The Dying Crapshooter's Blues (37 page)

If Pearl was hiding, his gut told him she hadn't left town. So he wouldn't find her until she was ready. He would have to show up at Al Nichols's house empty-handed, and unless the detective had something they could use, it would go no further. The Captain would survive and Joe wouldn't be showing his face in Atlanta for a good while.

In any case, there would be no reunion and no resolution in that room. So he poured himself a drink and waited for the darkness to fall so he could go meet Albert. If the Captain won the
game, then Pearl would have to disappear, too. What other choice would she have, if she couldn't ransom her brother from jail?

Sipping his whiskey, he understood more. A creeping feeling had come upon him in slow ebbs that there was something between Pearl and the Captain, a whispering presence lurking just on the edge of his vision. He was all but cut out of it, the price he paid for neglecting her so.

 

At six
P.M.
Sergeant Nichols cleared the last file and got up to fetch his coat and hat from the rack. The detectives' section was quiet. He was the last one still there from the day shift, and all the evening-shift detectives were all out on cases. The only other person remaining was the officer on the desk. Albert wished him a good night and stepped into the hall.

Outside, it was a pleasant enough evening, cool, with only a faint sprinkle of winter rain, and he decided to walk rather than take the Number 10 streetcar heading north. His wheezy lungs could use the work, though it was hard to believe that breathing Atlanta's rank and sooty, gritty, smoky air did them any good.

As he crossed Five Points and started up the gentle Peachtree Street slope, he thought about the fix he was in, courtesy of Joe Rose and his own foolish self.

For all the scrapes and jail time he avoided, Joe had always been a magnet for trouble, or maybe more a compass or dowser. The same second sense that led him to nice scores in cities from New York to New Orleans also got him tangled in messes, and usually with women. This one, with a burglary and three men dead, was definitely the worst. Not content to throw himself into the middle of a bloody puzzle, he had the good grace to drag his crony Albert Nichols along with him.

Except the way Joe described it, there wasn't much of a puzzle left. Captain Grayton Jackson was guilty as sin, and all that was lacking was evidence or a solid witness. It was true that most criminals were stupid, and Captain Jackson was no exception.
He thought himself a mastermind who would save the day and claim the glory that went with it. Unfortunately, he had overlooked the hazards of a smart Negro woman, a drunken beat cop, a vindictive wife, and a former police officer and detective who was at least part Indian.

And it had all come to nothing. Without the stolen jewels in hand, the Captain had to be feeling that there was quicksand under his feet. If Joe got to Pearl before he did and she talked or delivered the trinkets, Albert would make sure it all got into the right hands. He would turn everything over to Collins and let him decide how best to destroy Captain Jackson's life. It was going to be an interesting twenty-four hours.

The detective was not so lost in these musings that he failed to notice the automobile parked a half block down Hunnicutt, a black Chevrolet four-door that looked like it had seen better days, the engine idling with a nasty rattle as it belched black smoke from the exhaust pipe. The same sedan had been parked at the corner of Mills Street when he crossed that intersection and had now reappeared two blocks farther on. Though it all seemed harmless enough, his mind registered it automatically. He tried to get a look at the occupants without being too obvious, but saw only shadows.

He rounded the corner onto Baltimore Place as the half-moon, just rising, cast blocks of slate-colored shadow on the cobblestone street. His rented digs, one of three in a row of shotgun houses, was dark and quiet. The middle unit was vacant and the one on the opposite end was leased by a brakeman on the Georgia Southern who was rarely home.

He climbed the steps to the low porch, unlocked his door, and stepped over the threshold. The streetlight coming through the windows illuminated spare quarters that were exactly what might be expected of a bachelor cop. The few women who had visited him there had eyed the place critically, and one had even set to tidying until he made her stop.

He walked through the living room and bedroom and into the kitchen, where he turned on the overhead bulb. Dropping his coat on the table, he went under the sink for the bottle of muscadine wine he kept there. He poured a glassful and was taking his first sip when the light blinked and then went out. He tried the lamp on the table. It didn't work any better.

He let out a grunt of frustration. Interruptions in the power were common all over the city. Then he happened to glance out the back window to see that the lights in the house across the back alley were fully on. It wasn't the first time that had happened, either. The building was old, and when it rained the damp shorted the fuse box.

He took another swallow of his wine, put the glass on the sideboard, and stepped to the closet. He had just put his hand on the knob of the closet door and pulled when a sudden tingle ran up his spine, telling him that something was wrong. Before the thought connected, the door squealed and flew open, the edge catching him in the chest and forehead with a stunning jolt that threw him back against the bathroom door. He was groping for his pistol when a searing pain shot through his chest, sending him staggering sideways over the kitchen threshold. As he clawed at the side of the icebox, another sudden shock slammed him to the floor.

 

Lulu's was closed, but Mr. Heeney told Pearl she could stay while he finished cleaning up. The manager was plainly puzzled by Sweet's sister showing up after he'd locked the doors. At first he thought she had come by to plead for her brother's job. She didn't say anything until he asked, though, and then she told him he could expect Sweet back to work in another day, two at most. She was sure. Other than that, she just wanted a place to stop for a few minutes. He shrugged, too worn out to worry about it, and went back to work.

Pearl stood by the window for ten minutes, watching the Hampton until she saw Joe come out and head off at a quick pace, dodging traffic as he cut diagonally across Ivy Street. She drew back when he turned his head her way, then realized he couldn't see her. She fought an urge to rush outside and call his name, and instead let him go on. Once he had disappeared from sight, she buttoned her coat, pulled on her hat, thanked Mr. Heeney for his kindness, and went out into the night.

 

Joe hurried around the corner from Spring Street onto Baltimore Place, a few minutes late for the appointment.

From the long nights they'd spent drinking, playing cards, and telling lies, he remembered Al's address as the left end of three shotgun houses connected under one roof. As he drew closer, he saw Al's door standing halfway open, though not broken down like Pearl's had been. Peering inside, he glimpsed only murky darkness.

“Al?” he called as he stepped on the porch. “Al Nichols!” There was no response. He looked at the other houses that lined the narrow street. No one was about.

“Al Nichols!” he called again, raising his voice.

The silence spooked him, but there was nothing he could do except plunge in and hope he wouldn't run into something. He drew a steadying breath and threw the front door back the rest of the way so that it hit the wall with a force that sent an echo through the house. He listened for a half second and heard nothing. Slipping a hand inside, he felt for a light switch, found it, and turned it around. There were no lights.

He bit down on his panic, ducked inside, and crossed the dark front room. At the next doorway, he found the bedroom also empty. Beyond it was a short hallway with a closet on one side, the bathroom on the other, and the kitchen beyond.

The back room was bathed in moonlight, and as soon as he
stepped in, he saw the body slumped on the linoleum floor. With a groan, he stepped close and crouched down. The detective's eyes were open and quite still as if they had settled on something far away.

Joe, choking on the words, said, “Al . . . goddamn . . . Al . . .” He sank the rest of the way to his knees and felt a wetness seep into the cloth of his trousers. He noticed the black stain on Al's shirt and, clenching his jaw, ripped it open on a gaping hole, two inches tall and a half inch wide. A second gash had pierced Al's side below the ribs. Joe had seen wounds like these before, on a street in Philadelphia, done with a heavy knife and most often fatal. The pool on Al's other side had spread all the way underneath the kitchen table.

Joe drew back and didn't move for a half minute, his brain in a spinning rage. It was his fault. He had done this. He had led his friend to this slaughter. It took another long minute before he could reach out and close Albert's eyes.

He was rising to his feet when he saw something gleam between the clenched fingers of the detective's right hand. Bending down, he pulled the fist open to reveal a policeman's silver badge. He plucked it free, stood up, and turned it into the pale light through the window. At that angle he could make out the engraved words
ATLANTA POLICE DEPARTMENT
above the city emblem, and
LIEUTENANT
below it.

 

Joe burst onto the porch and ran over to the house with glowing lights, pounding on the door until the owner appeared. He told the startled gentleman to call the police and report the homicide of one of their officers just across the street.

He stood on the sidewalk, unable to move any farther. Another victim was dead, another man he had called a friend. He felt something terrible rising from his gut into his throat, burning and blinding him. He stood there until he heard the faint wail of sirens. Then he moved.

Pearl, watching from the shadows a half block down, saw Joe come out the door of the row house and half stagger across the street. She watched him step back down to the sidewalk and stand there, his body trembling. Then, suddenly, he turned and stalked away.

She knew where he was going, and didn't try to follow. Instead, she waited for another minute before beginning a slow walk back to town. She was on the corner of Peachtree Street when the first sedan crested the rise at Ellis Street with lights flashing and siren howling.

 

Plum Street was eight blocks due west once Joe turned off Spring onto Pine, and he covered the distance in less than ten minutes. Though he had never been to the address, he knew the street was only three blocks long, and his choices would be few.

When he got to the intersection, he saw a police sedan parked at the curb in front of a frame house halfway to Carroll Avenue. No one was behind the wheel. He shifted his gaze and saw a man slouching next to the front door of the house. There was no mistaking Corporal Baker's thick body and block of a head.

He waited a few seconds until he saw Baker look the other way, then crossed over in a quick sprint. Once he reached the other side of the street, he cut down the well-traveled alley that ran behind the house. Standing at the back gate in the cold and dark, he heard voices that he couldn't make out, carrying from inside the house and across the yard. It sounded like two men and a woman engaged in some kind of an argument. Shadows moved across the kitchen windows, blown up to monstrous proportions.

Joe stole a quick glance up and down the alleyway, then opened the gate and crept along a flagstone path until he was at the back door.

Though the three voices were still muffled, he could now make out two of them, the Captain's gruff snarl and his wife's soft soprano. He was doing most of the talking. May Ida tried to cut
in, along with the other voice, but apparently the Captain wasn't having any of it. Another man's voice jabbed in every few seconds.

Joe heard the Captain say something about “lying” and “bitch” and the words “behind my back.” It sounded like he was describing May Ida's little plot to betray him; or maybe Pearl was the subject. He figured he'd be hearing his own name next, and as if he had conjured it, the Captain's voice went up as he snapped out “—fucking Rose and that goddamn whore!” To which May Ida made some indistinguishable plea. Then some object was slammed or a body was hurled against a wall.

Joe ducked around the side to the narrow space between the Captain's house and the one next door. He couldn't hear much of anything now. He waited another few seconds, then slipped to the front of the house.

He saw the police sedan at the curb with the driver's-side door propped open a few inches and a large head silhouetted through one of the side windows. Lazy smoke drifted up and over the roof. Tired of standing around, Baker had gone to wait in the car.

In a silent creep, Joe reached the sidewalk and stood next to the trunk of a bare apple tree. When nothing happened, he stepped into the street and saw one thick wrist holding a short cigar draped over the windowsill. He crept closer, making no sound until he got to the rear fender, when he said, “Hey, there!”

Corporal Baker jerked and pulled the arm off the sill. His head came around, and when he saw Joe, he grimaced in surprise and started to say something. Before he could get it out, Joe grabbed the doorframe with both hands and threw it closed using all his weight, crushing Baker's head against the bodywork. The corporal let out a sharp grunt, and his eyes rolled up as his derby popped up like in a stunt from a comedy routine. His arms waved about in a weak and clumsy effort to fight back. Joe was on him, though, driving his right fist first into the corporal's
snout and then into each of his eyes with quick jabs he remembered from his boxing days. His knuckles collided with Baker's brow, and he felt a blade of pain shoot up his right arm.

Baker grunted some more and tried to pull himself up. Joe let him make a few inches of progress before slamming the door on him again, this time catching him full in the face. Baker's nose blossomed with blood and he crumpled back, falling against the steering wheel and then slumping across the seats with his legs still hanging down over the running board. Joe made sure he was completely out before moving away.