by John Jakes
Joe’s personal orderly, Corporal Willie Terrill, warned him. “I advise the general to stay away from Major Gilyard. He don’t like anything ’less it’s by the book, and sometimes he don’t like the book, either.” Willie was a stout, deeply tanned soldier; a regular. His mother was a Cherokee Indian.
Major Gilyard was of medium height, round-cheeked, pink and pale; almost an albino. His searching eyes were magnified by strong spectacle lenses. He complained about sloppy salutes, the polka-dot neckerchiefs the Rough Riders wore instead of the regulation red, the linen duster Joe Wheeler favored in place of a blue frock coat with braid—everything. Joe followed Corporal Terrill’s advice and avoided him as much as possible. Sometimes it wasn’t possible.
On June first, the day General Miles finally arrived from Washington, Joe received an inspection report on Percival, a freighter of the White Arrow Line scheduled to transport half the 9th Cavalry. The report came through Gilyard and had been initialed by him. Joe jammed on his hat and carried it straight back.
“Major, this report is completely unsatisfactory.”
“I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done, General.” Gilyard’s eyes seemed to swim like large pale fish behind the bowls of his glasses. “The contract with White Arrow was drawn and approved in Washington.”
“I don’t care. This report says the men of the Ninth will be transported in refitted cargo holds on the two lowest decks.”
“Yes, sir. Segregated from the white infantry companies that will also be aboard. The Negroes will exercise on the main deck, port side, the white men to starboard. A line of demarcation will be painted on the deck to separate—”
“I’m talking about conditions below decks. If our soldiers are going to be penned up like hogs, at least there should be light and air in the pens. According to this, the hull of Percival has been repainted, portholes and all. In other words, the portholes are sealed. That must be corrected. I’m going out to the ship and speak to the master.”
“With all respect, General, in case of an unsatisfactory report, regulations require a formal written complaint first, with copies to the appropriate War Department desks. Only then—”
Choleric, Joe broke in. “What if we’re ordered to embark tomorrow? And is there a regulation to explain why we stupidly allow things like this to happen? Good day to you, Major.”
“General, I most respectfully urge you not to—”
Joe slammed the door of the parlor, cutting off the rest.
From his valise stored under the bed, Joe took his old wartime revolver, which he’d kept oiled and wrapped up all these years. The leather of the cartridge belt was brittle and cracked but otherwise serviceable. He loaded the Colt and strapped it on beneath his frock coat. The civilian masters were rough seafaring men, and some were said to be quarrelsome.
He made the nine-mile trip to the port on horseback. From a distance he spied Captain von Rike and his counterpart from the Imperial Navy, Commander Paschwitz, taking photographs with snapshot cameras. All the foreign attachés busied about with cameras, taking dozens of pictures for their respective governments. Perhaps the most earnest was Major Shiba of Japan; he carried two and snapped everything from wagon axles to flagpoles.
Joe tied his horse to a picket pin from his saddle bag, stepped around a massive pile of ammunition boxes, and boarded a small steam cutter at the stairs. The cutter carried him out across the bay to Percival, whose master, one Captain Squires, greeted him at the gangway with a scowl.
Captain Squires was about forty. He hadn’t used a razor for days. He wore bell-bottom pants and a singlet with holes in it. He ushered Joe to his untidy cabin, which smelled of stale bedding and sweet gin.
“I can’t say this visit’s welcome, General, we’re pretty God damn busy around here. Can we make it short?”
“Certainly, Captain, if you cooperate. I want to see the bunk space below.”
Squires scratched broken fingernails on his stubbled face.
“Why, something wrong with it?”
“There’s an unsatisfactory report on the readiness and fitness of the accommodations. Specifically, I understand the portholes are sealed.”
“Can’t do anything about that, she was just repainted.”
“I’ll see for myself, please.”
Squires took Joe’s measure while rolling his tongue inside his lower lip. “Maybe my mate’s available to show—”
“You show me, Captain Squires. Personally.”
Squires found a battery lantern. They tramped down iron stairways to a dark hold. Joe coughed and covered his mouth; the mixed smells of paint and powerful disinfectant were strong enough to asphyxiate a mule.
“Hold that lantern up, please.” Grumbling, Squires complied. The light revealed tightly arranged tiers of bunks four high. The bunks were new, raw pine lumber full of splinters and poorly put together.
“These are wretched.”
“What’s it matter? Just gonna be a bunch of niggers sleeping down here.”
“Excuse me, they’re American soldiers.” Joe strode down the aisle to the hull where the circles of portholes were dimly visible, like a string of full moons on a foggy night. He tried to force one open, but it was rusted inside and painted over outside.
“Captain, see that these are opened and scraped clean of paint. Every one of them.”
In the dark aisle, Captain Squires looked like some unclean troll in a cave. “Impossible. Haven’t got the time, or the men. Besides, there’s not one damn word in the contract about portholes.”
Joe pivoted back to the hull. He unbuttoned his frock coat, reached down and drew his Colt. He raised it to shoulder height, stretched out his arm, steadied, and fired three shots. The porthole burst outward. The detonations rolled and clanged through the hold.
The strong smell of powder drifted. Outside, sunlight sparkled on the swells. Above decks, men were running and shouting. Joe held the hot revolver away from his body as he walked back to Captain Squires.
“There, Captain, I opened one of them. You do the rest. If you don’t, I’ll come back, and we’ll have another discussion. It won’t be so friendly.”
“You meddling old bastard, if you think I’m going to—”
Joe whipped his left hand behind Squire’s head and jerked it forward. The muzzle of his revolver rested on the point of the captain’s chin.
“Yes, I think you’re going to, Captain Squires, and you’ll do it promptly and properly. Now show me the way to the stairs, there’s a rotten smell in here.”
Joe stood in the stern of the little Navy cutter as it sped away from the Percival. He felt marvelous. Youthful; confident—full of himself. He had exceeded the limits imposed by regulations. Had behaved, in fact, like a boy swollen with bravado and a careless feeling of immortality. The brave, eager volunteer of long ago … before he saw the elephant.
He held his hat under his arm and let the hot wind ruffle his silvery hair. As the cutter raced toward the Plant pier, he seized on another, equally compelling reason for his buoyant spirits. He’d made up his mind about something. Tomorrow night, Saturday, he would speak to Señorita Rivera.
92
Jimmy
THE RED LIGHT OF sundown glared on the brass balls hanging from the single stem. The familiar symbol jutted from one end of a painted sign.
I. MELNICK
Buy—Sell—Pawn
Smoking a long slender panatella, made locally, Jimmy stood with the sole of his left shoe propped against the wall of a business block directly across the street. A spic lawyer in a suit and derby came out of first-floor law offices. As he locked the door, he gave Jimmy a stare. Jimmy glowered right back. The man started, then walked rapidly in the other direction.
The shop on the opposite side of Nassau Street was narrow, just a single display window and a door beside it in a recessed entry. The door had a wire grille behind the glass. Jimmy had been in West Tampa earlier in the week. He’d spotted the store, then the item in the win
dow that would make a swell present for Honey in Chicago. A delicate little necklace of gold or, more likely, gold plate, strung with short gold-link chains, each with a tiny red or green glass stone at the end. The tent card beside the necklace announced a price of eleven dollars. Lot of fucking nerve the sheeny had; it probably wasn’t worth half that. Jews, they were all alike. Bloodsuckers.
He’d returned twice more to pipe out the pawnbroker’s routine. It never varied. As the neighborhood grew deserted, Melnick, a short, frail husk of a man, pulled all the merchandise from the window and lowered a shade. The second night, Jimmy brought a short pry bar under his coat. When Melnick left, he drifted to the empty alley behind the shop. The door resisted the pry bar. Jimmy had broken open enough places to suspect the reason; an iron bar inside, dropped into brackets flanking the door. To get in that way, he’d need a fire axe. Which was out, because of noise.
The sun fell lower, tinting the clouds, shooting red rays along Nassau Street but leaving the locked-up shops and offices in deepening shadow. Jimmy swatted a gnat pestering his neck. He spat disgustedly when he saw the bloody smear on his fingers. He wiped his hand on the pale stucco of the wall behind him. He was sick of this town full of bugs and snotty Army officers. Sick of the smelly, sticky Southland and its mush-mouthed citizens. Sick of his partner—the whole shebang.
He couldn’t deny he’d done all right in the money department. He’d made several little forays inside the hotel and twice had come away with a sizable reward for his daring. He’d pawned some of the loot at another shop like this one, only across town, Ybor City. He used the proceeds to entertain himself with whores, of which there were plenty, with more arriving on every train. Still, they weren’t the same as the beautiful, devout Catholic girl in Chicago. He supposed he was being a chump, falling for her, but he’d heard such a thing could happen.
As soon as this stupid war was over, he’d have what he wanted from Miss Honoria Fail—without marrying her, that was out. All he had to do between now and then was keep his hide in one piece. Let his dumb and eager partner take the risks, he’d wait and play the hero in Chicago. Take Honey’s cherry, and say goodbye to Shadow and this nickel-and-dime picture business. There were plenty of better, faster ways to make a dollar. Ways that didn’t rub your nose in “honesty”—or even the pretense. He’d been raised with those, he’d go back to them. By now, he was sure, all danger of being connected with the tart’s murder was past.
Abruptly, he stood up straight. Over in the pawn shop, the Jew was leaning into the display window, pulling the merchandise. The man was no more than a blur—he’d already turned off his electric lights. He was following his routine exactly.
Climbing into the window, he drew the shade down. In a few seconds he’d be out the door with his keys. Jimmy flung his cigar into the street, took off his straw hat, and pulled the holy medal and long chain over his head. He slipped the chain in the left pocket of his seersucker coat.
The shop door opened. Jimmy was already striding across the street, shooting looks both ways. A couple of drunks were hollering in front of a cantina one block west, otherwise it was quiet. The sun was nearly level with the earth, painting the building fronts a deep scarlet. With his back to the street, the pawnbroker was locking up in the dark alcove.
He was having trouble with his key. Muttering, he didn’t hear Jimmy’s stealthy approach. For a second Jimmy stared at the funny crocheted skullcap fastened to the small man’s hair with hairpins. Then Jimmy tapped his shoulder.
“Excuse me.”
The man gasped and whirled around. He had a triangular face and the eyes of one perpetually suspicious and put upon. He’d been chewing a cinnamon stick, a pleasant smell.
“Are you open?”
“What’s it look like? I’m closed, come back Sunday.”
“But there’s a piece of goods I really need to buy for my girl. Tomorrow’s her birthday.”
“Closed!” the man said testily. “Shabbat.” Whatever that was. “Go away. Come back Sunday morning, then I’m open.”
“Jeez, sorry I came too late,” Jimmy said in a mild way, stepping back.
Melnick nervously fumbled his key into the keyhole. The door was still slightly ajar. Like a cat jumping, Jimmy launched himself and slammed his hands against the pawnbroker’s back.
The man knocked the door open as he fell in. Jimmy jumped inside after him, but left the door ajar for light. The shop smelled of sawdust on the floor, dusty sheets draped over the display cases.
“Please, mister—” Staggering to his feet, Melnick held up his hands. “Don’t hurt me. I done nothing to you.”
“I know, but I want something you got here.”
“What is it?”
“A necklace, with little red and green stones. You had it in the window.”
“It’s locked up in that case. I’ll get it, you can have it, just don’t hurt me.”
“Now you’re being smart. But what if you decide to blab to the coppers later?”
“I won’t, I swear.”
“All right, then, go get it.”
Melnick stumbled through the dark shop toward the ghostly draped cases. Jimmy watched the man’s head turn slightly toward the rear of the shop. On guard, he dropped his hand into his pocket to clasp the holy medal and chain. Melnick moved sooner than he expected, fairly hurling himself toward the back door. “Fucking little kike,” Jimmy snarled, yanking the medal and chain out of his pocket.
The fleeing pawnbroker looked over his shoulder and stumbled. On his knees, he heard Jimmy coming for him and yelped, “No!” Jimmy threw the chain over the man’s head, jammed his knee in his back, yanked hard.
“You shouldn’t have tried to double-deal me,” Jimmy said, applying more pressure with his knee and his hands. “You brought this on, y’hear me?”
The pawnbroker’s head lolled forward and his body began to sag against the chain that was wet with oozing blood; the little man was past hearing.
Jimmy choked him a while longer, then let him go, let him fall. And smiled. Deep down, he had to admit he’d been nervous about snatching the necklace and leaving the Jew alive. Secretly, this was the outcome he’d wanted. The feeling of power was so heady, he almost felt drunk.
Jimmy shot a swift look at the front door. Everything quiet. He left the pawnbroker sprawled in the sawdust while he pondered a problem. How to find what he was after? He chewed his lip a few seconds. He located the light switch but didn’t turn it on. He closed the front door, shot the inside bolt, and pulled the window shade. Then he switched on the lights.
Melnick was a disgusting sight, his eyes open and his stinking bowels too. Jimmy worked fast, ripping the sheets off the locked cases one after another. He spotted it in the third case, lying in its long velvet-lined box. He tore off a piece of sheet, wrapped it round and round his hand like a white boxing glove, held his breath, and hit the glass one hard blow with his head averted. Seconds later, he had the necklace box in his pocket and the lights off again.
He lifted the iron bar from the brackets and went out through the rear, tucking the holy medal down into his shirt.
In excellent spirits, he strolled toward the hotel. His fiercely beating heart was slowing down. It had been much easier to kill a second time. And they’d never connect him with the death of some cheap kike pawnbroker, why should they? He began to whistle that new Sousa march, “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” He felt safe. Much safer than when he went to ground in Chicago after he put the girl in the river.
He lit another panatella and smiled again as he reflected on a fine evening’s work. How he wished he could describe it to Dutch, who thought he was so damn smart. Dutch thought that if you broke your back, hustled your ass—were honest—life would shower you with its rewards. What did a kraut off the boat know about it?
Thinking of Dutch reminded him of something else. His partner was Shadow’s boy; Shadow’s favorite. While Jimmy had no intention of staying in the picture business, the fav
oritism galled him. Sometimes he really wanted to show Dutch his holy medal and chain. Prove to him that all those rewards he stupidly worked for could be snatched away in a space of two or three breaths.
Nah, don’t be a chump, he said to himself as he walked along in the damp dark that had fallen on Tampa, hiding its ugliness. No reason to go crazy. He didn’t hate Dutch Crown that much.
Not quite.
93
Dutch
ON THE SAME FRIDAY that Jimmy Daws went to West Tampa and General Joe Crown paid his visit to the Percival, Paul returned from Ybor City in a state of shock from Michael’s last revelation. At the hotel, he went straight to the noisy, crowded rathskeller.
Billy Bitzer hailed him from a table. Bitzer had a pitcher of beer and a plate of sausages and sauerkraut in front of him. Paul sat down and asked his question in what he hoped was a casual way. “Sure,” Bitzer said, “there’s a brigadier named Crown on Wheeler’s staff. He ran me out of the Rough Riders’ camp couple of days ago. Tough old turkey. Joseph E. Cro—”
With a glass of beer halfway to his mouth, he made the connection. “Crown. Are you two related?”
“Distantly. We are related distantly.”
“You sound like you don’t care for him.”
“Please, may we not pursue it further?”
“Whatever you want, pal. Join me in some dinner?”
“Another time. I have no appetite.”
He hardly slept that night. Very early the next morning, he slipped a note under Jimmy’s door to say they wouldn’t film until noon. No explanation.
It was still dark when Paul stationed himself in a plush chair in the rotunda, with a newspaper. He chose the seat carefully. It was partially screened by a palmetto growing in an urn, but still gave him a view of the staircase and the corridor leading to the elevator. He would go unnoticed unless someone was looking directly into the shadows where he sat.