The Dying Crapshooter's Blues (9 page)

These reporters, having just rolled in from breakfast on full stomachs, had no intention of incurring the wrath of Grayton Jackson, and turned immediately to their cubs, directing them to run to police headquarters, interview the Captain, and come back with the details, including quotes from that officer's mouth.

All in earshot knew what this meant, and as the cubs headed out, the two newsrooms fell silent, as if witnessing the last walks of condemned men.

When the reporters showed up at 179 Decatur Street, they were told to wait in the second-floor hallway, and spent the next hour either sitting at opposite ends of the bench or pacing and
eyeing each other like cats in an alley. Every time the door at the end of the hall opened, they came around, then let out a shared sigh of relief that it wasn't the Captain.

He surprised them by stalking from behind, shaking his square head in vague disgust that the cowards at the papers had sent these two lambs to the slaughter. Before either one of them could utter a word, he said, “We're investigating a possible burglary at a home in the Inman Park neighborhood. The details are not clear at this time. When there's something to report, we'll send it over. That's all.”

The braver of the two stuttered, “Is the Payne fam—”

“I said, that's
all
!” the Captain barked, and the reporters nearly jumped out of their drawers, then tripped over each other as they went scurrying like frantic mice along the hall and down the staircase. One side of the Captain's mouth twisted into a smile at the echo of their harried steps.

 

Joe was in no mood for what was coming this morning, and made the six-block walk downtown a slow one. He arrived at police headquarters with only a minute or two to spare.

He knew why Captain Jackson had summoned him. The Inman Park burglary was his kind of heist. He had, in fact, pulled other jobs in other homes of wealthy Atlantans. The Captain knew he was guilty but could never catch him cold, and that made this little encounter a dicey proposition. Jackson had a reputation for walking over due process when it suited him. Joe would be a fly on the edge of the Captain's web; one little misstep and he'd be all the way in.

Inside the lobby he approached the desk, stated his business to the sergeant, and then made a point of asking after Detective Albert Nichols. He wanted someone friendly to know that he was in the building.

A few minutes later, a uniformed officer appeared to escort him upstairs. He was delivered to a room on the second floor
that contained a half-dozen chairs, lined up against the wall. Joe knew that once the door closed, the Captain could do anything he wanted, including forgo the niceties of due process, pin a charge on him, and come up with whatever he needed to make it stick. He could arrest him for the burglary and then find a witness and cajole or beat testimony out of him that Joe had shown him the jewels from that job before he had fenced them.

So he was relieved when Captain Jackson walked in with Lieutenant Collins on his heels. The junior officer dragged one chair from the wall for the Captain, another one for himself, and jerked his head for Joe to take a third one. The Captain settled, put his hands flat on his thighs, and waited for Joe to sit, his eyes as blank as a storefront mannequin's. Anything could be going on behind them, or nothing at all.

Joe was not physically afraid of Jackson, and he could hold any stare, but a challenge would only make things worse, so he shifted his gaze between the two policemen, as if politely waiting for one or the other to speak up. Collins took out a notepad and pencil, all patience.

“Mr. Rose,” the Captain said, breaking the silence. “When exactly did you arrive in Atlanta, sir?” His north Georgia twang held a spiky edge, belying tension below the surface.

“I came in on the train on Friday afternoon,” Joe said. “So that would be three days.”

“Train from where?”

“Louisville.”

The Captain turned his head slightly, and Collins dutifully wrote on his pad.

“We're going to check. See if anything's gone missing up there.”

Joe brought out a puzzled expression. The Captain's blank eyes settled, and Joe was faintly aware of Collins smiling. He wasn't fooling either one of them, and told himself he'd have to do better with his facades.

“We had a burglary at a house in Inman Park on Saturday night,” the Captain went on in his flat and mechanical voice. Joe raised one eyebrow, waiting.

“Not just any house,” the Captain went on. “The Payne mansion. I'm sure you know the place. It happened during the Christmas party they hold every year. It's a charity event, and they only invite the most important people in the city. The mayor was there, the Candlers, the Woodruffs, that sort. People with influence.”

Joe tried to look appropriately impressed. The Captain's jaw clenched into a square.

“Well, some fucker got in and made off with a stash of jewelry while this affair was going on,” he said. “I mean got inside, snatched jewels that belonged to Mrs. Payne, and got back out. It was a goddamn embarrassment for Mayor Sampson. So he's unhappy. Chief Troutman's unhappy. And that means I'm unhappy.”

Joe said, “Is anybody else unhappy?” and immediately regretted it.

The Captain's bottle-green eyes flared. “Listen, wise fellow,” he snarled. “You're going to be more than unhappy if you don't watch your fucking mouth. You think this is a joke? I said, do you think this is a joke?”

Joe shook his head. “Not now, I don't.” Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Collins smiling again, as if he
did
think it was a joke.

“You came into town Friday,” Jackson said, jabbing a finger. “And within about twenty-four hours, we have a major theft of jewels. And we ain't had a major theft of jewels in over a year. That's interesting timing, I'd say.”

Joe looked at him, looked at Collins, then looked at the Captain again.

“But I don't think you did it,” Jackson said, and sat back a little. “Because I don't think you could show up in town and plan
and pull off a crime like that in one day. I don't think you're that smart. You might think you are, but I don't.”

Joe settled his face into a polite
then what am I doing here?
expression.

“But listen to this,” the Captain said, drawing it out. “You know who was there when it happened? Tell him, Lieutenant.”

“Pearl Spencer,” Collins said quietly. “She was working as a maid.”

Joe realized he was tugging at his ear, his one nervous habit. The Captain noticed and came up with a smug look.

“Don't you think that's funny? That she was there when the theft happened?”

Joe said, “Well . . .”

“Because she's a pretty fair thief herself. Among other things.” He let that hang for a few seconds, noting Joe's discomfort. “You know her pretty well, ain't that right?”

“I know her, yeah,” Joe said.

“Uh-huh. Have you seen her since you got to town?”

“I haven't,” Joe said.

“Been in touch while you been away?”

“Not at all.”

The Captain shifted in his chair. For a moment, he seemed distracted, as if some other matter had crossed his mind. Joe and Collins waited.

“So what about this burglary?” Jackson said, breaking the silence.

“I just heard about it this morning,” Joe said.

“And what did you hear?”

“I mean I heard some fellows talking about it, that's all.”

The Captain regarded him blankly. “Where did you eat your breakfast today?” Now his voice was idle, as if he was satisfying a curiosity.

Joe thought about lying, decided it wasn't worth it. “At Lulu's. It's across from—”

“I know where the hell it is,” Jackson interrupted him. “Don't treat me like I'm a goddamn fool.” He settled. “Was Sweet Spencer working?”

Joe said, “He was, yes, sir.”

“You talk to him?”

“Just for a minute.”

Something like a smile crinkled the corners of the policeman's mouth. “What's he have to say about you and his little sister?”

Joe stopped short. Despite the danger, he was getting tired of the Captain's coy questions and his own hedging. He met Jackson's gaze and said, “He doesn't like it much.”

“I'll bet that's true,” the Captain said. “I'll bet he thinks the two of you are in cahoots, and I don't mean on a mattress, either. And him right out of the joint. I'll bet he don't want you anywhere near her.”

“Well, I haven't seen her,” Joe said.

“But you will,” the Captain replied without inflection, a simple statement of fact. His eyes shifted, and for the first time, Joe got a sense of a different game going on, one he couldn't quite fathom. Jackson was watching him closely, as if looking for a clue of something. Another moment passed, and he sat back and shrugged. “It would be a hell of a thing if she was involved,” he said. “She gets sent up for a job like that and you won't see her for a long, long time. She'd be an old woman. If she doesn't die inside.” He let that hang for a few seconds, then turned his gaze elsewhere. Collins closed his notepad.

“Go ahead, take him out of here,” Jackson ordered. He crossed his arms and gazed pensively at the wall.

Joe got to his feet and followed Collins. He stopped at the door and said, “Excuse me, Captain.”

The Captain turned stiffly in his chair, frowning. His conversations were usually one way.

Joe said, “A Negro named Jesse Williams was shot downtown on Saturday night.”

The Captain treated him to a cool gaze. “So?”

“I was wondering if there's anything on it,” Joe said.

“What's the name?”

“Jesse Williams. He goes by Little Jesse.”

“Yeah, I know that one.” The policeman's eyes were empty. “He dead?”

“Not yet. He's in bad shape, though. He could go any time.”

“He identify his assailant?”

Joe hesitated for a quick beat. “No.”

“Well, there's your answer.” Jackson shrugged his square shoulders. “We have about a dozen niggers shot up every weekend.” His gaze settled on Joe's face, though it seemed unfocused, like he was looking through him. “Why are you asking about this one?”

“I know the man,” Joe said. “And I was there on the street just after it happened. So . . .” He didn't know what else to say. It wasn't much of an explanation.

“Was there an officer to the scene?”

“Not that I know about,” Joe said, feeling himself wilt under the cops' stares. “We were worried about getting Mr. Williams some help.”

“Then there wasn't any damn report,” the Captain said irritably. “And I don't have to tell you that any shooting is police business. Don't matter if the victim is white, colored, or . . .” Here he produced a faint and cold smile. “. . . something else.” He unfolded his thick arms and rose to his feet. “If I was you, I'd be worrying about my own self, instead of some damn rounder getting shot on Courtland Street. Anyway, it ain't none of your affair, so you want to stay clear of it.” His lips twisted coldly. “Or somebody might shoot
you.
”

With that, he made a slow, thumping exit. In his wake,
Collins escorted Joe out the door, along the hall, down the two flights of steps, and out the front doors, all without speaking a single word. Joe spent the time thinking about what the Captain had said, fixing on the cop's mention of Courtland Street. He hadn't said anything about where it had happened. He wondered if the lieutenant had noticed that, too.

 

Joe strolled through Five Points and had just rounded the corner onto Ivy Street when he sensed someone coming up behind him. For a second, he wondered if the Captain had decided to close the case the easy way. Then he turned around and saw who it was.

The thin man in a long topcoat and fedora took his elbow and steered him off the sidewalk and along Harris Row, one of the dozens of narrow alleys that webbed the downtown Atlanta streets. The man was below medium height, wiry, his cheeks splattered with smallpox scars, his eyes an even blue, his hair and mustache showing a reddish tint.

They stopped in a vacant doorway, and the man produced a pack of Chesterfields. Joe accepted a cigarette and the light that went with it. For a few silent moments, the two of them leaned there, out of sight of the street, puffing the rough tobacco.

Joe had known Albert Nichols since the time they worked for the same Pinkerton office in Baltimore. Albert's history was not unlike his own: a rough childhood, some minor crimes, then police work, as he wandered from one side of the law to the other. They had pulled each other out of various scrapes by offering useful alibis. They stayed in touch after Albert left Baltimore for Atlanta, where he became a cop; a firmly honest cop, in fact, which put him in the minority. He was one of the few policemen Joe could trust.

Albert now regarded him through a spiral of smoke with a familiar laconic smile. “You rob those rich people or was it your sweetheart this time?” he inquired.

“It's pleasant seeing you again, too,” Joe replied.

Albert laughed, then coughed. He was never in the best of health. “You hear what's been going on around here?”

“Some,” Joe said.

“Well, you missed a lot of excitement.” The detective chortled. “They were running dirty cops out the door by the dozens. Even got the chief. It was a goddamn rout.”

“I see you still have a job.”

“There was never nothing that bunch had that I wanted,” Albert said. “Anyway, keeping track of dirty money is bad for my nerves. So I stayed clean.”

“And how the hell did Jackson hang on?”

Albert laughed again, coughed again. “The word was that he was next. Him and a couple others. Then comes this incident in Inman Park. Soon as I heard about it, I thought of you. Ain't no surprise he pulled you in.” He puffed meditatively. “It's a hell of a thing, all right. And I guarantee someone's going to take a fall for it.”