by David Fulmer
It was over in less than a half hour, and Mr. Purcell knew he had something. Giddy with excitement, he went about hustling the singer out of the hotel the same way he had come in. Though this time, it didn’t go quite as smoothly. As they hurried along the hallway, they failed to notice a guest who had opened his door and saw the young Negro carrying a guitar and plainly not hired help, in the company of two white men.
Every city had a tenderloin, and Central Avenue was Atlanta’s. Crossing over Hunter Street in a bleached afternoon sun, Joe failed to see much evidence of the crackdown he’d been hearing about during his travels. Maybe the police had other things to do that afternoon. It was a weekday, and that accounted for some of the calm. Friday and Saturday were the nights that raised the hackles, with the rowdy noise, drunkenness, and fighting, all amid a cascade of illicit commerce.
Now it was generally quiet. Joe had always thought it interesting that all the day-to-day iniquity along the avenue went on within sight of the second-floor windows of Girls High School, and no one seemed to mind. He couldn’t imagine what those innocent young ladies thought when they gazed and beheld the scarlet trade in full flush.
He had spent enough time on those blocks to know the house Mrs. Cotter had mentioned. It was on the east side of the street, just north of Mitchell. He found the address, knocked on the door, and was ushered in by a squat fellow who looked like he might have been a prizefighter at one time, his face a map of battered geography. Joe asked for Daisy and was told she was busy with a customer. He was invited to have a seat and wait. He said he’d rather come back in a little while.
He wandered down the avenue to Fair Street, then turned around and came up the other side, paying little attention to his surroundings as his thoughts drifted to another drunken cop, this one a Philadelphia detective named Glass, who regularly opined his long-held belief that if a coincidence occurred, it was rare. When two things happened in conjunction, he asserted, it was no accident. The detective liked to talk especially about the coincidence of a man being out of town when his hag of a wife met with a fatal accident.
“You know how many times that’s happened and the party was innocent?” he inquired. “Once in a blue fucking moon. In other words, right there next to never.”
Joe had taken that lesson with him, one of a few he learned while policing that he could still use. And so he couldn’t ignore the idea nibbling at the corners of his thoughts that the Payne mansion burglary and the shooting of Little Jesse were somehow tied together. Glass might have puzzled it out, but he was long dead, the bottle taking him as everyone assumed it would. Maybe his old friend Albert Nichols or his new pal Lieutenant Collins would step forward, but he wouldn’t hold his breath for either one.
When he arrived back at the house, the bouncer told him Daisy was free now.
“Upstairs, second door on the left,” the pug said. “It’s two dollars. You got fifteen minutes.”
Joe smiled, thinking of this boxcar of a man acting as the madam of the house. He felt the fellow’s eyes on him as he made his way up the stairs to knock on Daisy’s door.
“Come on in,” a woman’s voice called.
He stepped in to find her standing by a window that was filmed with brown soot, cast in profile and smoking a cigarette as she gazed out at the afternoon. She didn’t turn to him right away, and he took the moment to study her. She was short and thin and not bad-looking, with regular features except for a nose that was a little large for her face. Her hair was curly and bleached blond. She wore a kimono with a faded peacock design.
When Joe didn’t speak up, she turned to look at him.
“Afternoon,” she said. “What’s your pleasure?” From her tone, his pleasure was the last thing she cared about.
“I need a few minutes of your time,” Joe said. He laid his two dollar bills on the dresser to his right.
She gazed at him coolly, then glanced at the money, her mouth pinching in disgust. “You one of them wants to talk?” she said. “Ask me why I do? What led me to my life of sin? How I’m getting along spreading my legs or going down on my knees for a dozen men a day? Or what it’s like to put a—”
“That’s not what I’m here for,” Joe cut in. He gave her a curious glance. “You get a lot of that, do you?”
“Enough,” Daisy said.
“Well, I paid,” Joe said.
“All right, so talk,” she said. “Or I’ll tell you a hot story and you can jack yourself. Do whatever you came to do.”
“I came to ask you about J. R. Logue.”
She stopped, her face fell, and her mouth quivered a little. “I figured somebody’d be around about that,” she said flatly. “You ain’t a cop.” Joe shook his head. “Pinkerton?”
“Just someone with a few questions. And I pa—”
“—paid. I heard you. Okay, ask.” She stubbed her cigarette out and immediately lit another one from the pack on the table, the flare of the match illuminating the lines on her face.
Joe leaned against the wall next to the door, put his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. “How long did you know him?” he said.
“Six or seven years. Maybe longer.”
“He come by every week?”
“Every week. Same day, same time. Saturday at six o’clock. Before it got busy.” She smiled without a trace of humor. “While I was still . . . fresh.”
That gave Joe a moment’s pause. “Was he here last Saturday?”
“He was.”
“Anything different?”
She considered, and he could tell she was weighing her words. “Well, he didn’t look no different. He was wearing that brown suit of his. Same one he always wore. I think it was the only one he owned.”
Joe pictured the cop lying dead in the alley. “No, he had another one, too.”
She peered at him. “What?”
“Nothing. What else?”
She watched Joe through the curl of cigarette smoke, as if trying to decide something. Then she said, “Yeah, there was. He couldn’t do nothing. I tried to help, but it wasn’t no good. He got like that sometimes, because of the way he drank and all. I could always take care of him, though. Make him feel good. Not this time. It just didn’t work, and he told me to stop.” She shrugged. “Then he said he wanted to talk.”
“About what?”
She returned her gaze to the window. “About . . . about how things were about to change,” she said.
“Change how?”
The dim smile reappeared. “He asked me if I was ready to get out of here.”
“Out of the house?”
“The house. The city. The life. He wanted me to go away with him.”
“And do what?”
“Be with him, what do you think?” She frowned vaguely. “Men asked me that before. More than a few. I never bought it. Some of them was kids who had it with me their first time and thought they was in love. Or some fool looking for some free tail and making a promise, thinking I’d be too much of a dunce to figure it out.” She paused as the smoke from her cigarette twisted upward. “Johnny actually meant it.”
Johnny. It was strange to hear his name spoken that way, stranger still to hear the faint hint of affection when she spoke it.
She turned her head and gave Joe a hard look. “First, I told him he was a goddamn fool. He wants to marry a whore? And I’m going to be a wife to some cop? A drunk cop?” She stopped. “I didn’t say that part. But I was thinking it.”
Joe said, “Maybe he would have given up the bottle for you.”
“You know, that’s what he said.” She sighed. “He swore he was going to change that, too. He said, ‘I promise you.’ Said once he took care of one thing, he’d be ready if I was.” She sagged a little, and with a glance at the clock, said, “Your time’s about up.”
“Did he say what thing?”
She gave him a blank look.
“He was going to take care of something. Did he tell you what it was?”
“No. And
I didn’t ask.”
“All right, what then?”
“He told me he was going to come back after I was done on Monday and take me out somewhere. Maybe for a meal and a show. And then we’d talk some more. Make a plan. I told him he was crazy, but he said to just make sure I didn’t work late on Monday night. Well, I stopped around eight o’clock, but he didn’t show up, and so I figured he had just been lying. Or maybe that he got drunk again and forgot. The next day, I heard he was dead.” She tamped her cigarette out. “And now I told you everything.”
Joe doubted it, and let her know by the look he gave her.
She frowned in return. “Well, what?”
“Aren’t you leaving something out?”
For a second, he thought she was going to yell for the roughneck to come toss him outdoors.
“If you don’t help me, he’s nothing but a drunk cop who ended up dead,” Joe said. “And that’s all.” He paused to let it sink in. “He cared for you, Daisy.”
She said, “I know he did,” her voice down low.
“So?”
She kept an unfocused gaze on the floor. “He was going to have the money and he was going to have someone beholden to him. ‘He’s gonna owe me,’ is what he said. I asked him who he was talking about, but he wouldn’t say.” She shook her head slightly. “He said he didn’t want me to know.” She stayed quiet for a few seconds. “Now that really is all,” she said, and nodded toward the door.
Joe stepped away, then stopped and said, “I think he meant what he said.”
“About what?” Daisy said, sounding weary to the bone.
“Taking you away from here.”
“Yeah? How do you know that?”
“He talked about leaving,” Joe said. “He told someone who told me.” He paused for a moment. “He said he wanted to take the little girl, too.”
Daisy turned to stare at him.
“You and her, together,” Joe said.
Daisy’s chin set as she bit down hard on whatever was coming up from inside. Her voice trembled when she said, “I don’t want to hear no more about it,” and waved him out of the room with a rough hand.
The Captain called Albert Nichols into his office. Lieutenant Collins was standing by and the two junior officers exchanged a nod.
Captain Jackson sat back in his chair, folded his arms across his broad chest, and glared at Nichols. “You’re friends with that fucking Indian, Joe Rose,” he said by way of greeting.
“I know him,” Albert said. “But I’m not sure he’s an In—”
“And that ain’t all, is it?” the Captain interrupted. “You worked with him somewhere, too.” He shot a glance toward Collins. When the lieutenant didn’t volunteer the information, he brought his attention back to Sergeant Nichols. “Where was it? Up north somewhere?”
“Baltimore,” the detective said.
“Uh-huh. He the one who told you about this pimp got shot?”
“Which one is that?”
“Don’t play me for a goddamn fool, Nichols! He’s got you sticking your nose into business that don’t concern you or him. He’s about this far from going down the shit hole, and you’ll go right along with him if you ain’t careful.” The Captain stopped to catch his breath. “You’re an Atlanta police detective. So you don’t talk to him or any other civilian about any no-account niggers getting shot. Or anything else related to this department. Understand?”
Albert said, “Yes, sir.”
“You want to talk to him, talk to him about coming up with something we can use on that crime in Inman Park. Since that colored gal he chases after was there when it happened.”
“I did mention that to him.”
Captain Jackson stopped, his lips pursing. “Did you?”
“Yes, sir. And he said he’d try to come up with something just as fast as he could.”
The Captain produced a cold smirk. “He’s screwing with you, Nichols. You just don’t know it.” He glared for another second, then flapped a hand in the air, a cutting gesture of dismissal.
As the detective walked out, he stole a look at Lieutenant Collins and saw him gazing at the Captain instead of at him with an expression that was sharp with disdain.
Coward that he was about facing Sweet, Joe took the long way around to Fairlie Street and then across to North Pryor, coming up to the back entrance to the Hampton, just in case the black man was standing outside Lulu’s having a smoke. Even though it was likely that Sweet was long gone, having put in his usual breakfast and lunch shifts. Or maybe he wasn’t even working that day. Still, Joe pictured him lingering in hopes of catching the man who had gone against his wishes and right back to corrupting his little sister. That Pearl had come to Joe’s room wouldn’t signify any more than her age. Sweet apparently imagined her a helpless lamb, under a spell with no will of her own. When in fact Pearl Spencer had will by the bucketful. The songs the bluesmen sang about hardheaded women could have been written about her.
Once inside the lobby, he peered out the wide front window. Sweet was nowhere in sight, which made him feel even more like a fool. Sweet surely had noticed that Joe hadn’t been in for breakfast in two days and would know why. Joe shook his head at this folly and headed for the staircase. It was only a matter of time before he would have to tangle with Sweet. It could wait just a little bit longer.
When he stepped into his room, he was once again greeted by the sight of Pearl stretched on his bed, naked except for the gold bracelet around her wrist. She was lying perfectly still, on her side and propped on one elbow. The afternoon light through the window created the aura of an old painting, the colors fading to sepia. He took a moment to settle himself, then tried to be severe with her. “How did you get in?”
She smiled and dipped her forehead. “I’ve got my ways.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“What do you think?”
He understood. She had slipped in through the back, just as he had, then climbed the stairs and picked the lock, all without being spotted. Or maybe she had put on like she was one of the maids cleaning rooms. She had done that before, too. It was some feat for a woman who tended to stand out in any crowd, but she had been taught well and had the benefit of lots of practice.
“So, Joe, what are you doing way over there?” she asked him, her voice as languid as slow water.
Despite the display, Joe was incensed. She was crazy coming there in the daytime, with Lieutenant Collins and who knew who else watching him.
He looked away and said, “Cover up, Pearl.”
“Cover up?” Her mouth tilted as if he had made a joke.
“I mean it.”
“I can’t hear you,” she said. “You’ll have to move a little closer.” When he didn’t budge, she came back with a cool smile. “Oh, I’m sorry. Am I acting like a hussy?” She pulled the sheet over her legs, hips, and torso, and Joe felt a pang watching her disappear by inches under the cotton spread. He crossed to sit at the foot of the bed, folding his arms as a message to her.
Pearl, watching his face, said, “Why you treating me so mean?”
“We need to talk.”
“Oh?” Her eyebrows arched. “Then it’s a good thing I’m here.”
He let out a short laugh. “Sorry. What was I thinking?”
Their eyes met. He looked away first.
“What’s wrong?” she said. “You been talking to Sweet?”
“Not if I can help it. I’ve got other trouble. And it has to do with you.”
“What trouble is that?” she asked, though of course she already knew.
“Captain Jackson pulled me in yesterday,” Joe said. “He thinks you had something to do with those jewels that went missing from the Payne mansion.”
She shifted against the headboard. “He questioned me about that.”
“Questioned you when?”
“Sunday morning. They brought all of us that was working Saturday night back to the house. I told him I didn’t take nothing. And I d
idn’t say your name, either. He did that.”
“Because he thinks you pulled that job, and that I’m mixed up in it. He’s got a man watching me.”
Perturbed, she looked away. “I don’t give a goddamn what he thinks. He ain’t nothing to me.”
“He knows we work together, Pearl. And the rest of it, too.”
“Then why don’t he come arrest us?”
“He doesn’t have a case. He thinks I can work you to get them.”
She caught his eye. “You know you can work me anytime you want, Mr. Joe.”
He stared at her, wondering why she couldn’t grasp the fix they were in. “This is no joke.”
She sat up from her slouch, smiling her serpent smile as she spread her arms wide. The sheet slipped away. “Do I look like I’m joking?” she said.
“All right, that’s enough!”
It came out sharper than he’d intended, and she gaped at him for a second, then sank down again, looking wounded. She reached for the sheet and pulled it up, again refusing to meet his gaze, instead turning toward the window and lifting her chin righteously.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Why don’t you just walk away?” she said in a voice that was cool with accusation. “Go on and leave, and you won’t have to deal with none of this. You come and go whenever you please, anyway.”
“I can’t,” he said. “Not now.”
Her eyes flashed at him. “Can’t why? What’s stopping you?”
“Because of this other thing.”
“What other thing?”
“You hear about Jesse Williams?”
“Yeah, I heard.” From the look on her face, she shared Sweet’s opinion of the man in question. “He got shot.”
“That’s right.”
“He ain’t dead yet?”
“I don’t know. He’s dying for sure, though. He could be gone, for all I know.”
“Too bad for him.” Her face was still tight with anger. “What’s that to you? Or me?”
