was sure that the occupants were probably home.
Opening the backdoor of the used furniture store, Freeman stepped into the gloom. He couldn't see much, but he sensed a vast emptiness. The owners had loaded every last stick of furniture into a moving van and hightailed out of Detroit once the Baxters had indicated how much they wanted the store.
Ditto for the clothing store owners, Freeman thought with just a touch of pride, having had something to do with this last little bit of persuasion.
"About time you showed up."
"Yeah…thought you'd chickened out." A second voice spoke in low sneer.
The voices had startled Freeman, almost making him jump out of his skin. He recognized Luke and Benny, two of the Baxters' men. The next instant, he recovered his usual aplomb and sauntered up to them. "Not to worry, boys…not to worry. Ol' Buddy Freeman is here. Now why don't we get this little show on the road?"
"Yeah, guys. We're all saved now," a third voice spoke up. It was Ray, Theo Baxter's number one enforcer. "With Freeman the freeloader here, how can we possibly lose?" The others joined him in mocking laughter.
"Come on, fellas…!" Freeman whined. "Don't do me like that. I mean, we're all pals here, right?"
The laughter stopped abruptly.
"Yeah, Buddy…we're all pals here," Ray said. "But you…you haven't passed the final test yet."
"Test? Hey, come on, fellas…I ain't very good with tests."
"That's too bad, Buddy, 'cause the boss insists." With these words, Ray pressed a cold, heavy object onto Buddy's hand—a gun.
Buddy blanched. "B-b-but…I ain't never used one of these things before—"
"There ain't no time like the present, Buddy!" Luke piped up.
"Yeah, man…it's real simple," Benny mocked. "Just point and shoot. Even you can't screw that up!"
"Okay, that's enough!" Ray interrupted. "Let's go. It's time Ernie learned some manners."
End of Part 3
