Three Days Before the Shooting ... (193 page)

“‘Okay, Dad,’ she says, ‘if that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get.’

“So Mister Jessie tells me to show her the way to his bedroom and bring up some whiskey and glasses. I’m still worried as hell about his sitting in that coffin and having a woman like that in his house, but now he’s beginning to sound pretty sensible.”

“Maybe so,” the Sergeant said, “but there’s not a damn thing sensible about what you’re telling us. Quit stalling and get on to what happened!”

“Well, suh,” McMillen said, “out in the kitchen I have me a shot of that bourbon. In fact, I have me a double so that woman won’t bug me into losing my temper. And by now I figured that if Mister Jessie wanted her here, that was
his
business. So like I said, I have me a drink, and when I get back up here with the whiskey things are going pretty fast and confusing.

“Mister Jessie’s leaning with his elbow propped on the lid of his coffin and Miss Duval is sitting back all relaxed in her chair, and they’re laughing and talking like long-lost companions. And while she’s stopped putting on airs, every now and then I can still see her eyeballing those goldbacks. And right then and there I decide I’ll just lay in the bend, start playing it cool, and look out for Mister Jessie’s best interests….”

“You mean that you decided to get to his money before she did,” the Sergeant said.

“Oh, no,” McMillen said, “I could’ve kept some of what he gave me to pay for that liquor. And while it’s true that I drink my whiskey, I’m a hard-working man
who respects himself and his folks too much to go around stealing. You might think different, but I’m telling the truth.”

“Go on.”

“So I decided to lay in the bend and watch out for Mister Jessie and put the freeze on any larceny the woman comes up with. Because after all, I’m an old whiskey drinker while he was just starting. So it wouldn’t be long before he’d be needing the benefits of my drinking experience. But although I’m watching like a hawk when he takes his first drink I’m unable to gauge just how hard it’s hitting him. Anyway, he’s asking Miss Duval if she enjoyed her profession, and she’s saying something about her life being rich and full of surprises on account of her enjoying the trade of important gentlemen like congressmen and senators. And …”

“What! Are you sure about that,” the Sergeant said with alarm, “are you sure?”

“That’s right,” McMillen said, “that’s what she told him.”

“You,” the Sergeant said to one of the officers, “I want a detailed, A-to-Z rundown on this woman. Check with the F.B.I. And you, boy, get on with it!”

But with that McMillen remained silent as he stared at his glass with a blank expression.

“I said get
on
with it,” the Sergeant repeated.

“Oh,” McMillen said with a start, “I didn’t realize you were speaking to me…. But in case you forgot it, my name’s Aubrey McMillen…. Now, let’s see what happens next: By now Mister Jessie is drinking whiskey so fast it’s like he’s dying of thirst, but I still can’t see any change in his manners. He’s just sitting there in his coffin looking like a judge while the lady is talking. Then after a while he asks me what kind of whiskey I brought him, and when I tell him to look at the label on the bottle he wants to know why he’s not getting some action.

“‘Just give it time, Dad,’ Miss Duval tells him, ‘because take it from Cordelia, it’s truly the finest.’

“Then she downs some more whiskey and takes a slow look around the room and says, ‘Dad, this is a fine little pad you have, even though it’s a bit overfurnished. What do you do for a living?’ And when Mister Jessie says he’s retired, she waves her hand in the air and says, ‘You wouldn’t kid me would you, Dad? I’ve been around, and while you
might
be retired, a slick spook like you must have been in the rackets. I can tell from this layout. Dad, you probably peddled cocaine, or maybe fenced illegal goods on the side.’

“But instead of telling her to get the hell out of his house, Mister Jessie tells me to pour her a drink and have one myself.

“Then he says, ‘Miss Duval, the only way I ever came close to breaking the law was by not telling my telephone customers that the party on this end of the line was a black man. Or when I concealed the fact that my post-office box was
rented by a black businessman. Yes, and in failing to advertise the fact that the man who paid for my newspaper and magazine ads wasn’t white.’ And then he starts telling her all about his real business.

“Gentlemen, remember all that stuff you saw in that big room back there? Well, years ago Mister Jessie started buying stuff like that and selling it. Which was his way of making his living. He’d drive down South to buy it and bring it up here, and after cleaning and fixing whatever needed it, he’d sell it through ads in the magazines and newspapers. Folks down South thought he was working for a white man, and up here he’d only let a few special white folks come here to see him. But with most of them he’d play like he was just looking after things for a white man. That way he didn’t have arguments, and if they asked him to come down on his price he’d say he was sorry, but that he had to sell whatever they wanted for the price he’d been told to charge them….”

“In other words,” the Sergeant said, “he was a crook and a con man.”

“No, but if that’s how you see him,” McMillen said, “that’s how you see him. But to me he was simply a smart businessman. And a very hard worker. When old D.C. houses were being torn down he’d turn up dressed in his overalls and driving his old horse and wagon. Then he’d buy up the marble and wood they had on the fireplaces and the panels they had on the walls. And after he’d scraped off the paint some of them would turn out to be made out of fine kinds of woods, like oak, mahogany, and maple. And he’d grab up fancy old staircases, picture moldings, and all kinds of other old stuff. Sometimes he’d even get it for nothing because the builders were so glad to have him haul it away while charging them nothing.

“Then after he cleaned and restored it he’d take some pictures and send them to folks in the business. Like decorators and folks who put on plays in theaters, and for a while there he had him some of those old-time electric automobiles that steered with a handle. But his specialty was china and crystal. He was really nuts about those.

“‘Miss Duval,’ he says, ‘you see all that fine porcelain I have in that cabinet behind me? Well, I came in contact with some of the grown-up children of the white folks who owned it, and I know more about its quality than ever they dreamed of. They didn’t even value it enough to hold on to it, and yet they thought they were superior to me because I’m black. So they considered me crazy for wanting it. So as a result I was able to buy crates and crates of the fine things which they didn’t value. Like fine English shotguns, Italian candelabra, a variety of crystal, and fine pieces of furniture. And after a while it wasn’t simply a matter of my making a living, because in time I came to love the meaning of fine craftsmanship and set out to perserve it. Which is what those white folks should have done instead of worrying so much about their bloodlines, most of which are riddled with consumption, rickets, and cancer. And the ones who sold me the fine things they were eager to get rid of should have kept them and made
sure that their descendants learned to appreciate them. But instead they keep holding on to things that’ll fade with their dying.

“‘So you, see, Miss Duval,’ he says, ‘I tried to preserve what I could to the best of my knowledge. Which meant that I had to learn something of what it was about the things I bought which made them far more valuable than the question of money. And why some were considered superior to other examples of the very same order. So I grew to value the fine craftmanship of beautiful art as I loved the order which God had imposed on the universe….’

“And gentlemen, right there was the point when his liquor ups and knocks the hell out of poor Mister Jessie. He stared at the lady with his eyes all shiny and bulging and he says, ‘Miss Duval, it’s all a part of God’s magnificent design! Consider the silkworm’s cocoon and the intricate design of the butterfly’s wings. Sunrise and sunset, moonrise and daybreak, the four seasons wheeling through space as they bring forth the flowers and fruit of their foreordained cycles.

“‘Miss Duval,’ he says, ‘did it ever occur to you that as fragile as they are, snowflakes are as much the flowers of winter as violets and roses are the flowers of spring? Nighttime and daytime, coolness and balminess, hotness and coldness, sweetness and tartness, pepper pods and sugar lumps, wood grain and stone grain, rubber tires and steel rails, bird’s-eye maple and flame-grained mahogany, orderly rotation and wild propagation …’

“And that’s when Miss Duval breaks in and says, ‘Wait, Dad, what the hell are you getting at?’ And he says, ‘The world’s unity of opposites, Miss Duval, its sublime unity of opposites …’

“And that’s when Miss Duval burps with a giggle and says, ‘So don’t forget fried ham and eggs, Dad. And boys like you and girls like me, which is a fine combination and a sweet little deal.’ To which Mister Jessie says, ‘Yes, that’s true!’ Then he starts going on about what he calls the arts of the manly husband and the womanly wife, and mind-sharpening teachers and tender-care nurses. And Miss Duval says, ‘And don’t leave out us professional gals like lil ole me.’

“And hit by all that liquored-up talk I says, ‘Y’all better balance that whiskey with something to eat, otherwise you’ll be looping like kites before you know what you’re doing.’ And Mister Jessie says, ‘You’re right, McMillen, so bring us some sandwiches and stuff from the kitchen, including some oysters.’

“So I take a good look at the way that money was scattered on the floor and head for the kitchen….”

“Hold it, McMillen,” the Sergeant said. “Before you worked as a super what did you do for a living?”

“I worked at racetracks.”

“Doing what?”

“Well, in the beginning it was exercising the horses. And along with that I started clocking gaits and their speed on the tracks. Then pretty soon I got so good at it that I started selling hot tips to the gamblers. I guess you could call me
a tout for the touts. Because by working for some of the big-time stables I learned all about the bloodlines of horses. Like what stable’s stud sired what foal out of what stable’s mare, and the fees that it cost the mare’s owners for having her foaled. I even remembered most of the colors used by the big stables….”

“How the hell could you remember all that?”

“I had to,” McMillen said, “because in the beginning I read very poorly. But then, after putting my mind to reading and writing I found out that my memory was so good that I could tick off the bloodlines of horses like one of our old-time preachers reciting all that begatting and fighting that’s found in the Bible.”

“You might have that kind of memory, but I doubt it,” the Sergeant said, “but go on.”

“Take it or leave it,” McMillen said, “but sometimes having a memory like mine can be more of a curse than a blessing. Anyway, when I get back with the grub Mister Jessie starts raving again.

“He says, ‘Look at me, Miss Duval, years ago by denying the truth of our human condition I bought this coffin and tried to live a life of the spirit. I bought it to guarantee my safe conveyance into the afterlife, but what happens? Hell, it turned out that for years I’d let myself be tricked as to the here-and-now and the there-and-then, and tricked my
own
damned self as to the cloudy hereafter!’

“‘I can see where you’re sitting, Dad,’ Miss Duval says, ‘but what happened?’ And Mister Jessie looks down at her and says, ‘I’ll tell you what happened: When I took a look inside the damn thing and the bugs and worms saw me they damn near cracked up laughing at me. Here, I’ll show you.’

“And with that he reaches inside and drops a little ole moth worm on the lid there in front of him. ‘Come close, Miss Duval, and you can hear this one laughing.’

“‘No thank you, doll,’ Miss Duval says, ‘but how does he sound?’ And Mister Jessie says, ‘Like the sound of a tooth which I cracked on a pickled pig knuckle. And others like ten-penny nails scratching on glass, or an old rusty gate when it swings in the wind.’ At which Miss Duval laughs and says, ‘Dad, you’re better than a three-ring circus.’ ‘Don’t laugh,’ he says, ‘because these damn little rascals are knocking themselves out from laughing at human futility. No wonder their friends, the damn silverfish, were ruining my books and me unable to find where they were coming from!’

“So then while I’m pouring more drinks Miss Duval says, ‘Dad, if you were given your wish on your birthday, what would it be?’ And that’s when Mister Jessie thinks a bit and runs his eyeglasses up and down on that chain he’s wearing and says, ‘Miss Duval, I’d get dressed in my best suit of clothes, my best fedora, and my best pair of shoes, and then I’d take my best walking cane and set out for an early morning stroll. And when the President takes off on his early morning ride from the White House I’d be standing at the gate and waiting. And when his chauffeur stops to see if the way is clear I’d step up to his limousine and greet him. “Good morning, Mister President, sir,” I’d say, “I’m Mister Jessie
Rockmore, and one of our nation’s senior citizens.” And then I’d say, “Mister President, I think you should know that I was here in D.C. when your exalted position was held by President Lincoln, and though only a lad I was often nearby when he passed through these gates. Furthermore, I’ve been living right here while all the presidents who followed, including General Ulysses S. Grant, Warren G. Harding, and Franklin Delano Roosevelt, occupied the White House. And as you can see without asking, I count for very little in the scheme of things political, but I’ll tell you something that you might well have missed: If this nation has to have a man in
your
position, it also has to have men in
my
position who’ve accepted the responsibility of keeping a hopeful eye on your actions. So for years I’ve devoted a great deal of my time to president-watching, while hoping and praying that things would get better both for the nation, for them, and for me. Therefore I want you to know that I’ve prayed that like President Lincoln you have been given the strength to meet the demands of your office, and that the cares of the Republic would never prove too much of a burden for the strength of your mind, your temper, and your power of will. And Mister President, as a watchful observer I think you should know how much this country is changing. Because at three-forty-five this morning I reached the ripe old age of ninety-five years, and I want you to know that after all that time of watching and waiting I, Jessie Wellington Rockmore, no longer have faith in this nation’s bright promises. So as of now, here at the gate of the White House, I’m relieving you and myself of the burden of my watching and waiting. So sir, I want you to think on this development’s significance when you’re sitting in that oval office of yours and dealing with the fateful affairs of this nation. Because what
you
think of as
peace
I consider to be nothing more than the late Reconstruction continuing in vacillating words and the endless manipulation of self-interest and prejudice.” Then I’d say, “Mister President, take a walk among people like me and you’ll get at the roots of your problem.” ‘