Along the way, she developed into a pretty fair card shark. She dealt Maude, Georgia skin, cotch, poker, blackjack, and was a damn good cooncan player. Allen had been a good tutor and as soon as she learned the ABCs of gambling, he taught her how to cheat. Explaining, “The first ‘law’ in gamblin is ‘know how to cheat an know when you bein cheated.’” She knew how to “pike” under each card off the bottom or from the middle of the deck without anyone ever noticing. It was hard for them to imagine such a good-looking woman cheating. She also developed a gift of gab for distraction purposes when she was performing her quicker-than-the-eye-could-see card antics.
Even though she became very adept at cards, her passion was shooting craps. She learned to use every trick in the book to throw her opponent off balance and make him break his rhythm. Anything to sidetrack. She’d put on her sexiest dress and a pair of her best black gunmetal hose. She flashed a little dab of thigh and leaned forward enough to let them have a quickie at the breast. When she got the attention she was after, she made her move with the dice, “the hull-gully,” setting them as she quickly scooped them up to make her “Hudson” shot. She released them with a side motion, killing the die she had cupped in her little finger and careening the other one out with top-spin English. Coming out, that die she cupped in her little finger always stopped on five, eliminating the possibility of throwing “craps”—a two, three, or twelve.
Most of the time she was the only woman in the game, but she cursed just as loud, squabbled just as much, hit, got hit, and hit back. She stood her ground and was just as cold, hard, callous, cunning and tough as need be, with a natural sense of humor to get by with it. They’d fight one minute and be back gambling and drinking the next. Involving herself in the whole game environment, when the players were bally-hooing and passing the bottle, she took her turn and got just as mean and ornery as the rest of them. When that firewater hit the pit of her stomach and her shot came, she started “talking” to the dice.
First roll, coming out, “Oh! Don’t forgit ta take the dough! ELEVEN! Bless joy, there it tis!!” Snapping her fingers as loudly as she could with each roll, Emma begged for each point incessantly while the dice propelled down the blanket. Coming out again, with her Hudson shot, first roll, “Oh! Don’t leave me here! Take me witcha when you go!” Got nine for a point, “I bet I bar it.”
“You got a bet you don’t bar it, Emma. Shoot ‘em.” She rubbed the dice on the blanket, back and forth, talking to them. “C’mon Emma, quit fuckin roun an shoot th’ damn dice!” the fader said, admonishing her.
“How cum you in such a great big hurry for me to make nine on yo ass?” she quipped, still rubbing the dice slowly and deliberately to antagonize.
“C’mon, bitch! Shoot th’ fuckin dice!” he said gruffly, irritated by her delaying tactics.
“Whut’d you say, muthafucka?”
“Shoot th’ dice.”
“No, whut’d you call me?”
“Bitch. You ain’ no better’n my sister an dey calls her a bitch.”
Emma dove over on him and whupped his ass good. He was out cold. Blue and another crapshooter dragged him over to the other side of the room and propped him up in the corner.
Going for nine with a different fader, “Oh Lady! Please be good. Quinine! is a bitter dose! Oh Alek! Iron, you cold black shine! Oh Baby! We ain’ but NINE MILES frum home! NINE! times outta ten!” Still no nine. She stops and rubs the dice again, looks around at the players, “Bet somebody some mo I bar nine.”
“Thas a bet, Emma. Brang ‘em on.”
“I’m fixin to make nine on y’all’s asses. Watch me make it wit six-trey,” and sent the dice on their mission. “EVER! now an then you meet a stranger. STOP! an invite him in.” Nine.
Got eight for a point. She “cocked the trigger” (set the combination) and fired. “Oh Ada! Black gal. Let! yo hair hang down! Oh Ada! Ross wuz a pacin good hoss!” Sweat rolling down her face, “Oh Baby! don’t leave me here. Cum back an git me. Oh! if you please! Ada!! frum Decatur, the county seat a Wise. EIGHT! babies too soon!”
Taking another big swig from the bottle, gets ten for a point, “Oh! Tennessee Toddy! All asshole an no body! Oh BIG BEN! Bend double. OH BEN! Bend down an lift it up. OH! Tom Pane, thas Black Annie’s ol’ man!”
Five. “Oh, Fantail Fanny! Fanny Fites! Ugliest woman in the Northcutt Heights! Oh Phoenix! Arizona. OH! lemme off! AT! yo next stop …”
Emma and Allen were making “damn good money.” When the crap games ended they had most, if not all, of the money. A band of regulars, black and white alike, made coming to their place to drink and gamble a daily ritual. The workers, gamblers, and whores kept money in circulation at the house all the time. With it rolling in, Allen got Pinch to come over and run the house for two or three days so he and Emma could get away.
He loved to show her off at other gambling places and they’d take special train excursions to Shreveport regularly. At some of the games gamblers bet five hundred dollars on a shot, shooting on a pool table! Allen took her there to let her see all the excitement of a big bettor’s game. But Emma couldn’t content herself to stand at the table and watch.
During one of their trips she could take it no longer and elbowed her way to the crowded pool table. When she tossed fifty bucks on the table, all the players shied away from such a small amount. “Say,” she said righteously, “don’t stand there an look crazy. Somebody fade me. They’s plenny mo where that cum frum. I kin make mo money in fifteen minutes then y’all seen all day!” Looking at Allen, “Ain’t that right, baby?”
“Thas right, baby.”
“I got somethin that’ll sell when cotton an corn won’t.” She had them laughing with her. All she wanted was just ONE shot!
Finally one of the players decided, “Hell, I’ll fade a pretty woman lak you ANYTIME. I got you faded fifty. Shoot ‘em.”
Emma had never shot craps on a pool table before, but she knew the dice would be bouncing. Just like Allen had said, it was pure D luck. Rubbing the dice gently on the green felt until she was ready, her first roll was a natural. “Shoot the hundred,” she snapped.
“Shoot ‘em.”
Eleven, a winner. “Shoot the two.”
“Damn!” the fader said, and tossed up two hundred more. “Shoot ‘em again. I gotcha one mo time.” Eight, and she made it. “Somebody else kin fade her. She’s too heavy for me.”
She pulled down and shot two hundred again and caught FOUR! Gamblers generally hate four and hope to never catch it! It was her favorite point! She bet her other two hundred that she’d bar it. She took two or three more shots and got all the money Allen had in his pockets, and bet that. Still not satisfied after a few more rolls, Emma wanted to bet some more. She KNEW she was going to make that four. They had no more money to bet. She paused a moment to rub the dice on the felt, then looked around at Allen, “Lemme have yo coat.”
“Whut for?”
“Never mind, jes pull it off an give it here.”
He began to take it off, but very slowly. She had paid the tailor, Louie Rickey, five hundred dollars to make Allen’s imported camel-hair overcoat. When he handed it to her, she laid it on the table and gave a brief on it. One of the players opened it up and saw the Louie Rickey label and asked, “How much you wanna bet ‘ginst it?”
“Three hundred.”
“Hell naw. I’ll go two an no mo.”
“Put it up.”
More than a thousand dollars was riding on four. She threw the dice out on the table and the ace stopped immediately. The other spun off down the table and was still spinning as she hollered, “Oh! Little Britches! C’mon!” It settled on three. She won BIG that night and became famous for making “Little Britches.”
The nightly game at the good-time house ended and everybody was gone. Allen had something on his mind, “Emma?”
“Yeah, Blue?”
“I wantcha ta stop trickin wit them white men.”
“Why?”
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��Cuz I thank me an you oughta git married. How long we been livin together? Three … fo years?”
“Yeah, been bout that long an thas the way we need to keep it. That way, you don’t own me an I don’t own you. Anyhow, I thought you wanted me to do it.” Fighting her case and defending her livelihood, “I been trickin since I wuz fifteen an I ain’ never had to ask nobody for shit.” Playing up to him, “You oughta be happy. Havin a good hoe is lak havin money in the bank.”
“I wantcha ta stop or you kin find you anutha man! I don’t wanna see no mo white men comin in an outta here ‘less they wanna gamble.”
“How cum you jes now gittin mad bout it? Thas whut I wuz doin when you met me.”
“I don’t give a fuck whutcha wuz doin! I’m tellin you I don’t wantcha doin it no mo! Fuck that shit!”
“Say, we don’t have to git married for me to stop trickin wit them white men. Jes cuz you want me to, I’ll quit.”
“I ain’ for no bullshit Emma. I mean bizness. I wantcha ta stop doin it.”
“Awright, awright, I’ll stop. I won’t do it no mo.” Allen searched her eyes for the truth as she vowed, “I won’t Blue, I swear I won’t. I promise.”
The Depression was on the horizon and things were “gittin tighter’n the little E string on a cheap guitar.” Both of them hustling barely maintained their style of living and paid for the whiskey. Bootlegging had fallen off considerably after the oilfields trade slacked off. In order to keep on buying Allen a new Borsalino whenever she felt like it, Emma started back to “seein” one of her old standbys, Mr. Albert the cotton broker. Unbeknownst to Allen, she met him somewhere two or three times a week.
Lying beside Allen early one morning, the spirit moved within her; she had to do something quick. She rolled off her side of the bed, ran to the door and barely got it open before she started vomiting.
Half-awake, Allen asked, “Whut’s th’ matter Emma?!”
“Damn! I’m sick at my stomach! Git me a wet rag so I kin wipe my face. I’ll be awright in a few minutes.”
“Whut the hell you eat? I been tellin you bout eatin all that damn garlic an peppers an onions an shit.” Handing the damp cloth to her, “It’s a wonder you don’t blow up.”
She threw up again. Regaining her composure somewhat, she got back in the bed. “I ain’ been that sick since I wuz a kid an et all them half-green huckleberries. G’on back to sleep, I’m awright now. Musta been somethin I et.”
Later that day, she sneaked off to see Doc Falvey. After hearing about the vomiting, he examined her and broke the news, “Emma, you’re pregnant.” Speechless, she just stared blankly. She’d missed the count! She ought to tell Allen; no she ought’n. She decided to just sit on it awhile.
The time had come, “Say Blue, I been thinkin bout whut you asked me, you still wanna do it?”
“Do whut?”
“Git married.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah.”
“Les do it tomorrow! I know where we kin git our blood tested.”
“Okay. I love you Blue.”
“I love you too, baby.”
That night after making passionate love, Allen fell asleep as Emma lay staring at the ceiling, stirring the sauce of deception over in her mind. Like shooting dice without getting to set them, the best she could do was go on luck.
The next day they got the marriage license from the county clerk and headed for the Justice of the Peace. Allen handed the license to the old judge. “Awright, ketch hold uv her hand, boy. Do you, Allen Sample, take this woman fer yore lawful wedded wife?”
“I do.”
“Do you, Emma Barnes, take this man fer yore lawful wedded husband?”
“I do.”
“You got a ring, boy?”
“Nawsuh.”
“By the powers vested in me by the State uv Texas, I now pronounce y’all man an wife. That’ll be three dollars, boy.”
After a couple of months Emma began to show, and Allen commented, “Hey baby, you suuure gittin full roun th’ middle!”
“I got ever reason to be,” she toyed. “I’m pregnant.”
“Since when?”
“Since you know when! Wuzn’ you there?”
“Well, I’ll be damned! I’ll jes be damned!” he shouted with joy.
They moved into another shotgun house with wider rooms. It was located right behind the old, condemned calaboose. The regulars still showed up as usual, but today they were asked to go outside and be quiet. Doc Falvey was inside. Waiting anxiously, Allen mingled in the yard drinking with the others to keep warm.
After Doc Falvey cleaned the baby, he laid it in Emma’s arms and left to make the announcement. Then she got her first look at what the stork just “brung.” “Aw shit,” she uttered in dismay, “white as the drifts uv snow.”
Doc Falvey walked out onto the small porch, “It’s a boy.”
Allen beamed proudly while the others patted him on the back. He rushed inside, stepped to the bed, took one look and knew it “wudn’ his’n.” He spat on Emma, wheeled around and walked out on her that snowy Friday afternoon in 1930, slamming the door so hard it almost jarred the little house off its blocks. She had dealt him a blow right between his balls. Pride dangling, he kept his eyes glued to the ground and didn’t speak as he brushed past the gathering.
Bewildered, they just stared at one another until somebody said, “Damn! Blue look lak he jes seed a ghost.”
The yardbirds filed into the house and stood around the bed gawking at the infant cradled in Emma’s arms. Shaking their heads and grunting “umph, umph, umph,” one of them piped up, “Dat sho ain’ none a Blue’s baby.”
“I wuz born in a lion’s den, and suckled by a bear …
I growed two sets uv jaw teefs and a double coat uv hair.”
Chapter 3
1934
Emma was busy tricking seven days a week. Our house was only a couple hundred feet from the railroad tracks and a hundred yards from the T & P Station. Every time a train came through, our little house almost rattled off its hinges. It was a real convenience for the engineers, firemen and brakemen who left their trains for a quickie. When she had “company,” I sat on the steps and waited.
There wasn’t much for me to do during the weekdays, except get up late at night and sell an occasional half-pint. The weekends were totally different and sleep was out of the question. Emma rose early on Saturday mornings and got me out of my cot in the kitchen to help her with the preparations for the long weekend stand.
She fixed our Saturday morning special: two cans of sardines piled high with hot peppers, a big white onion, cheese and crackers. “Gitcha a fork an cum on.” I loved eating out of her plate; the food tasted better.
As soon as we finished eating, I helped get the scrub waters ready for the wooden floors that already looked bleached from too many scrubbings. My job was to watch the water from the outside hydrant so it wouldn’t overflow the buckets while Emma carried the full ones into the house. When we had enough water she began her ritual of “preparin” it by pissing in the buckets after adding a half-can of Eagle lye. This was for good luck she said. I watched out the front door and we’d pretend we weren’t home if a woman came to the house before a man. The first person in the house after the piss and lye scrubbing had to be a man because “if a woman cums in first, it puts a jinx on the house.”
The next step was getting the gambling area set up. An old, green army blanket was spread in the middle of the floor. When unfurled, the thinly worn “crap” blanket was clearly marked U.S. in the center. No matter how it was folded the cigarette holes always showed, causing a special house rule to be made, “Cocked dice in the hole don’t go.” It tasted the sweat from many palms, saw many a dollar change hands, and made both enemies and friends. That old blanket had as much character as anybody in the house and was richly deserving of the attention it received from Emma. She tried her best to protect it, but serving combat duty on the frontlines was hazardous.
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Emma thoroughly briefed me on my jobs before the crowd arrived. I sat on the case of bootlegged whiskey bottled in half-pints until somebody wanted one. I collected the money and gave each customer a dipperful of water to wash it down with, if they bought it by the shot. Between sales, I kept a sharp lookout for the police and a keen eye on the dice when they rolled off the blanket so nobody could switch in some crooked ones. When Emma was shooting, I watched the cigar box she kept her loose change in so nobody would “clip” (steal from) her. “You my houseman. You gotta help look out for Emma.”
After a short wait the gamblers and whores arrived, and Saturday got kicked off with a bang. Emma pulled off her high heels and knelt down at the blanket’s edge, “Two bits I shoot,” ready for the game to start. A quarter hit the blanket. Like two tumbleweeds, she rolled the dice and cursed when they stopped on craps. “Fo bits this time,” and she rolled craps again. “Damn! I musta throwed a brick in the church house!” She would lose a lot at first, then get “lucky” and nail them.
The twenty-five or thirty black and white gamblers down on their knees were crammed elbow to elbow around the crap blanket. At least a dozen more hovered over the shooters, placing bets over their shoulders. The small shotgun house, with one room and kitchen, was bursting at the seams, reeking of booze and cigarettes. Sometimes, the gambling, tricking, drinking, squabbling and occasional fighting went right on into the next day without ever stopping. Many times, Allen came over to gamble. I knew by the way she treated him that he was somebody special.
When there was a lull in the whiskey selling, I watched the dice as they were propelled across the blanket. I knew somebody had rolled craps when Emma said, “Toot toot for Dixie,” glad it was her shot next. I tried not to act like I was paying any attention. I knew she didn’t want me pulling for her because it made her have “bad luck.” Without fail, when she missed a point she had bet pretty heavily on, she glowered straight at me and ordered, “Boy, carry yo jinky, peckerwood-lookin ass in that kitchen an git outta my sight!”
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