"Thank you, ma'am," he said, bowing a little so that he could get a better look at Bugsy's dick stuffed in his tight bathing suit.
Then he went away.
"A look like that could get him killed in a lotta places on the East Side," said Ben.
"And he is what he is," she said. "Anyway, art? Art? You said art? He collects art."
"Yes."
"Hmmmm," she said. "You know, collecting is a disease. And even the most rational and intelligent of men can lose their way when they see something they must have. This should be looked into, darling. This has possibilities."
Chapter 22
"Guns?" asked Owney. "Yes sir," said Pap. "Not just the six-shootin' guns we carry during the day. Guns." "Traceable? I wouldn't―"
"No sir. 'Bout fifteen or sixteen years ago, when it was a time of road bandits and generalized desperado work, it was Grumleys what rim houses of safety in the mountains. We had boys from all over. I'se a younger man then, and we Grumleys, we took 'em in, and fed 'em and mended 'em. The laws knew to stay far from where the Grumleys had their places in the mountains. So I seen them all, sir, that I did. Why, sir, was as close to him then as I am to you now. Johnny, such a handsome boy. Reminded me of a feller from the movies. Lord Jesus, he was a handsome boy. Beaming, you might say. Filled the room. A laugher, a fine jester. And just as polite and respectful to our Grumley womenfolk as a fine Mississippi gendeman, he was, he was indeed. Oh, it was a sad day when that boy went down."
"Johnny?"
"Johnny Dillinger. The most famous man in America. And that other smiler, the one from the Cookson Hills acrost the line in the territory? He rusticated some time out with the Grumleys too. The newspapers called him Pretty Boy, but I never heard no one call him but Charlie, and even Charles most ofttimes. Charlie was a good 'un, too. Big-handed boy. Big strong farm hands, Charlie had. Charlie was one of the best natural shots I ever seen. He could shoot the Thompson sub gun one-handed, and I mean really smart and fine-like. Would take the stock off. Shoot it one-handed, like a pistol. And Ma. Ma and her boys comes through a time or two. Knew Clyde Barrow and that Bonnie Parker gal too. They was just li'l of kids. Scrawny as the day was long. Like kitty cats, them two, rolling on the floor. Never could figger on why the laws had to shoot them so many times. Seen the car they was driving. It was put on display up in Little Rock. Took the Grumleys to show 'em what the laws could do if they'd the chance. Them laws, they must have put a thousand bullets into that car, till it looked like a goddamned piece of cheese."
"And you got guns? Enough for this job?"
"Enough for any job, sir. Your Thompson sub guns, five of 'em. Drums. And, sir, we have something else."
"Ah," said Owney, fascinated as always by the old reprobate's unlikely language, part Elizabethan border reiver's, part hillbilly's. They sat in the office of a warehouse near the tracks, where Owney's empire received its supplies and from which point it made its distributions; Owney had declared it to be his headquarters for this operation. Grumleys in overalls with the hangdog look of mean boys about to go off to do some killing work hung around.
"What might that be, Pap?"
"Why, sir, it be what they call a Maxim gun. The Devil's Paintbrush. It's from the First Great War. The Germans used it. It's got belt after belt of bullets, and we've never used it. My father, Fletcher, got it in a deal with a Mexican feller who come to Hot Springs in 1919 for to buy some women to take back to Tijuana. Wanted white gals. Thought he'd make a fortune for his generalissimo. Well, we got this gendeman's Maxim gun, but he never got any white gals. Wouldn't sell no white gal to a Mexican."
A Maxim gun! Now that was some power.
"We'll set it up on the second floor," Pap explained. "When them boys come to call, we'll let them come in and up the stairs. Then my cousin Lem's boy Nathan will open up with the Maxim. Nathan is the hardest Grumley. He served fifteen years of a life sentence, and prison taught him savage ways. Nathan is the best Grumley killer. Onct, he shot a clown. Never figgered out why. I ast him once. He didn't say nothing. I guess he just don't like clowns. He's a Murfreesboro Grumley, and they grow Grumleys hard down there."
"I thought it was the Yell County Grumleys that were so hard."
"Yell County Grumleys are hard, naturally. But you take a naturally hard Grumley and you toughen him up ki a bad joint, and what you got is something to make your blood curdle. That Mr. Becker would beshat his drawers if he but knew what awaited."
"It's a shame he won't be along. We hear he arrives afterward, always."
"He won't arrive afterward this time. There won't be no afterward," said Pap. "They'll only be blood on the floor and silence."
"That I believe," said Owney, looking at the dance of black madness in the old man's glittering eyes.
"Mr. Maddox," said Flem Grumley, arriving from some mission. "We just heard. My cousin Newt has it from the phone tap at Hobson and Third. They're going to hit Mary Jane's tonight."
"Mary Jane's?" said Owney, unfamiliar with the place.
"It's in Niggertown."
"It's going to be hot in Niggertown tonight," said Pap. "Oooooooo-eeeee, it's going to be hot. We'll even boil us a cat for luck!"
It was a time of waiting. Earl thought it was like the night before when the big transports wallowed off an island, and you could hear the naval guns pounding all through the night, but in the hold, the boys were in their hammocks, all weapons checked, all blades oiled, all ammo stashed, all gear tight and ready, and they just lay there, smoking most of them, some of them writing letters. There'd always be a few boys shooting craps in the latrines, loudly, to drum away the fears, but for most of the boys it was just a time to wait quietly and pray that God would be watching over them and not assisting Mickey Rooney with his racetrack betting the next day.
In the pumping house, the slow grind of the valves almost sounded like the transport's engines, low and thrumming, and taking you ever onward to whatever lay ahead. It was late in the afternoon. These boys were dressed and ready. The guns were cleaned and loaded, the magazines all full, the surplus walkie-talkies checked out and okayed, the vests lined up and brushed clean. The men were showered and dressed and looked sharp in their suits. They sat on their cots, smoking, talking quietly. One or two read the newspaper or an odd novel.
Earl walked over to Frenchy, who stood by himself in front of a mirror, trying to get a tie tied just right. He could tell from the extravagant energy the kid was investing into the process that it was a way of concentrating on the meaningless, like oversharpening a bayonet or some such. Kids always found something to occupy their minds before, if they had to.
"Short? You okay?"
"Huh?" Short's eyes flew to him, slightly spooked.
"You okay?"
"Fine. I'm fine, Mr. Earl."
"You upset?"
"Upset?"
"About dumping them two bohunks. First time you draw live blood it can spook a fellow. Happened to me in Nicaragua in '32. Took a while to get used to it."
"Oh, that?" said Short. "Those guys? No, see, here's what I was thinking. Wouldn't it be better if I was interviewed by Life magazine? I hear they're coming down here. Or maybe it was the Post. Or even Look. But anyway, me and Mr. Becker. He's the legal hero, I'm the cop hero. We're a team, him and me. I think that would be so much better. See, that way the public would have someone to respect and admire. Me."
Earl gritted his teeth hard.
At 8:20 Earl stopped at a Greek's, got a hamburger and a cup of coffee and read the papers. More about Jayhawkers and who they'd kill next. When would indictments be delivered or did Becker's control over the grand jury give his raiders carte blanche to rob and kill whoever they wanted? Who were these Jayhawkers? How come they never met the press or issued statements? How come the good citizens of Hot Springs didn't know who they were or have any explanation of how they worked?
After eating, he got back in his vehicle and began a long slow turn out Malvern, past the Pythian Hotel and M
ary Jane's, and then went onward for another several blocks, just in case.
At Mary Jane's he saw nothing, no commotion or anything. It was just another beer joint/whorehouse with some slots in the bar, like a hundred other Hot Springs places. There was no sense that tonight would be any different than any other night: a few girls sat lisdessly in the upstairs windows, but there wasn't enough street traffic yet for them to start their yelling. The downstairs of the place didn't seem very full of men, though later on, of course, it would be different. White boys wouldn't head on down to Niggertown for a piece of chocolate until they were well drunk and had got their courage up. Black men were probably still working their jobs, cleaning out the toilets in the big hotels or running the dirty towels to the big washing machines in the bathhouses or rounding up the garbage.
But Earl got a good glimpse of the place. It was a brick building standing alone on the street, with shabby buildings nearby but not abutting it. Possibly it had once been a store of some sort, before the black people had moved into this part of town and took it over. It had a big front window, shaded, and above there were a bunch of windows that looked down on Malvern. Earl liked the bricks; he'd worry about a wooden building because heavy bullets like those from a BAR would sail clean through and do who knew what damage further down the block.
Earl made three more circuits on his grand trek, making sure he wasn't followed, making sure that nothing was out of order, that no cops had set up. So far it looked like ago.
At 9:20 he dropped a nickel into a downtown phone box and called D. A., who had a network of snitches he'd been working.
"Are we all set?" D. A. asked.
"Yes sir. The boys are ready. I haven't made radio contact with them yet, but that'll happen soon. Any news?"
"One of my snitches told me that around noon, a truck pulled up behind Mary Jane's, and a bunch of white men got out and husded in."
"They're loading up. They've bitten."
"He said there were eight of them, in overalls. Earl, eight's a bit. They could cause some serious wreckage."
"Yes sir. I think we can still get it done. I don't want to postpone at this point. We have the jump on them."
"All right, Earl. I trust your judgment on this one. I haven't told Becker yet. He's going to be pissed."
"Yes sir. But this was a good plan and it's going to work and the boys wanted to push it. I still think it's going to be a great night for our side."
"Well, Earl, God bless us. Remember, wear your vest. I'll go to Becker at exactly 10:00 P. M. when you hit, and have him order up medical backup and the police to set up a perimeter."
"Yes sir."
Earl hung up.
He drove around a bit, wondering when the streets would fill up. But strangely they never did. A few white men seemed to mosey around the area but that density of the black throngs that was such a fervid feature of Malvern Avenue, that sense of whores and workingmen and jive joints and housewives and kids, of them all in it together, riding the same ship toward the same far destiny, that was gone.
Finally, at 9:40 he pulled up a few blocks away, parked and went into a small grocery. A few old black men lounged near the cash register where the proprietor sat.
"Howdy," Earl said. "Looking for a place called Mary Jane's. Y'all know where that is? Heard a fella could have hisself a good old time there."
The men looked at one another, then over to the proprietor, the wisest among them clearly, who at last spoke.
"Suh, I'd take my business out of town tonight. There's a strange feelin' in the air. The wimmens been talkin' 'bout it all afternoon. Git your babies in, they been sayin'. There's gonna be bad-ass troubles over there at Mary Jane's tonight. Gun trouble, the worst kind of trouble there is."
Earl nodded.
"Sir, I think you're speaking the truth."
"You look like a cop, suh," said the old grocer.
"Grandpop, I am," said Earl, "and y'all have picked up on something. Make sure your children are in because it's going to be a loud one, I guarantee you."
"Y'all going to kill any Negroes?"
"Don't aim to, Grandpop. This one's between the white boys."
There was no Mary Jane and there never had been. No one could remember why the place was called by her name. Its owner was a tall, yellow-skinned black man named Memphis Dogood. Memphis had two long razor cuts on the left side of his face, one of which began on his forehead, opened a hairless gap in his eyebrow, skipped his recessed eye and picked up again, running down his cheek. The other crossed it about an inch above the jawline. One―the long one―was delivered by a gal named Emma Mae in New Orleans in 1933. He couldn't remember how he got the other scar, or which came first.
In Mary Jane's, Memphis made the decisions. He rented the slots, ancient, tarnished machines from before the First War, a couple of old Mills Upright Perfections, a Dewey Floor Wheel or two and even one rattly old Fey Liberty Bell, from the Boss―a Grumley cousin named Willis Burr, far beneath even Pap's notice―and bought his liquor as well from the Boss. He paid 48 percent of everything to the Boss. He skimmed a little, but every time the Boss looked at him with squeezed eyes and jiggled the spit in the pouch of his mouth, mixing it with tobaccy juice for a nice hard splat, as if he were puzzling over the figures, it scared Memphis so he swore he'd never do it no more. But he always did.
Memphis ran a fair joint. The gals might act up but usually Marie-Claire, the octoroon, took care of them. She was his main gal, and she packed a wallop in her left fist. His customers were also usually all right. Some of the younger bloods might act up now and then, on booze or reefer, and he'd once had to thump a boy with a sap so hard the boy never woke up and had to be laid out by the tracks. The police come by to ask questions, but nothing never came of it. Now and then, a white boy or usually two or four white boys, usually drunk, would show up, on the hunt for some colored pussy, because you wasn't no man till you dipped your pen in ink. They were well treated, for it was always known that if you hurt a white boy there'd be all kinds of hell to pay.
On that day, Memphis Dogood fully expected no surprises. He was vaguely aware that something of a political nature was happening in town but those things usually ran their course on the other side of the line. He had no opinions about vice or gambling or prostitution, except that he hated reformers and knew a few who'd preach all day, work up a sweat, then come on down for some relaxation with his gals, so he knew them to be hypocrites. Even a white minister once came down, and he ended up with two gals, and did each of 'em right fine, or so they claimed.
Memphis, at any rate, was sitting in the small back room behind the bar, with a pimp's.25 lying on the table, counting up money from the night before. He also had a sap and a pearl-handled switchknife out. It was the slow season. Might have to let a gal go. Why didn't the Boss cut down from 48 percent to 38 during the slow season when the ponies weren't running? But the Boss never would and only a fool would mention it to him. It was a good way to turn up missing. It was said that the floor of Lake Catherine was full of Negro men who'd asked the Boss a question the Boss didn't like.
The door in the back room opened loudly and he heard the labor of men struggling with weight. He knew somehow from the way they breathed that they were white men.
Was it some batch of Holy Rollers, or maybe Klan boys, drunk and looking for a fight?
He picked up his sap and walked back there, but was met halfway by two men with suitcases. Behind he could see two more struggling with a bunch of canvas-wrapped pieces, and behind that two more. All were wearing overalls and had low mountaineer's hats pulled over their eyes. All wore gunbelts loaded up with cartridges and heavy revolvers, man-killing revolvers. They had nearly fleshless faces and gristly semibeards and had a look he knew and feared: of tough, mean, violent crackers, the sort who thought no Negro was human and made up lynch mobs or whatever, and who fought all them terrible battles against the Union in the great war and were still proud that they had stood for slavery and that
the bastard Lincoln hadn't made it out of 1865 alive.
He knew them immediately to be Grumleys, but of a more violent breed than the Grumleys who controlled the Negro section of town.
"Say there," he said, swallowing, "just what is it y'all boys think it is that you're doing?"
"Tell you what, nigger," said the first, "you just go on about your business and don't pay us no nevermind, and you'll do just fine. You hear me, nigger?"
"Yas suh," said Memphis, who, though he acknowledged the might of the white man as a natural condition of the universe beyond the reach of change, did not like being treated so arrogantly in his own place, particularly when he paid the Boss 48 percent every Tuesday, regular as rain.
"See, I don't explain nothing to no nigger. You got that, boy? We are here because we are here and that's all the goddamned hell you got to know. You got that?"
"Yes suh."
"We be upstairs. But I don't want you going nowheres, you know what I am telling you? I and my cousins, we are here until we are done, and I don't want nobody knowing we are here and I don't want no nigger making any business about it, do you understand?"
"I do, suh."
A stronger voice bellowed, "Jape, you stop jawing with that nigger and hep us get this goddamned thang upstairs. Have the boy hep too."
"You pitch a hand, now, nigger," said Jape, ordering Memphis to assist with the labor. He went quickly over, as directed, and found himself given a large wooden crate, with rope handles. He lifted it―ugh, sixty, seventy pounds, extremely heavy for its size!―feeling the subde shift of something dense but also loose in some way, like a liquid, only heavier. He could read a bit, and he saw something stamped on it, first of all a black eagle, its wings outstretched, its head crowned and then words that he didn't understand: MG!08, it said, and next to that, in a strange, foreign-looking kind of print, 7.92 X 57 MM MASCHINE-KARABINER INFANTERIE PATRONEN.
At 9:45 Earl made a last drive down Malvern for a look-see at Mary Jane's. Again, it was surprisingly empty. A single white man sat at a table to the right, in overalls, with a low-slung hat down over his eyes and a half-full whiskey bottle on the table before him. His fiery glare seemed to drive most people away.
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