He finally came upon the barbershop. He looked around the neighborhood; no one was about, which was a good thing. Sy shrugged his shoulders, took a deep breath and cracked his knuckles. The face of the young German flashed before him. A coldness swept through his body sending a tingling sensation to his hands as he flexed them. He pushed his fedora down further on his head so as to hide his eyes.
When Sy walked in the door of the shop, there were only two people there: a big, bald-headed black man with large calloused hands holding a razor to the neck of the old man sitting still in the chair. Sy knew the big man was Amos the minute he laid eyes on him. They had never met; Amos didn’t care where his wife worked just as long as she brought home a paycheck. He wasn’t going to spend his hard earned money taking care of no lazy “yella” woman, he had said countlessly over the years.
Amos Johnson was a former heavyweight boxer who had a lot of potential and big dreams. He wanted to be a world champion all of his life, especially once he saw Jack Johnson win the heavyweight title in 1904. But he had killed a man accidentally in a bar fight a few years back and had to serve time in prison. This had made him extremely bitter against everyone. So bitter was the third grade dropout that he often drank himself into a drunken rage several times a week and his favorite punching bag was his wife, Lena.
He had charmed her with his big white, toothy smile and shiny bald head. His large hands were often around her waist for protection and security when he was courtin’ her. He whispered things in her ear that were pleasing to a young girl who dreamed of being rescued from poverty and despair. And what did she know, the simple virgin girl from the islands who was alone in the big city? Amos was her chance to live a good life, she had thought.
They had a simple wedding ceremony; a quick visit to the courthouse, a co-worker as a witness for the bride. They were both grinning from head to toe, Lena completely unaware of the bet Amos had just won concerning her. He was all smiles not because he was in love with a beautiful woman who’d do anything to please her man, but because he had won $300 from the boys at the bar. The wedding photo was a facade.
But a few months after they married, he used those large, protective hands to punch his bride in her stomach. She had burnt his eggs. She doubled over, crying like a wounded animal on the floor. He simply stared at her with hatred for a thing that he could destroy whenever he wished.
Now, he stood over his client beaming with pride, or arrogance, at the work he had just completed for his last customer of the day. He had plans to go to the Source Club that night to meet up with a woman he had met there a few weeks ago. He had been sleeping with her since that time, not caring if his wife knew about it, nor telling his new gal that he was married. Amos just wanted to have his way and be the star he just knew he had been destined to be. Never mind that the corn liquor and brandy he drank was stealing his former heavyweight champion build and skills. Prison hadn’t defeated that dream – drinking had.
Sy sat down in a chair to wait for the customer to leave. The old man paid Amos, exchanged a few pleasantries with him, and then walked out the door laughing gaily at the joke Amos had just told him. “We’s closed for the night, sir. If you come back tomorrow, I’ll give you a clean shave free of charge,” the smiling giant informed Sy.
Sy stood up with his hands in his coat pocket and smiling, walked over to Amos. “I ain’t here for no shave,” his cold, dead voice rang.
Amos never saw it coming. Sy punched Amos in the neck, nearly pushing his Adam’s apple down his throat, and as he fell to the floor gagging, Sy kicked him in the ribs a few times and then the back when the defenseless man rolled over to hug his ribs. As Amos lay writhing on the floor in pain, Sy went to the windows and pulled down the shades and locked the door. He then looked around the room and his eyes found what he needed.
Sy stepped over Amos and grabbed the large bottle of rubbing alcohol sitting on the counter and poured it all over the face and hands of the moaning Amos Johnson. Amos screamed, “What the fuck, man! My eyes! Oh, god, my eyes!”
He threw the bottle at Amos’s head. He then stood over Amos and kicked him hard in the ribs. Blood was dripping from Amos’ mouth. Sy clinched his fists. He bent over and cupped Amos’ chin in his hands. Brown eyes met dead green. He smacked him hard across the face. Then, he reached inside of his coat and pulled out a match and lit it.
Sy stood directly over Amos and kicked him in the ribs again. Amos groaned and clutched his neck. “Look at me, you son of a bitch!” Sy demanded. “You ain’t never gonna touch her or any other woman again.”
“Please, mister—“
Sy dropped the match onto Amos’ face just as Amos’ eyes conceded what was about to happen to him.
The alcohol immediately caught on fire. A blood curdling scream rose from the flames. Amos’ face and hands burned bright like the sun as Sy stood watching by the door, transfixed. How many times had he seen men burning like this? How many times had he had to put the fire out himself? He dreamt about it almost every night – the smell of burnt flesh.
Satisfied, he opened the door and then walked out of the barbershop into the night. He could hear Amos screaming at the top of his lungs as he walked nonchalantly down Adams Street. He turned the corner just as the voice of a woman screaming filled the air. Sy stared straight ahead, walking calmly. But his hands were shaking so uncontrollably he had to shove them in his coat pocket so that the people running towards the fire wouldn’t notice.
But one person did notice. He watched from his car a block away as Sy walked calmly towards Second Street. He smiled darkly as he started the engine of the Chrysler. He pulled off just as the local fire engines pulled up to the barbershop.
Rain started to fall again and thunder rumbled in the distance. By the time Sy got back to his room, it was another torrential downpour outside. He didn’t even bother to turn on the lights as he slumped down onto his couch. He removed his hands from his pockets and held them up in the dark. He couldn’t see them, but he didn’t need to see them to know that he had blood on his hands … again.
Chapter 24
Jackson Ward residents woke up to two stories gracing the front pages of the Richmond Planet Saturday morning, October 26, 1929: the first story got less attention. The headline read, “STOCK CLOUDS SWEPT AWAY BY BANK POOL.” If anyone in the Ward had read the article, they’d begin to worry. Steel prices had begun to drop again, and although a group of wealthy banking investors had purchased a large amount of blue chips to assist the market in rising, things were not working out as they had in March. The market was in serious trouble. But the Ward was not worried about the market at this moment. The other headline is what captivated all of their attention at this moment.
This second story was about the horrific demise of a once potentially great boxer. The burned body of Amos Johnson was found in Jackson’s Barbershop. It was reported that he was found dead late last night after the fire department was called to put out a fire in the shop. Johnson had been burned all over his face and hands, and on other parts of his body, the paper had reported.
But those who knew Amos personally were not too surprised that he had died so violently. He had lived a violent life and somehow always seemed to feel that no one could touch him because of his size and his past. Even when he was in prison, he walked around as if he owned the place and no one challenged him out of fear and deference. The bar room killer and wanna-be boxer had sealed his reputation in and out of prison. But everyone had known that it was simply a matter of time before his ways caught up to him. It’s called Karma, or the Lord getting his revenge as the religious folks preached it. Still, they just shook their heads and said while sucking in their teeth, “Uh huh! The devil done caught ‘em.”
The rest of the City of Richmond just ignored the story as it was simply a case of another nigger dying at the hands of another. The whites could care less and went on about their Saturday business preparing for their lavish dinner party that evening or for their travels t
o the beaches in Hampton for a leisurely weekend.
Only one person in town read the story of the tragic death of Amos Johnson with a heaviness on their heart. Sy Sanford had never liked to kill, but he had been trained to do it and knew how and did it well during the war.
Sy threw the newspaper across his table and took a long, deep sip of his coffee. He swallowed it reluctantly. Sy hated coffee; he preferred a beer, but he had to be ready for tonight’s big event. His mind strayed to Lena. He wondered if she had read the story yet and what she would be thinking about it all. He had opened the door to her freedom and he hoped deep within his heart that she would now come to him freely … since she was now a widow. But it didn’t matter how long he had to wait for her, “I’ll wait,” he said to the empty room.
He rose from the table and dumped the coffee down the sink. Today was the day he was going to reveal a killer to the Ward. Jeffrey Peterson had killed five women, and he was able to get away with it because they were poor, without family, and he was protected by his family’s name and wealth. A wolf among his own people, thought Sy as he headed to the bathroom to take a shower and get ready.
He had taken a long, hot shower and was putting on a fresh t-shirt when he heard a knock on his door. For a split second, he froze dead in his tracks, his heart seeming to stop instantly. It might be the police coming for him for what he did to Amos. But he knew that couldn’t be. He had made sure that no one, not even the last customer of the shop, had seen his face well enough to recognize him. So, he cleared his throat, shook the fear off his shoulders and opened the door.
And there she stood before him with puffy, red swollen eyes. “Just tell me you ain’t had nothin’ to do with this,” she cried out as she threw the Richmond Planet at his chest.
Sy closed the door behind her as she charged into his room. He looked down at the headline and then kicked the paper in disgust. “Everyone knows he deserved to die. He wasn’t nothin’ but wasted air,” Sy exclaimed vehemently.
“It don’t matter what others think! He was my husband and I loved him,” she yelled through her tears.
“You were gonna leave him, Lena. Look what he did to you? It wasn’t safe no more for you to be with him,” he tried to remind her.
“You ain’t had no right, Sy—” she said before he cut her off.
“I ain’t said I did anything to him. Why you think it’s me?” he asked as he walked over to the kitchen sink looking down at the empty coffee cup. His back was to her and Lena watched as his shoulders squared under her gaze.
“I was ... I … don’t ever let me know it was you, Sy. I couldn’t take it … knowin’ what you did for me,” she spoke softly.
He kept his back to her, staring at the wall in front of him and trying not to let her see his eyes. She’d know then. He shook his head as if to clear out some noise. Then he straightened up, but he still kept his back to her. “I’m glad to see you’s better today, Lena. I knew Mrs. Jones would take good care of you.”
“She’s a fine lady, yes. But I can’t stay with her no more, Sy.”
The news stunned him. Sy turned and faced her, a look of horror on his face. “Why not?”
Now it was her turn to cast her eyes down at the floor. “I gotta bury Amos and ... and I can go back home … now.”
“Home?” his voice echoed.
Silence. She finally lifted her eyes and immediately ran into his. They stared at one another for a few seconds before Sy finally broke the tension. He wanted to hold her so badly, but he couldn’t, so he folded his arms across his chest instead.
“I’m goin’ to the Black and White Ball tonight. I think the killer will be there.”
“Are you sure?” she asked softly, urgently.
He paused. “Yes. Anyone who has money and a name will be there. And he’s one of them, so he must keep up appearances.”
“Do you know who it is now?”
He nodded his head yes.
“Well, who is it? Tell me. Why won’t you tell me?” she cried out as he vigorously shook his head no, stepping away from her further back into the room.
He had to protect her still. “Will you be in the office on Monday? I should have this wrapped up by then,” he said as he opened his front door for her to leave.
Lena lowered her eyes and head again as she walked toward the door to leave. “I don’t know … there’s much to do.”
“Lena,” called Sy as he grabbed her hand and held it gently in his. “I … I can’t …” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about … about Amos.”
“Are you really, Sy?”
He stayed silent.
“Sy,” she whispered in his ears as she wrapped her arms around him. “Be careful tonight,” and she left him standing in the doorway staring at the empty space where she had once been.
Chapter 25
The man in the Chrysler Imperial watched Lena as she left Sy’s apartment room. He marveled at the swing of her hips and the way in which her shoulders bunched up as she tried to shield her body from the cold. He knew where she was going because he had been watching her ever since he had first seen her in the hospital. In fact, he couldn’t seem to get her out of his mind.
She was unlike any woman he had encountered before. She was beautiful and strong, unlike the others who were weak and used up. Even though she had obviously been beaten by the man who had brought her to the hospital, he believed, she was still strong. She was what he needed, craved in his life. And he was going to have her somehow – he just knew.
He put the car in drive and drove slowly past her. She didn’t hold her head up to see that someone was looking at her because she was too deep in her thoughts about what had happened to Amos, and besides, it was extremely cold again today. No matter. He knew where she was headed to and decided that before he went to the hospital to see his father, he’d make a quick visit to an old family friend whom he had not seen in a while, even though he had dumped the body of one of his victims behind her shop.
Lena was headed back to Mrs. Jones’ house. She had taken a taxi to Sy’s office, but she didn’t feel like waiting for a taxi to come back and get her. There was so much she had to think about and the walk back to Randolph Street, she felt, would help her work things out in her head. Lena wrapped her coat more tightly against her as she walked through the cold winds. She had awakened this morning to a hot cup of black coffee and toast. Mrs. Jones had even brought it to Lena herself. A smile crept across her lips when she thought back to that moment. Mrs. Jones was such a dear, dear woman.
The older black woman had made her feel more than welcome in her home. She had spent almost all of the previous night telling her about her marriage to Amos after she had awakened from her drug induced sleep. She didn’t know why she told Mrs. Jones her story, but there was something about her that made Lena want to open up.
“How long has he been hittin’ on you?” Mrs. Jones had asked cautiously as she sat in a chair beside Lena’s bed. Her big brown old eyes were fixated on Lena’s bruised and swollen face.
For a minute, Lena couldn’t think to remember, but after wringing her hands in the sheets, she came up with the answer. “The first time was a few days after we were married because I burnt his eggs. The second time was a few months after we got married. He had lost another fight at the boxing club. It was supposed to be his comeback fight. I blamed myself at first ‘cause I had nagged him ‘bout what had happened. I just wanted to know, ‘cause he never let me go to the club with him. He said, ‘real ladies don’t do no such thing’.” Lena exhaled slowly and stared down at her wringing hands.
Mrs. Jones gently laid her hands on top of them to stop them from shaking. “It’s alright, Lena. Some men don’t have it in them to be good husbands. You ain’t deserved to be beat on like a dog.” She then handed Lena a lace handkerchief to wipe her eyes. Mrs. Jones cleared her throat and then said, “What about Sy? He seems to care awful deep ‘bout you.”
“I guess that’s why you said we made a goo
d lookin’ couple that day in the office,” recalled Lena between soft sobs.
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Jones whimsically. “My first husband used to look at me like that … like he would fight the devil for me. He was a good man. That’s his photograph down in the sittin’ room. He hired Mr. George Brown to take it. He’s the best Negro photographer in Jackson Ward. No, you can’t do no better than Mr. Brown. Now, my second husband, well …” and she waved her hand in the air as if to shoo away a fly. “Sy’s a good man, I can tell. He did right by you bringing’ you here after what your husband done did to you.”
Lena looked meekly at Mrs. Jones. “But I can’t be with him either, Mrs. Jones. He’s got some things ‘bout him that need fixin’ before I can let myself be with him. Besides, even though I’m gonna leave Amos for what he done to me, I ain’t willin’ to be with another man that lets somethin’ other than God run him down.”
Mrs. Jones nodded in agreement. “We all have our crosses to bear, honey. But sometimes it’s good to have someone help you carry it. Now, you get some rest now, ‘chile. We can talk more in the mornin,” and she picked up her large frame slowly from the chair and turned off the lights in Lena’s room.
The next morning, Lena woke up to find Mrs. Jones bringing her a cup of black coffee. She could barely hold the cup in one hand while she held her large frame up with the other hand on the cane. “Oh, Mrs. Jones, let me—“
Murder on Second Street: The Jackson Ward Murders (Sy Sanford Series Book 1) Page 14