Darktown (20 page)

Delia said, “Tommy, please put that gun away.”

“I will directly. But I'm almost to the good part. The man who reported him was a cop, a white one, who claimed he'd been at the club that night. The thing is, the white cop actually
hadn't
been at that club at all. That little fact came out later, when he had to testify under oath to an internal committee investigating the charges. You got that? An internal committee. We take these things
seriously
in the police department. But it makes you wonder, if the white cop hadn't been there, what made him think Officer Bayle had been out drinking?”

Delia's voice quavered, “Tommy, I want to go home.”

“You will, Delia, I promise you that. Just hold on. You see, Zo, when you decide to be a rat to the police, there's usually a record of it. Maybe
you didn't know that. But it comes out eventually, even to us nigger cops who have to work in the basement of the YMCA. We have ways to see these reports, too, you know, and lo and behold, this white cop, Dunlow's his name, he says that he had it on good information from his boy
Alonzo
that Sherman Bayle was drinking that night.”

“I don't know nothing about that,” Alonzo said.

Smith smiled. He opened the fingers that had been holding the gun and slowly slid the firearm until it was in the center of the table. Then he pulled his hand back, resting it at the edge of the table. The gun perfectly between that hand and Alonzo's two. Smith's other hand rested on the edge of an empty chair, just a few inches from where Delia stood stock-still.

“I ain't here to be lied to. I'm here because I want you to confess the truth, in front of my old friend Delia here. That you're a goddamn rat, that you're a traitor who'd give up another Negro for a few dollars from a white man.” Wailing trumpet in the background. “Tell it, Zo. Admit what you are.”

Delia said, “Tommy, come on, I don't need to be no part of this.”

“You're right,” he agreed, his eyes still on Zo. “I'm sorry, Delia. Good night.” He lifted his right hand from the chair to wave her away.

She backed up slowly, and even though she was out of his peripheral vision now he had a sense she had backed up only a couple of steps, as if she didn't believe he'd released her or as if she realized now that she had to see this moment through.

Smith continued: “You lied to Dunlow about seeing Officer Bayle drinking. Because maybe you were sore at Bayle for how he busted your buddy the week before. Or maybe the whole story was Dunlow's, and he just needed a spineless nigger to sign off as witness, and you raised your little hand.”

Applause as one song ended and the next began. If anyone else in the joint had noticed there was a loaded revolver sitting in the middle of a table like some lethal napkin dispenser, they hadn't run screaming or dived beneath any chairs.

“Because, the thing is, you ain't that different from a lot of people who just cannot abide seeing a black man in uniform. I know a lot about that, matter of fact. I served in the war, Zo, not that you did.
You were in jail at the time, if I remember right. But some of us did our duty.”

“It wasn't me.”

“People just can't abide a black man in uniform. I've known that a long time. My father, he served in the First World War. Did yours?”

“I wouldn't know.”

“I never knew my father, either. Reason I didn't know mine is
because
he served, and he survived the trenches and the mustard gas and all that, yes he did. Glory be and all that doughboy shit. Then he came back to Georgia and his little infant son Tommy and his pretty wife, and you know what happened? Just a few months later, when he was marching in a parade with some other proud veterans? Got himself lynched. Beat to a pulp and hung from a tree. Because the white man, no, he cannot
stand
the sight of an uppity Negro in a nice uniform like that. It is the last thing he wants to see. Or the second-to-last.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Hey, I wasn't but seven or eight months when it happened. Sad thing is how many people seemed to forget about all that, you know? Those were some bad years, lotta black veterans strung up when they came back home, but everybody wants to forget. Thing is, I can't forget, because it's who I am. I'm a goddamn antiamnesia medication. And it's happened again, hasn't it? Just a few years ago, black men coming back in uniform and strung from trees. Shot dead or strung up or both. That's bad enough without us realizing that other colored folks don't like to see us in uniform, either. Low-down good-for-nothing folk like you.”

They stared at each other a while then, and now was the part of the song where the cymbals started crashing, and with each impact the revolver bounced a bit on the table. Sliding ever so closer to Zo.

“Come on now, Zo. You tried to get Bayle fired, and now you can do even
better
than getting a colored cop fired. You can shoot one down. Because here's a cop being drunk and disorderly and irresponsible with a loaded weapon.”

Zo stared him down.

“Pick that gun up,” Smith said. “Show everybody how you feel about niggers in uniform.”

The music seemed to have stopped. People were standing still, as this was no longer a private concern.

“I don't want no trouble,” Zo finally said. “I'm going home now.”

“Not. Until. You. Say. It.”

Zo's nostrils flared. “Fine. Dunlow leaned on me, so I signed it. Happy? Big cracker's been throwing his weight so long, he knows how and when to lean on someone. And now you're here to take his place, ain't you? Doing a fine job so far.”

“I ain't no Dunlow.”

Zo stood. Very, very slowly. “I don't know what the hell you are.”

Smith watched as Zo moved past the table, just in case he decided to reach for the gun, but he did not.

When Zo was gone, Smith pocketed the piece. Not sure if he was relieved or disappointed, knowing only that the rush was fading, the moment gone already.

“Tommy Smith,” Delia said, “you are plain crazy.”

“Only sometimes.”

“I think you ought to head home.”

He stood and noticed that her friends were gone. He offered to escort Delia to her place, as a woman shouldn't be out alone at night. She looked like she wasn't sure if this was a good or horrible idea. The music started again and people were averting their eyes.

He was nearly out the door, trailing Delia—realizing, now that he thought of it, that she wasn't all that bad-looking, had a fun body on her, and this evening might be salvaged after all—when he saw that Ruffin was standing at the doorway, far from his station at the bar, a hand extended. Smith reached out and clasped it.

Tommy Smith was a strong man. Yet the hand that clasped his nearly broke his wrist.

Before Smith could pull his hand away, Ruffin had clamped his other hand on Smith's elbow, and that grip was even tighter. Ruffin leaned in close, looked Smith in the eyes, and, in a voice just quiet enough that no one save Smith would be able to hear, commanded, “Don't you disgrace us, now.”

His voice angry, stern, paternal.

“No, sir.”

“There is a lot riding on you, son. And I expect you to bear that in mind day and night.”

“I do.”

“Don't you go bring no shame on us.”

“I won't, sir.”

Delia was a few paces away. She'd turned to look back at them, wondering what was taking so long.
Men doing their talking.
From that far away she couldn't see the look in Smith's eyes, but if she had, what would she have seen? Shame? Embarrassment? That anger again—or was it gone, had Ruffin quashed it?

Ruffin released Smith's hand and elbow. He leaned back, a big smile on the barkeep's lips, so any patron who might be watching merely saw the owner thanking the officer for stopping by, another great night in Atlanta, come back soon and bring y'all's friends.

Smith walked out quickly, passing Delia, ignoring her “What's the matter?” and walking straight home.

16

THE BODY LAY
in the sort of position no living person would choose no matter how tired he might be. And the blackness around his mouth was not dirt.

It was halfway down a ten-foot slope that led to one of the sewer creeks that had been dug out during the Depression. As this was a colored section on the southern edge of the West Side, the sewer pipes had never been laid. It was nothing more than a nasty, empty creek bed that filled with stagnant water after hard rains. Still, its original purpose was being served all the same, as it smelled like someone had been emptying privies into it.

The body had fallen, or been thrown, headfirst, the boot soles facing up. Those soles looked pretty clean, Rake noticed, so he probably hadn't walked out here. Been carried, then thrown.

Nothing else about the body was remotely clean. His face was missing, chewed up by rats or vultures. Parts of his dark gray fingers appeared to have been gnawed on as well. Rake had picked up on the stench the moment he'd gotten out of his car. This close in and it was overpowering.

Rake and Dunlow had been driving their shift when they'd been called to the scene, even though it was far from their beat.

Two other cops and a plainclothes detective were standing beside the body. Everyone held handkerchiefs to their faces. By odd chance, each handkerchief was a different color (one red, one white, one blue, one green, one yellow), lending an almost festive air to the proceedings.

“Little boy saw him,” one of the beat cops said. “He and his brother were playing hide-and-seek.”

The squad cars' headlights illuminated the earth between the road
and the body, but still it was hard to tell if there was any spilled blood there, given how dark the earth itself was. Georgia's red clay, Rake's dad liked to say, was just like soil in the rest of America, but with blood mixed in.

“This seems well covered,” Dunlow said. “What are we here for?”

“He don't have any ID on him,” the other cop said, “but looks to me like that could be your bootlegger. Ain't just any nigger has hair like that.”

Dunlow and Rake stepped closer to the body, walking carefully so they wouldn't lose their purchase with the damp earth. Two flashlight beams were already on the corpse's face, but Dunlow added a third. It was horrific to look at, parts of the skull visible, bugs everywhere. But that hair was certainly recognizable.

“Well goddamn. Yeah, that's Chandler Poe.”

“Didn't he just get out of lockup?”

“Not much more'n a week ago. Probation.”

“It appears that a few months' sentence might have been more merciful.”

“I'd say the moonshining market,” the detective mused, sifting soil with one of his hands as if searching for gold, “is getting a tad heated.”

Normally they would wait for a coroner before disturbing the body, but because it was just a Negro, and a known hoodlum at that, the detective rolled the body over.

“Goodness. That couldn't have been fun.”

Poe's shirt and jacket were tar black, and torn patches of cloth were folded back weirdly, pressed by his body's weight and then molded by the clay as if set in plaster. Bolts of cotton were flayed in every direction.

“Multiple stab wounds, with a final coup de grâce,” the detective said. He pronounced it “gracey” but no one corrected him. Maybe he was trying to be funny. “Don't see any bullet wounds, but I'll let the coroner tell me for sure.”

“Need us for anything else?” Dunlow asked, spitting into the creek.

“I'd say an arrest or two might be a good idea.” The detective sounded as if he were on the verge of sleep. “Assuming you know who he's been running with.”

Rake didn't know all the details of Dunlow's relationship with Poe, other than the obvious fact that Dunlow took a cut from the bootlegger. Rake had gathered from a few comments that it had been a years-long relationship. The way it typically worked was that bootleggers in the North Georgia mountains would drive into the city late at night, arriving at a warehouse in an abandoned building or underneath a bridge to quickly unload their barrels. The local distributors would transfer the stock to a truck and then disappear. Most of the money for the operations came from men with deep pockets, often men who had other, respectable businesses. The fact that Dunlow took his cut from Poe probably meant he did not get a cut from the distributors or the people on top, Rake thought, though he couldn't be sure.

“Think he was killed by the folks he worked for?” Rake asked as Dunlow drove past the spots most likely to be hosting a drinking and gambling session. He wasn't bothering with the usual nightclubs and taverns, opting instead for residences known to host house parties. The kind of men he was looking for weren't the type for the suit-and-music scene.

“Hell no. No point. Man was just arrested and didn't roll over on anyone.”

“Maybe he did roll over on someone and we don't know it.”

“If he did, we
would
know it.
I
sure as hell would know.”

Dunlow stopped in front of a small bungalow that seemed to be sinking into the earth around it, which it probably was. Maybe the roof had been level to the ground when it had been built, but it wasn't anymore, the north side a good two feet higher than the south.

“This is Shane Andrews's place, right?” He was a gambler and petty criminal who'd fed them some information on a burglary a few weeks back.

“That's the man.”

Rake reached for the radio to update Dispatch on their location, but Dunlow grabbed his hand.

“They don't need to know where we're at all the time. And we don't need no help on this. Shane and Poe go back. They worked the labor camps outside Charleston together during the war. Card games and
flimflam, then bootlegging for whoever needed the help. Eventually rode the rails here to do the same thing.”

The house had appeared dark at first, but the longer they sat there they noticed that when the night's breeze parted the curtains in one of the windows, faint light trickled through. No other windows in the neighborhood were illuminated.

Rake slowly crept into the alley. He heard voices. Laughter. The clink of some coins, or maybe chips. That sound alone gave them the right to knock down the doors, at least according to Department policy.

The windows in back were dark. Rake carefully tested the knob, which turned. As he slowly opened the door, which did not squeak, he heard the much louder sound of Dunlow crashing through the front door.

“Police!” Dunlow called out. “Hands up, all of you!”

Rake raced through the kitchenette, pulling his gun from his holster.

He made it through a hallway. He heard men pleading for mercy or forgiveness or pleading simply that this not be happening, then he heard the sound of contact and a groan and then the sound of something hitting the ground. The fear that he might be allowing his partner—­loathed though he may be—to get killed on his watch made the finger on his trigger feel suddenly very heavy indeed.

He kicked open a door and found himself in an unfinished living room, or squatting room to be more appropriate. Most of the walls were stripped and there was a large fireplace that wasn't being used in that season but otherwise provided both heat and cooking many months a year, like some ranchers' hut in the wrong geography. It was likely a crash pad for dope fiends, a large empty space to fill with empty people's emptiness. Right now it was full of four Negroes, all of them standing, all of their hands in the air. Two tables were decorated with drinks, cards, chips, and dollars.

Actually, there were five Negroes, as Rake hadn't initially noticed the one who was on the ground at Dunlow's feet. Rake was pointing his gun everywhere he looked, but Dunlow held only his billy club, which apparently had dealt with someone already.

“Hands on the wall, goddammit!” Dunlow ordered. “You boys know how this works.”

The four did as they were told. Dunlow smirked at Rake's gun, then nodded toward the lined-up bodies. Rake patted them down and found nothing but a couple of knives and a screwdriver, which he duly collected. From behind, he could tell that one man was thin and nothing to worry about, two were average build, and the fourth was a monster he'd need to watch close.

“Sit your asses back down,” Dunlow said when Rake was finished. Rake checked the man on the ground. He had no weapons but he did have a pulse, so Rake left him there.

The four others sat and watched Dunlow like overgrown schoolchildren who were not yet sure which violation they were about to be punished for.

“Let's see here,” Dunlow mused. “We got Shane, Alan B., Zo, and Big Moe.” He paced in a slow circle around the two tables at which the men sat. “Usually when I find y'all together, Chandler's here, too.”

Rake was trying to watch all four to see if any of them betrayed any guilt, or at least knowledge. Shane Andrews was fortyish, pug-nosed, and stout, and he looked mostly just scared. Alan B. was another Rake recognized, a tall thin one who looked like he'd be helpless in a fight. Big Moe must be the enormous fellow, who stood at least six two and even sitting seemed like a force of nature ready to be unleashed. He was young, perhaps Rake's age, but fear furrowed his brow. The fourth, a round-faced Negro who must have been Zo, was a stranger to Rake, and his face was expressionless.

“Where's Poe?” Dunlow bellowed. “Where the hell is Poe?”

Silence. Dunlow circled them.

“I'm surprised at y'all's lack of cooperation. No one ever talks to the police no more, huh? I'm trying to help you out here. I'm trying to find a man that hurt a Negro. If I were to find one of
you
been hurt, I'd be doing the same thing right now.”

Silence.

With one hand, Dunlow grabbed Andrews by the neck and pulled him to his feet, pushed him back three steps, and slammed him into a wall. Rake kept his hand near his reholstered firearm and stepped closer to the other three, lest one of them think now was a good time to be stupid.

“Where's Poe, Shane?” Dunlow spat in Shane's face.

“I don't know!” Eyes wide. His old yellowed T-shirt strained against a belly that was rising and falling very, very quickly.

The look in Dunlow's eyes was clear to Rake, who had seen it many times before. Dunlow kept one hand at Shane's clavicle, pinning him against the wall and threatening to move up to his neck. With his other hand he removed his sidearm from its holster. He pointed it at the ceiling and held it no more than three inches from Shane's head.

“I ain't done nothing, Officer Dunlow!”

“When was the last time you saw Poe?”

“Few nights ago. Right here.”

“You don't know where Poe is now?”

“No, no, sir.”

“So you don't know what he was doing the other night on the West Side?” Dunlow asked.

“No, sir.”

Dunlow lightly tapped the side of the Negro's head with the barrel of his gun. If his finger were to accidentally hit the trigger, he would shoot the ceiling, and not the man's skull, Rake told himself. Hoping he was right.

“And you don't know how he got himself stabbed to death out there?”

From Rake's perspective, it was hard to gauge a man's reaction to certain shocking news when he was already terrified.

“Poe dead?” Shane asked.

“Poe dead.”

Rake kept scanning the faces of the other Negroes, but their expressions ran from fear to resignation. They had seen this act before.

“You were with him a few nights ago,” Rake said to Shane, trying to stay relevant. “As you've already told us.”

“I didn't touch him, didn't lay a finger on him! Me and him tight!”

Again Dunlow tapped Shane's head with the gun. “I didn't really think you had the stones to do such a thing.”

“That's true, Officer Dunlow, that ain't me.”

Dunlow waited a few seconds, drawing it out. “Then who was it? One of your boys here?”

Andrews paused. Dunlow pulled him back from the wall and
slammed his head into it. Fissures opened in the gray plaster, chunks sprinkling onto the floor.

“Now don't be thinking, dammit! Just answer my question!”

Dunlow slammed his head again. Plaster dust grayed the Negro's hair.

“Even if he does know something, he's afraid to tell you,” Zo said from his seat. Rake took a step toward him. Zo seemed alarmingly unfrightened.

“Is that a fact, Zo?” Dunlow asked while keeping his eyes on Shane.

“Seems so to me, Officer Dunlow.”

“Way I figure it, he should be goddamn afraid
not
to tell me.”

Shane himself had his eyes shut now, as if by excusing himself from the conversation he might also disappear from the scene. Yet Dunlow's hold was plenty secure.

“He is,” Zo said. “He most definitely is. But he's afraid of them colored cops, too. Maybe more.”