The Dying Crapshooter's Blues (12 page)

Once large chunks of the police department had been bought off, the graft and various other abuses became facts of life and hard habits to break. Critics brave enough to speak up pointed out that many of those who had sworn to protect and serve had come to protect criminals in order to serve their own greed.

As he rose through the ranks, Sergeant, then Lieutenant, then Captain Jackson had taken his share from the illicit trough, though never allowing it to get in the way of his prosecution of felonies. Capital crimes were viciously enforced when the victim
was white. Petty thieves and swindlers were dispatched with a brisk and brutal efficiency. Beyond that, the water got muddy, because the Captain believed that most human vices did little harm and were, in fact, an asset to law enforcement, if properly controlled. A man with a brain full of opium smoke or veins swimming with morphine was not apt to commit an act of violence. A drink and the affections of a female to calm a bully's rough urges made the city a safer place for everyone. Whose business was it if some fool wanted to risk an addiction or a venereal disease? And who could deny that when such trade was outlawed, the crooks fed off it?

So it had happened in Atlanta as the police department and Woodward's crime machine joined hands. The marriage might have gone on for a long time, except for some hogs who couldn't get enough, bringing an outraged citizenry down on their heads.

When the Captain saw how strongly mayoral candidate John Sampson's promise to clean up the department was resonating, he imagined his career going up in smoke. As one of former chief Pell's men, and in fact his most able enforcer, his head would be on the block.

The brass couldn't believe the party was over. The Captain, reading the signs, knew better, and in the months leading up to the election, deftly stepped away from the carnage, so neither Chief Walters nor Chief of Detectives Pell collected him on their way down.

As it turned out, his bad disposition was his good fortune. While it had always galled him that he was never allowed near the top of the pyramid of graft, he realized that the disdain of those who dangled gold braid could be his salvation. All he had to do was to keep his head down and avoid being tarred with the new mayor's brush of reform.

When the dust settled and he found himself still standing, his imagination got the better of him. He even allowed himself to dream about the chief's job; or, if not that, chief of detectives'.
There was a certain sense to it. Who better to step into one of those fourth-floor offices than a man who had a long record of results?

Rather than leave it to chance, he went about showing himself in the best light. He made sure he was on the scene of major arrests, and personally chopped a whiskey still to pieces for the benefit of a newspaper photographer. He planted a rumor that he was a candidate for one of the open posts, and in the overheated weeks leading up to the election, the rumor grew into a forecast, then an accepted fact. The only question seemed to be which office Grayton Jackson would assume.

While he was plotting, Mayor Sampson was acting, disbanding the corrupt police commission for his own police board and moving control of the department off Decatur Street and into his City Hall office. Ignoring the courting by Jackson and other pretenders, he installed as chief a man named Clifton Troutman, a nothing who had gone through the ranks from patrolman to a desk job. So in one quick stroke, a glorified clerk became chief of police for the city of Atlanta. The chief of detectives post was left open, with an announcement that the search for a candidate would continue. In that one stroke, Grayton Jackson's glorious hopes tumbled as if shot from the sky and he fell into a black and furious pit.

The day the word came down from above about the new chief of police, the Captain heard a ruckus in the hall and stepped outside to see Troutman surrounded by a bevy of backslapping well-wishers, their faces pink with feigned admiration.

Then one of their number saw Captain Jackson looking their way with a glare that traveled over the fifty feet of air like an electric arc. One by one, the heads came around and the gay chatter died. Eyes shifted and throats were cleared. The Captain kept his face stony, showing nothing in his terrible moment of humiliation. He let it stretch to a torturous length, then swiveled on his heel and disappeared back into the detectives' section, leaving an
echoing silence. Not a word was spoken until he was gone, and then the voices were muted.

The Captain stalked past the desks and into his office with his jaw clenched so tightly his teeth were ground together and his temples ached. He closed the door behind him so no one heard the dark growl that rose from his gut.

In his sick fury, it dawned on him how ably he had been used. After all he'd done, the mayor and his men thought him nothing but a thug. They held him in such low regard that even though he knew where bodies were buried he rated not even a nod of recognition. Indeed, over the next few days, hints were passed his way that he was damned lucky to have a job at all.

If the mayor and his new chief were expecting him to resign in defeat and skulk away, they were mistaken. With a mammoth effort of will, he swallowed his bile and went back to work as if nothing had happened. He kept his face blank as thoughts of revenge raged. At the same time, he knew Sampson and Troutman wanted to force him out the door and overheard whispers that the first day of the New Year would be his last day as an Atlanta police officer.

Then a burglar invaded the Payne mansion, and in a matter of hours, everything was turned around. The mayor and the chief were suddenly in a terrible spot and didn't know what to do. All their talk of law and order, and they couldn't manage to guard the richest people in Atlanta against a common thief. With no chief of detectives upon whom to foist the mess, they called on the Captain, who did know what to do. Once again, Grayton Jackson's head was filled with rosy scenarios of the mayor anointing him to the head spot in the detective squad; or better yet, to relieve the incompetent dunce Troutman and make him chief.

Whichever it was, he wasn't about to leave it to chance. This time, it would be his game to win or lose. He understood that it was all hanging by a thread from the Inman Park burglary, and he was doing everything he could to make sure it came out his way.

There was still plenty of risk, with enemies like Troutman on one side and the likes of Pearl Spencer and Joe Rose on the other. So he could still fail miserably, and in his darkest moments, the idea of putting a bullet from his police revolver in his own temple did not seem out of the question.

As he gazed down from his window, his mind circling in a slow ellipse, it took a few moments for him to realize that the figure crossing the scope of his vision was none other than that same son of a bitch Joe Rose. Seeing which way that Indian thief was headed, the Captain muttered a small curse. Thoughts of Rose's insolent face brought along an image of Pearl Spencer's, and he turned from the window in order to escape them both.

 

Joe showed up at Jesse's at five o'clock, just as daylight was failing and high streaks of cloud were moving through the gray sky on gusty winds that dropped the temperature on the streets. There was no black wreath on the door in Schoen Alley, nor any of the amulets of the kind that traced back to Africa, which told Joe that Jesse was still hanging on. He climbed the creaking wooden stairs and stepped inside to find a different set of callers in attendance, including a couple of rounders he knew vaguely and two women he didn't recognize at all.

Willie was there, drowsing with his cheek resting on an arm that was draped over the big body of his guitar. Jesse was asleep, his face even more gaunt and ghostly. His cheekbones were jutting and his eye sockets had deepened. He was already beginning to look like a corpse.

When Joe sat down, Willie raised his head and stretched.

“How's he doing?” Joe said in a muted voice.

“He's out a good bit,” Willie said. “When he's awake he eats some soup and drinks a little water, that's all.”

“How's he fixed for medicine?”

“He got enough to hold him through the day, but he's gonna need some more. I believe it's the only thing keepin' him alive.”
He tilted his head toward Joe. “You think you can help out with that?”

“One of those fellows in the kitchen can,” Joe said. “I'll talk to them.”

They sat in silence for a few moments before Willie flexed his hands and began lightly strumming the strings of his guitar. At the sound of the first few trembling bars, Little Jesse opened his eyes and stared at Willie as if he couldn't quite place him, then looked over at Joe with the same blank expression. He licked his dry lips and Joe picked up the glass of water from the night table to give him a drink.

Jesse closed his eyes in thanks, then cleared his throat and said, “How's that comin', Willie?”

“I'm workin' it,” Willie said.

Little Jesse rolled his head in Joe's direction. His gaze was milky, and Joe wondered if Jesse recognized him. “Willie's writin' a song for me,” he said.

“I heard,” Joe said.

“He needs to get his black ass movin' on it,” Jesse said tartly.

Willie smiled, shook his head, and strummed some more chords. Clearing his throat lightly, he started to sing.

 

Little Jesse was a gambler, day and night,

Well, he used crooked cards and dice.

A sinful guy, black-hearted, he had no soul

Yes, his heart was hard and cold like ice

 

Jesse was a wild reckless gambler, he won a gang of change

Many gambler's heart he let in pain

 

He stopped.

“Well?” Jesse waited, then said, “That ain't all, is it?”

Willie hesitated for a few seconds. “I'm messin' with this next here little bit . . .”

 

When he began to spend and lose his money,

he began to be blue and all alone

Boys, his heart had almost turned to stone

 

“Yeah,” Jesse croaked. “That's right. Go ahead on.”

“That's all I got,” Willie said. When Jesse grimaced sourly, he said, “You want it done right, don't you?”

“I want it done
now,
son!”

“Why, you goin' somewhere?” Willie shot back.

Little Jesse started to say something, then coughed before he could get it out. Joe knew how much he loved the dozens. Any other time, he'd snap back with something sharp, and it would just go from there until he and Willie would be dogging each other down, laughing like a couple of schoolboys, along with everyone else in the room.

Hey, Willie, I know you blind, boy. So you couldn't see that damn woman you was with last night was so ugly . . . she was so ugly that the ugly stick done run away!

Little Jesse, frail and tottering, his flesh sagging from his bones and his face drawn, couldn't summon any of that now.

Willie went back to fingering the strings and murmuring bits of lyric. Joe took his mind off Jesse for a few minutes to listen, captivated by the way Willie worked, drawing pieces together, trying it this way and that, until he found something that sounded just right. Given enough time, the blind man would build a song from spare parts.

Joe eavesdropped until the repetition got to him. He returned his attention to the man on the bed. Jesse had sunk down onto the pillows and closed his eyes.

“Jesse?” He kept his voice low, just above a whisper.

“Hmm?” Little Jesse sounded like he was answering from far away.

“I asked around a little bit about what happened to you.”

“Asked who?”

“Actually, I asked the Captain.”

Jesse's eyes opened again. “What the fuck?”

“I got pulled in about a burglary. After he was done with me, I asked about you.”

Jesse swallowed, looking scared. “What the hell'd you do that for?” he hissed. “You say about Logue?”

“No, I wasn't about to do that.”

Jesse stared, then relaxed again. “Well, that's good.” He took a moment's pause. “So he say anything about me?”

“What do you think?” Joe said. “He didn't know a damn thing about it.”

“Is that all?”

“That's all. Nobody else is talking, either.”

“Somebody will.” Jesse nodded shallowly. “You just need to keep on it.”

Joe shifted in his chair. “You need to tell me about Saturday.”

“'Bout what, now?”

“Saturday.”

“I done told you already.” Jesse raised his head a little and his hand waved toward the bedside table. Again, Joe picked up the glass of water and held it to his lips. Jesse drank gratefully and settled back. “That cop walked up and shot me down.”

Joe said, “I mean before that. During the day. And on Friday. Anything that wasn't usual business?”

Jesse's jaw tightened in a spasm that came and went. “I didn't do nothin' to that damned copper,” he insisted stubbornly. “Not then, not ever. Didn't hardly even fuckin'
know
him.”

“So he shot you for target practice?”

“Maybe so,” Jesse grunted. “Maybe that's just what he did. Wouldn't be the first time somethin' like that happened.”

“Could he have been doing a job for somebody else?”

Jesse didn't say anything for a few seconds, and Joe couldn't tell if he was catching a breath or hedging. Then he said, “Why? Who else you think wants me dead?”

Joe had to smile at that. “I don't know. You got any enemies? You cross anyone lately?”

Jesse's eyes burned with an odd light and his brow creased as if he was struggling with a thought. He opened his mouth to respond, then closed it and gave a slight shake of his head. Joe got an odd sense that he was lying, or at least holding back, and was about to push him some more when Willie spoke up.