“What!”
“You see? It sounds improbable, but it happened! Evidently on an earlier visit he rubbed one of the girls the wrong way and she complained to the madam that she’d been sexually molested. So this time the madam had a gang of pimps waiting, and once the honorable gent got stripped for action they broke into the room and gave him one hell of a whipping.”
“They actually whipped him?”
“That’s right! They made a premeditated attack on a United States congressman with rawhide whips!”
“What do you mean by premeditated?” Wilhite said.
“Planned in advance!”
“Oh, I know the meaning of the word,” Wilhite said, “but I don’t see …”
“Hell,” the detective said, “it had to be! The whips were so new that they still had Kentucky sales tags glued to the handles!”
“Now I’ve never heard everything,” Hickman said. “But it sounds as though he ran into some fellows who were making an act of personal revenge look like a new form of political protest. Which is most unusual, even for pimps….”
“Unusual? Not with fellows like Barnes politicizing everything from assault and battery to sleeping in doorways!”
“Maybe so,” Hickman said, “but if a thing like that can happen in Washington, this country must be changing faster than I thought.”
“And for the worse,” the detective said. “Even the kids are losing respect for the law. Last week I picked up a ten-year-old white runaway and she came at me with a knife—and a switchblade at that! And only a few weeks earlier I had to arrest the teenage son of one of the District’s wealthiest families for attempted rape of his mother! Which is incest! So don’t tell me that there’s anything unbelievable about a Neg … about … about a black bootlegger murdering his friend!”
Studying the detective’s flushed face, Hickman leaned forward and frowned with the implications of what the white man had said, started to say, and left unsaid echoing in his mind.
“So you see, Reverend,” the detective said, “you men of the cloth might know all about the human soul, but when it comes to what’s happening in the area of crime, those of us who have to deal with it daily are much better informed. And by the way, if you ever think of reporting me for what I’m saying, my name is Morrison. Detective Morrison.”
“I get your point,” Hickman said, “but am I to take it that you’re convinced that McMillen actually took his friend’s life?”
“That’s exactly how it shapes up for me.”
“Then his trouble is tripled….”
“And what does that mean?”
“That in taking a man’s life he’s also lost a friend, and when the news reaches his sister it’ll probably destroy her….”
“Well, at least you appreciate his predicament. Would either of you mind telling me if he had someone phone you to get over here?”
“Now wait,” Hickman said. “Why would he do that?”
“To have you advise him … get him a lawyer….”
“But how could he? The man doesn’t even know we’re in Washington.”
“By now he does, because he’s been told of your being here on the premises. Still, he could have known that already. So how about you, Deacon?”
“Did somebody call me? Of course not!”
“There’s your answer,” Hickman said. “No one called either of us. So now, after coming here hoping to persuade McMillen to visit his sister, it looks like we’ll have to find him a lawyer.”
“He’ll need one,” Morrison said, and as the sound of loud voices arose in the hall he headed away.
“I’ve had enough of this,” he called. “You two stay put and I’ll be with you in a second.”
“A.Z.,” Wilhite said, “the deeper we sink in this mess the stronger it stinks! And Morrison probably stirred it up by trying to impress those Washington Negroes with his whiteness instead of using the authority that comes with his badge!”
“Whatever it was,” Hickman said, “Barnes’ big mouth or their being upset over what might be happening to McMillen and his boss. Either way, that’s one white man who’s being educated in what it’s like to deal with our folks when we’re truly upset and angry.”
“Yes, A.Z., and he deserved it for bossing folks around and using slavery-time psychology with his Northern accent. And then he has the nerve to try intimidating a couple of old-timers like us with his jive talk! How long, A.Z., how long will it take white folks to accept the fact that we’re just as American and contentious, as them?”
“As of now, Wilhite my friend, we’ll have to leave that to heaven. But I’ll say this: That act he pulled in the hall was so disgusting that for a second I had trouble deciding whether to laugh, cry, or get myself arrested for kicking his butt. But then, after he got us in here the poor man surprised me by sounding more intelligent—so maybe it’s simply a matter of numbers. Having to deal with that many upset Negroes all by himself probably made him feel threatened. While in here and alone with only the two of us he felt more secure. Even so, there’s something he’s not telling us….”
“Like what?”
“Like his reason for thinking that McMillen would kill anyone, much less his friend.”
“Right! And that bootlegging business. That new lady friend of yours out there denies knowing anything about it, but the way I see it that woman’s either drunk or out of her mind—where on earth did she come up with such a cockeyed wig?”
“Shame on you, Deacon, you’re forgetting your charity! How would you look if somebody roused you out of bed in the middle of the night? Besides, this place does smell like a still and we’ve been breathing the same liquored-up air that she has. And as far as her tale about losing babies goes, remember that we flew here chasing after a mixed-up dream of our oivn….”
Hearing the slam of the door followed by the sound of bumping and cursing, Hickman turned to see Detective Morrison hurrying toward them with his face red and taut with anger.
“Detective Morrison,” he said, “it’s getting on toward morning, so since we have little time in Washington and many things to do while we’re here, couldn’t you ask your chief to question us now and let us get some sleep? We’d appreciate it….” “Not now,” Morrison snapped as he headed for the room behind them.
“I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“A.Z.,” Wilhite said, “it looks as though Barnes has finally got that white man up a tree, and now …”
But before Wilhite could finish Morrison called through the slightly cracked door, “Doctor Hickman, do I have it correct that the message you have is from a Mrs. Caroline Prothoroe?”
“Yes, Officer, that’s right.”
“And when did you see her last?”
“Two days ago,” he said, moving forward. “Just before our group left home for Washington.”
“Group? What group?”
“The members of our congregation who made the trip with us.”
“And how many would that be?”
“Forty-four, including myself and Deacon Wilhite.”
“And where are they now?”
“Getting some rest at the Hotel Longview—at least I hope so, considering all we’ve planned for tomorrow.”
Suddenly Morrison swung the door a bit wider.
“And are you saying that all of you are stopping at the Longvieiv?”
“That’s right, Officer, all forty-four.”
And amused by the note of white surprise in Morrison’s voice he turned to Wilhite and winked as he added, “With such an unusual opportunity finally open to folks like us, how could we resist it?”
But now, turning back to gauge the effect of his needling, he saw Morrison writing with his notebook pressed high against the door’s inner frame; and taking the opportunity of observing McMillen being given the third degree by a ring of white detectives, he peered past Morrison’s shoulder and found himself looking at the face of an elderly brown-skinned man who stared angrily in his dir
ection.
Glaring from a high, throne-like position, the man sat facing the door with his head thrown back and chin thrust forward as though shouting a protest at his intrusion. But as he strained to hear what the man was shouting there was only the scratching of Morrison’s pen. And with an involuntary step forward he saw in a flash that the old man’s torso protruded from the upper section of a decayed wooden coffin with his shoulder pressing the faded silk lining of its wide-open lid. And in noting the regal posture with which the man was sitting he snatched off his hat in a spontaneous gesture of respect for the dead….
But even as his mind recorded the imperious thrust of the old man’s chin, his striped ascot tie, and the black braided lapels of his gray morning coat, he was shocked to see two gnarled, work-worn hands resting on the closed lower section of the coffin that were clinching the stem of a tall crystal glass and the neck of a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s whiskey!
And with the eerie juxtaposition of the coffin, the corpse, and the hands grasping whiskey awhirl in his mind, it was as though he were listening to a symphonic orchestra that had leaped without warning from a solemn requiem to a bebopping frenzy. And as he struggled to hold on to his sanity by trying to account for the man’s elevated position, he realized with a start that the worm-eaten coffin rested high on a table, on the forward edge of which he saw a tray piled high with soul food: cornbread, baked yams, serving dishes filled with boiled black-eyed peas, fatback, and rice. Yes, it was hopping John! And in struggling to reconcile the nightmarish juxtaposition of corpse, whiskey, and the funeral-feast food of his Southern tradition he saw that the floor underneath was strewn with yellow-back banknotes, crumpled documents, and life-insurance policies. And suddenly recalling that white detectives were somewhere in the room, his bewilderment flared to anger.
Yet even as he willed to whirl and scan the shadows for a rational answer, his agitated eyes were stubbornly probing the coffin, table, and paper-strewn floor for the one missing detail which would reconcile the scene’s mounting discord with reality. And although thwarted in finding that missing detail, he was certain that it would be no more unusual than a postage stamp, dollar bill, or birth certificate; and therefore so common to his everyday experience that even its sign, symbol, or echo in memory would be enough to exorcise the outrageous mockery of solemn ritual with which the scene was mocking and punishing his sense of reality.
Then as he stared from the paper-littered floor to the glowering corpse, its dilapidated coffin underwent an abrupt metamorphosis by suddenly taking the form of a wave-battered boat at which he was staring through the transparent pages of a huge open Bible. And with its airy pages of Scripture fluttering above the old man’s head, it was as though he, Hickman, had summoned them up out of his desperate effort to provide soul-saving sails for a sailor atoss in turbulent seas. Then in a flash the vision had vanished, leaving him restored to that complex sense of reality which his life, both worldly and spiritual, had conditioned him not only to perceive but accept as the ever-unpredictable embodiment of all that was blues-like, enigmatic, and grave in human experience.
And now, surging with a mixture of terror and laughter, he thought, Hickman, you’ll probably never get at the secret that binds this pitiful mess together, but it has to involve some preposterous but soul-staking act of human frustration. See for yourself: There sits the man in his worm-eaten coffin while grasping those alcoholic spirits to ease the terror of his worldly departure. And there underneath lies his neglected cash and his death-canceled life-insurance policies. He even remembered to provide the traditional feast of hopping John and yams to be enjoyed by the friends he would soon leave behind him—And yet, being human and frail, he forgets his soul-saving Bible—good Lord! What a confounding parable of our worldly condition! But then, how else could we Negroes deal with life’s hardships and stresses except with tears, prayers, and soul-easing laughter?
And now, calmed by his Bible-and-blues-nurtured sense of life’s birth-to-death cycling, he took a deep breath of the whiskey-laden air and realized that he might have been made the butt of a ghoulish joke being played by white detectives who were probably looking on from the shadows while cracking their sides in suppressing their laughter.
If so, he thought, as he stared at spots of dampness on the old man’s sleeves, they have no idea of how often even Negro preachers have to face the dregs of life’s pain and squalor in doing their best when dealing with suffering. And hearing someone approaching behind him, he waited for the next ghastly move in the gruesome game.
“Move in, Doctor,” a calm voice said, “then take a closer look and tell me if you recognize that man.”
Turning, he saw a blond, heavy-set white man of his own height and build who wore a blue sport shirt, rumpled seersucker jacket, and a tan summer hat. And as the man regarded him out of watery blue eyes, he saw a gold badge pinned to his left lapel, and beneath it a black plastic bar embossed with the words “Lt. Jeffrey Tillman.”
“No, sir, I don’t,” he said.
And carefully avoiding scattered banknotes, documents, and a framed set of army discharge papers which lay among them, he moved toward the man in the coffin.
“No, sir, I’ve never seen this man before—but what happened, was it a stroke or heart attack?”
“As of now,” the large man said, “all we know for certain is that he’s dead as a doornail.”
“But why is he sitting there like he changed his mind about dying in the midst of his funeral?”
“Now that’s a good question,” the white man said with a nod, “and if we come up with the answer it’ll save me and the District a lot of time and expense….”
“That’s right, Reverend,” a new voice called from the shadows, “and a hell of a lot of trouble. As you can see, your friend there climbed pretty dam high for such an old guy—but then, not having the good Finnian luck of old Timothy the in-again-out-again Finnegan, he blew it. Even getting splashed with whiskey wasn’t enough to save him. So now,” the voice added with a mock sigh of sadness, “you’ll never see your friend again—at least not awake again.”
Offended by the lilting accent and self-satisfied tone of the new speaker’s voice, he looked past the blond detective to see a younger man who looked back with a smirk on his freckled, college boy’s face.
Finnegan, he thought. With a dead man sitting here in a coffin this young clown comes up with a joke from an old Irish ballad I used to riff on my trombone back in my days in vaudeville? May the Lord forgive his wise-cracking soul!
And turning from the joker with a snort of disgust he looked from the lieutenant to the man in the coffin.
“But Officer Tillman,” he said, “I can see that he’s dead, but why did he climb in there in the first place?”
“That I don’t know,” Tillman said, “but let’s say that whatever his motive he turned out to be a bit previous.”
Hearing the word “previous,” Hickman stared, wondering if he were hearing more of a tasteless joke. But no, Tillman’s face appeared to be grave and serious.
“Previous,” he said, “are you telling me that he climbed in there before he died?”
“Yes—or before his friend did him in.”
And suddenly giving the shadows beyond the coffin a sweep of his eyes he thought, McMillen! I forgot all about McMillen!
“But what was he doing in there in the first place?”
“That’s exactly what we’re trying to determine. But as of now the one thing we do know is that they’d been drinking—the evidence is there in his hands. Are you sure you don’t know him?”
“No, sir, I’ve never even seen him before. Who is he?”
“He’s Jessie Rockmore, the owner of this cockeyed building. Did Aubrey McMillen ever mention him to you?”
“No, sir. The first time I ever heard that name was out in the hall. And as I told Detective Morrison, it’s been thirty years or more since I had personal contact with McMillen…. But this poor man—can�
��t we get him down from there,
or at least stretch him out? No matter what happened it’s disrespectful to leave any man’s corpse in that position. And by the way, have you gotten in touch with his minister?”
“No, Reverend, nor with anyone else,” the detective said. “All that has to wait until the medical examiner has a look at him.”
“I see, but I hope it’s soon, because leaving him in that condition is most un-Christian.
And now that I think of it, what about Aubrey McMillen? I was told he was here being questioned….”
“Take it easy, Reverend,” the detective said, “I was just coming to that.”
Then, moving toward the coffin, Tillman stopped beside a high-backed, slipcovered chair that faced the coffin and reached down.
“All right, fellow,” he said, “turn around and let the Reverend here have a look at you. No! Don’t try to stand, you might not make it. Just look around—and don’t touch that table!”
And with the detective stepping aside he saw a man’s blue-sheathed arm reaching around the high back of the chair. Then came a face that lolled as its chin came to rest on the chair’s slip-covered top, and as the bleary eyes focused upward he was looking at an older but easily recognizable Aubrey McMillen.
“Hickman?” Aubrey said. “Are you really A. Z. Hickman, the slide-trombone man?”
“Yes, Aubrey,” he said, “I am. I’ve changed a bit but it’s been quite a long time since you’ve seen me….”
“Well, I’ll be damn,” McMillen said, “they been telling me you were out there! But hell, I took it for some more of their jive! But look here, let’s get this straight: How come they called you Doctor? Now me, I been drinking, but hearing something like that is enough to confuse even Einstein and George Washington Carver! Because, hell, man, the Hickman I used to know was a gut-bucket bluesman! You mean to tell me the white folks done up and made you a Ph.D. of gut-bucket music?”
“Not quite, Aubrey,” he said with a grin, “but as you know, even bluesmen can change. So I’ve been a minister for a long time now and I’m surprised that you haven’t heard it.”
Three Days Before the Shooting . . . Page 99
