Protector of Children - 13. Chapter 13: Leroy and Nomos

Leroy and Nomos

Nomos

When Nemesis offered Leroy two paths to retribution, Leroy took the harder route: to spend eternity as a force for justice. I understood the philosophy behind that offer. The person who has done evil is better equipped to mete out justice than someone who had been a victim. Leroy had done some bad things. He was a black teen who had been the leader of a “kiddie-crip” gang whom he convinced to try for street cred by killing a couple of boys. Nemesis and Apollo had kept that from happening. I was a 100-plus-year-old British policeman who had been given Zeus’ Attributes and Authorities as the Spirit of Law. I was currently operating with the Aspect of a Chicago cop. I had been alone, except for brief liaisons, for over a century. Now, I was the guardian of a teenage boy who had been convinced that he was going to Hell, or worse. Really, Hell. I’m being literal, here, in case you didn’t catch the Zeus part of what I said. And just to complicate things, he was gay. Leroy, not Zeus.

Nemesis hadn’t cut Leroy any slack. (I love American slang; it is short, to the point, and colorful. It’s also a lot less confusing than the Cockney “rhyming slang” I grew up with.) After Nemesis had shown Leroy his options, and Leroy had made the choice to be my helper, I had taken Leroy to my home, offered bottled water, and invited him into the den.

“Leroy, there are a lot of things we need to talk about.”

“Yes, sir,” Leroy said. “There is much for us to talk about, beginning, please, with our relationship.”

He surprised me. Before those words, I hadn’t heard him say anything but gutter talk and profanity. These words told me that he was something different from what I had first seen. He didn’t give me much time to think about it, though. He kept talking.

“Sir, you saw Nemesis kiss me. I know that Nemesis can see into my mind because he did so, and showed me what he found.” He flinched with that memory before continuing. “You are like him. You must have felt what we felt in that kiss—you must know that I am gay. Yet, you accepted me. Why?”

I felt the boy’s fear at this admission, but I also felt hope: hope that I would give him things he had missed. He was thinking about things a father would give him including values, challenges, and encouragement. He wanted someone to accept what he knew he was and what he knew he was becoming. And hugs—he wanted hugs, but not sex—at least, not on the surface. I felt that, too.

“Yes, son, I know you are gay. You saw me in the old British police uniform. You see me now in the civilian clothes I wear on the job as a captain in the Chicago PD. The 1880s London Bobby uniform is one I used to wear. I’m more than 100 years old; I’m a healthy guy; and I like sex. And I’ve dated both men and women.”

I was trying to let him know I was okay with him being gay, but before I could say this, Leroy interrupted with something more immediate and important.

“I’ve never had a date,” he said. “I couldn’t date a boy, like I wanted to. I was afraid to date a girl. All the ones I knew just wanted to get pregnant so they could claim welfare and ADC—aid to dependent children. I knew I couldn’t do that. So, I just hung with the guys, smoking dope, drinking our parents’ liquor, and getting in trouble.”

“You’ve never had sex?” I blurted.

Leroy may have blushed; I couldn’t tell. He was much too black.

“No,” he whispered. “Except masturbating while watching pornography on the internet. Will you teach me?”

“Leroy?” That’s as far as I got. What could I say? No might crush him. Yes might further complicate an already complicated relationship, depending on what his question really meant, and how he took my answer. I couldn’t slip in time like Death and some of the others, so I stalled.

“Leroy, how old are you? I saw the official records, but I never know if they’re accurate.”

“Eighteen, sir.” The boy’s answer was short, curt, and emotionless. He knew what I was doing.

I stood and held my arms open. “Leroy? Come here, please.”

The boy got up and stepped into my arms. I pulled him into a hug. To forestall anything more serious, I gently pushed his head onto my shoulder.

“Leroy, remind me never to try to fool you. Remind me that I offered without reservation to take responsibility for you. Remind me that this responsibility is broader than I could have imagined. And, remind yourself that you will have to help me understand it.”

Leroy’s voice was muffled in my shirt, and soft. “You called me son. What does that mean?”

I thought hard. “I did that unconsciously, perhaps subconsciously,” I said. I felt him stiffen in my arms. “But I did not say it casually. I knew that you wanted a father before I agreed to take responsibility for you. Yes, son, that word means all that it can possibly mean. But, it is something else that we will have to explore and understand. Slowly.”

I felt the boy shaking. The gangsta’ wanna-be in my arms was crying. I saw in his mind that he’d not given in to any emotion in a long, long time. The trust that his tears implied was overpowering.

Leroy

I knew what a father was supposed to do, even though mine hadn’t. He had been too busy being important and making money. He thought I was happy with my clothes and electronics and friends. I didn’t blame him, though. I’d never told him otherwise, and I could have—I should have. Ben didn’t waste any time becoming my daddy, but he didn’t push, either. We talked, and agreed to rules: I would go to school, dress conservatively, help with household chores, not do drugs or liquor, and not hang with my old gang.

Ben was worried about that last part. “I don’t want to isolate you from your friends,” he’d said.

“You know they weren’t really friends,” I said. “Or you would if you’d look hard enough.”

“I don’t want to pry . . .” he said.

“Please pry,” I said. “I’d rather you understand, I’d rather you know. There’s a lot there . . . in my mind . . . that I’m ashamed of. You need to know about it, and I am too much a coward to tell you. Please?”

Nomos

His offer was sincere. I looked. And saw what Nemesis had seen. Leroy wasn’t evil. He’d done some bad things, but until he tried to kill Kenny and Viktor, there was nothing truly evil. Nemesis had shown him true evil. I saw that, too. I shuddered at some of the horrors Nemesis had shown him. I affirmed to Leroy the promise Nemesis had made: that Leroy and I would work together to correct some of those things. There was a lot in Leroy’s mind that I didn’t know what to do with: Leroy was a dreamer, and his mind held the residue of all his dreams. Most of them had to do with a mysterious figure who would become his mentor and lover.

It was not until then, I think, that I realized just what I had let myself in for.

I offered Leroy cash so he could shop for new clothes. I was surprised but happy when he asked if I would take him shopping instead of sending him. Together, we went to Marshall Field’s. I suggested button-up white shirts with bow ties and black, straight-legged pants. I could tell that Leroy thought I was serious, until I let him catch me grinning. He countered by suggesting an Armani suit and a pair of $1,000 full-dress, full-quill ostrich cowboy boots. We both were giggling (yes, my eighteen-year-old son and I both giggled) when we compromised on slacks, jeans, pullover shirts, a pair of loafers, some gym clothes in something other than gang colors, and a pair of trainers that weren’t neon orange. Leroy looked at himself in the mirror and liked what he saw. Except . . . .

“Dad? May I get a haircut?”

At first, I wasn’t sure where to take him. I knew that Obama’s balkanization of the races had undone most of the progress of integration since the 1960s. For a long time, the most segregated places in the USA had been churches, funeral parlors, and barbershops. But, I had lived in Chicago for more than 100 years and knew where to go. The stylist was white, but she knew how to cut black hair. Again, I watched as Leroy looked in the mirror, and liked what he saw a lot more than anything he’d seen for a long time.

“Leroy? I’m so proud of you. You look . . . you look beautiful. You look confident in yourself; you look comfortable with yourself. And, I want to show you off. How about we have dinner at the Jockey Club?”

The Jockey was the oldest country club in Chicago. It had been founded only a few years after the city was established in 1833 and had never gone through hard times. Unlike some of the old social clubs, gentlemen’s clubs, fraternities, and sororities, the Jockey had been blessed with prosperity. It reeked of old money, money that kept it an island of wealth and safety and an island of perquisites in an ocean of poverty, danger, and want. I had joined shortly after arriving in Chicago, and had “willed” my membership to myself as I changed aspects every few decades.

Membership had for a long time been limited to white people. In the 1970s, bowing to political pressure, the Jockey had begun to admit blacks: as long as they were light-skinned and had a net worth of at least a hundred million dollars. They made one exception for a black Nobel Prize winner and her husband. Still, the number of black families who were members was easily counted on two hands. We went back to Marshall Field’s where I bought Leroy the Armani suit and the boots. Then, I called the Jockey for a reservation.

Charles had been the maître ’d at the Jockey Club for at least two of my Aspects. He greeted me, and then saw Leroy.

“Captain Marlberg? I don’t know what to say . . . .”

“Why, Charles, you say what you always say. Good evening, Captain Marlberg. Then, I say, Charles, this is my son, Leroy Marlberg. Then you say to him, Welcome, young Mr. Marlberg. Then you say to me, Your table is ready. It’s really not hard.”

My voice had been soft, lilting, actually, as if I were reciting a simple poem. I changed that to a clipped, short, firm tone as I added, “That’s not so hard, is it?”

Charles looked at me for only a moment, and then smiled. His voice was nearly a whisper. “Not hard at all, sir,” he said. “And, if I may be so bold, thank you, sir.”

I nodded, and Charles repeated what I’d said. He was careful to ignore the whispers that echoed through the room as he led us to a table by the windows.

Leroy

I heard the exchange between my daddy and the maître ’de at the club, and understand what it meant. As a dark-skinned Black, I’d been subject not only to the prejudices of the Whites, but also those of my own people, who classified one another based on skin tone. I also felt my daddy’s grim satisfaction in what he had done, and knew that it was going to be easy to love him.

Supper was something out of a movie. Actually, a real movie. I remember watching it on the “old movie channel.” Julia Roberts, I think, being taught to eat snails and act properly in polite society.

Daddy and I were both surprised when a man walked toward our table. Daddy stood and I quickly followed his example.

“Mr. Field, good evening sir.”

The man, now Mr. Field, shook Daddy’s hand and turned to me.

“Sir, this is my son, Leroy Marlberg,” Daddy said, perhaps a little more firmly than necessary.

I held out my hand; the man didn’t hesitate to take it. He spoke as if Daddy weren’t there. “Ben has been alone for so long,” he said. “I’m happy for him—and I’m happy for you.”

I didn’t catch all the interplay, but apparently Daddy’s nod to the maître ’de was the signal to bring an extra chair and a glass of bottled water for the man. Once he was seated, he began the conversation.

“Ben, I’ve known you since you were in knickers. In fact, I think I knew your father when he was in knickers. You look a great deal like him, you know.”

The man waved his hand as if dismissing a class. “Actually, I know you never wore knickers, but you know what I mean.”

Daddy chuckled. I didn’t know where this was going, or where it had come from. “Yes, sir, I understand,” Daddy said.

“The Marlbergs have always been different,” the man said. “And I mean that in the best possible way. Ben, I want to sponsor a family for membership. He’s a professor at the university; she’s a doctor. They’re both as black as Leroy, here.”

He smiled at me, and I understood what he was thinking. This was no limousine liberal, but a man who truly understood the worth of a human being, and the connectedness that we all had. I smiled back, and nodded.

“I need your help,” he said to Daddy. Daddy nodded.

Leroy

I stopped only a few steps inside the apartment, turned, and faced Daddy. He had to stop or run into me.

“Daddy? Thank you for all you have given me . . . the clothes, the dinner, your name.” I whispered that last.

“There is something else I want. You know what it is. May I sleep with you, tonight? Will you hold me? Will you have sex with me?”

Daddy smiled and held out his arms. I stepped into his hug. This time, he didn’t push my head onto his forehead, but bent his own face down until our lips met. Daddy was a good kisser. Of course, I had no point of comparison, since it was the first real kiss I’d had, other than the one from Nemesis, and that didn’t come close!

Dike

I was extraordinarily pleased with Nomos’ decision to adopt Leroy. In his Aspect as Captain Marlberg, Nomos worked entirely too hard, subordinating to the job his own needs, including his need for sex. What was more important, he subordinated his need for connectedness. He saw so much evil that I was afraid he was going to become remote from humanity. Yes, we are gods, but we began as humans and we must never forget that, just as we must never lose our humanity.

I was also pleased when Ben called and asked if he might bring Leroy to meet me. “I want to get him some clothes, first,” Ben said. “How would Thursday work?”

We made the appointment. Now, I had to decide how first to appear to Leroy: grandmother? No, I didn’t think so. So, I took the Aspect I had more than 4,000 years ago, before apotheosis: a young woman of mixed race, with long black hair. I knew Ben would appreciate that Aspect: he and I had enjoyed intimacy some decades ago. I thought, too, that Leroy would find comfort in it. He was, after all, the first Black in our circle.

“Judge Everhart? May I present my son, Leroy, who has taken my last name as his own.” Nomos was both proud and nervous.

Leroy hesitated only long enough to determine that I wasn’t going to speak before saying, “I’m happy to meet you, ma’am.”

I looked at him and spoke to his mind. Leroy Marlberg, son of my friend, welcome to the ranks of those who guard and serve humanity. You will be of great help to Ben and, I expect, to me and others.

That’s all. I didn’t want to overwhelm him. While he was distracted by my words, I read him deeply, and liked what I saw. He would be a valuable tool and, soon, a self-directed one.

Nomos

I was on the Jockey Club Membership Committee with Mr. Field. There were, however five other members, any of which could anonymously blackball any applicant. Yes, we still used the old system, although the “balls” were flat, and resembled poker chips. Each person went, alone, into a room and selected a red or a black chip from a box full of both, and put it through a slot in the top of another box. There was no way to determine how anyone voted, and a single black chip would ensure rejection. At least, I thought, we don’t use black and white chips. That would be a little too obvious, even for the most biased.

The committee interviewed the two doctors at lunch in a private dining room. That was standard. The members of the committee were urbane and at least outwardly cordial. After lunch, Charles the maître ’d, escorted the candidates to the door and summoned their car. The committee retired to a smoking room where cigars and brandy were already laid out. These two things and the ability to determine the ultimate pecking order of Chicago society were the perquisites of the Jockey Club’s Membership Committee.

Mr. Field didn’t waste any time, but seized the moment. “Gentlemen? You have met the Doctors Addison. You have seen the financial statement prepared and certified by oura CPA. You have seen the results of the background investigation conducted by our friends in the FBI field office. You have read the letters of recommendation from three members of the club.”

He paused and reached toward his brandy snifter, then seemed to think better of it.

“It is tradition that we not talk about candidates, but while enjoying cigars and brandy, we wander one at a time into the next room to cast our ballots. I wish to change that tradition, and have asked Captain Ben Marlberg, whose family has been members of this club for over a century and who has recently adopted a black son, to speak.”

I didn’t give anyone a chance to object, but stood. “Gentlemen, this club and its membership have enjoyed prosperity for nearly two hundred years. It is never said, but always known, that some of that prosperity has come from the close relationship between the club and the city government because of campaign donations, the close relationship between the club and the police department because of donations to the so-called widows and orphans fund, and between the club and the Mafia that began during prohibition.”

There were some red faces, and at least one man started to speak; however, I wasn’t finished. I raised my voice slightly, and bit off each word.

“This club has provided cover and respectability for criminals. It has laundered money for criminals. But, it has also done a great deal of good. Our sponsorship of the Erewhon Orphanage and of the Southside Children’s Hospital are examples. Perhaps the bad and good balance; perhaps, if some of the bad things had not been done, there wouldn’t be the money that has bought the good.

They were listening. They knew that in addition to being a member, I was also a police captain.

“I call for change. I call, first, for an open, roll-call vote of this committee to which you will each respond Aye when asked if the Doctors Addison should be invited to join the club.

“I call for a purging of the membership rolls—something that is within the authority of this committee—of all members who are also members of any of the organized crime families of Chicago. You all know who these people are.”

I didn’t say that I, too, knew who they were; they could have guessed that. Nor did I say that arrest warrants based on Grand Jury indictments had already been prepared and would be served on my signal. Dike had arranged that.

“The piper has paid us, well. Now, it is time to pay the piper.”

I sat down. Mr. Field stood. “Any questions.” His voice was flat; it was clear that he neither expected nor would tolerate any.

“Aye.” That was Mr. Camden. Since the club had been established there had always been a Camden on the board and on the membership committee. “Aye to all of it. And the sooner the better.”

A couple of the men squirmed a little as the ramifications of what I’d proposed sank in. However, when the roll was called, there seemed to be no reluctance to vote Aye.

Mr. Field brought out the letters he had prepared inviting the Addison’s to join and the seventeen letters notifying crime lords of the termination of their membership. All the letters were signed by each member of the committee. They would be delivered by courier before five o’clock. The couriers were, or course, Scions of Hermes—with the Aspect of bicycle messengers. I made a single phone call. Seventeen warrants would be served by more Scions in the Aspect of US Marshalls as soon as the messengers reported completion of their mission.

Leroy

At first, I was scared. Daddy had taken me as far as the dining room, before going to his meeting. After my lunch, I was to wait for him in either the billiards room or the library. The maître ’de from the earlier night was at the dining room, so I wasn’t worried—too much—yet. There were a few whispers, and several of the people summoned Charles to their tables for hurried conversations. Of course they were talking about me, and Daddy.

There was a bit of commotion at one table. It was in my line of sight, so I didn’t have to turn my head to see what was going on. A boy, perhaps fifteen, had stood. A man, probably the boy’s father, had grabbed the boy’s arm; however, the boy shrugged off his father’s grip. A woman, probably the mother, said something to which the boy shook his head. Then, he turned and walked toward me. I put down my fork and wiped my lips with the napkin before taking a sip of water. The boy reached my table.

“Hi, my name is James. There aren’t many kids my age here, today. May I sit with you for a minute?”

I must have taken too long to answer, because he added, “Please? My mother and father are well and truly pissed off, and I don’t want to think I did that for nothing.”

I nodded. “Yes, please sit. Would you like something? Bottled water? Soft drink?”

James sat and then shook his head. “Not at the moment, thank you.”

“What are you trying to prove to your parents?” I asked.

“Nothing—” he said. “Yes.” He corrected himself, instantly. “I’m so tired of it all!” He seemed to realize his voice was too loud, and added in a softer tone, “I’m so tired of being told that we’re so much better than other people—and I don’t just mean black people—because Mother is from one of the oldest families in Chicago, and Father is a freaking plutocrat.

“I’m tired of being told who I may associate with, and whose friendship I must reject because that’s the way things are, young man.

“I’m tired of dressing for dinner every damned night! I want to wear blue jeans and have pizza and maybe put my elbows on the table.”

He looked at me. “That’s what I’m trying to do. You’re just part of that. I don’t expect you to be my friend and to go with me to a pizza place in blue jeans, but at least, maybe, you’ll let me associate with you. It would be a start. Please?”

“James, my name is Leroy Marlberg. And I would be happy to associate with you. And, if we can talk my Daddy into it, to have pizza with you.” I was thinking of just the place, too. It was a teen hangout about four blocks off Lakeside Drive. Close enough to get good police protection, but far enough away to attract a mixed crowd. Then I thought—I can’t go there! My old crew, they might be there. For sure, someone would recognize me and tell them. I almost missed what James said.

“Really? You can go out for pizza? And I couldn’t wear blue jeans; I don’t actually have any . . . .”

“James? That’s the least of our problems at the moment.” I had spotted the boy’s father walking toward us.

DISCLAIMER: Please remember that the events related here took place (will take place? are taking place?) in an alternate reality, and that individuals and institutions are decidedly not the same individuals and institutions that exist in our Earth analogue. Names may be similar, even the same; however each person and thing has a separate existence from that in our world. Marshall Field’s is probably a trademark in our world, and the property of its owner.