The Dying Crapshooter's Blues (25 page)

The girl stepped up with his plate, breaking into his thoughts. The chicken smelled wonderful and he didn't realize how hungry he was until he started eating. After a few minutes went by, the fellow in the overcoat put down his coffee with a clatter, tossed some change on the counter, and made a busy exit. Joe finished his dinner, drank a cup of coffee, and went out onto the streets of Atlanta in search of Robert Clark.

 

The light of day was long gone, and Robert was ready for the end of his labors. He tossed the last bag on the wagon and sent it off toward Track Three. It would arrive in Pittsburgh sometime the next afternoon.

Like any number of common laborers, Robert worked off
the books and was paid in cash at the end of every shift. He was one among a population of drunks, tramps, and other dregs who couldn't or wouldn't hold a regular job. The railroad porters in their uniforms looked down their noses on this crew, though they understood that if it wasn't for fellows like Robert, they'd be the ones loading the baggage cars. So these two-dollar-a-day rascals were tolerated as long as they got the bags into the cars and didn't steal.

It was a good situation for someone who didn't want to be found. At least half the men working the cars used monikers. They were invisible to the outside world and mostly to each other, as they toiled away the hours in the belowground shadows of Union Depot.

Robert was tired and glad of it. Maybe he'd be able to sleep. What he'd heard and seen on the Courtland Street corner hung on him like a cheap suit of clothes, and no amount of homemade whiskey had been able to shake it loose.

Except for the one visit, he had steered clear of Schoen Alley, though he knew he owed a visit to the man's deathbed. He couldn't go back and risk running into Joe Rose again. The way that Indian stared at him . . .

After his visit to the crap game on Saturday night, Robert hadn't spoken another word about what he'd seen. He kept his mouth shut and ears open, so he overheard the talk about Jesse dying. One of the men mentioned that Willie McTell had worked up a song about him, telling of a gambler in the last minutes of his life demanding liquor and whores. Robert wished he could go by and see Jesse, pay his respects, give up what he knew—give it
back
if he could—but he couldn't take the risk.

Now it was too late. One of the porters had come to work with the news that Little Jesse had died and the wake had already begun. They talked about going to join the party, as it would likely still be going on in the morning. As bad as he felt hearing
the news, Robert couldn't deny a certain relief. Maybe it would all fade away now, and he'd be left alone.

Or maybe he'd find Joe Rose, tell him everything, and let him do what he wanted with it. Maybe he could still do some good for poor Jesse's soul.

All this ran through his mind as he walked along the gravel pathway that adjoined the eastbound tracks. There was a stone staircase at the end of Moore Street, and once he got to the top, his first stop would be Bell Street and a bottle. Then he would go to his room and sit on his bed and drink to the memory of Little Jesse Williams.

He reached the stone steps and heard the whisper of traffic up on the street. The railing was cold in his bare hand as he pulled himself up. It had been a long day. He figured he had hoisted a good ton or more of white folks' bags. Back in the country, it would have been a ton of cotton. Those days were over, though. The cotton was all gone.

He was three steps up when he became aware that someone had started down from the top. Robert glanced up, then dropped his eyes again. All he could make out was a shape. He took another two steps.

“Hold it, now.” The voice was soft, though with an edge behind it that gave Robert pause. His stomach began to churn with a primitive fear, and he took a desperate glance back the way he had come. The pathway was deserted the entire distance to the terminal. They were alone out there. The only things moving were the engines in the yard, blowing gray smoke and making that grinding railroad racket.

Robert couldn't see the face above him because of the backlight of the streetlamp, and it began to dawn on his slow mind what was happening. Now he turned and took a step back, downward, as if he had just thought of something he had forgotten.

“I said hold it right there.” The voice wasn't mean or loud, just insistent.

Robert bowed his head, as if meekly complying. Then, in a sudden motion, he leaped back to the gravel at the bottom. His feet kicked up clouds of black railroad dust as he started to run, and he thought he was away clean, until the concussion and searing heat hit his back, like he'd been slammed with a hot hammer. He tried to keep going, but his legs gave way in a stumble, and he found himself tasting dark dust. Digging his fingers into the sharp gravel, he struggled to his feet and started on again. The depot lights were coming closer.

The second bullet found a spot just between his shoulder blades, and Robert was on the ground again, his chin splitting open almost to the bone, though he could barely feel it. He was aware only of footsteps shuffling close. He knew what was coming and wanted to say that he wouldn't talk, would never talk, and his mind even streaked to the two dollars pay in his pocket, thinking he could somehow ransom his life, but nothing emerged from his throat except weak breath.

Faintly, he heard the metallic cock of the hammer. The next second brought an explosion of black light.

The steps receded to the bottom of the stone stairs and then up to Moore Street and away into the December night.

 

The revelry was still going when the pawnbroker turned off the lights of his shop downstairs, locked the doors, and went to catch the streetcar that would take him to his home in West End. Later, not long before dawn, the police would come around to break it up, and two drunks would get hauled off to Fulton Tower because they couldn't keep their mouths shut. As soon as the coppers left, the carousing started up again.

 

There was a show at the 81 Theatre that night, and Joe found a place in the back where he could watch and listen. His search of
the Negro speaks and gambling rooms at the end of the street had been a waste of time. Robert hadn't been seen in days.

Among the colored members of the theater audience were a dozen pale faces that stood out starkly. All but two were at ease, regulars like Joe who cared more about the entertainment than the color line. Then he saw one couple who clearly didn't belong. Likely they had wandered in while the lights were down and when they came up again, found themselves bobbing on a sea of African faces. Getting out would have caused more commotion, and so they stayed put, watching the show on the stage with glazed eyes.

When Joe came in, frustrated by the time he had wasted trying to find Robert Clark, there was a comic onstage telling a salty joke about a country boy who had an unnatural love for a watermelon. Many of the people laughed, others eyed the comic speculatively, as his delivery seemed a throwback to minstrel days, pooching up his thick lips and rolling his big eyes. Joe peered at the lonely white couple and noticed that they seemed giddy over this segment, as if they had found themselves on more familiar territory. The man chuckled after the other laughter had died, and cool, dark eyes slid his way. Joe was sure that if the poor fellow could have made himself disappear in a puff of smoke, he would have done just that, and left his wife to fend for herself.

The comic made way for a line of tap dancers, pretty girls in skimpy outfits. While they drummed the boards, Joe went back outside and along the brick walkway between the theater and the next building over. Though the night was chilly, a half-dozen girls waited with eager eyes by the stage door in hopes of meeting one of the performers. A short and thick-bodied Negro stood guard, chatting easily with the giddy young ladies. He winked and held the door open. Joe slipped a half-dollar into his palm as he passed inside.

He found Willie standing in the backstage shadows, his head bent over his guitar.

He cocked his head at Joe's approach. “I didn't know if you were going to make it or not.”

“It's been a hell of a day,” Joe said. “Thought I'd give myself a little entertainment. I could use it. You feel like playing tonight?”

“I got to,” Willie said. “My name's on the card.” He was quiet for a long moment while the gay music and rattling taps echoed from the stage.

He said, “Jesse's gone, Joe.”

Joe said, “I know, Willie. He was in bad shape, though. It was his time.”

“Never told you nothin', did he?”

“Another minute, and I think he would have,” Joe said.

Willie sighed. “Well, Little Jesse was a gambler, all right.”

A young fellow in a shirt and tie, carrying a clipboard, hurried by, calling, “Two minutes, Willie!”

The blind man nodded, then cocked his head toward Joe. “You hear about Robert Clark?”

Something about Willie's tone made Joe's gut sink. “What?”

“He's dead,” Willie said. “Shot.”

Joe stared at him. “Where?”

“In the yard outside the depot. He was shot three or four times.”

“When?”

“'Round about six thirty this evening, is what I heard. He was working down the Union Depot. He finished and left out. Someone found him in along the tracks about an hour later.”

“Do they know who did it?”

“Don't think so.”

Joe remembered the look on Robert's face as he came up on the scene that night. Now he was dead, too. And there went the last witness.

“I got to get ready right about now,” Willie said and moved into the wings.

Joe couldn't think anymore, so he followed along. The dancers tapped their way to a rattling crescendo that was followed by a loud surge of claps and whistles. The troupe came bouncing off. Normally, Joe would have been delighted to observe such a lovely procession. This time, it barely registered.

The host on the stage made the introduction, and modest applause swelled again as Blind Willie McTell walked out onto the stage, leaving Joe in the darkness.

The sun broke through and by nine o'clock had burned off the last of the morning mist. The temperature rose a few degrees and then fell again as a cold front moved in from the northwest.

The snap in the air seemed to cheer the pedestrians who were milling along the downtown sidewalks. The Christmas decorations that adorned the storefronts and lampposts glittered in gay shades of red, green, silver, and gold. Shoppers, mostly women from the tonier neighborhoods north and east of the city, hurried into the stores, picking over the bountiful displays and crowding around the radio sets that were on sale for the first time this season, listening to the music and perhaps the word that Atlanta's one annual day of snow might be on the way.

 

Joe woke up with his arms wrapped around something soft and warm, only to find that it was his pillow. He pushed it away and rolled over to gaze drowsily at the ceiling.

The career of the previous day and night came back to him in a shuffling of cards. It had begun with the discovery of the killing of one stranger and ended with another, with a friend
dying between the other two. It was a grim trio of events for one sweep of the clock. Someone had stayed busy cleaning up a mess. Whoever had paid Logue to shoot Jesse had gotten rid of him and then the only witness. And if Little Jesse had hung on, Joe had no doubt that someone would have come for him, too.

He pushed himself up against the headboard and turned to gaze out at the morning as his brain came unstuck. He thought about who could maneuver such a bloodbath and the only name that came to mind was Grayton Jackson, though he couldn't see any reason why the Captain would want a common criminal like Jesse Williams dead. There were dozens like him and worse working the Atlanta streets. Jackson had bigger problems than him.

One in particular was the burglary at the Payne mansion, a crime that had the mayor, the chief of police, and some rich citizens very upset. The Captain clearly suspected Pearl, and the way she kept edging around the coincidence of being at the mansion when the jewels went missing had Joe vexed, too. Was it really true that she just happened to be there? He knew how his old friend Detective Glass would answer the question.

But Pearl was too clever to pull such a brazen theft. Any decent thief would know that a home was best breached when the occupants were off the premises, at work, during church, or away on a vacation. Making a snatch like that during an event like the Christmas party, with so many people milling around who might spot an intruder, had been either a foolish blunder that had come out lucky or done for show. If that was the case, then dragging Pearl and Joe into it as a diversion would not be such a dumb move. In Joe's criminal gut, it felt right.

He closed his eyes and flipped through the mug book that he kept in his head, trying to pick out any characters who could pull that slick of a job. There were only a few with the wits, and he hadn't seen any of them around. And yet it looked likely
that someone had plotted the theft and the subterfuge that went with it.

 

He was back from the bathroom and had just finished dressing when there was a tap on his door. He opened it to find Albert Nichols standing there. He stepped back, inviting the detective inside.

“I could use a cup of coffee,” Albert said, smiling lightly. “What say we go across the street?”

“That's not a good idea,” Joe said.

Albert snickered. “Are you still hiding from him? Isn't that a lot of damn work? Why don't you marry the girl and get it over with?”

Joe didn't think that was funny at all.

The detective took a moment to cough into his hand. “Or don't you want to be seen with me?”

“You don't need to be seen with
me,
” Joe said.

Albert frowned with impatience. “You want to talk or don't you?” he said. “Hell, you're talking to everyone else.” With that, he took a step back and strolled off down the hall.