“Now, you stop it right now.”
Liza directed Sabina back into the cage and closed the door. The tiger lowered her head and retreated to a neutral corner of the cage. “I’m tired, and I’m not dealing with you two tonight.”
As she left the tent, Hope fell in beside her. Bombardier followed at a discreet distance. Carnival tents and rides were unassembled, their run in Lake Charles at an end.
“I caught Clay carrying something in a sack from the red trailer,” Liza said.
Hope turned to look at her as they walked. The commotion over, the other carnies had retreated to their respective sleeping spots; some were under trailers or wagons, while those who ran a show and pulled in some money had bunks in shared trailers. The night was still—too quiet. Few stars dotted the sky.
“Remember when I said you weren’t supposed to ask about what goes on in the red trailer?”
Liza gave her the side-eye. “Don’t act like you ain’t the least bit curious.”
“Did you get a glimpse of what he was carrying?”
“Not a chance,” Liza said. “But I’m going to find out.”
“Stay out of it,” Hope said without much conviction. Liza wondered at her friend’s tone. “I’d rather collect my pay and not worry about it.”
“Suit yourself.”
“I’ll see ya in the morning.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE CLUES ARE EVIDENT
“You’d be in the way.” Jamey pushed past the animal tamer. She was angling to go along with him and Clay on the short ride into Houston, where they were headed to ask about setting up for a carnival run. Those times he got to slip away from the carnival and be a man were his. His. Clay understood that and gave him space. This girl needed to get it in her head that she couldn’t tag along whenever the notion struck her. It would be like having his mother’s ghost cutting her eyes over his shoulder the whole time.
“We go in, negotiate the fee, and get out,” Clay added. “All I need is for some yokel to take a shine to you, and I got another fight on my hands, or somethin’ worse.”
It was before dawn, and but for the few stray dogs that inevitably appeared whenever they set up, things were quiet. The trailers were still sprawled out in the serpentine line in which they’d traveled and then arrived on the outskirts of sleepy Houston’s Fifth Ward. Jamey was itching to steal away.
“I can take care of myself.” The girl trotted forward and jumped in front of them. She was walking backward, so she didn’t see the rock in the path, or the mischievous glint in Jamey’s eye, before her heel connected with it. She stumbled and toppled over onto her back in a dusty thud.
“Yeah.” Jamey chuckled but still could not look her in the eye—something he was sure she noticed and was glad she never made mention of. “That much is clear as a bell.” Still, he stuck out a hand and hauled her to her feet.
“Truth is, I want to get a look at the place. Haven’t seen it since . . .” She looked away too. “I was with my family. Long time ago.”
“You don’t hold no water for your kin, do ya?” Jamey asked.
Liza shifted her feet. “I got . . .” She fumbled over whatever she was about to say and picked at a ragged fingernail instead. “I got a little sister.”
She took the picture of her family out of her satchel and passed it to Jamey. He studied it a minute before he handed it to Clay.
“Fine,” Clay said. Jamey cut his eyes at him, but he didn’t spare him a glance. “If you ain’t at the truck in ten minutes, I’ll reckon you had a change a heart. This is a mostly Negro town anyway, but don’t go gettin’ yourself into trouble. That ain’t what we here for. And don’t go flappin’ your gums neither. Let me or Jamey do the talkin’.”
Jamey huffed. He didn’t need this girl nosing around after him. He was looking forward to uncovering what lay at the town’s underbelly. “You sure ’bout—”
“And another thing.” Clay turned serious, thrusting the photo back at Liza. “Don’t go thinking we can take on any brats, even if they are your kin. Ain’t even got a show set up yet. And if you don’t have one soon, I’ll bounce you out on your behind.”
Jamey rolled his eyes. Clay was always going on about stray kids, as if stray dogs weren’t more likely to attach themselves to the carnival. Especially since Liza had joined them—the dogs had doubled in number, causing all kinds of mischief by the food tent and stinking up the place with their shit. They never crossed over into the carnival, though, and they kept some of the dumber thieves and lowlifes who tried to sneak in away, so the carnies put up with them.
In a mirror image of the first time they’d met, Jamey, Clay, and Liza piled into the truck on their way into the small but surprisingly prosperous Fifth Ward. Jamey drove, gripping the steering wheel harder than was strictly called for, squinting against the building sunlight. He managed to chuckle as the little marmoset tumbled off the dashboard twice before settling on Liza’s lap, but really he felt about as comfortable as a proper Englishwoman in a cotton field. His body seemed pulled into itself, as small as he could make it, plastered against the door. When they hit a bump in the road, his leg touched Liza’s and he pulled it back as if he’d been burned.
Clay looked over at them both. “What you two all wound up about?”
Jamey shot Clay a dirty glance. Clay could be a right asshole sometimes.
Liza answered, “Ask your right hand there. I don’t have the faintest idea what his problem is.”
Jamey kept on driving. She annoyed him to no end, but he couldn’t shake the fact that, given the chance, he’d love to be alone with her. How far would she let him go? They crested a ridge that overlooked Houston, the road smooth as they approached. Haphazardly placed but well-constructed little shotgun houses lay all along the path. They passed a fenced-in graveyard, not more than thirty paces across, with an archway entrance with a large cross on top. The graves were neat, some with fresh flowers.
Some locals were already outside tending small plots of land, sweeping dusty steps. A woman hanging sheets over a clothing line and taking great swats at them paused to wave and called out, “Good morning!”
The trio waved back and bounced along into town. Like most of the places they visited, the Fifth Ward featured a main street with smart-looking buildings: a barbershop, general and clothing stores, restaurants. A three-story hotel was flanked by an impressive church and a movie theater. And everywhere, the people were Negro. Jamey hadn’t noticed another white face besides Clay’s. He snickered. The locals had built up a real nice place here, no doubt, but Aunt Queenie had the real money. And the real power: fear.
He rolled down the window and waved over a young boy of about twelve. “Mornin’, son, can you tell me where I can find the local police?”
The boy looked past Jamey into the truck and eyed Liza and Clay before he answered. “Down that way a spell, next to Mrs. Beaulah’s dress shop.” The boy ran off like he had an important appointment to get to.
“Kids these days ain’t got a bit of manners.” Jamey rolled up the window and drove down the street, where he soon found the local law enforcement office and parked outside.
As they filed out of the truck stretching, Liza peered up and down the street in evident awe.
“Best if you wait here,” Clay said. “Jamey and me will handle this. Don’t go wandering off.”
Liza made a flourish of waving them on. “I’ll be right here like a good little filly.”
“Come out of your mouth,” Clay called over his shoulder. “Not mine.”
Jamey and Clay knocked once and entered the police office as a voice welcomed them in. The space was larger than it looked from the outside. Two large, barred windows sat on either side of the doorway, benches to the right and left, where anxious friends and family had likely spent many an hour. A long counter separated the waiting area from the office space, and behind its width, according to the shiny badge on his shirt, stood the officer in charge. He was a big barrel of a man
with a raised scar like a misplaced smile curving out from his right eye down to his mouth. The gray hair sprinkled throughout the black marked him a seasoned man, but the smooth charcoal skin made his age hard to pin down.
“Name’s Jamey Blotter.” Jamey stuck out his hand, any traces of the angst he’d felt when he was around Liza shed. “This here is Mr. Clay Kennel, owner and proprietor of the G. B. Bacchanal Carnival.”
The officer shook Jamey’s hand first.
“Officer Anderson,” the big man said and then gestured for them to pass through the swinging gate at the far end of the counter. Jamey and Clay settled into chairs in front of the man’s desk, while he sat, hands clasped together, on the edge, looking down at them. “And you’d like to set up your carnival here in our little spot?”
“That’s right,” Jamey said. He made it a point not to look at Clay, who sat as unobtrusively as possible, complicit in the little game they played with the law. He took the lead in a white town, Jamey the lead in Negro-run towns. The other piped in only where necessary. “Assuming we can work out a deal that suit you.”
Officer Anderson rose and circled behind his desk. He removed a red handkerchief from his back pocket, shook it out with a flick of his wrist, and ran it over a framed yellow newspaper clipping hanging from the wall. In large, bold letters, the headline read: Famed Officer Harley Anderson of Houston’s Prosperous All-Negro Fifth Ward.
Clay and Jamey exchanged a glance. The officer went on to reposition the frame, which had slanted down a little too far to the right.
Finally, Officer Anderson turned and hooked his thumbs into his belt loops and rocked back and forth on his heels as if considering a matter of national importance. After a time, he settled into his chair, slid his feet up on the desk, and leaned back. “All depends on what you gentlemen got to offer.”
“We’re a small show,” Jamey said, commencing with his sales pitch. “Got more colored acts and workers than any other carnival in these here un-United States. Reckoned this was a show your town would want to see. We’re prepared to work out a deal.” He stopped short of offering a price first.
“What figure you got in mind?” The officer wouldn’t let him off the hook.
“Anybody ’sides you need, uh, to be convinced on the merits of our little show?” Jamey asked. He sensed Clay’s approval, but his boss’s face remained impassive.
“I don’t suppose there is.”
Jamey leaned forward, caught himself, and eased back in the chair. He’d have to name a price, but he didn’t want to seem too eager. “Would ten dollars cover the necessary licenses and such?”
“Twelve dollars sounds better to my ears, son.” The officer couldn’t mask the excitement on his own face. “Kick in a little something from the back end, and if your carnival folk would be good enough to spend some of their money here in town, we could waive the inspection fee.”
It was time to close the deal. Jamey, proud of his negotiation, relaxed. His part was over.
“You run a hard bargain,” Clay said and then rose, counting out the bills.
“And one more thing,” Anderson added, pointing a finger at each man. “I know you got women of ill repute run with these kinda shows. But we got a decent town here. No full nudity and no after-the-show specials. We understand one another?”
“Yes, sir,” Jamey and Clay said in unison.
“Shall we drink to it?” The officer reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of whiskey and three shot glasses.
Jamey shared a few shots and then excused himself. He had other business to see to.
He walked into a corner store to get some tobacco and took in the offerings crammed into the tight space.
“You looking or buying?” Liza asked, standing too close. Jamey silently cursed himself when he moved back a step.
“Can a man take some time to decide?” Jamey turned and ambled down an aisle. She was right behind him, probably laughing.
“Wait a minute,” she said. She paused at some colorful baskets hanging on the wall. She marched up to the shop owner with a basket. “Where did you get this basket?”
“A good day to you, too, ma’am.” The man hiked up his chin and his pants at the same time. The belt around his waist was already pulled tight to the last hole.
Liza exhaled, loud and all bothered-like. “Excuse my manners. A good morning to you, sir.”
“What you doing traveling with him and that white man I saw earlier? I don’t see no ring on your finger.”
Jamey winced. Old people didn’t know how to mind their own business.
Liza huffed. “I work with them, at the carnival, sir.”
“Humph,” the old shopkeeper said. “Young girl by yourself traveling with a carnival? That ain’t no life for you. Where are your peoples? You done run off and now wanna go back home?”
Liza rubbed her forehead; Jamey tensed. “Other way around. They left me.”
“And you got some sort of score to settle, that it?”
Now Jamey was getting riled. The man had no right to ask all these questions. The girl, though, was cool as they come. “Nothing like that.”
The old man narrowed his eyes and, after a moment’s contemplation, finally started stacking up his supplies again.
“Was a woman, quiet thing, passed through here with a man. She was your spittin’ image, though.”
Liza perked up. “Are they still here?”
Something in Jamey stirred. If those were her people . . . she might be inclined to go off and join them. And it hit him: he didn’t want her to.
“Said they passed through,” the man said, to Jamey’s relief. “Traded for some supplies and moved on.”
“Did they have a little girl with them?”
“Naw, they was by themselves.”
“Thanks.”
Jamey felt strangely unsettled as the girl with the sharp tongue he’d come to appreciate seemed to slump into herself, her sparkle gone. He gently steered her out of the shop after hastily paying for his tobacco.
When the sun hit her face, she got some of that spirited manner back. “My selfish parents abandoned me so they could traipse off and have one less mouth to feed.”
Jamey didn’t know what to say to that. His family had their own troubles. He led her back to the truck. Clay was waiting for them, and they piled into the truck. Not another word passed between them as they rode back to the carnival.
Jamey headed back into town with a warning from Clay not to be too late. After Jamey’s mama died, he’d spent time up in Harlem with his aunt Queenie off and on. Summers, holidays, a birthday every now and again.
It was more than enough time to get a taste for the good life. She was a woman with power . . . and money. He came to appreciate the things she sent him and the way folks bowed down whenever she opened her mouth.
It was with her henchmen that he’d taken his first drink and learned the game of craps. The carnival had taken him away from all that, mostly. But every once in a good while, he was drawn back.
The Fifth Ward was exactly the kind of place to get lost in. He’d gotten away long enough to have a few drinks and was three hands down in a game of poker when Clay came to drag him away. He wanted to argue but didn’t. He pushed away from the table and the cards, downed the last of his drink. On the way back to the carnival, his mind wandered; he anticipated seeing the soft contours of Liza’s face and remembered the warmth of the whore’s bottom on his thigh while he played a winning hand.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
TWO SIDES OF THE COIN
In Houston’s Fifth Ward, the Depression had been no more than a looming, ugly storm cloud. It had gathered up steam and then billowed and buffeted. But when it came time to unleash its destruction, it tossed only a spattering of angry drops over the city and moved on, leaving most of the residents untouched.
Negro-owned businesses along Lyons Avenue largely survived, fueled in part by the opening of the Houston Ship Channel and the Southern Pacifi
c Railroad, where many of the middle-class Negro folks worked. They served to cushion against the worst of the Depression.
A good many of the locals could be said to be prosperous. And, as Clay witnessed, fairly free with their money, both at the carnival and in town. Other than your typical scuffle or two, nobody had caused trouble. Even Officer Anderson had made an obligatory appearance, checking a safety clasp here, questioning the workings of a game there. Clay tolerated the airs, knowing full well that the man’s real mission was to try and count up how much he might have coming on the back end.
What Clay could barely tolerate was that his trailer always had to be within spitting distance of Geneva’s, Zinsa and Efe standing at their posts as if the British guard were moments from attacking with a full military complement.
With the coming of dusk, the carnival was ready for another night in the Fifth Ward. The first time they’d put up banners and posters in the town, some night riders had come and torn them down. But they’d put some up again and spread a few warnings, and this time the posters stood.
The barker called out his ballyhoo, enticing the building crowd with the fun that awaited them on the other side of the entrance. The midway horseshoe was all set up, the most select games on the immediate right. With few exceptions, the marks flowed in that direction first, and the games never failed to loosen their grip on their coins.
Reprieve. Clay allowed himself a self-satisfied exhalation.
“Zinsa, Efe!” Ahiku called from within the trailer.
They took one look around, as if to ensure anyone lying in wait couldn’t attack them without warning. Zinsa followed Efe inside, where they each dropped to one knee.
“I suppose telling you not to do that anymore wouldn’t change it, would it?” Ahiku sat sprawled in a lounger beneath the window to the left of the door. She would sit there, beneath the open window, the pale-yellow curtain fluttering on a cool night, a faraway look in her eyes, as if contemplating the nature of her long life.
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