“That big yellow navy on Baronne?” said Isadore. “That was a detective. A patrolman would’ve been bad enough. But come about you shot a dick.”
“Didn’t shoot him.”
Bailey’s insolence—infantile, silken, irrational—tried his nerves. Did Bailey really think he had to playact when it was just the two of them? He reassumed his newspaperman cadence: “‘The dead negro is Louis Johnson. He was killed following a scuffle with two white men at Napoleon Avenue and Magnolia Street who stopped their automobile upon seeing two negroes at one o’clock Tuesday morning and began questioning them. When the slain negro showed fight, Charles E. Jones, cattle dealer, fired the shot that resulted in the negro’s death.’”
“That’s good—‘the shot that resulted in the negro’s death.’ That means he shot the man’s brains out, right?”
“It could have been his heart.”
Bailey nodded diplomatically. “Maybe his heart.”
“Aren’t you worried we’ll be caught?”
Bailey looked at him like he was crazy.
Galaxies spun in his stomach. He glanced at the hole in the floor where the bad air seeped in. Or perhaps they secreted it themselves, this miasma of fear and blind ignorance. From Isadore the fear, from Bailey the ignorance. But was it only ignorance, Bailey’s lack of concern about the danger he’d brought upon them when he’d shot the yellow-haired detective? Or had he already given up? To Isadore the idea—resignation to death!—was impossible to stomach. Yet since the shooting Bailey had become calmer while Isadore, haunted by the faces of their victims, had traveled in the opposite direction.
“I think I know Louis,” said Bailey. “Big country boy?”
“They want to revenge the white detective.”
“Don’t credit everything you read.”
“Look at this Louis Johnson—walking in the street like any evening and bam.”
“Some men die before their time.”
“Forget Louis Johnson. Look at me. The other night I was almost shot by a watchman outside the house where Orly works. And that was before you shot the navy.”
“They got money lying around up there, the family where Orly works?”
Isadore thought of the lantern in Orly’s room casting fluttery shadow wings across the wall, as if a panicked raven had been trapped in the low-ceilinged space. “I won’t dignify that,” he said, though he suspected Bailey might have been joking about robbing the Tiltons. He next decided Bailey was serious, before concluding that he was no longer able to tell the difference, which was worst of all.
“How’s the horn coming?” Bailey dumped the cigar tin upside down, spilling the bullets on the bedspread.
“I’ve had to put it aside.”
“Promise me you’ll keep on it.” Bailey dipped the bone toothbrush’s bristles into the aluminum polish and selected the first bullet. “I may be a pretty good highwayman, but you’re the greatest cornet man in this town. I’ve known it since the Colored Waifs’ Band. Everyone has.”
“Jass doesn’t pay like robbing Paddies.”
“It’s not all about money, Izzy.”
Both men laughed.
“How much it cost to put those diamonds in your teeth?”
“I’m serious about your music.”
“I don’t know anyone else that is.”
“They will be.” Bailey licked his teeth. “I haven’t done my molars yet. I’m fixing to do my molars.”
“Diamond molars,” Isadore acknowledged, “would be pretty Spanish.”
Bailey resumed polishing the bullets with the bone toothbrush. He admired the smoothness of each bullet like a jewelry appraiser, before dropping it into the tin. When he shifted his weight on the bed the bullets in the tin clinked against each other like marbles.
“Say, Frank. Does Virginia know about my involvement in all this?”
“Verge don’t know nothing except that her man brings her poppy-seed loaves whenever she wants them. What time is it?”
Isadore consulted his JW Benson. “Six past eleven.”
“She’ll be here soon.” It was as if Bailey was trying to convince himself.
“It’s a manhunt, Frank. Shoot first and investigate after.”
“The navies get to figuring there’s too many Negroes in the streets so they take some off. It happens now and again. Nothing unusual to it.”
“Not taking off. Murdering.” Isadore was too agitated to remember to use his newspaperman voice. “‘A negro at Clio and Dryades was being questioned when suddenly the negro darted off. He was overtaken by a crowd and was found to be wounded in the neck. It is not known who shot him. The negro, Herbert Foster of 3817 Chartres Street, told the police that he ran because he was afraid of being harmed.’”
“Cain’t blame him for running,” said Bailey. “Only for not running fast enough.”
Bailey dropped the final bullet into the tin. He peered into the business end of the revolver like an astronomer into a telescope. Isadore had an urge to leap onto the bed and smash the barrel into Bailey’s eye. That would end this nightmare finally. The police knew the highwayman had partners. What would stop Bailey from fingering Isadore if he could gain an advantage?
“What else does it say?”
“‘The better element of the negro race in New Orleans is cooperating with the police. The leading negro preachers and citizens are advising their people not to give the fugitive the slightest encouragement. Fearing a race riot, they are seeking to track the dark griffe down and turn him over to the authorities.’”
“Another lie.” Bailey was cleaning the muzzle with the bone toothbrush. “No man in the community going to come turn us in.”
“What about a woman?”
Bailey looked up. “You mean Virginia?”
“Listen: ‘Laura Smith, negress, living in Julia Street, said she saw a man step from behind a lumber stack at Saratoga and the Basin, a few minutes after the shots that killed the negro workman were fired.’”
Bailey stuck his wire brush in the air like a magic wand. “That’s me!”
“‘The man, apparently a negro—’”
“What’d I say?”
“‘—apparently a negro, was seen by her from her upstairs gallery to cross the basin bridge and meet another man on the other side.’”
“That’s you!”
“No shit, Frank.”
“You’re famous,” said Bailey.
Isadore felt hammering inside his temple. An accomplice had been mentioned in some of the pieces, but never so explicitly. They’d be looking for the other man on the other side.
“That’s five blocks from here,” said Bailey.
To avoid thinking, Isadore continued to read. “‘The highwayman is described as a dark griffe negro, five feet seven inches in height, weighs about 140 pounds, and wore a blue shirt, black trousers pulled high over waistline, and white-checked cloth cap.’”
“I’m not that dark. I’m not as light as you, but I’m not that dark. Besides I’m one fifty if I’m anything. Probably more, on account of all those poppy-seed loaves.”
Bailey wore a blue work shirt and black trousers. His white-checked cloth cap had flown off his head when they ran away from their last job. On their hunting trips Bailey had stolen three bakery wagons and lost three hats. They only kept the bakery wagons long enough to drive out of sight and they grabbed as many loaves as they could fit under their arms. Virginia favored poppy-seed. Bailey always checked for poppy-seed.
“We can’t be found here,” said Bailey. With a loud crack he locked the chamber. “Clean.” The word seemed absurd when spoken aloud in Virginia’s bedroom, with its dust menageries skittering beneath the bed and the hole in the floor making its fetid exhalations. Isadore couldn’t take it anymore. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to allow Bailey to go on another spree. Every white man in New Orleans was intent on shooting the first Negro to give him cause. If Bailey was stupid enough to try again, he’d get himself killed. Isadore r
emembered Orly’s advice about the job at the Industrial Canal. Perhaps the canal job wouldn’t be so grueling after all. Compared to this, the canal would be a parade.
“Where you going?” said Bailey.
“Fresh air.”
Isadore began to feel better as soon as he opened the door. He shot through the kitchen to the parlor, sidling between the green couch and the upright stove. He pulled the dead bolt and stepped onto the porch. He breathed deeply, inhaling magnolia and horse manure. Before he could exhale, he spotted a police car at the corner. The automobile was empty but the sound of two men conferring came from the side of the house.
“—facing the alley, but only the single egress.”
“Yay.”
“What.”
“You hear that?”
Isadore dashed back inside and gently closed the door behind him, sliding the dead bolt. He was grateful for the humidity now because the moisture kept the bolt from squeaking. Boots marched up the porch steps. Isadore leaped back across the parlor, through the kitchen—never allowing his heels to touch the floor—and into the bedroom, slipping around the doorframe. In Virginia’s house the doors all lined up; he didn’t want to stand in the path a bullet might take if fired from the front door by a shotgun. In the moldy mirror he caught a glimpse of his terrified eyes, his cheeks hairless and pale.
Bailey regarded Isadore with mute indifference. He balled his gun-cleaning equipment into the rag and twisted it tight.
“The navies are here,” whispered Isadore.
Bailey looked up. “What navies?”
“Turn the light.”
Bailey stared at him, uncomprehendingly, for a beat too long.
“Snuff out the light.”
It was too late. There came a violent knocking.
“New Orleans Police Department. We know it’s you, Frank Bailey. Open up.”
Bailey rose and silently walked to the kitchen. Isadore peeked around the doorframe. He watched in horror as Bailey bent to his knees before the front door and brought his eye to the keyhole.
The navy spoke again, in a tone that was almost gentle. “Hello there.”
Bailey lurched backward, spun, and returned in a sprint to Virginia’s bedroom. He pivoted sharply around the doorframe and leaned against the wall next to Isadore, catching his breath.
“I saw the man’s eye,” Bailey whispered.
“Whose eye?”
“The navy’s eye.” Bailey said it like a curse. He trembled, his chest rising in erratic flutters. “Through the keyhole,” he gasped, “the man’s eyeball stared at my eyeball.”
Pounding came from the front door.
“I saw you, Frank.” It was a hearty voice, taunting, self-impressed.
“The floor,” whispered Bailey. “See if there’s men in the back.”
Isadore realized that Bailey had visualized this scenario before. The hole in the floor near the foot of the chifforobe was just large enough for Isadore to stick a leg through. He stared at it and wanted to cry. The pounding was getting louder and he couldn’t tell if it was coming from the front door or inside his brain.
“Pull the wood,” said Bailey, and Isadore was struck anew by his assuredness. Bailey was an idiot in many ways but had a talent for crime: a crime savant. Isadore, on the other hand, was a crime idiot. Criminal activity gave him head pains, like difficult math.
Bailey was right—the floorboards had been bored so thin by termites that when Isadore pulled on a plank, it snapped like a cracker, coughing sawdust. He sat with his feet inside the hole and slid down. With his feet in the muck beneath the elevated cottage, he was chest-level with the floor of Virginia’s room. Beneath the bed he could see the dust menagerie herding, the dust bunnies joined by dust tigers and dust elephants and, in the distance, a dust giraffe nuzzling the bottom of the mattress.
From this vantage Bailey appeared very tall and strong. With his gun in hand he leaned into the doorway.
“I will kill the first man that walks through the door,” he yelled. “I swear on the soul of Robert Charles.” When, glancing behind him, he saw Isadore, protruding like a gopher from the hole in the floor, he made an urgent gesture, as if to say, You still here?
Isadore ducked beneath the floor and was enclosed in darkness. By squatting, he could see into the alley that ran behind the house. There, lit by a dim streetlamp, were three pairs of legs, each terminating in hobnailed boots. The only people who wore hobnailed boots were decommissioned soldiers.
When Isadore popped his head back up, Bailey was shouting at the bedroom door: “You’re going to have to get reinforcements because I’m going to kill the first white son of a bitch that enters this house.”
“Bailey,” Isadore whispered. “There are three of them behind the house. We can’t escape that way.”
Bailey regarded Isadore as he might a scurrying cockroach. “Your head looks stupid.” Bailey laughed. “Here.” He removed from the bedside table the Webley & Scott revolver Isadore had used during the holdups and kicked it across the floor. Isadore tucked it under his belt.
The police pounded on the door like they intended to break it down.
“Come on in!” shouted Bailey. The veins in his neck articulated themselves. He was able to access a staggering depth of rage almost instantaneously. But it passed like a shiver. When Bailey turned to Isadore, his face was calm and untroubled.
“Hide under the house,” said Bailey. “They don’t know anything about you.”
Isadore tried to think. Beneath the house he would be defenseless, cornered. Even if he could scamper out, there was nowhere to go. The alley continued around the cottage to the street. There were navies in front of the house and navies in the back. Someone would spot him and they would fire their guns. He felt an overwhelming urge to urinate.
There came the sound of splintering wood.
“Duck,” said Bailey.
Isadore ducked. Bailey shoved the chifforobe until it covered the hole in the floor. The message was clear: Isadore would not be popping up again.
The legs in the alley had doubled. Isadore crawled through the mud until he was under the center of the cottage, beneath the doorway to the bedroom. Creoleans wrappers clung to his elbows and knees. The praline residue smelled atrocious, sickly sweet grotesque.
“We’re not going to kill you,” shouted the officer from the front door. “We just want to talk.” Isadore, without understanding what he was doing, unbuckled his pants.
“You’re going to kill me anyway,” screamed Bailey, five feet and seven inches above Isadore’s head. “You’re going to kill me, but not before I kill some of you. I’ll shoot the first man in this room.”
Isadore wedged the revolver in his armpit and pushed down his pants, not an easy maneuver while kneeling, let alone with one arm. He nudged his trousers down to his knees and, stifling a groan, urinated forcefully in the mud. The stream was checked by an explosion near the front of the house. This was followed, less than a second later, by a thud on the floor above Isadore’s head.
“Don’t shoot!” screamed Bailey. “I threw down my weapon. Don’t shoot!”
“Hold fire!”
“C’mon, Cap. Serious?”
“I command you, hold fire!”
The floorboard above Isadore’s head creaked.
“I got his gun!” someone said.
Here was Bailey’s chance. He could snitch any moment, beginning now. Isadore pulled up his pants and returned the .38 to his belt. If he was going to be shot, it would be with his pants on.
There were some rough noises, grunts and smacks, and the mattress creaked. More footsteps. The click of a metal clasp.
“Blue jumper, black trousers. Alpine hat.”
“Dark griffe.”
“Five foot seven. One forty, one forty-five tops.”
“It’s him.”
“Rest your guns,” said a tired voice. It was received by restive muttering. “Frank Bailey, my name is Captain Thomas Capo. You are und
er arrest for the murder of Detective Theodore Obitz.”
“I didn’t kill the detective.”
More rough noises followed.
Isadore crawled toward the back of the house.
“… out of the front door alive,” said a cop standing there. “But not farther.”
“Nobody wants to miss it,” said another. “Least of all me.”
If Isadore burst out from beneath the house, would the surprise give him an advantage? He supposed it might, but the men had guns, and he barely knew how to work his. A new pair of legs turned down the alley, barked a command, and all the legs ran off together. Isadore counted to ten, fifteen, thirty. He crawled in a desperate scamper to the back alley. His spine protested when he stood upright and a sudden dizziness forced him to lean against the cottage for support. He picked Creoleans wrappers off his arms and peeked around the corner to make sure the alley was clear.
Isadore crept along the side of the house, prepared to roll beneath it at the first sight of a navy, but he encountered nobody. Perdido Street was thronged with people—navies, of course, armed with high-powered shotguns, repeating rifles, and revolvers, sparking in the moonlight, but they were outnumbered. There was a raging mass of angry white men at front, and behind them more cautious black men and families. Steadily the mob accreted. An inner cordon of police, holding walking sticks chest-high to form a barricade, struggled to prevent the most aggressive of the men from leaping onto the porch. The crowd bulged into the side alley. Isadore pressed behind them and, like that, he was no longer a fleeing accomplice. He was just a face in the crowd.
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