The Dying Crapshooter's Blues

by David Fulmer

  Folks, don’t be standin’ around ol’ Jesse cryin’

  He want everybody do the Charleston whilst he dyin’

  One foot up and a toenail dragging

  Throw my friend Jesse in the hoodoo wagon . . .

  Willie slowed again, returned to the original funereal pace.

  Come here, mama, with that can of booze

  Dying Crapshooter’s Blues, I mean,

  The Dying Crapshooter’s Blues . . .

  Willie plucked the last notes and looked over to see the odd, faraway ghost of a smile on Little Jesse’s face. He gasped, “You hear that, Joe?”

  “I heard, Jesse.”

  “People gonna remember me, ain’t that right?”

  “Nobody’s gonna forget you,” Joe said. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

  “I’ll make sure,” Willie said.

  “You do that. Please . . .” His smile faded as a gray cloud moved up his chest to invade his face. His lips moved and he tried to whisper something to Joe, who bent his head to listen.

  “What is it, Jesse?” Joe said.

  Little Jesse tried to mouth something, but instead of words, an eerie breath came up from his chest, one with a weight that seemed to charge the air over the bed; then, nothing more.

  Willie said, “Oh, Lord . . .”

  Time slowed and hung like a shroud. No one spoke or moved. Jesse opened his eyes, then closed them again, and let out one long, deep, shuddering sigh that was nothing if not full of the relief that comes at the end of a wearisome road. In the next second, his body stiffened, then relaxed and settled in the mattress.

  Joe, feeling his voice catch, said, “Well, goddamn.”

  “He gone?” Willie said. It wasn’t really a question and no one answered.

  Gradually, a ripple went out from the room. The whispers grew louder and there were a few sobs. Joe heard Martha begin to weep, keening as she pushed through the crowd to kneel at the bedside and take hold of Little Jesse’s cooling hand.

  Hearing some of the other women moaning with grief, Willie called out, “Hey, now! Y’all heard what he said. He didn’t want none of that. Somebody get a bottle goin’ ’round.” After a pause, he said, “Go on, Jesse.” He tilted his head in Joe’s direction. “You’d best cover him up,” he said, and Joe pulled the sheet up over Little Jesse’s dead face.

  In the commotion that followed, no one noticed the small-boned Negro who slipped out the door. He hurried through the alleys until he could cut across Decatur and come around the side entrance of police headquarters, where he delivered the message that Little Jesse Williams was dead, receiving a quarter for the tip.

  The drinking started up in earnest and went on until someone called out that the hoodoo wagon was turning into the alley. Presently, heavy footsteps came clumping up the stairs. Two men from the funeral home, dressed like twins in black suits and somber derby hats, walked in carrying a folded stretcher. With the help of Joe and another man, they went about the clumsy business of getting Little Jesse’s cadaver onto the stretcher, out of the apartment, and down the steps to the alley. Everyone who was inside came outdoors, and more people from the Decatur Street speaks, pool halls, and gambling rooms showed up. Martha stood on the rickety landing at the top of the wooden stairs, watching it all with tired and damp eyes, her thin arms crossed against the cold wind.

  Down below, a bottle was going around, and in spite of the somber presence of the black carriage and the two dark-clad valets, a general mood of hilarity animated the alley as they settled Little Jesse for his ride to the funeral parlor. The two men climbed up, one snapped the reins, and the wagon clattered off, negotiating the narrow byway, then turning east on Decatur Street. The word went out about the wake as the party moved back upstairs.

  Joe went inside to talk to Willie, and found the blind man in the corner chair of Jesse’s room picking his Stella and looking tired and somber. He stopped playing and raised his head when Joe walked in. No one else wanted to be in haunted space, so it was just the two of them. For his part, Willie didn’t at all seem worried about any juju that might be lingering.

  Joe listened to the hypnotic minor-key drone and said, “Sounds sweet.”

  “I’m bound to play it over his grave,” Willie said.

  The crowd of Jesse’s friends and rivals and not a few strangers started filling the rooms and getting louder by the minute. The revelry would last through the end of the day and through the night, replete with drinking, fighting, and fucking, all in Little Jesse’s memory. Joe accepted a quick glass of whiskey out of respect for the deceased and made his exit. On his way out, he shook Willie’s hand, and promised that he’d come by and see him later at the 81.

  Joe wandered the dark downtown streets, walking aimlessly, feeling the hollow weight of having witnessed a man’s death, then pondering the fact that the person who could have told him exactly what happened on Courtland Street on Saturday night was gone. It had been some scene in that room, bleak with grief at a man’s passing and yet with a certain wild edge, ending with the song Willie had written, as if the blind man had distilled Jesse’s life to its essence in those last moments.

  Except for one small part. What was it that Little Jesse wanted to tell him? Was he finally going to offer Joe the other pieces of the puzzle? Why had he waited so long, indeed until it was too late?

  These thoughts went around as Joe hunched his shoulders against the night’s chill, wondering why Little Jesse hadn’t spoken up sooner. Instead, he had hedged his wager, playing another in an endless chain of angles, waiting for the right moment to show his hand. But his time ran out and the infection or whatever it was killing him had moved too fast. The gambler had bet and lost, and his last deal had gone sour. As much as Joe mourned his passing, he couldn’t shake his anger at him for being such a fool and holding out like that.

  He came around the corner at Cone and Walton and passed by the facade of the Dixie Hotel. The lobby was lit up, a glow of cheery yellow against the dark of the night.

  Joe knew that if he wanted to drop the whole mess, this was his chance. Few would know and fewer would blame him. He could take Pearl’s brokenhearted advice and leave, and that would be the end of it.

  Before the thought had crossed his mind, he knew he wasn’t going to do any such thing. He was in, and he wasn’t going to get out by walking away. Pearl, the Captain, Lieutenant Collins, and the deceased J. R. Logue had all done their little bits to hold him fast.

  Shuffling through the cast of characters, he thought of Robert Clark, who had witnessed the first act in the drama. Joe knew he’d have to find him, starting with Bell Street, where he’d last been spotted. If nothing else, he’d know he’d turned over every stone.

  Before he went chasing that goose, he stopped at Beck’s Café for a solitary dinner. Though he didn’t have much of an appetite, he hadn’t eaten since the morning, and figured it could only make him feel better. The place was known for chicken and biscuits, and that’s what he ordered, along with a dish of greens and a cola to drink.

  The after-work crowd had come and gone, and it was quiet, an ordinary night, missing only one pimp and crapshooter. Six blocks away, the wake for Little Jesse would be getting rowdy. None of the customers in the diner or the pedestrians on the street would know one way or another. The December night went on as usual, just a little more foot traffic on the sidewalks, as Christmas shoppers hurried from store to store.

  As he waited, he glanced around to see a young fellow sitting at the other end of the counter. Joe studied him with an idle interest, noting the way he kept shifting about, like he couldn’t get comfortable on his stool. Though it was plenty warm inside the diner, he kept his heavy coat on, and Joe saw the bulge in one of the pockets. The fellow was toting a pistol and couldn’t quite get right with the feel of it, like he was not used to the encumbrance. One of Joe’s few cop nerves told him there was something going on there, perhaps some mayhem in the making. He would not be surprised to pick up t
omorrow morning’s paper and read of a crime that had involved a troubled young man and a pistol. He had seen it too often: a kid with no sense, a gun that was made for killing, the wrong words spoken in the wrong tone of voice, and then blood on the floor.

  The girl stepped up with his plate, breaking into his thoughts. The chicken smelled wonderful and he didn’t realize how hungry he was until he started eating. After a few minutes went by, the fellow in the overcoat put down his coffee with a clatter, tossed some change on the counter, and made a busy exit. Joe finished his dinner, drank a cup of coffee, and went out onto the streets of Atlanta in search of Robert Clark.

  The light of day was long gone, and Robert was ready for the end of his labors. He tossed the last bag on the wagon and sent it off toward Track Three. It would arrive in Pittsburgh sometime the next afternoon.

  Like any number of common laborers, Robert worked off the books and was paid in cash at the end of every shift. He was one among a population of drunks, tramps, and other dregs who couldn’t or wouldn’t hold a regular job. The railroad porters in their uniforms looked down their noses on this crew, though they understood that if it wasn’t for fellows like Robert, they’d be the ones loading the baggage cars. So these two-dollar-a-day rascals were tolerated as long as they got the bags into the cars and didn’t steal.

  It was a good situation for someone who didn’t want to be found. At least half the men working the cars used monikers. They were invisible to the outside world and mostly to each other, as they toiled away the hours in the belowground shadows of Union Depot.

  Robert was tired and glad of it. Maybe he’d be able to sleep. What he’d heard and seen on the Courtland Street corner hung on him like a cheap suit of clothes, and no amount of homemade whiskey had been able to shake it loose.

  Except for the one visit, he had steered clear of Schoen Alley, though he knew he owed a visit to the man’s deathbed. He couldn’t go back and risk running into Joe Rose again. The way that Indian stared at him . . .

  After his visit to the crap game on Saturday night, Robert hadn’t spoken another word about what he’d seen. He kept his mouth shut and ears open, so he overheard the talk about Jesse dying. One of the men mentioned that Willie McTell had worked up a song about him, telling of a gambler in the last minutes of his life demanding liquor and whores. Robert wished he could go by and see Jesse, pay his respects, give up what he knew—give it back if he could—but he couldn’t take the risk.

  Now it was too late. One of the porters had come to work with the news that Little Jesse had died and the wake had already begun. They talked about going to join the party, as it would likely still be going on in the morning. As bad as he felt hearing the news, Robert couldn’t deny a certain relief. Maybe it would all fade away now, and he’d be left alone.

  Or maybe he’d find Joe Rose, tell him everything, and let him do what he wanted with it. Maybe he could still do some good for poor Jesse’s soul.

  All this ran through his mind as he walked along the gravel pathway that adjoined the eastbound tracks. There was a stone staircase at the end of Moore Street, and once he got to the top, his first stop would be Bell Street and a bottle. Then he would go to his room and sit on his bed and drink to the memory of Little Jesse Williams.

  He reached the stone steps and heard the whisper of traffic up on the street. The railing was cold in his bare hand as he pulled himself up. It had been a long day. He figured he had hoisted a good ton or more of white folks’ bags. Back in the country, it would have been a ton of cotton. Those days were over, though. The cotton was all gone.

  He was three steps up when he became aware that someone had started down from the top. Robert glanced up, then dropped his eyes again. All he could make out was a shape. He took another two steps.

  “Hold it, now.” The voice was soft, though with an edge behind it that gave Robert pause. His stomach began to churn with a primitive fear, and he took a desperate glance back the way he had come. The pathway was deserted the entire distance to the terminal. They were alone out there. The only things moving were the engines in the yard, blowing gray smoke and making that grinding railroad racket.

  Robert couldn’t see the face above him because of the backlight of the streetlamp, and it began to dawn on his slow mind what was happening. Now he turned and took a step back, downward, as if he had just thought of something he had forgotten.

  “I said hold it right there.” The voice wasn’t mean or loud, just insistent.

  Robert bowed his head, as if meekly complying. Then, in a sudden motion, he leaped back to the gravel at the bottom. His feet kicked up clouds of black railroad dust as he started to run, and he thought he was away clean, until the concussion and searing heat hit his back, like he’d been slammed with a hot hammer. He tried to keep going, but his legs gave way in a stumble, and he found himself tasting dark dust. Digging his fingers into the sharp gravel, he struggled to his feet and started on again. The depot lights were coming closer.

  The second bullet found a spot just between his shoulder blades, and Robert was on the ground again, his chin splitting open almost to the bone, though he could barely feel it. He was aware only of footsteps shuffling close. He knew what was coming and wanted to say that he wouldn’t talk, would never talk, and his mind even streaked to the two dollars pay in his pocket, thinking he could somehow ransom his life, but nothing emerged from his throat except weak breath.

  Faintly, he heard the metallic cock of the hammer. The next second brought an explosion of black light.

  The steps receded to the bottom of the stone stairs and then up to Moore Street and away into the December night.

  The revelry was still going when the pawnbroker turned off the lights of his shop downstairs, locked the doors, and went to catch the streetcar that would take him to his home in West End. Later, not long before dawn, the police would come around to break it up, and two drunks would get hauled off to Fulton Tower because they couldn’t keep their mouths shut. As soon as the coppers left, the carousing started up again.

  There was a show at the 81 Theatre that night, and Joe found a place in the back where he could watch and listen. His search of the Negro speaks and gambling rooms at the end of the street had been a waste of time. Robert hadn’t been seen in days.

  Among the colored members of the theater audience were a dozen pale faces that stood out starkly. All but two were at ease, regulars like Joe who cared more about the entertainment than the color line. Then he saw one couple who clearly didn’t belong. Likely they had wandered in while the lights were down and when they came up again, found themselves bobbing on a sea of African faces. Getting out would have caused more commotion, and so they stayed put, watching the show on the stage with glazed eyes.

  When Joe came in, frustrated by the time he had wasted trying to find Robert Clark, there was a comic onstage telling a salty joke about a country boy who had an unnatural love for a watermelon. Many of the people laughed, others eyed the comic speculatively, as his delivery seemed a throwback to minstrel days, pooching up his thick lips and rolling his big eyes. Joe peered at the lonely white couple and noticed that they seemed giddy over this segment, as if they had found themselves on more familiar territory. The man chuckled after the other laughter had died, and cool, dark eyes slid his way. Joe was sure that if the poor fellow could have made himself disappear in a puff of smoke, he would have done just that, and left his wife to fend for herself.

  The comic made way for a line of tap dancers, pretty girls in skimpy outfits. While they drummed the boards, Joe went back outside and along the brick walkway between the theater and the next building over. Though the night was chilly, a half-dozen girls waited with eager eyes by the stage door in hopes of meeting one of the performers. A short and thick-bodied Negro stood guard, chatting easily with the giddy young ladies. He winked and held the door open. Joe slipped a half-dollar into his palm as he passed inside.

  He found Willie standing in the backstage shadows, his hea
d bent over his guitar.

  He cocked his head at Joe’s approach. “I didn’t know if you were going to make it or not.”

  “It’s been a hell of a day,” Joe said. “Thought I’d give myself a little entertainment. I could use it. You feel like playing tonight?”

  “I got to,” Willie said. “My name’s on the card.” He was quiet for a long moment while the gay music and rattling taps echoed from the stage.

  He said, “Jesse’s gone, Joe.”

  Joe said, “I know, Willie. He was in bad shape, though. It was his time.”

  “Never told you nothin’, did he?”

  “Another minute, and I think he would have,” Joe said.

  Willie sighed. “Well, Little Jesse was a gambler, all right.”

  A young fellow in a shirt and tie, carrying a clipboard, hurried by, calling, “Two minutes, Willie!”

  The blind man nodded, then cocked his head toward Joe. “You hear about Robert Clark?”

  Something about Willie’s tone made Joe’s gut sink. “What?”

  “He’s dead,” Willie said. “Shot.”

  Joe stared at him. “Where?”

  “In the yard outside the depot. He was shot three or four times.”

  “When?”

  “’Round about six thirty this evening, is what I heard. He was working down the Union Depot. He finished and left out. Someone found him in along the tracks about an hour later.”

  “Do they know who did it?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  Joe remembered the look on Robert’s face as he came up on the scene that night. Now he was dead, too. And there went the last witness.

  “I got to get ready right about now,” Willie said and moved into the wings.