The Dying Crapshooter's Blues (19 page)

He had gone a block south and just crossed over Ellis Street when a police sedan pulled to the curb a few paces ahead of him. He slowed his steps and peered inside to see Lieutenant Collins slouched in the passenger seat and the uniformed cop from Mrs. Cotter's porch at the wheel. Keeping his expression blank, he sidled to the car just as Collins rolled the window down.

“Good morning, Mr. Rose,” the lieutenant said. He took a moment to study Joe's face. “You look like you're about to pass out, sir.” He smiled his boyish smile, though now Joe caught the sharp glint behind it. He wondered if they had been on his tail or had just been driving along Peachtree and spotted him. For all he knew, they'd been dogging his tracks since he walked away from Maddox Street.

As if to echo that thought, Collins said, “Didn't I see you at the crime scene this morning? Talking to Detective Nichols?”

“Yeah, that was me.”

“You know him from Baltimore, is that correct?”

Joe nodded, pondering where Collins had picked up the information.

The cop's brow stitched. “What business did you have down there?”

“I was passing by,” Joe explained lamely.

“On your way to Schoen Alley?”

Joe said, “That's right.” And where had the lieutenant gotten
that?

“You walked a little too far.”

“Well, I saw the crowd . . .” He shrugged.

The detective cocked his head, waiting for something, and Joe realized he wasn't going to get out from under that gimlet stare. While he didn't exactly trust Collins, he figured at this point he had more to gain than lose by speaking up.

“That shooting that happened on Courtland Street,” he said in a voice too low for the patrolman to hear. “The one I asked the Captain about yesterday.”

Collins didn't respond for a few seconds. Then he opened his door, put a foot on the running board, and stepped out to his full height, his hands jammed in his coat pockets.

“You talking about the Negro?” he said. “What's his name? Williams?”

“That's right.”

“What about it?”

“The way he tells it, it was Officer Logue who shot him that night.”

Collins stared hard at him, though he didn't look at all surprised. Joe wasn't sure he'd even heard. The lieutenant turned and bent down to address his driver.

“Go down and park around the corner on Houston,” he said. “I want to stop for lunch at Lulu's. I'll be there in a few minutes.” He closed the door and stepped up onto the sidewalk. They watched as the driver put the sedan in gear and pulled into traffic.

“Nice day like this, I feel like walking,” Collins commented, and started off. Joe pulled on his coat and trailed along. They strolled halfway down the next block before the detective spoke up. “So Mr. Williams says Logue shot him.”

“That's what he said.”

“And you believe him?”

Joe hesitated for a second, then said, “The man's dying. He might already be dead. He's got no reason to lie.”

Collins's eyes flicked his way. “There's always a reason to lie, Mr. Rose.”

Joe didn't know what to say to that, and kept quiet.

“He mention anything else?”

“Nothing that makes any sense,” Joe said. “He's been delirious about half the time.”

“Morphine?”

“Quite a bit of it.”

Collins said, “So you just didn't happen to be down on Maddox Street today.”

“No. I heard what happened.”

“And that's why you tossed Logue's room just now.”

Joe didn't ask if Mrs. Cotter had given him up, if he had left a trail, or if Collins had just surmised. It didn't matter. “That's right.”

The detective eyed him. “You know what I could do to you for pulling a trick like that?”

“Yeah, I know,” Joe said dolefully.

“You want to guess what Captain Jackson would do if he knew?” Collins added.

Joe shook his head.

“The last time I looked, you were not a policeman,” the lieutenant went on, his voice edgy with irritation. “So you got no business nosing around a crime happened down off Decatur Street. Especially a serious crime like the shooting of an officer of the law. That ain't smart at all.”

Joe was aware of this, too, and nodded.

Collins switched to a more conciliatory tone. “If I was walking around in your shoes, I'd be more concerned with this other problem,” he said. “I mean that burglary out in Inman Park. Because that's going to be trouble for someone if that doesn't get fixed in a hurry. I believe the Captain's about ready to pick a likely suspect and make a case, and that will be the end of it. Somebody's going to do a stretch of hard time.”

“Well, that ain't going to get the goods back,” Joe said, suddenly irked. It was the second time this day he'd been lectured on the same subject. What was it to him? He didn't steal the goddamn things.

Collins gave him a cool look. “You hear what I just said? It's going to be a whole lot easier on everyone if we settle this.” He took a few steps to regain his calm, then stopped, reached into the pocket of his overcoat, and produced a pack of Pall Malls. He snapped a cigarette into his mouth and dug around some more until he found a match, which he sparked off his thumbnail. He didn't offer the pack to Joe, in case there were any illusions about the two of them being on equal footing.

“Well?” The cop tilted his head in the general direction of Walton Street. “Did you find anything down there?”

Joe said, “Down . . . ? Oh. There wasn't much time. You came along right behind me. So no, I didn't.”

Collins gazed at him with a faint shadow of amusement passing over his face. “How did you get out?” he said.

“Window.”

The detective didn't ask which window. Gazing at the burning ember of his cigarette, he said, “Why do you care who shot Mr. Williams anyway?” He smiled. “He kin to you?”

Joe smiled at this stab at humor. He didn't have an answer Collins would understand. Then he thought,
what the hell.
He was already in too far.

“He's dying,” he said. “He asked me to see if I could find out what happened. Why it happened, I mean. Why Logue shot him.”

“He asked you because you were a policeman once?”

Joe nodded. “Partly, yeah.”

“But not a detective.”

“I worked for Pinkerton.”

Collins's eyebrows arched in derision, and Joe shrugged. They started walking again. The lieutenant pursed his lips thoughtfully and said, “You have some interesting friendships, sir. Mr. Williams has got a sheet of arrests from here to the sidewalk. He's run games and women. Not exactly what we consider a law-abiding citizen. Whatever he told you, he's likely lying. Or he knows more than he's telling.”

“Maybe so,” Joe said.

Collins dragged on his cigarette and blew the smoke from the side of his mouth. “There were no other witnesses to the crime?”

“Which crime?”

“Mr. Williams's shooting. Isn't that what we're talking about?”

Joe thought about it and said, “No, just after it was over. This blind Negro singer came along.”

Collins smiled. “That's not much of a witness.”

Joe said, “You'd be surprised.”

“He's the only one?”

“I didn't see anyone else.”

The detective caught the dodge, but didn't press it. Gazing off down the street, he said, “If you have any information that relates to Officer Logue's murder, you'd be wise to share it. And I don't mean with your friend Albert Nichols. With me.” He took hold of Joe's coat sleeve, halting him in his tracks. “And just so you understand,” he said. “I don't tell Captain Jackson everything I hear.”

Joe kept the vacant look on his face, in spite of this odd twist. “I don't have anything right now,” he said.

“But if you do?”

“Then I'll tell you,” Joe said. “Only I don't want—”

“No one will know where I got it,” Collins said quickly. He eyed Joe. “You sure there isn't something you want to talk about now?”

Joe thought the bankbook in his pocket felt like a brick. “No, not now,” he said.

They walked on until they reached the intersection of Houston Street. Collins paused for a few seconds to eye Joe speculatively, then said, “Be careful, Mr. Rose. Watch where you go and what you do.”

The way the words were spoken, Joe understood that the lieutenant also knew some things that he wasn't sharing, and it gave him pause. Collins smiled his easy smile, then turned away and crossed the street without looking back.

It was midafternoon when Sweet shuffled into the house, sagging from eight hours on his feet. He took off his coat, hung it on the peg, and stepped into the kitchen, where he found Pearl sitting at the table, wrapped in a silk kimono and drinking coffee. A book lay open and facedown next to her elbow. Sweet guessed it wasn't a Bible.

In a brooding silence, he took the bottle of whiskey down from the cupboard and he poured himself a small glass, a rare event. Time was, liquor made him do crazy things. Now it just eased his mind a little. He sat down at the table, his clothes reeking of fried food, and took a tentative sip.

“You workin' tonight?” he asked.

“Ain't had any calls,” Pearl said.

“Maybe you oughta call them.”

“I've got something else to do,” she said, and absently started pushing her fingers into her dark curls.

Sweet's broad face creased with displeasure as he eyed his sister's languid pose. She looked like a hussy. He said, “You know they's lots of honest work out there.”

“I'm sure that's right.”

Another few seconds, then Sweet said, “People are talkin'.”

“Talking about what?”

“About how you was at the scene of a crime, that's what.”

“Some folks don't know when to shut their damn mouths is all.”

“They's gonna be trouble,” Sweet said.

“What trouble?” Pearl said, giving it right back.

“What was you doin' out there? Of all the places you coulda been.”

Pearl's brow stitched. “You know something, say so.”

Sweet said, “I know you got yourself in a corner, and ain't no Joe Rose gonna be able to help you out of it, either.” He wrapped a thick hand around his glass like he meant to crush it. “You can't be bringin' this kind of shit down on our house, Pearl. I mean it. You can't.”

For a moment, their gazes crossed like swords. Then Pearl's softened with affection and she smiled impishly.

Sweet, frowning, said, “What?”

“Sarah Everett brought an apple pie over,” Pearl said. “Smells good. I'm pretty sure it ain't for me.”

Sweet tried not to smile. Pearl unfolded from the chair and went to the cupboard to cut him a slice of Sarah Everett's pie, gently kissing his forehead as she passed by.

 

May Ida Jackson stood gazing out the kitchen window of her frame house on Plum Street, watching the bare trees and the blue cloudless sky and thinking about a boy she had known a long time ago. He'd been sweet and kind and though she could still picture his face, she couldn't recall his name at all.

She remained lost in her reverie until the running water sloshed over the edge of the sink to splatter the linoleum and her house slippers.

She murmured, “Oh, my!” at the wet mess she had made, and fumbled to pull the stopper and turn off the faucet. She studied the small puddle at her feet as if she had never seen such a thing before. In fact, it had happened a dozen times.

She stepped out of the slippers and went off to fetch a towel from the bathroom, which she dropped on the kitchen floor. Momentarily, her gaze wandered back to the window, and she noticed something about the shape of one of the trees . . . it was like a hand reaching to heaven . . . she floated away on that image, another wisp on the breeze. A sedan crossed her line of vision, the dark shape moving slowly along the street. When she blinked again, it was gone.

May Ida sometimes missed parts of days as she wandered in and out of her little fogs. She would somehow waft from a period of crystal clarity into a haze and not realize it until she reappeared and found herself doing something: standing before a mirror, tending to her flowers in the garden, handling dry goods in a store. She wouldn't remember how she had gotten there, only something had guided her unerringly along. It had been that way for as long as she could remember, going back to the dreamy mist of her childhood.

Sometimes it was a light absence, as if she had stepped aside for a quick moment. Other times she was sure she had disappeared for what must have been days, only to find a single minute had slipped away and that her husband—the
Captain
—was staring at her with that face of his as he waited for her to respond to whatever he had said. Of course, she had missed it entirely, inflaming him all the more. Then he would give her his disgusted look.

At first, she tried to recover, only to find that he had already lost patience and his lip was curled in disdain. He wasn't really interested in anything she had to say, anyway. Nothing she did had ever pleased him. She was just something that was there, another piece of furniture. Realizing this made her own bile rise. If he, with his icy arrogance, knew how many men she'd entertained, and how many more she would have in the days and weeks and
months to come, it would drive him berserk. It made her feel like an actress in a play, and delighted her.

She held the secret of the May Ida who lived inside and carried on like a harlot when a mood came upon her, putting out a scent that drew gentlemen like bees to honey. May Ida understood in a vague way that she was supposed to feel shame over behaving like a bitch in heat. In truth, she was fascinated by the carnal stranger who inhabited so much of her waking life. The woman had power.