Shades of Black: Crime and Mystery Stories by African-American Authors (29 page)

“No, Sir,” I lied.

“Just wondering. Your woman don't come in so much anymore, but when she does, you spend your time in the back rooms.”

“You told me I needed to stick to my work, Mr. Johnson.”

He chuckled. “Hmm, hum.”

I stayed away as long as I could and, when I couldn't stand it any longer, I showed up at her house banging on her door and shouting her name. After numerous attempts, she opened it wearing lace and satin and smelling of lavender, and let me back in.

“Who do you want dead?” I mumbled, caught up in her embrace.

I didn't really want to know nothing, his name, what the hell he had done to piss her off, nothing just how and when she wanted it done and where I could find his ass. Of course being Mary Ella, she told me anyway. His name was Munson Taylor, some guy she claimed was out to get her, cause she had some bad stuff on him that could send him away for life. She slipped a sepia picture out of her robe and handed it to me. He was light-skinned, like me, with straight hair and light eyes. She's sure into white-looking men, I thought, staring at his handsome face. Bet he dropped her for another woman. That's really why she wants him dead.

“He still looks like this?” I asked, trying to memorize his face.

“Did the last time I saw him.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Last week.”

I handed back the picture. “Why don't you call the law?” I asked, leery about what she was telling me.

She gave me a look, shook her head, and slipped a smile on her lips. “You'll learn about ‘the law,' as you put it, when you been around a while longer, Billy. I stay as far away from those bastards as I can. They ain't nothing but trouble.”

Hell, I already knew that. I was just trying to feel out my options, hoping to get myself out of this mess. I should of stayed away from her, cause trouble was what she was turning out to be.

“You changing your mind?” she asked, seeing through me.

“I said I'd do it, didn't I? I'll do it.”

She got up from the bed and sauntered across the plush pale carpet, her satin robe flowing sensually around her slim legs. She went to a beautiful mahogany dresser sitting against the far wall, turned, and stared at me.

“You know how to use a gun, Billy?” she asked in that soft, whispery, sexy voice.

I shook my head and felt my breathing acting funny again, cutting off my air, making my voice high and squeaky. “No.”

She smiled. “It's real easy,” she said, “you just aim and pull. You know how to aim and pull, right Billy?”

I shook my head again.

“That's all you gotta do, Sugar.”

I ignored her damn label. “Where am I going to get a gun?” I asked like a fool.

She opened a dresser drawer and pulled one out. Don't ask me what kind. I didn't ask, and she didn't tell me. Maybe she didn't know either, although I doubted that. My whole body started trembling. This was some serious shit. I watched her cradling it between her hands and caressing it with her long fingers.

“Where'd you get that?” I asked, pressing my body back against the headboard of the bed.

“You don't need to know,” she said. She pointed the gun in my direction placing a finger in the hole and pressing the trigger.

I watched in horror. I couldn't move, just waited for that bullet to slam into my chest. At least I'd be off the hook, I was thinking, anticipating pain and blood, my blood, splattered all over her satin sheets. It took me a while to realize nothing happened. There was no noise, no jolt, no pain, and no blood, and she was waving the gun up and down laughing hysterically . . . at me.

“What the hell's so funny?” I shouted, scrambling off the bed. Damn bitch was crazy.

“It's not loaded, Sugar,” she said, trying to control her laughter. “I was just showing you how easy it is to aim and pull. Think you can do that?”

“I told you I'd do it.” I was still shouting. I needed to get away from her. She was scaring the shit out of me. Why hadn't I listened to Mr. Johnson? “When and where?” I asked, no longer interested in anything else except just getting the job done and never laying eyes on her again.

“Friday night,” she said, placing the gun on top of the dresser.

Good, I thought. The sooner the better before I lost my fucking nerve.

“He'll be at that juke joint on First Avenue below the railroad tracks.”

“I know the place.”

“He's there every night like clockwork. He drinks too much and gets into fights over money and women. He'll be falling down drunk. All you have to do is follow him out. He'll be an easy target.”

I knew that was a lie. There couldn't be nothing easy about killing
somebody. If he was as slick as she claimed, and I suspected he was, he'd never get so drunk that his second sense wasn't in high gear.

“Anybody know you're here other than the nosey neighbors you attracted banging on my door?”

I shook my head.

“Good. Take the gun and the bullets,” she said, moving around the room. “After you kill him, get rid of it . . .”

“Where?”

“Do I have to tell you every little thing?”

“You do if you want it done. I ain't never killed nobody, and I don't know nothing about a gun.”

“Just throw it in the damn trash,” she said, her voice losing some of that whispery softness. “It's untraceable, and you'll have on gloves, so there will be no fingerprints. Whatever you do, don't show up here. In fact, stay away from me and go back to your usual routine.”

“It's going to be real hard acting calm and collected.”

“There won't be that much fuss, Sugar. He's a small-time crook the police will be glad is out of their hair. They won't spend much time trying to find his killer. They never do with blacks, especially black men.”

I was ready to go. I needed to think, and I couldn't do it with her around. Where was I going to hide the gun and the bullets? And what kind of gloves was she talking about, and where was I going to get them? I wasn't about to ask her. I'd figured it out later.

She showed me how to load the gun, talked about the safety, and suggested not putting the bullets in until I was almost ready for the kill. She rubbed the gun down with a soft cloth and put it in a small leather case, the cloth still wrapped around it. She put the bullets in a separate container and put it next to the gun. She pulled a pair of leather gloves out of the dresser drawer, placed them on top, and closed the case. I heard the soft click of the lock. She held it toward me. I stared at her awhile, finally reached out and took it. She drew me close and kissed me hard on the mouth, then grabbed my hand and guided me down the stairs to the door.

“Been nice knowing you, Sugar,” she said, her voice soft, whispery sexy again. She smiled, pushed me out the door, and slammed it shut.

I managed to drive home, still struggling to breathe, locked the case in Mama's old chest with all the hidden compartments, and fell into bed.

My days and nights were torture. I was aloof and on edge. I cursed Mary Ella in all the ways I knew with all the words I could think of, then I cursed myself. I avoided Mr. Johnson as much as possible. If he noticed, he didn't say anything. I was almost relieved when the time came.

Munson Taylor was right where she said he'd be, bullshitting the ladies, talking mess, and throwing money around. He was bigger than I expected, tall, and I'd guess close to two hundred pounds, but not fat, and stylish, in a pinstriped suit, a bold tie, a black-brimmed hat, and alligator shoes. I ordered a Coors, took a seat at the bar, and watched him from across the small, dim, smoky room. I tried not to stare, didn't want to draw any attention to myself. Damn, I was jumpy. I couldn't concentrate, couldn't even talk trash to the women who sauntered up to the bar. I was constantly aware of the gun and the skintight leather gloves weighing down my inside suit pocket. I fought the urge to keep tugging at them. The longer I stared, the more I realized I couldn't do it. I wasn't a killer, and I wasn't going to become one for Mary Ella. If she wanted him dead, she was going to have to find some other sucker or do it herself. Hell, she had the balls. And I was no longer a love-struck boy. My eyes were finally wide open. I didn't want her ass no more. The truth was, I wanted to get as far away from her as possible. What was she going to do? Who was she going to tell?

As soon as I decided not to do it, I could breathe again. I stayed and finished my beer, still watching Munson Taylor. He was drinking heavily, but he sure didn't seem drunk. I eased off the stool and felt the weight in my pocket shift, sway gently against my chest. Damn it! What the hell was I going to do with the gun? I decided to keep it at least for a while. I hadn't killed nobody with it, and she said it was untraceable. I took out the bullets and packed it all back exactly as she had it and returned it to its hiding place.

I overslept and woke to the smell of Mama's cooking. It was Saturday, so I knew it was sausage, eggs, and biscuits, her standard Saturday morning breakfast. I dragged out of bed, half washed, and walked into the kitchen. Mama was at the round Formica-topped table, sipping coffee that looked like mud and reading the paper.

“Why black men always killing each other?” she asked, not looking at me and not expecting an answer. She always commented out loud when she was reading the paper. I'd learned she didn't expect a response and didn't really want one. She was just airing out her thoughts, as she put it.

“Somebody got killed last night?” I asked, curious, but not too interested.

She handed me the paper. I almost dropped it. Munson Taylor's face stared at me. I tried to keep my hands from trembling. What the hell happened? I couldn't read the story fast enough. It was confusing, didn't make no sense. He'd been shot in the chest leaving the juke joint on First Avenue. The place had been crowded with customers, but nobody was able to recognize the shooter. One thing I knew for sure, it wasn't me.

I kept up with the story, reading every word and listening to the radio reports. Mary Ella was right. He was a small-time crook, into all kinds of shit, with a long police record. According to the papers, a lot of people wanted him dead. Had she known that? His killing slipped off the front page after several days and out of the news completely within the month. Mary Ella was right about that too. And as far as I know, nobody was ever charged with the murder. I wondered if Mary Ella actually thought I'd done it. She'd stopped coming to the club, and I never tried to get in touch with her, so I didn't know, and to be honest, I didn't give a damn.

Mr. Johnson brought her name up every now and again, trying to get a reaction out of me, I guess, but I refused to take the bait. Finally he told me he was glad I had turned her loose and never mentioned her again. When his bartender moved on to bigger and better things, he gave me the job. And several years later when he decided to slow down, he gave me his. I'd been at that club so long it was my life. The neighborhood was changing fast. New businesses, new housing, new folks were popping up all over the place. The club was thriving. Mr. Johnson decided to get out while the getting was good. He gave me first dibs on the place, but I didn't
have the cash. I probably could have gotten it, but I was ready to move on too. I was tired of the Midwest, and California was on everybody's lips. What the hell? I invited Mama to come along, but she wasn't about to leave her roots. Sadly, I kissed her good-bye, put Mary Ella out of my mind for good, and hit the road. On my way out of town, I dumped that damn gun and bullets in one of the trash compactors that littered the numerous construction sites.

I ended up in the capital. Sacramento suited my fancy. It was a city that felt more like a town, with hot summers and not too cold winters. And no snow, just rain that didn't bother me much, and fog that sometimes drove me crazy. I settled in a small house on Broadway in Oak Park. I was tired of living in somebody else's space. I needed my own. I got hired as a bartender in a club on Stockton Boulevard and soon got into the rhythm of the city.

Six months later I met my wife. Her name was Stella. She was short, slightly chubby, my age, but more mature, and my color, with black wavy hair and dark eyes. She was so outgoing I felt like I'd known her forever. She was a writer, a poet really, performing readings in the club's lounge. Her voice was lyrical like magic, drawing me right in. When I wasn't busy, I'd sneak and listen. I started offering her water to soothe her throat and trying to make conversation. I was surprised we got along so well. She was a California girl, born and bred, had no desire to live any place else. She was a teacher by profession, but wrote poems on the side. They were good, and she wanted to share them with others. She asked the owner if she could read them to the customers on weekends. He was skeptical. He thought there would be little interest and it might even lose him some business. She persuaded him to give her a chance, just a onetime read, before saying no. He did. She packed the house both nights. She eventually opened it up to other poets, encouraging them to come read.

I figured I didn't stand a chance in hell with her. She was way beyond me in all kinds of ways. But she was friendly, as I said, never acted like she was better than me. The first time I asked her out, she smiled and said yes.