The Dying Crapshooter's Blues

by David Fulmer

  Joe didn’t know what to say to that, and kept quiet.

  “He mention anything else?”

  “Nothing that makes any sense,” Joe said. “He’s been delirious about half the time.”

  “Morphine?”

  “Quite a bit of it.”

  Collins said, “So you just didn’t happen to be down on Maddox Street today.”

  “No. I heard what happened.”

  “And that’s why you tossed Logue’s room just now.”

  Joe didn’t ask if Mrs. Cotter had given him up, if he had left a trail, or if Collins had just surmised. It didn’t matter. “That’s right.”

  The detective eyed him. “You know what I could do to you for pulling a trick like that?”

  “Yeah, I know,” Joe said dolefully.

  “You want to guess what Captain Jackson would do if he knew?” Collins added.

  Joe shook his head.

  “The last time I looked, you were not a policeman,” the lieutenant went on, his voice edgy with irritation. “So you got no business nosing around a crime happened down off Decatur Street. Especially a serious crime like the shooting of an officer of the law. That ain’t smart at all.”

  Joe was aware of this, too, and nodded.

  Collins switched to a more conciliatory tone. “If I was walking around in your shoes, I’d be more concerned with this other problem,” he said. “I mean that burglary out in Inman Park. Because that’s going to be trouble for someone if that doesn’t get fixed in a hurry. I believe the Captain’s about ready to pick a likely suspect and make a case, and that will be the end of it. Somebody’s going to do a stretch of hard time.”

  “Well, that ain’t going to get the goods back,” Joe said, suddenly irked. It was the second time this day he’d been lectured on the same subject. What was it to him? He didn’t steal the goddamn things.

  Collins gave him a cool look. “You hear what I just said? It’s going to be a whole lot easier on everyone if we settle this.” He took a few steps to regain his calm, then stopped, reached into the pocket of his overcoat, and produced a pack of Pall Malls. He snapped a cigarette into his mouth and dug around some more until he found a match, which he sparked off his thumbnail. He didn’t offer the pack to Joe, in case there were any illusions about the two of them being on equal footing.

  “Well?” The cop tilted his head in the general direction of Walton Street. “Did you find anything down there?”

  Joe said, “Down . . . ? Oh. There wasn’t much time. You came along right behind me. So no, I didn’t.”

  Collins gazed at him with a faint shadow of amusement passing over his face. “How did you get out?” he said.

  “Window.”

  The detective didn’t ask which window. Gazing at the burning ember of his cigarette, he said, “Why do you care who shot Mr. Williams anyway?” He smiled. “He kin to you?”

  Joe smiled at this stab at humor. He didn’t have an answer Collins would understand. Then he thought, what the hell. He was already in too far.

  “He’s dying,” he said. “He asked me to see if I could find out what happened. Why it happened, I mean. Why Logue shot him.”

  “He asked you because you were a policeman once?”

  Joe nodded. “Partly, yeah.”

  “But not a detective.”

  “I worked for Pinkerton.”

  Collins’s eyebrows arched in derision, and Joe shrugged. They started walking again. The lieutenant pursed his lips thoughtfully and said, “You have some interesting friendships, sir. Mr. Williams has got a sheet of arrests from here to the sidewalk. He’s run games and women. Not exactly what we consider a law-abiding citizen. Whatever he told you, he’s likely lying. Or he knows more than he’s telling.”

  “Maybe so,” Joe said.

  Collins dragged on his cigarette and blew the smoke from the side of his mouth. “There were no other witnesses to the crime?”

  “Which crime?”

  “Mr. Williams’s shooting. Isn’t that what we’re talking about?”

  Joe thought about it and said, “No, just after it was over. This blind Negro singer came along.”

  Collins smiled. “That’s not much of a witness.”

  Joe said, “You’d be surprised.”

  “He’s the only one?”

  “I didn’t see anyone else.”

  The detective caught the dodge, but didn’t press it. Gazing off down the street, he said, “If you have any information that relates to Officer Logue’s murder, you’d be wise to share it. And I don’t mean with your friend Albert Nichols. With me.” He took hold of Joe’s coat sleeve, halting him in his tracks. “And just so you understand,” he said. “I don’t tell Captain Jackson everything I hear.”

  Joe kept the vacant look on his face, in spite of this odd twist. “I don’t have anything right now,” he said.

  “But if you do?”

  “Then I’ll tell you,” Joe said. “Only I don’t want—”

  “No one will know where I got it,” Collins said quickly. He eyed Joe. “You sure there isn’t something you want to talk about now?”

  Joe thought the bankbook in his pocket felt like a brick. “No, not now,” he said.

  They walked on until they reached the intersection of Houston Street. Collins paused for a few seconds to eye Joe speculatively, then said, “Be careful, Mr. Rose. Watch where you go and what you do.”

  The way the words were spoken, Joe understood that the lieutenant also knew some things that he wasn’t sharing, and it gave him pause. Collins smiled his easy smile, then turned away and crossed the street without looking back.

  Eight

  It was midafternoon when Sweet shuffled into the house, sagging from eight hours on his feet. He took off his coat, hung it on the peg, and stepped into the kitchen, where he found Pearl sitting at the table, wrapped in a silk kimono and drinking coffee. A book lay open and facedown next to her elbow. Sweet guessed it wasn’t a Bible.

  In a brooding silence, he took the bottle of whiskey down from the cupboard and he poured himself a small glass, a rare event. Time was, liquor made him do crazy things. Now it just eased his mind a little. He sat down at the table, his clothes reeking of fried food, and took a tentative sip.

  “You workin’ tonight?” he asked.

  “Ain’t had any calls,” Pearl said.

  “Maybe you oughta call them.”

  “I’ve got something else to do,” she said, and absently started pushing her fingers into her dark curls.

  Sweet’s broad face creased with displeasure as he eyed his sister’s languid pose. She looked like a hussy. He said, “You know they’s lots of honest work out there.”

  “I’m sure that’s right.”

  Another few seconds, then Sweet said, “People are talkin’.”

  “Talking about what?”

  “About how you was at the scene of a crime, that’s what.”

  “Some folks don’t know when to shut their damn mouths is all.”

  “They’s gonna be trouble,” Sweet said.

  “What trouble?” Pearl said, giving it right back.

  “What was you doin’ out there? Of all the places you coulda been.”

  Pearl’s brow stitched. “You know something, say so.”

  Sweet said, “I know you got yourself in a corner, and ain’t no Joe Rose gonna be able to help you out of it, either.” He wrapped a thick hand around his glass like he meant to crush it. “You can’t be bringin’ this kind of shit down on our house, Pearl. I mean it. You can’t.”

  For a moment, their gazes crossed like swords. Then Pearl’s softened with affection and she smiled impishly.

  Sweet, frowning, said, “What?”

  “Sarah Everett brought an apple pie over,” Pearl said. “Smells good. I’m pretty sure it ain’t for me.”

  Sweet tried not to smile. Pearl unfolded from the chair and went to the cupboard to cut him a slice of Sarah Everett’s pie, gently kissing his forehead as she passed b
y.

  May Ida Jackson stood gazing out the kitchen window of her frame house on Plum Street, watching the bare trees and the blue cloudless sky and thinking about a boy she had known a long time ago. He’d been sweet and kind and though she could still picture his face, she couldn’t recall his name at all.

  She remained lost in her reverie until the running water sloshed over the edge of the sink to splatter the linoleum and her house slippers.

  She murmured, “Oh, my!” at the wet mess she had made, and fumbled to pull the stopper and turn off the faucet. She studied the small puddle at her feet as if she had never seen such a thing before. In fact, it had happened a dozen times.

  She stepped out of the slippers and went off to fetch a towel from the bathroom, which she dropped on the kitchen floor. Momentarily, her gaze wandered back to the window, and she noticed something about the shape of one of the trees . . . it was like a hand reaching to heaven . . . she floated away on that image, another wisp on the breeze. A sedan crossed her line of vision, the dark shape moving slowly along the street. When she blinked again, it was gone.

  May Ida sometimes missed parts of days as she wandered in and out of her little fogs. She would somehow waft from a period of crystal clarity into a haze and not realize it until she reappeared and found herself doing something: standing before a mirror, tending to her flowers in the garden, handling dry goods in a store. She wouldn’t remember how she had gotten there, only something had guided her unerringly along. It had been that way for as long as she could remember, going back to the dreamy mist of her childhood.

  Sometimes it was a light absence, as if she had stepped aside for a quick moment. Other times she was sure she had disappeared for what must have been days, only to find a single minute had slipped away and that her husband—the Captain—was staring at her with that face of his as he waited for her to respond to whatever he had said. Of course, she had missed it entirely, inflaming him all the more. Then he would give her his disgusted look.

  At first, she tried to recover, only to find that he had already lost patience and his lip was curled in disdain. He wasn’t really interested in anything she had to say, anyway. Nothing she did had ever pleased him. She was just something that was there, another piece of furniture. Realizing this made her own bile rise. If he, with his icy arrogance, knew how many men she’d entertained, and how many more she would have in the days and weeks and months to come, it would drive him berserk. It made her feel like an actress in a play, and delighted her.

  She held the secret of the May Ida who lived inside and carried on like a harlot when a mood came upon her, putting out a scent that drew gentlemen like bees to honey. May Ida understood in a vague way that she was supposed to feel shame over behaving like a bitch in heat. In truth, she was fascinated by the carnal stranger who inhabited so much of her waking life. The woman had power.

  She also knew that if she had been born male, her conduct would be applauded with admiring winks and lewd snickers. A woman acting that way was worse than a whore, because at least the strumpets got paid for their favors. She accepted these facts without bitterness; it was the way of a world run by men.

  She sometimes imagined that the minister at their Baptist church tailored his fire-belching sermons around her wickedness. She could have been the star in the lurid tales of sin that he spun with such relish. But he was just another fool talking about what he didn’t know. Still, she didn’t dislike him. He seemed kind enough when he wasn’t in his pulpit.

  Though she had moments when she sensed something dark and frightening lurking under her skin, those were few and far between and over as abruptly as they began. The terror of her nightmares was always washed away by the morning’s light.

  As a young girl, she had been taken to doctors intent on finding out what was wrong with her. Her behavior baffled them, which baffled her. She didn’t understand. She was a cheerful person who greeted her days with a smile. She was never cruel or spiteful. She was clean and did not drink whiskey or take potions or powders to relieve her miseries.

  Still, they said she was ill and that the cure for what ailed her was a marriage to Grayton Jackson. She was agreeable; she had always imagined that one day she would be a happy bride. That dream died quickly, just as soon as it became clear that instead of a loving husband she was betrothed to a harsh, bitter, cold-blooded crab of a man. So she reopened the doors she had closed, reluctantly at first, then with her old abandon.

  She had long wished that there might be one fellow who could satisfy her completely, but as yet she hadn’t met him, and so she went about her delightful adventures. And the Captain never knew; or maybe knew and didn’t care.

  For all her regular vacancies of mind and her crazy compulsions, May Ida was not stupid. She had periods of clarity so sharp and brilliant that she surprised herself, her vigilance honed by escaping detection by her police officer husband.

  Over the past two weeks she had begun sensing something different from his usual grim and caustic self. His tone had changed. When he was at home, he talked to himself more than usual, even laughing, as if listening to some private joke. While he wasn’t any kinder to her, he did seem to notice her now and then, if only as an audience.

  Then it began to dawn on her what had him so absorbed, and she wondered if she could steal it and then deflate or even destroy him, in retribution for his absent cruelties. If she couldn’t do him in with a gun, knife, or vial of poison, perhaps she could inflict pain that was all the more excruciating for him and that much sweeter for her.

  It seemed a delicious prospect, and she stood at the sink, rolling it around in her mind and musing on the various angles, until she heard the colored girl knock at the door and went to let her in.

  By one o’clock, all the hopefuls had been in and out, and they had enough to fill the disks they had brought along. Mr. Purcell planned to stop for lunch, then begin recording. Of the two dozen acts waiting in the lobby, half of them might pass muster with New York. Of those, two or three had a chance of turning a dollar, and one might become a known name.

  Mr. Purcell was going over his notes from the morning when Jake walked into the room to tell him that there was a Negro out on the sidewalk who had been waiting with the others since breakfast.

  The older man stepped to the window and looked out on Walton Street to see a well-dressed man holding a large guitar.

  “He’s the only one?” He had been wondering why he hadn’t seen a single Negro face all day.

  “I think everybody figured we only wanted the hillbilly music,” Jake explained.

  Purcell grunted with annoyance. It was true that he had forgotten to specify. He didn’t think he needed to in a city like Atlanta.

  “Isn’t he the same one we saw on the street?”

  “That’s him,” Jake said.

  “Did you hear him play?”

  “I did. And I think he might be the best of the lot.”

  “Really?” Mr. Purcell said. The younger man nodded quickly. “Well, what’s he doing out there?”

  “They put him out of the lobby.”

  “Who did?”

  “The desk clerk. He says the manager told him to. So he chased him outside.”

  “Well, go down and bring him up.”

  “I can’t. They don’t allow Negroes in the rooms unless they’re working.”

  Mr. Purcell looked at him, his face pinching in distaste. “Don’t allow . . .”

  He understood this sort of thing perfectly, because his family’s original name was not Purcell at all, but Perzel. He, like his young assistant, was a Jew, and was well aware of the Frank case, which had ended with the lynching of an innocent man. He knew passions still ran high in these parts. The Klan held meetings outside the city at Stone Mountain, burning crosses by the dozens as they swore their hatred for Negroes, Jews, Catholics, Arabs, Italians, Greeks, and whoever else offended them.

  The whole matter exasperated him. It was the third decade of the twentieth cent
ury, after all. “Go find Mr. Morgan, please,” he said. “I want to talk to him.”

  Jake was back with the manager at his side.

  “There’s a fellow outside on the sidewalk who came to audition for us,” Purcell said. “He waited all morning in the lobby. Before we could get to him, your desk clerk put him out. Now the clerk says we can’t have him up here.”

  “Because he’s colored,” Jake Stein put in.

  The hotel manager smiled for a quick instant, looking from one to the other, as if his guests were making some kind of an odd joke. They were Yankees; it might be their idea of humor. The smile went away when he realized they weren’t doing anything of the kind.

  His voice caught a little when he said, “It’s hotel policy not to permit Negroes to the upper floors of the hotel, unless they’re in service.”

  “I heard that,” Mr. Purcell said. “I’d like you to make an exception.”

  “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possible,” Mr. Morgan said, blanching. “If the other guests noticed . . . or someone from . . . uh . . .” He swallowed nervously. “I’m sorry, I’m not per—”

  “We’ve taken a room and one of your suites, and in the winter,” Purcell said brusquely. “And I believe every table in your restaurant has been filled since it opened this morning.”

  “Yes, that’s true, and we certainly appreciate all the business, of course . . .” The manager’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “It’s just not . . . not possible for me to allow that. The fact is I could lose my job.”

  Mr. Purcell eyed Mr. Morgan wisely. “Are you a member of the Ku Klux Klan, sir?”

  The manager’s back straightened and his face flushed with color. “No, sir, I am not.” After another moment’s hesitation, he said, “But of course the owners are.”

  Mr. Purcell stared through his spectacles for a long moment. Then he said, “Thank you for your time.” He closed the door.

  “I’ll be in the office if you need anything further,” Mr. Morgan called from the hall, his voice faint.