Echoes of a Distant Summer

by Guy Johnson Narrated by Peter Jay Fernandez

Overview

“You done lived a tough life, boy, and I know I'm part responsible for that. I ain't askin' you to excuse me or forgive me. Just know I did the best I knew to do. I was just tryin' to make you tough enough to deal with the world. To stand tall among men, I knew you had to be strong and have yo' own mind.”

“You were preparing me for war, Grandfather.”

Guy Johnson, the author of the critically acclaimed debut Standing at the Scratch Line, continues the Tremain family saga.

Jackson St. Clair Tremain hasn't spoken to his grandfather King in nearly twenty years. Disgusted by the violence and bloodlust that seemed to be his grandfather's way of life, Jackson chose to distance himself from King and live a simpler life. But now King is gravely ill, and his impending death places Jackson's life-as well as those of his family and friends-in jeopardy. Reluctantly, Jackson travels to Mexico to see King. But after a brief reconciliation, his grandfather is assassinated, and Jackson suspects that his grandmother Serena may have had a hand in it. Jackson takes control of King's organization, and as he does, he reflects on the summers he spent in Mexico as a child and the lessons he learned there at the knee of his strong-willed, complex grandfather.

In Echoes of a Distant Summer, Guy Johnson introduces us to a new hero, Jackson St. Clair Tremain, who learns that, like his grandfather, he must be willing to protect those he loves-at all costs.

Editorial Reviews

Kirkus Reviews

A carefully plotted mob thriller that will leave its readers faintly exhilarated, though also unable to remember who exactly was good and bad-yet not particularly disappointed by that fact. Jackson Tremain ably takes up where his grandfather and family patriarch King left off, incorporating perhaps a touch more ennui to the still burgeoning Tremain litany of blood, mayhem, and intrigue. Johnson's follow-up features the ailing hero, King, of his first novel (Standing at the Scratch Line, 1998) in a cameo role, albeit one that demonstrates a Wizard of Oz-like ability to predict his estranged grandson's awakening. Tremain, a young, African-American city manager, must find the guts to escape the emasculating perils of bureaucracy and summon up the wherewithal to protect his grandfather's legacy. He escapes the bonds of mediocrity, and, rest assured, battles nobly, facing off against a variety of colorful, immoral louts. The story is set mainly in the summer of 1982, with background information incorporated through a series of flashbacks from the '50s and the '60s that feature vignettes from Tremain's summers at his grandfather's side. The younger man is aided in his epic quest for personal and familial salvation by an astonishingly loyal group of friends and acquaintances, some having been steeped in Tremain family struggles for 50 years, others merely innocent by-standers roused into Rambo-like righteous indignation. It seems, in fact, that the entire law-abiding Oakland community will rise up and defend one of their own when threatened by such obviously malignant forces. With a panoply of bars, trendy restaurants, dusty Mexican towns and city streets, Johnson has created an intricate pageturner that lacks any pretense of moral or ethical complexity. There is good and there is evil. Jackson Tremain will identify one from the other, and right the wrong, stirring an expectant reader's heartbeat along the way.

From the Publisher

Praise for Standing at the Scratch Line

“Standing at the Scratch Line is a big, good-hearted book, carried along all but effortlessly by the power of the images it has tapped into and by Guy Johnson’s remarkably adroit writing.” —The Washington Post

“[King] Tremain has the qualifications to be one of literature’s most versatile heroes: a sharp-shooting soldier (WWI), jazz-club impresario, gangster, bootlegger, smuggler, general-store owner, vigilante, lover and, finally, doting father and grandfather.” —The Wall Street Journal

“An exuberant novel about dreaming big dreams and honoring black heroes . . . Johnson creates a credible, powerful leader with a reputation built on dead bodies—both black and white—bruised egos, and lessons about prejudice and power. . . . A page turner full of pride, energy and passionate people.” —Black Issues Book Review

“Fast-paced, intelligent . . . [This] novel presents a brief history of twentieth-century black America in the guise of a testosterone-fueled adventure yarn.” —Library Journal

Product Details

BN ID:	2940170527809
Publisher:	Recorded Books, LLC
Publication date:	12/12/2008
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1

The Awakening of Jackson St. Clair Tremain

Tuesday, June 8, 1982

There are ominous events that occur in the sea of life, that rise above all other activities and happenings like a shark¹s fin above the liquid surface of a rolling wave. And so it was for Jackson Tremain when he received a call from his grandmother informing him of the death of Sampson Davis. After the call he attempted to concentrate on his daily duties, keeping a measured stroke, swimming through the passing minutes, but the meaning and importance of the call began to circle in a tightening spiral around his consciousness. He could ill afford such diversions. He had the tasks and responsibilities of a deputy city manager. Other areas that needed his full attention. He had fallen increasingly out of favor with the city manager, not for quantity nor quality of work but for things far more serious, differences in philosophy and style. Thus he had other predators in sight, ones that ate more than simple flesh.

Perhaps his response to the call might have been different if his whole morning had not begun in an unpleasant manner. Jackson had just arrived in his office when the phone began to ring. He glanced at his watch. It was seven-thirty. He put down his coffee and his cinnamon roll and picked up the receiver. The mayor¹s voice came bawling out in a blistering tirade. As a deputy city manager, Jackson had listened quietly to many such tirades; it was part of his job. He held the telephone between chin and shoulder and continued to drink his coffee, eat his cinnamon roll, and take notes all while being absolutely attentive.

The mayor¹s angry voice growledinto the phone, ³We need a Community Police Review Commission resolution to adopt during tonight¹s city council meeting concerning this matter. Goddamn it, this is an election year!²

Jackson listened quietly while Mayor Garrison Broadnax ranted on through the telephone receiver. He recognized that the mayor had every reason to be upset. The night before, two white police officers wearing masks while on duty in a patrol car had cruised the Chinese district of the city shouting words like gook, Chink, and slope to people on the street. The two patrolmen pulled a Chinese businessman from his truck and beat him after he cursed them for calling him racial epithets. They opened a five-inch gash in his forehead, locked him out of his truck, and left him lying in the street. They did not report the incident to police dispatch, but several scores of witnesses did. Jackson had received a call concerning the matter from one of his connections in the police department before he had come in to work that morning.

³What do you have to tell me, Tremain?² the mayor barked.

Jackson replied, ³I may not have all the information. But as far as I know, the two officers in question have been placed on administrative leave pending an investigation into the allegations. It¹s only fair to say that they are denying everything and claiming that the Police Officer¹s Bill of Rights has been violated by putting them on administrative leave. They have requested a closed hearing in front of the Civil Service Commission to challenge any disciplinary action that may be forthcoming.²

³I don¹t give a damn what those assholes say,² growled the mayor. ³The Civil Service Commission will deny any claims they have.²

³I hate to remind you, Mr. Mayor, but you haven¹t had a quorum on the commission in three months. Only five of the nine seats are filled. You still need to appoint four commissioners.²

³Damn!² the mayor exclaimed, and then there were several seconds of silence. ³All right, I¹ll appoint at least two Asians; that¹ll fix their butts! What¹s the ethnic breakdown of the commission now?²

³Let me check the file.² Jackson got up and went over to his filing cabinet, pulled a manila folder, and returned to his desk. ³Two blacks, two whites, and a Hispanic.²

³Hmmm, I need to give the Hispanic community another appointment and I¹ve got to give that white woman from the Oakland Hills area something too. . . . All right! All right! I¹ll announce the commission appointments tonight at the council meeting. I want that Police Review Commission resolution you¹re preparing on my desk by three-thirty this afternoon!²

Jackson exhaled slowly, gathered his thoughts, then spoke calmly into the phone, ³Mr. Mayor, the city manager has assigned me the responsibility of preparing the agenda for the executive session for this afternoon at four. I can¹t possibly poll all the council members for their agenda items, prepare the revisions, if any, to the executive session agenda, attend the executive session, and prepare this resolution.²

³Listen, Tremain, Bedrosian didn¹t want to hire you. As the first black mayor of this city, I pressed him into hiring you. He was going to hire that white girl who had come here as an administrative intern three years ago over you even though you had three times her experience.

³And one of the important reasons I supported your appointment was that I wanted to be sure I could get at least some of the inside information on the legislation that he prepares for council. You know he was here before me and he thinks he¹s going to be here after me. But he doesn¹t know me. I¹ve been dealing with white boys like him all my life. I¹m going to get this boy treed, then I¹ll be looking forward to seeing the back of him!²

³That¹s pretty strong, Mr. Mayor,² Jackson chided, thinking he couldn¹t risk being openly disloyal to his immediate supervisor. After all, the mayor was a politician and everything was salable if the right issue arose. ³I mean, some of your electorate is white.²

³You know what I mean and don¹t waste my time with naive remarks. There¹s people who happen to be white and there¹s white people. Now get me my goddamned resolution before three-thirty! Remember who helped you get where you are.²

³I understand, Mr. Mayor,² Jackson replied with resignation. The mayor played this card whenever Jackson showed any reluctance to perform some extra chore for him, and whenever he played it, Jackson responded appropriately. He assured the mayor, ³The resolution will be on your desk by three-thirty.² No reason to make an enemy of his principal advocate.

³Jackson, my boy, I knew you¹d find the time for something like this.² The mayor¹s voice now took on a honeyed tone. ³I knew you came in early to work, that¹s why I called before eight. This resolution doesn¹t have to be a three-page monster with twenty whereases either. Just something simple and to the point.²

Knowing the answer, Jackson asked, ³Shall I inform the city manager of this item at today¹s agenda luncheon?²

³Don¹t tell that fool Bedrosian a damn thing! All he¹ll do is find some pretext to delay. You know he¹s in bed with the police department on this matter. He and Chief Walker would love to see me defeated in this next election. Once I approve the resolution, I want you to send it directly over to the city clerk¹s office. She¹ll be waiting for it.²

³You realize when you direct me to do something like this, it appears to my boss, Bedrosian, that I¹m not following the chain of command. He¹ll know that I prepared this resolution, because I¹ll have to go to the agenda secretary for a number.²

³As long as I¹m here, you don¹t have to worry about him. Get it to the city clerk, I¹ll get her to get a number, okay?²

³Whatever you say, Mr. Mayor,² Jackson replied, shaking his head. Bedrosian would still know that he prepared the resolution. As a result, Jackson knew that another confrontation with the city manager loomed. At least he had a job until the next election.

After he got off the phone with the mayor, Jackson called his administrative analyst into his office for a quick closed-door session. Corazon Benin was a short, good-looking woman in her mid-thirties who wore her lush, dark hair rolled into an attractive bun.

³What¹s up, boss?² she asked as she sat down with a yellow tablet and a pen.

³The mayor wants something and I can¹t report it at the agenda luncheon.²

She laughed. ³Again? He certainly doesn¹t mind putting you on the spot. What is it this time?²

³He wants a resolution for a Police Review Commission prepared for adoption by tonight.²

Before Corazon could respond, the phone on Jackson¹s desk jangled loudly. It was the switchboard line. He complained, ³What is this? I told the secretaries to hold calls before eight-thirty!²

³I¹ll go see,² Corazon volunteered as she stood up and went out the door. The phone continued to ring and was still ringing when Corazon reappeared.

³Carol says it¹s your grandmother and she says it¹s urgent.²

³What the hell can she want?²

³You told me she was dead,² Corazon observed. ³So it must be pretty important for her to call from the grave.²

³She is dead, been dead for years, she just hasn¹t realized it,² Jackson answered. ³Why don¹t you let me take this call, and while I¹m on it, would you make a copy of the resolutions that were recently adopted for the Parks Commission and the Civil Service Commission? Maybe we can lift some of the language right off of those two.² Corazon nodded and left the office.

Jackson took a deep breath, picked up the phone, and said, ³Good morning, city manager¹s office.²

³Jackson, is that you?² A raspy, impatient tone.

³May I help you?² he asked, refusing to recognize the voice.

³This is your grandmother!² The voice was now imperious.

³What a surprise,² Jackson replied without enthusiasm. ³I¹m sure that we could find something to talk about if we really searched ourselves, but frankly, I¹m extremely busy right now.²

³There is no need for rudeness! I shall overlook it this time for I have important news.²

Jackson smirked. ³You have important news? I¹m sorry, but I really am busy. Perhaps we can talk when I¹m not so harried.²

³I said this was important!² The tone was now emphatic.

³To whom? You certainly don¹t have anything important to say to me. Now, I¹d like to hang up. Can we agree to end this call?²

³Did you read this morning¹s paper? Sampson Davis, along with three other men, was killed two nights ago by a bomb in one of those south-of-Market fleabag hotels!²

³No, Grandmother. I don¹t have time to skim the paper for sensational news.²

³Sampson Davis was one of your grandfather¹s closest and oldest friends. He hasn¹t been to the Bay Area since your grandfather went to Mexico, and he wouldn¹t come here unless your grandfather sent him.²

³So?²

³This is your grandfather sending some kind of a message. Something is wrong! We need to know what¹s going on. He may be dying.²

³So? I¹m surprised it¹s a matter of concern to you.²

³You and Franklin must go down and see him before he dies. I¹m sure he wants to see you.²

³He spoke to you? He asked to see Franklin?²

³No, but his lawyers called me from Mexico a couple of weeks ago about some real estate documents. That, combined with this piece of news, makes me think he¹s trying to get his things in order. I think it¹s a good idea if you and Franklin go down and check things out, to represent the family¹s interest.²

³Send Franklin. I¹m not flying down to Mexico City to see my grandfather, even if he is dying. Good-bye, Grandmother. Talk to you in another ten years. It has been ten years, hasn¹t it, since we last talked?²

³This is no time to go over our differences! Your grandfather may be dying, but he still has enemies. You need to talk to him. All our lives may hang in the balance.²

³Thanks for the melodrama, Grandmother. If you¹re really that worried, send Franklin. He¹s your boy. You and I have nothing further to say. Good-bye!² Jackson did not wait for her response, but set the receiver down on its cradle.

The rest of the day was a kaleidoscope of actions and images. Jackson gobbled a cold meatloaf sandwich during the city manager¹s agenda luncheon and along with the other deputies gave a basic status report of his agenda item assignments and reports. He made no mention of his task for the mayor. Thanks to Corazon, he delivered the requested resolution by three-thirty and had the executive session agenda duplicated and ready by four. The executive session was hot and feisty, as the police chief had to appear to explain to the council members what actions his department had taken as a result of the investigation into the previous day¹s incident in the Chinese community.

Chief Torvil Walker was a florid-faced, potbellied man with white hair and pale gray eyes. He had the splotched and purple nose of a drinker. He was a good old boy who had come up through the ranks, who due to his mediocrity and caution had not made the enemies that many of his more talented rivals had, and thus had been appointed to the department¹s top position. Chief Walker began his presentation with a recommendation that a reprimand be placed in each officer¹s file. However, after an hour of merciless questioning by council members, he recanted and agreed that stronger action must be taken. Several of the council members were close to asking for his resignation.

The city council meeting didn¹t convene until seven in the evening and, of course, many minority community leaders appeared to speak on the incident in Chinatown. Waiting for a break in the line of speakers, the mayor dramatically pulled out his resolution to establish a Police Review Commission. Despite the police chief¹s and the city manager¹s objections, it was unanimously adopted to resounding cheers from the audience. The council then proceeded on to other city business.

It was nearly midnight before the city council was adjourned. As Jackson walked out, he saw City Manager Bedrosian staring at him with displeasure. It wasn¹t the first time and it probably wasn¹t going to be the last. He crossed the street to the four-story parking lot and sought to wash all thoughts of work from his mind.

At one o¹clock in the morning Jackson Tremain stood out on the deck of his house overlooking the glittering lights of downtown Oakland. He could not go to sleep. There were too many memories flooding across his consciousness, washing up emotional driftwood. He sought to lose himself in the tranquillity of early morning silence. The night sky had been swept free of clouds by a persistent, gusting wind. The stars glistened with promise on the dark, blue velvet dome of night. There was a lonely, wavering train whistle from freight chugging its way through Jack London Square. He stared at the patterns of lights from the Bay Bridge, stretching in long arcing loops across the bay. The bridge itself could not be seen, but faded into the darkness that extended over the water. That same darkness seemed to reach right into his heart.

Copyright 2002 by Guy Johnson

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