by David Fulmer
Still, she didn’t flinch and the moment passed. Let him try, she thought. She still had him. He had blurted dark secrets and now he’d have to kill her to keep her from using it and save himself. Of course, he had no idea. The thought of the danger she was in brought another tingle that was almost sexual in its intensity. The Captain didn’t notice.
Meeting his hard gaze with her own, she said, “What is it? Is there something wrong?” All the while keeping so much honey in her voice she hoped he’d gag on it.
With one last mad glance, he rose unsteadily from his chair and lurched out of the kitchen. A few seconds later, she heard bedsprings squeak as his weight came down on them.
She waited to make sure he was out. Except for the occasional snore or rattling breath, the house fell quiet.
She went to the desk in the front hall and got out a sheaf of notes and envelopes and a fountain pen. She spent ten minutes writing down everything she could remember. Even with her florid hand, it fit a single page. Every word counted, though.
When she finished, she laid the page aside and got up to walk into the back hallway. The bedroom door was open and she looked in to see his figure sprawled on his bed. In his sweat-stained union suit, wrapped halfway in a blanket, he looked flabby and vulnerable.
She stood there for a few moments, thinking about how easy it would be to take a knife from the kitchen drawer, slip to his bedside, and plunge it precisely into his throat. A twinge of pleasure at the thought came and went. She knew it would be so much sweeter to do it this other way. She would draw out the betrayal, and tell his secrets to a man who had cuckolded him. Drop by drop, she’d draw off his power and cause his ruin. They’d see if he ignored her then.
She backed out of the doorway and went to the telephone stand in the foyer to ring the operator and asked to be connected to one of the city’s messenger services. Then she sat down at the rolltop desk to compose a note. When she finished, she folded it into an envelope, then went into the kitchen to pour a victory glass of good whiskey for herself. Sometime later, she heard the squeak of a bicycle outside the house.
Eleven
Joe was up before the first light of day, coming awake with a jolt, as if startled by a sharp noise. His chest hammered and stomach churned in a burst of panic as he conjured Pearl locked in a Fulton Tower cell. He remembered the beating from the pain in his head and neck, and groaned when he rolled out of bed to make his way down the hallway to the bathroom.
When he got back to his room, he swallowed three aspirin, got dressed, and hurried out onto the dark and quiet streets, stopping in the lobby only long enough to snatch a few pages of hotel stationery.
He retraced his path from the evening before, back over the aqueduct to the Tower. Inside, he found an officer dozing at the front desk. Before the guard could gather himself, Joe started waving the pages of stationery in the air and chattered busily, as if he was on some pressing errand. He went through the doors before the officer could come to his senses.
The hard-faced matron who was at the desk on the colored women’s side gave Joe a surly once-over as she stepped up. She didn’t appear at all surprised to see him there.
“What’ll it take to get into the cells?” he asked her directly. She had that look about her.
“What do you got?” she said.
Joe made a half turn away from her probing stare, slipped a hand inside his coat, and produced a gold pocket watch. He held it up by its chain.
The matron shifted her thick shoulders grudgingly. “Let’s have a look,” she said.
Joe handed it over. The woman cradled it in her palm, opened the lid, put it to her ear, then dangled it before her eyes. She gave him a cold glance. “You want somethin’ else?” she said.
Joe turned around and hurried through the archway. The cell block was dark except for the one bare bulb at the far end. He peered into each of the cells as he passed by. All the women were asleep except for one, who sat on her pallet staring at nothing. She didn’t even blink when he went by. He peeked through the bars until he saw Pearl lying on a pallet, with her arm flung over her eyes. When he whispered her name she turned over, then got to her feet. Some lump of humanity snored away on the other pallet.
Even in that dim light, Pearl looked poorly. Her dark flesh had a gray tinge, her curls had fallen into a twisted mess, and her eyes were wild, like a crazy woman’s. But she was alive, and exhibited no signs of a beating.
The first words out of her mouth were, “Who told you I was back down here?”
Joe was confused. “Down where?” Joe said. “What are you talking about?”
“They had me up in the men’s,” she said.
“Jesus, Pearl!”
“Nothin’ happened,” she said, sounding sharp. “How did you get in?”
He tried for a small joke. “I’ve got my ways.”
She didn’t smile; rather, she looked fretful. “You didn’t come to try and get me out, did you?”
“I can’t. There’s no—”
“Because he said he’d let me go.”
“Who said?”
“The Captain, who do you think?” She took a quick glance down the row.
“When was that?”
“Don’t let them catch you here!”
“I just wanted to see if you were all right.”
“I am,” she hissed. “Now, leave. Go. Please.”
“Wait a second, when—”
“You hear me?” Her voice went up a notch. From down the row of cells, one of the other women yelled, “Shut up, bitch!”
Joe backed away from the cell. With a last glance at her face framed between the bars he made a quick exit. A woman—the one who had yelled at Pearl—was at the bars of her cell. When she saw Joe, her eyes went wide and she produced a toothless smile.
“You come to fix somethin’?” she called to him. “I got somethin’ you can fix right here!” In the next few seconds there were sounds from the other cells as her sisters caught on to a man in their midst.
The matron, hearing a disruption, started in his direction. Joe trotted past her, up the stairs, and across the lobby. Now awake, the desk guard yelled at him, but he kept going, hitting the Whitehall Street sidewalk just as the first light of dawn was washing the tops of the buildings. He took off at a fast lope and didn’t slow down until he got to the other side of the aqueduct.
Weaving through the army of early morning workers, he realized that he had just done a stupid thing. He could have been nabbed, arrested, and tossed back in a cell, wrecking what little of a plan he had. But he couldn’t stand the thought of Pearl locked up, alone and helpless, so off he went.
Though the way she had acted in the Tower threw some doubt on the helpless part. She said that Captain Jackson promised to let her go. Joe wondered when exactly the Captain had told her that. They hadn’t gotten around to that part.
By the time he turned the corner onto Houston Street, his stomach was growling, so he crossed over to Lulu’s and ordered breakfast and coffee. For once, he wouldn’t have to worry about Sweet.
There was only one other customer in the place. The manager, a chubby fellow named Heeney, was in back, cursing over the hot oven. He saw Joe through the kitchen window and called him over to ask about Sweet. Joe made up a story, explaining that the arrest was a mistake and that Sweet would likely be back within the next twenty-four hours. Heeney said he hoped so; he couldn’t hold the job open. He’d have to put a sign in the window. The customers had already started complaining about the food, and he was losing business.
As soon as his breakfast arrived, Joe understood. Though it wasn’t bad, it wasn’t Sweet’s. It would be worth getting him out of jail for that reason alone.
He ate only half of what was on his plate, finished his coffee, waved to the harried owner, and stepped outside. Across the street, he walked into the lobby, headed for the telephone booth, and asked the operator to ring the detectives’ section at police headquarters. When Al Nichols came on
the line, he sounded tense, edging on dismissive, and Joe figured he was performing for someone. Joe told him about Pearl and Sweet still sitting in cells at the Tower.
Al huffed with exasperation. “I can’t do anything about that,” he said curtly.
Joe started to push it, then changed his mind. He had displayed enough stupidity for one morning.
“I’m going to have something for you later,” he said, making sure the detective heard the insistence in his voice.
Al got it; there was a pause on the other end. “What kind of something?” he said, his tone warming a few degrees.
“We’ll talk later,” Joe said, and put the earphone back on the hook.
He stepped out and looked at the clock on the wall above the desk. It was still early, only a little after eight o’clock. He dragged himself upstairs to wait for Willie and the melancholy business of escorting Little Jesse Williams to his final rest.
When Captain Jackson’s wife woke him to announce that Corporal Baker was waiting outside in the car, her voice sounded like a saw ripping through metal. He roused himself in minute stages, each motion sending a shock wave across his temples. Stumbling against the walls, he made his unsteady way to the bathroom, where he promptly disgorged the sour contents of his stomach. He pawed blindly in the medicine cabinet over the sink, grunting with relief when he clutched the small brown bottle of paregoric. With a savage twist of the cork, he tossed half the liquid down his throat, then closed his eyes and waited, understanding in that moment why people were lured by the instant comfort of a needle. As it was, it took a few minutes for the first numbing wave to reach his stomach. From there, the potion went coursing through his veins to his aching head.
It felt like a rheostat had been drawn back, gradually shutting off a harsh current. He sagged on his bones as the pain ebbed. Momentarily, he was able to steady himself enough and wash his face, and swill mouthfuls of water to clean his mouth.
He pulled on the old gray trousers that were hanging on the back of the door and crept to the kitchen on legs that were still rubbery. May Ida was fussing at the stove, and the smell of the eggs and bacon in the frying pan turned his stomach all over again. He sat down, mumbling that he wanted only some coffee and toast.
She put a steaming cup in front of him and he sat for a while, trying to piece together the previous night. Though it was mostly a blur, he had a sudden and sharp memory of the way May Ida’s eyes had glittered as she listened to him. It was like a mask had fallen away, revealing something dark and wicked underneath. He stared into his coffee, trying to remember if that had been real or just part of a nightmare. Was that vulture the same plump woman who was now humming vacantly as she spread butter on a thick slice of bread that she had toasted by hand to light-brown perfection? It didn’t seem possible, though he sometimes wondered if his wife was truly crazy. It could be; she often acted like she was off in another world. Though he didn’t pay that much attention.
He took his first tiny sip of coffee. As he watched her putter about, what she’d said in the bedroom came back to him.
“Did you say Baker was outside?”
May Ida stepped to the table with his slice of toast. “Yes, he’s in the car,” she murmured, and put the plate at his elbow.
“Well, my lord!” The Captain pushed the chair back and lurched to his feet with an angry glance, which she returned with a stare so chilly that it gave him a small start. She took it with her as she retreated from the table.
“Don’t let the man sit out there in the cold,” he said, losing some of the snap in his voice.
When she didn’t make a move, he went to the front door, opened it, and waved the corporal inside.
Baker lumbered up the walkway and followed the Captain into the kitchen, where he sat in vacant silence, keeping his coat and hat on like he was some peasant waiting for a train. The Captain finished his coffee and only half the slice of toast before heading to the bedroom to dress, leaving May Ida alone with the corporal. She gave Baker one brittle glance, then ignored him completely. She was relieved when her husband stepped into the kitchen doorway and waved the corporal to his feet. He did not say good-bye.
By the time they turned the corner onto Hunnicutt Street, the Captain had erased May Ida and everything except the important matters at hand from his thoughts.
Once he emerged from his hangover, he began to feel in his bones that this was the day. It had been a long time coming, and on a risky path. As they rode into the city, he could picture how the last act would play out. Everything was in place. By sundown, all accounts would be settled, and in his favor. Just to be sure that nothing slowed him, he was carrying the rest of the paregoric in his coat pocket.
When they arrived at headquarters, he gave Baker his instructions and sent him on his way. Upstairs, he walked into the detectives’ section to see Lieutenant Collins and Sergeant Nichols at their desks, along with a few of the other men. The lieutenant was in the process of organizing the prior night’s arrest reports. Nichols didn’t look up from the hopeless stack of files.
When Collins rose to follow his superior officer, the Captain waved him off. The reports would wait, and there was nothing he needed to know, anyway. He closed his office door behind him and crossed to his desk. Snatching up his telephone, he went about his first order of business, and called the administration desk at Fulton Tower with instructions regarding the prisoner Pearl Spencer.
The procession for Little Jesse’s last ride began outside the Eaton Funeral Parlor on Nelson Street. It would take a route along Trinity then west over the bridge behind Terminal Station to West Side Cemetery, a walk of a little more than a mile.
It was cold enough for humans and horses to puff little clouds into the morning air. The congregation was all Negro, except for Joe and two other white men, rounders who knew Jesse and were too low-down to have to worry about color. As soon as the hearse started to roll, a woman with a good voice began a hymn. Much of the crowd joined in. This was against Jesse’s wishes, but he couldn’t exactly object, so once it started, it just went on. Willie walked with Joe, his guitar slung in front, his face etched in sadness.
Most of those in attendance knew Joe and nodded their greetings. Then they stared at the bruises. No one asked where they’d come from.
It took a half hour for the parade to wind through the lower streets and arrive at the entrance to the cemetery. Normally, it would have been an easy fifteen-minute walk. However, a number of those in the procession were still feeling the effects of drinking through the night and couldn’t stay in a straight line.
Joe knew he shouldn’t be taking the time, not with what he had hanging over him. But he’d never hear the end of it if he missed Jesse’s funeral. And the truth was he didn’t know where he’d go and what he’d be doing anyway. He’d been a step behind all the way and he wasn’t going to catch up in the last twelve hours.
As they ambled along, he told Willie what had transpired that morning. The blind man was irked at Joe bluffing his way into the Tower.
“You’re lucky you got out with your damn ass in one piece,” he said.
“Or anything else,” Joe quipped. “They got some hungry women in there.”
Willie snickered over that, then asked if Joe had figured anything more than he did the night before. Joe shrugged off the question; the less Willie knew, the better. All he would say was, “The Captain told me I have until tonight, and then it’s all over. If I don’t come up with anything, I’m done. I’ll be back in jail. I can run, but he’d still have Pearl, and Sweet will get sent down to Milledgeville. That’s the deal.”
Willie frowned and shook his head. They dropped the subject and walked on. Presently the stones of the cemetery appeared out of the mist, and the line snaked through the open gate and along the path to circle the fresh grave. The preacher who had been brought along respected Jesse’s wishes and stayed to the back, rocking on his heels and keeping his prayers to a whisper. So the late Mr. Williams did not quite
escape blessings.
One by one, men and women stepped forward to speak a few words about the man in the pine box. Some of the testimonials were heartfelt, some were comic, others were delivered by people who seemed not to have known Jesse very well, and one or two others sounded baffled by the whole business, as if they had been swept along by the wake and didn’t know where they were or what they were doing there.
Joe and Willie stood back, listening to these bleary eulogies. The sun had broken through the clouds and dappled the brown grass and gray and white stones with patches of pale light.
“You gonna say something?” Willie murmured in Joe’s ear.
“Just as well if I don’t,” Joe said. “But it’s about time you stepped up there.”
“I suppose that’s right,” the blind man said, and started through the crowd. Everyone made way.
Joe watched as Willie shared a joke with Jesse, plowing toward the grave as if he had no sense of space and might fall in. Murmurs of concern rose up and a couple people stepped forward to catch him. Of course, Willie had located the edge of the grave exactly and stopped with his toes hanging over it.
The crowd fell silent. With the slow wind at his back, Willie strummed the first minor chord and sang “The Dying Crapshooter’s Blues,” just as he’d promised.
For all the friends, enemies, and strangers Joe had seen laid to rest, it still affected him in a grim way. At the same time, a fair share of the Negroes at the graveside chose instead to celebrate the passing over into a better land, and to a glory that was beyond this vale of woe.