by David Fulmer
Boys, I got to die today . . .
He was about to tell Albert about the song when another line came into his head. What broke Jesse’s heart . . .
“I’ll be damned,” he said.
“What?”
“He tried to.”
The detective frowned and said, “What, now?”
“He tried, but I didn’t catch it,” Joe said. “Right before he died, he said something about how a woman can do you wrong. He was pointing me to her. And I missed it.”
“Why didn’t he just come out and tell you? He knew he was dying.”
“He thought he could last. That goddamn doctor said he had a ways to go. He didn’t.”
Albert drank off some more of his whiskey, then gave Joe a sidelong glance. “So what’s Pearl’s play now?”
Joe shrugged and said, “If she’s got the jewels, then she and the Captain are in a standoff,” he said.
“And if she doesn’t?”
“Then I don’t know.”
“And what about you?”
Joe gazed into his empty glass. “I’m a side problem. That’s all.”
Albert regarded his friend with some sympathy. “I thought she had it bad for you.”
“Not bad enough,” Joe said quietly. “And if she had to choose between her brother and me, that’s no choice at all.”
The detective said, “What’s that line . . . ‘hell hath no fury . . .’?”
“Yeah, I know.”
Albert called to Pudge for one more round. The drinks were poured and Joe sipped deeply. The warm glow the whiskey sent into his brain made him wish he could just stay there and never go out into the cold again.
“So now what?” Albert said, breaking into his musing.
Joe came back to the present. “I’m going to need your help.”
“And what do you think I’m going to do?” the detective said sharply. “Drag the Captain into a room and grill him until he confesses? How about I give Baker a good beating? That might work.”
“You’ll think of something,” Joe said. He smiled slightly. “You break this, you’ll get a promotion.”
“You think so? More likely I’ll get a bullet in the head.” He muttered something under his breath, then drank off the rest of his whiskey in a fast swallow.
“So?” Joe said.
Albert frowned pensively. “So . . . I’ll see what I can do. But you better find her. I mean today. And get her to give up the jewels. Maybe we can finish this. But we need her to do it.”
“I know.”
Albert pointed a hard finger. “Listen to me,” he said. “Don’t go calling me at work again. No matter what. Come by my house tonight and we’ll see what we’ve got. And what I can do with it. Until then, you lay low.” He eyed his friend bleakly. “I mean it. I can’t protect you, so watch yourself.”
“I understand,” Joe said.
“Seven o’clock.” Albert turned away and left without another word.
Joe spent a minute dawdling over his drink, then asked Pudge if there was anything in the icebox. The bartender went in back and came out with some beef and cheese on a roll that looked none too fresh, but Joe hadn’t eaten anything since his mediocre breakfast at Lulu’s.
As he ate, he thought about what he’d told Al, which added up to a handful of pieces that he had tied together by guessing. If confronted, Captain Jackson could deny everything. Nothing his wife said could be used against him, even if she did come forth. Nichols was right: Without Pearl, they had nothing.
Then Joe considered the possibility that he could be wrong. What if he had jumbled the pieces? What if May Ida had been mistaken or was playing him to get revenge on the Captain? What if he was putting Albert Nichols in the middle of something for no reason? What if, what if, what if . . . That was always the question without an answer.
The other question was why, and with the whiskey stirring in his veins, bitterness over what Pearl had done blackened his heart. Though he still wasn’t sure what he could blame her for. Not for Little Jesse’s death, nor J. R. Logue’s, nor Robert Clark’s. Those were all the Captain’s doing. Not for landing her brother and him in jail. Not for the beating he himself had taken, nor any of the danger he faced just walking the streets of Atlanta.
None of that was her fault in any direct way. He believed that she had betrayed him, led him to wander around like a fool, aimless, harassed, and edging into treacherous water, and never said a word. Still, he knew her well enough to understand that whatever she had done was not out of malice. She must have believed that there was no other way. And once she started down that road, she couldn’t turn back.
Joe wouldn’t know for sure what was in her mind until he found her again. With that in mind, he thanked Pudge, dropped a dollar on the bar, and went out the door into the gray light of the December afternoon.
Albert Nichols ran into Lieutenant Collins coming down the stairwell.
“Captain Jackson’s been asking after you,” Collins said. It wasn’t an accusation, more like fair warning. In fact, the lieutenant sounded a bit concerned.
“I was feeling poorly,” Albert said. “I thought stepping outside might help.”
“Sorry to hear that,” the lieutenant said. He didn’t comment on the lapse of more than an hour for a breath of fresh air.
“Is he in his office?”
“He’s gone out again.” Collins smiled absently. “He’s busy these days.” He seemed to be waiting for something. When Albert didn’t speak up, he smiled blandly and continued down the stairs.
Albert mounted a step, then stopped. “Lieutenant Collins?” he called down. “Could I have a minute of your time?”
Joe walked along Fort Street and turned west on Lyon. He didn’t remember which one of the frame houses belonged to the Spencers. He had only been there once a few years back, and since that time it had been off-limits because Sweet had come home and found him in bed with his sister.
He located it by way of a front door torn apart and a lock broken off. Feeling his pulse quicken, he stepped onto the porch, tapped and called, and got no response.
From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a woman in the next house leaning a cautious head outside her door.
“She was here, but she done left out,” the woman said, plainly puzzled to see his likes standing there.
“When was that?”
“Hour or two ago, maybe.”
Joe gestured toward the door. “What happened?”
The woman shook her head. She had given up all she cared to share and went back inside.
Joe stepped off the porch, walked another two blocks to Houston Street, and headed into town. He spent some of the time wondering where she had gone, nursing a hope that when he got to his room, she would once again be waiting there, ready to tell him that it was a mistake and that she had fixed it, and it was all over now.
As it turned out, it didn’t matter. Pearl wasn’t in the lobby and she wasn’t in his room. He couldn’t decide whether to be heartbroken or relieved when he remembered that he hadn’t even made the bed from May Ida’s visit. Anyway, his gut told him if he knew Pearl at all, she had gone into hiding.
He took a quick sip from his bottle and then headed out again, wondering if he had already seen the last of her.
The two officers descended to the basement, exchanging not a word all the way down the four flights of steps. It was dark there, a long corridor lined with closed doors of heavy oak, behind which were storage closets and records and property rooms. Along with these were narrower passageways laid out like a puzzle or a maze and leading to closets. Cool and damp even in summer, the basement was illuminated by four bare bulbs so dim that candles would have thrown the same light.
Albert had heard rumors about the basement rooms having other uses. The word was that certain officers made a habit of bringing women who couldn’t pay bail down there to work out a trade for their release. Then there were stories about stashes of opium and whiskey for the
use of upper-echelon officers. He had heard other whispers about degenerate criminals who arrived there and were never seen alive again.
As he reached the bottom step and gazed along the cavernous space, he noted that it would be a fine location to hide things from the light of day—a place for secrets. A murder in that place would never be detected.
These thoughts spooked him, and when Lieutenant Collins cleared his throat, he turned around a little too quickly. The lieutenant took a startled step back. Albert waved a dismissive hand and went for his cigarettes. The lieutenant did the same. Two matches hissed and flared, and the two men leaned against the cold stone wall.
Momentarily, Collins said, “What’s on your mind, Sergeant?”
Albert watched the burning ember. “I figure you already know some of this or we wouldn’t be down here,” he said. “We could talk anywhere.”
“I suppose that would be correct,” the lieutenant said carefully.
Albert heaved a breath. “I’ve got something on Captain Jackson, and I don’t know what to do with it,” he said, and gazed directly at the lieutenant. “Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“Maybe,” Collins said.
Albert shook his head, faintly amused by this dance. He gazed along the corridor for a few seconds, then said, “The Captain had a hand in the burglary at the Payne mansion. And in the deaths of Officer Logue and two Negroes.”
It had come out in more of a blurt than he’d intended and it sounded odd to him, like he was a crazy person talking; and even though he had whispered, the words echoed off the walls and ceiling. He was relieved to see that Lieutenant Collins did not look surprised. As usual, his face didn’t show much of anything.
“Where do you get your information?” Collins inquired. “From your friend Joe Rose?” When Albert didn’t respond, he said, “He’s up to his neck in it, isn’t he?”
“He’s got trouble, yes, sir,” Albert said. “But I don’t believe he’s guilty of any crime.”
“Do you—,” the lieutenant began, then stopped. He peered sharply into the shadows.
“What is it?” Nichols said.
“Nothing,” the lieutenant said. “Just rats.” Then he looked at Albert and said, “What do you want me to do?”
“The Captain’s guilty, sir.”
“Based on what Rose said?”
“It all points the same way. And most of it fits.”
“How did he manage to dig all this up in so short a time?”
Albert saw the look Collins was giving him and figured that he’d given away enough. “He’s a sharp fellow,” he said. “I think he’s got something.”
“Is there any hard evidence?”
“No,” Albert admitted, grudgingly. “The Captain covered his tracks pretty well. That doesn’t mean it’s not there.”
Collins didn’t look convinced. “I don’t know about this, Sergeant,” he said.
“All right, then,” Albert said. “We can forget we had the conversation.”
The lieutenant frowned and flicked some ash from his cigarette. “What’s your next step?”
“Right now Rose is trying to track down someone who does have evidence. And then he’ll bring it to me.”
“Is that Pearl Spencer?” Collins saw the look of surprise on the detective’s face and smiled slightly. “I’ve been paying attention.” He considered for a few seconds, then said, “When do you expect to hear from Mr. Rose?”
“Later on tonight,” Albert said, going back on his guard.
The lieutenant stayed quiet until he finished his cigarette, tamped it out against the wall, and field dressed the butt, letting the shreds of tobacco and paper flutter to his feet.
“What if you’re wrong about this?” Collins said. “You know what that would mean? You’d be finished. And I would be, too, if I went along with it.”
Albert said, “I’ve known Rose for a long time. I say what he’s got is good. But if you think otherwise, I’ll drop it right now.”
Lieutenant Collins stared at him without speaking.
Twelve
Joe gave up on looking for Pearl when the sun went down. She had not visited any of her few haunts, and no one he spoke to had seen her. He was enough a creature of the streets to sense when someone didn’t want to be found. It was a matter of becoming transparent, and not everyone had a gift for it. He was one of them, and so was she. And Albert Nichols had been in his criminal days.
Maybe Jesse Williams once had the ability, but he had been too wild, too much a character. That likely helped put him in the ground. He just couldn’t lay low. On the other hand, no one would ever write a song about Joe Rose. That was something. Not the same as being alive, but something.
If Pearl was hiding, his gut told him she hadn’t left town. So he wouldn’t find her until she was ready. He would have to show up at Al Nichols’s house empty-handed, and unless the detective had something they could use, it would go no further. The Captain would survive and Joe wouldn’t be showing his face in Atlanta for a good while.
In any case, there would be no reunion and no resolution in that room. So he poured himself a drink and waited for the darkness to fall so he could go meet Albert. If the Captain won the game, then Pearl would have to disappear, too. What other choice would she have, if she couldn’t ransom her brother from jail?
Sipping his whiskey, he understood more. A creeping feeling had come upon him in slow ebbs that there was something between Pearl and the Captain, a whispering presence lurking just on the edge of his vision. He was all but cut out of it, the price he paid for neglecting her so.
At six P.M. Sergeant Nichols cleared the last file and got up to fetch his coat and hat from the rack. The detectives’ section was quiet. He was the last one still there from the day shift, and all the evening-shift detectives were all out on cases. The only other person remaining was the officer on the desk. Albert wished him a good night and stepped into the hall.
Outside, it was a pleasant enough evening, cool, with only a faint sprinkle of winter rain, and he decided to walk rather than take the Number 10 streetcar heading north. His wheezy lungs could use the work, though it was hard to believe that breathing Atlanta’s rank and sooty, gritty, smoky air did them any good.
As he crossed Five Points and started up the gentle Peachtree Street slope, he thought about the fix he was in, courtesy of Joe Rose and his own foolish self.
For all the scrapes and jail time he avoided, Joe had always been a magnet for trouble, or maybe more a compass or dowser. The same second sense that led him to nice scores in cities from New York to New Orleans also got him tangled in messes, and usually with women. This one, with a burglary and three men dead, was definitely the worst. Not content to throw himself into the middle of a bloody puzzle, he had the good grace to drag his crony Albert Nichols along with him.
Except the way Joe described it, there wasn’t much of a puzzle left. Captain Grayton Jackson was guilty as sin, and all that was lacking was evidence or a solid witness. It was true that most criminals were stupid, and Captain Jackson was no exception. He thought himself a mastermind who would save the day and claim the glory that went with it. Unfortunately, he had overlooked the hazards of a smart Negro woman, a drunken beat cop, a vindictive wife, and a former police officer and detective who was at least part Indian.
And it had all come to nothing. Without the stolen jewels in hand, the Captain had to be feeling that there was quicksand under his feet. If Joe got to Pearl before he did and she talked or delivered the trinkets, Albert would make sure it all got into the right hands. He would turn everything over to Collins and let him decide how best to destroy Captain Jackson’s life. It was going to be an interesting twenty-four hours.
The detective was not so lost in these musings that he failed to notice the automobile parked a half block down Hunnicutt, a black Chevrolet four-door that looked like it had seen better days, the engine idling with a nasty rattle as it belched black smoke from the exhaust pip
e. The same sedan had been parked at the corner of Mills Street when he crossed that intersection and had now reappeared two blocks farther on. Though it all seemed harmless enough, his mind registered it automatically. He tried to get a look at the occupants without being too obvious, but saw only shadows.
He rounded the corner onto Baltimore Place as the half-moon, just rising, cast blocks of slate-colored shadow on the cobblestone street. His rented digs, one of three in a row of shotgun houses, was dark and quiet. The middle unit was vacant and the one on the opposite end was leased by a brakeman on the Georgia Southern who was rarely home.
He climbed the steps to the low porch, unlocked his door, and stepped over the threshold. The streetlight coming through the windows illuminated spare quarters that were exactly what might be expected of a bachelor cop. The few women who had visited him there had eyed the place critically, and one had even set to tidying until he made her stop.
He walked through the living room and bedroom and into the kitchen, where he turned on the overhead bulb. Dropping his coat on the table, he went under the sink for the bottle of muscadine wine he kept there. He poured a glassful and was taking his first sip when the light blinked and then went out. He tried the lamp on the table. It didn’t work any better.
He let out a grunt of frustration. Interruptions in the power were common all over the city. Then he happened to glance out the back window to see that the lights in the house across the back alley were fully on. It wasn’t the first time that had happened, either. The building was old, and when it rained the damp shorted the fuse box.
He took another swallow of his wine, put the glass on the sideboard, and stepped to the closet. He had just put his hand on the knob of the closet door and pulled when a sudden tingle ran up his spine, telling him that something was wrong. Before the thought connected, the door squealed and flew open, the edge catching him in the chest and forehead with a stunning jolt that threw him back against the bathroom door. He was groping for his pistol when a searing pain shot through his chest, sending him staggering sideways over the kitchen threshold. As he clawed at the side of the icebox, another sudden shock slammed him to the floor.
