Hollister waved him over but the man stayed rooted to his spot. Another fellow dressed in a black suit walked into the dining room and strolled behind the bar, speaking quietly to the waiter and the bartender. After a moment he approached their table.
“Good evening, sir,” the man said to Hollister. He was portly, with a full set of whiskers. His hair was streaked with white, and he had stared hard at Chee as he approached the table.
“Evening,” said Hollister.
“Sir . . . Major . . . there is . . . if you would be kind enough to join me in the lobby for a brief discussion?”
Hollister looked at the man and a glimmer of understanding washed over him. “I’m a little pressed for time. Let’s discuss it here if you don’t mind,” he said.
“Sir, really . . .” the man stammered.
“Get to the point,” Hollister said.
The man sighed deeply, pinching his nose with his fingers. “Sir, our hotel has a strict policy regarding the . . .”
“Regarding what?” Hollister interrupted.
Chee had been silently watching the exchange, but then understood. He was not welcome in a place like the Paradise Hotel, and he started to rise from his chair.
“At ease, Sergeant,” Hollister said. Chee, confused, sat back down.
“Regarding what ?” Hollister asked the man again.
“Major, you are of course more than welcome to dine with us this evening, but the hotel has a strict policy regarding the service of . . . certain individuals.”
“Really? What individuals would that be? It wouldn’t be soldiers wearing the uniform of the United States Army, would it?” Hollister asked.
“No sir, of course not . . . it’s just that your companion . . . is . . . sir, I’m sure you understand we . . . the Paradise Hotel . . . does not allow . . . Negroes to be served on our premises,” the man said, choosing his words very carefully.
“Really?” Hollister asked, the incredulity dripping from his voice. He turned and looked at Chee. “Sergeant? Are you a Negro?”
“One quarter, sir,” the sergeant answered quietly.
“I’ll be damned. Well there you go . . . Mr. . . . I’m sorry . . . I didn’t get your name?” Hollister asked.
“It’s McLaren, sir, general manager of—”
Hollister interrupted again, “You heard the man. He’s only one quarter Negro, so there shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Sir . . . Major . . . I have no desire to make this uncomfortable for anyone. You, of course, are welcome to dine at your leisure, and I would be happy to have the kitchen prepare something for the sergeant . . . but I’m afraid he will have to leave the dining room.”
Hollister put his head down for a moment. He thought of the events earlier in the day, of Chee taking on McAfee in the yard. He chuckled to himself quietly. He unsnapped the leather cover of his holster, removed the .44 caliber Navy Colt, and laid it on the linen tablecloth.
“Sergeant, were you able to test fire your weapon before you met me here?” Hollister asked.
“No, sir,” Chee answered.
“I see. Perhaps we can do it here, starting with the first row of whiskey bottles behind the bar. My last Colt tended to pull up and to the right on the recoil. Hollister picked up the weapon and cocked the hammer, aiming it at the bottles. The bartender and waiter shouted, ducking quickly beneath the wooden bar.
“Major!” McLaren shouted waving his hands. “Please. There is no need . . .”
“You’re quite correct, Mr. McLaren, there is no need ,” Hollister said. He extended his arm and sighted down the barrel. “So here is what is going to happen.” He paused. “Look at me, Mr. McLaren, while I tell you how this is going to play out.” McLaren had turned away and buried his head in his arms, waiting for the sound of shots. He reluctantly uncurled and faced the Major.
“Master Sergeant Chee and I are going to sit here in the dining room of the Paradise Hotel of Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, and
“Good evening, sir,” the man said to Hollister. He was portly, with a full set of whiskers. His hair was streaked with white, and he had stared hard at Chee as he approached the table.
“Evening,” said Hollister.
“Sir . . . Major . . . there is . . . if you would be kind enough to join me in the lobby for a brief discussion?”
Hollister looked at the man and a glimmer of understanding washed over him. “I’m a little pressed for time. Let’s discuss it here if you don’t mind,” he said.
“Sir, really . . .” the man stammered.
“Get to the point,” Hollister said.
The man sighed deeply, pinching his nose with his fingers. “Sir, our hotel has a strict policy regarding the . . .”
“Regarding what?” Hollister interrupted.
Chee had been silently watching the exchange, but then understood. He was not welcome in a place like the Paradise Hotel, and he started to rise from his chair.
“At ease, Sergeant,” Hollister said. Chee, confused, sat back down.
“Regarding what ?” Hollister asked the man again.
“Major, you are of course more than welcome to dine with us this evening, but the hotel has a strict policy regarding the service of . . . certain individuals.”
“Really? What individuals would that be? It wouldn’t be soldiers wearing the uniform of the United States Army, would it?” Hollister asked.
“No sir, of course not . . . it’s just that your companion . . . is . . . sir, I’m sure you understand we . . . the Paradise Hotel . . . does not allow . . . Negroes to be served on our premises,” the man said, choosing his words very carefully.
“Really?” Hollister asked, the incredulity dripping from his voice. He turned and looked at Chee. “Sergeant? Are you a Negro?”
“One quarter, sir,” the sergeant answered quietly.
“I’ll be damned. Well there you go . . . Mr. . . . I’m sorry . . . I didn’t get your name?” Hollister asked.
“It’s McLaren, sir, general manager of—”
Hollister interrupted again, “You heard the man. He’s only one quarter Negro, so there shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Sir . . . Major . . . I have no desire to make this uncomfortable for anyone. You, of course, are welcome to dine at your leisure, and I would be happy to have the kitchen prepare something for the sergeant . . . but I’m afraid he will have to leave the dining room.”
Hollister put his head down for a moment. He thought of the events earlier in the day, of Chee taking on McAfee in the yard. He chuckled to himself quietly. He unsnapped the leather cover of his holster, removed the .44 caliber Navy Colt, and laid it on the linen tablecloth.
“Sergeant, were you able to test fire your weapon before you met me here?” Hollister asked.
“No, sir,” Chee answered.
“I see. Perhaps we can do it here, starting with the first row of whiskey bottles behind the bar. My last Colt tended to pull up and to the right on the recoil. Hollister picked up the weapon and cocked the hammer, aiming it at the bottles. The bartender and waiter shouted, ducking quickly beneath the wooden bar.
“Major!” McLaren shouted waving his hands. “Please. There is no need . . .”
“You’re quite correct, Mr. McLaren, there is no need ,” Hollister said. He extended his arm and sighted down the barrel. “So here is what is going to happen.” He paused. “Look at me, Mr. McLaren, while I tell you how this is going to play out.” McLaren had turned away and buried his head in his arms, waiting for the sound of shots. He reluctantly uncurled and faced the Major.
“Master Sergeant Chee and I are going to sit here in the dining room of the Paradise Hotel of Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, and
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