Reach the Shining River (23 page)

38.

Emmett Whelan was as color blind as a white man could be, Arlene had to admit that. But there was something careless about him. Something blurred. As if he’d lost sight of himself.

She had seen it in the men in her life. An unraveling. A slow desperation. Alcohol usually had something to do with it. These men lost track of their feelings, even when they seemed able to function day to day. They started wanting the wrong things. The wrong women, mostly. Maybe Emmett was losing his wife, or maybe she was losing him, but his marriage came into it. That much she could sense.

Men in his shape lost their judgement. They couldn’t be trusted on matters of the heart, even if they believed everything they said. Which he did. She’d seen that look in his eyes. But what he was looking for was beyond bad judgement. It was dangerous. How could he not see that? A black gal getting involved with a white man only meant one thing. And she wasn’t that stupid.

But she decided to help him. She had to think about Eddie. About justice. She had given Virgil Barnes up for dead. If Emmett was right and he was still out there, wouldn’t she be a fool not to meet him? Probably the last man to see Eddie alive. Except his killers.

So, even with her reservations, she found herself sitting beside Emmett in his big car, driving along Route 10 towards Richmond, in Ray County. Another clear fall day, full of yellow and blue, the kind that made her think of Wardell in the country, hunting snipe with Alvin or playing hide and seek in the brush with the neighbor kids. She had placed her hat between them on the wide seat, as if marking a boundary. Emmett drove nervously, moving his hand between gear stick and steering wheel. But he was sober. She made sure of that before getting into the car.

They left Kansas City and passed through the good farming country and soon reached the hardscrabble cabins of western Ray County. Poor whites lived here. The men worked the coal mines whenever work was going, and the women and children tilled the fields, raising corn on an acre or two. It was no place for a Negro woman. Arlene kept the window up and slouched low in her seat.

As they approached Richmond, she told Emmett to pull over.

“Why?”

“Go on. Beside that bunch of cottonwoods.”

He pulled up. She checked to make sure no one was around.

“Drive in to town and park where you won’t attract attention,” she said. “Then walk back this way along the railroad tracks. You’ll see me.”

“Why the cloak and dagger?”

“All due respect, I am
not
driving into town with you.”

“Let’s go straight to Ida Barnes.”

“She sees a white man in a Packard, no
way
she answers the door. You
do
want to talk to the woman?”

He did as she suggested, and they met near a ramshackle railroad hut on the edge of the Negro district. Ida lived in the worst part of the neighborhood. The dirt road leading to her shack smelled of raw sewage. Piles of trash sat in the front yards. Emmett waited behind a cypress tree while Arlene knocked on the raw-plank door. She heard a rustling inside and knocked harder. “Ida, open up.”

A dark-skinned woman in an organdy dress unlatched the door and squinted at Arlene. Coils of hair sprang from her head in all directions. “Yes’m,” she said.

“I want to speak to Virgil.”

“Who you?”

“A friend of his.”

“Virgil ain’t got no friends.”

“Let me in, Ida. Let me in and you won’t have any trouble.”

The plank-door opened on to a small room with a brushed dirt floor and rough-wood furniture. The glassless windows were screened with muslin. An oil-lamp sat in the corner on an old barrel. There was a strong smell of corn liquor.

As soon as Arlene was inside, Emmett appeared, holding his hat. “Where’s Virgil?” he said.

His face was red and agitated. Ida couldn’t speak. Arlene wondered if she had done the right thing. Another Negro woman being cowed by a white man.

Emmett looked at Arlene in exasperation. “Ida,” she said gently, “the man just wants to talk to him. We’ll be gone before you know it.”

Ida pointed at a blanket-draped doorway. Behind it Virgil was sleeping on a straw-tick mattress, surrounded by empty jugs and tin cans and the buzz of flies. The stink was overwhelming.

Emmett shook him awake. Virgil blinked at them with drooping, bloodshot eyes.

“What you gone done now?” Ida said from the doorway.

“You shut up,” Virgil said hoarsely.

With a little moan, Ida left the room. Virgil sat up, lifted a jug, and took a swig.

“You know who I am?” Arlene said sharply. She held her chin high against the smell.

“Yes, ma’am, I do.”

Tears pricked her eyes. “It never cross your mind to contact me? Tell me what you know?”

Virgil wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Bits of fluff clung to his hair. His face was pale and he breathed through his mouth. “I don’t know nothin’.”

“You know about Eddie.”

“Eddie’s done gone.”

“That’s right. And Mr. Whelan’s doing what he can to make sure no more colored go that way.”

Virgil took in Emmett with his watery eyes. “You police?”

“No.”

“I ain’t got no money. Landlord gone kick me and Ida out come Friday I don’t give him money.”

“I’ll take care of the landlord. And I’ll take care of you if you help us out.”

When Virgil didn’t answer, Emmett said, “The Friendship Brotherhood. Charles Bibb told me how it works.”

“Charles Bibb owe me thirty dollar.”

“I talked to Rube Gilmore, Virgil. He told me about you doing numbers running.”

“He tol’ you that?”

“Yes he did.”

Virgil moved forward so that he sat on the edge of the mattress. He waved flies away from his face. “I had me a good job at the packin’ plant. Four years on the floor and I ain’t missed but one day. Mr. Axton, he tol’ me my services was no longer needed. Jus’ like that.”

“When was this?”

“May. June maybe.”

“Why do you think that happened?”

“Don’t reckon I know. Bibb, he be tellin’ me I ain’t got nothin’ to worry about. Tellin’ me the Brotherhood look after me.”

“In what way?”

“Like you say. Numbers work and such in the distric’.”

“How long did you do that?”

“Month or so.”

“Where’d you bring the money?”

“What money?”

“The money you picked up.”

Virgil leaned forward and spat on the floor. Arlene took a step back. “Bibb,” he said. “We done everything through Bibb.”

“You ever deal with the police?”

“No.”

“Why are you lying to me, Virgil?”

“I ain’t lyin’.”

“Does the name Richard Timmons mean anything to you?”

“No sir.”

Virgil was staring at the floor, his shoulders pulled in. Emmett hovered over him.

“There was a man in a hat,” Emmett said, “with bad skin and thin hair. He came to meetings.”

“Could be.”

“How often would he come?”

Virgil stuck out his lower lip and said nothing.

“Nothing we discuss will go beyond this room. I promise.”

“He come every once in a while,” Virgil said.

“Why?”

“Special deliveries.”

The rhythm of their back-and-forth seemed to have made Virgil more alert. He wasn’t as drunk as he was letting on. Emmett stood above him with his mouth tight and his hands clenched.

“Something happened,” Emmett said. “What was it?”

Virgil scratched the back of his head. “Don’t rightly remember.”

Emmett grabbed him roughly by the chin and forced his face up. “You want to end up like Eddie Sloan?”

Arlene put a hand on Emmett’s arm and said to Virgil, “He’s trying to help you.”

Emmett let go of his chin. Arlene could hear his breathing. With his foot, Virgil pushed away the jug. “I never done it but once. Run a parcel to a place in the North End.”

“From where?”

“Police station. Not headquarters but the precinc’ on Campbell.”

“What was in the parcel?”

Virgil’s eyes lost their haze of innocence. “What you think?”

Arlene’s eyes had grown used to the room’s darkness. It was pure squalor: tin cans, piles of rags, cigarette butts wedged between the floorboards. A broken mirror above a rust-streaked wash basin. The mattress sheetless and soiled. Everything soaked in that sour, closed-in smell.

“What happened to Eddie?” Emmett said.

Several times Virgil made as if to speak, then shook his head. Emmett had balled both hands into fists.

“Don’t hit him,” Arlene said. “Please don’t.”

“Tell me, Virgil.”

He took a long swig from the jug and spoke without looking at either of them. “Before Eddie was killed, Rube Gilmore done a run.”

“Did a run for who?”

“Man you mention.”

“Richie Timmons.”

Virgil flinched. “Like I said, no names was used. Anyhow, somethin’ went wrong. Two days later, Rube come down the Brotherhood all red and hollerin’. Mr. Bibb, he come to us and say he need a volunteer. I wouldn’t do it, so Eddie said he’d go.”

Arlene groaned.

“What went wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Virgil said. “But Eddie never come back from that run and then we
all
scared.”

Arlene walked over to the window. She felt faint. Through the torn muslin she saw two kids throwing rocks at a pop bottle propped on a fence.

“Rube start drinkin’ and cussin’ and carryin’ on. Sayin’ he’s gonna tell the truth ‘bout the police. Then he done disappeared. I ain’t waitin’ round to be next on the list, so I left the boarding house and come here.”

After a long silence Emmett said, “I think we can go now.”

Still gazing out the window, Arlene said, “He told me that he was going to see you.”

Virgil toyed with the top of the jug.

She faced him. “Did you see him that night?” she said.

“No, ma’am, I did not. If he had a job, he’d tell you he was meetin’ me. We worked it out such.”

She let her hands fall to her side. Emmett gave Virgil twenty dollars and they left the shack.

*

In the car they sat for a long time, staring out the window. In her mind’s eye was Eddie, as he left her on that last night. Tall, green-eyed, hip. Lying to her because he had to. Carrying her curse into the night. Still loving her.

“Are you all right?” Emmett asked.

She didn’t answer.

“He was just trying to earn a living.”

“He was mixed up with the police,” she said. “Who’d’ve thought?”

“I don’t think it was that simple.”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now.”

Black birds flapped above the shorn wheat fields.

“What are you going to do?” she asked Emmett.

“I’m working that out.”

“Drive me home.”

But Emmett was distracted. “Timmons had Bibb put a team of runners together for special jobs,” he said. “Paying off criminals, I would guess. Sensitive payoffs. Dangerous.”

“Don’t say anything more.”

“It’s a motive,” he said. “Can’t you see? One of the payoffs went wrong – a disagreement over the amount, probably – and Eddie got caught in the middle. He learned something he shouldn’t have, and Timmons killed him.”

“Please be quiet.”

He looked at her and she saw that he was still miles away. “Get the kid to testify, and I can go to the FBI,” he said.

“Stop it!” she shouted.

“You asked me what I’m going to do. I’m going to help the Feds get Timmons. Before he hurts anyone else.”

“Please,” she said. “Just bring me home.”

39.

At the Paseo Gun Club, a new man was behind the desk.

“Maguire around?”

The guy shook his head.

“I need to talk to Henry Conway,” Emmett said.

The guy looked him up and down. Emmett was aware of his five-o’clock shadow and soiled collar. “And who are you?” the man said.

He flipped open his billfold and flashed his ID. The guy took his time examining it. “He’s busy right now.”

“You’ve got a choice. Either I take the kid downtown or I take you.”

The guy tensed his shoulders and stared but didn’t answer. He disappeared into the bays and returned with Henry.

Outside the club, Emmett pointed at his car. When they were seated inside he said, “I appreciate your help.”

Henry nodded, fidgeting in the seat.

“I’ve got another favor to ask.”

“Yeah?”

“You’ve heard of the FBI?”

“Sure. Who hasn’t?”

“I want you to come with me and tell them what you told me.”

He frowned. “I don’t know about that.”

“You don’t have much choice here, Henry.”

“I better talk to my uncle.”

Emmett grabbed the kid’s shoulder. “I told you before, you can’t talk to anybody. You’re coming in with me.”

Henry squirmed beneath his grip. “This ain’t the way they said it would work.”

“The way who said?”

“Nobody said nothing about the FBI.”

“We’re just taking it to the next step. Those shells you gave me are now part of a criminal case. We need your testimony to verify the find. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“How much?”

“We’ll work that out later.”

Emmett started the car and edged away from the curb. As he pulled into traffic, Henry opened the door and jumped out. He hit the street hard, rolling, and a car behind had to swerve to avoid him, horn blaring. The passenger door of the Packard was flapping like a broken wing. Emmett hit the brakes and pulled over, and the door hit a telephone pole and slammed shut. He jumped out and bolted after Henry. He huffed and puffed and his lungs burned, but the kid was limping and he closed the gap. Henry ducked into an alley, and he caught up with him as he was climbing a fence. When he tried to pull him down, the kid kicked him in the face.

In a rage, Emmett pulled him to the ground, took his Colt from its holster and hit him on the side of his head with the butt of the gun.

The kid howled. “Goddamn you, Mister!”

“Tell me right now, you little son of a bitch – tell me you didn’t lie to me about that shell.”

“I didn’t lie about nothing.”

“Why’d you run? What are you scared of?”

Emmett’s face throbbed from the kick. He held Henry by the collar and stuck the barrel of the pistol to his cheek.

“I’ll do what you want,” the kid said. “I’ll do everything they told me to.”

“Everything who told you?”

“You and the other guy.”

“What other guy?”

“Please don’t shoot me, mister. Please.”

He pushed the kid away and holstered his gun. He was shaking – from the chase, sure, but also from shock. He had pulled a gun on a kid. Hit him with it.

“I’m not going to shoot you,” Emmett said breathlessly. “Don’t worry.”

Henry had his hands at his face, like a boxer. His lip was swollen.

“Now,” Emmett said, “you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“The other guy didn’t say nothing about the FBI. He told me you were from county.”

“I’m going to ask you again, Henry. Listen to me. What other guy?”

Henry touched his sore lip and swallowed. “He told me if I said anything, he’d kill me.”

“Nobody’s going to kill you. What other man?”

“The man I gave the shell to.”

“You gave the shell to me.”

“And someone else.”

The world lurched on its axis. Like when Mickey told him about the roll of film in the locker.

“You mean you gave some other guy one of the same shells you gave me?”

“Yeah.”

“When? Before you gave them to me?”

“Yeah.”

“Think.
When
?”

“In the summer. Before school started.”

“Middle of August.”

“I guess.”

He helped the kid up. His trousers were torn and bloodied at the knees. Emmett touched his own face and found blood. “Look what you did to me.”

“I didn’t mean it. Jesus, Mister, I thought you were going to shoot me.”

Emmett was tired. If only he didn’t have to find out anything more.

“This man you gave the first shell to: describe him.”

“Wore a suit, like you. Blue tie.”

“Blue tie. With stripes going across?”

“Yeah.”

“What color hair?”

“Kinda brown. His skin was all red on his face. All pimply and sore looking.”

Emmett’s own skin crawled.

“Swear you won’t say anything, Mister. He said he’d kill me.”

“OK, kid. OK. Don’t worry. Go back inside and get cleaned up.”

“We’re not going to the Feds?”

“Not today.”