by David Fulmer
“Joe,” the blind man said in his soft voice. “Come on inside.”
Joe stepped in and closed the door behind him. It was a simple, tidy little space that was warm, close, and rather homey. An iron-frame bed occupied the far wall. The twelve-string Stella reposed there, as if resting before the night’s performing. To the right was a chest of drawers. Opposite it was a washstand and in the corner next to the door was a worn easy chair with a lamp next to it. A picture hung on each wall, cheap art in cheap frames. Joe smiled at that; not that Willie would know. Or maybe he did.
Willie said, “Take the chair, Joe.” Joe sat, sagging onto the brocade cushion. “You want a drink?”
“Not right now.”
Willie crossed to the chest of drawers, leaned against it, and cocked his head as if hearing some wayward echo. “Something happen tonight?”
“A lot happened tonight,” Joe said. He was quiet for a few seconds. “My friend Albert Nichols was murdered. The cop I knew from Baltimore? Him. I got there too late. So I went to Captain Jackson’s house. And while I was there, he tried to murder his wife. And I shot him.”
The blind man was stunned. “You shot the Captain?”
“Not a half hour ago,” Joe said.
“He dead?”
“Dead as he can be,” Joe said.
Willie said, “But you’re not . . . well, my Jesus. Since when do you carry a gun?”
“I don’t,” Joe said. “This lieutenant named Collins was there, too. I picked up his pistol. The Captain was taking a knife to his wife and I put one in him.”
Willie’s brow stitched. “I ain’t following. This have anything to do with Little Jesse?”
“It has everything to do with him.”
“You want to explain it so a poor blind Negro can understand?”
Joe rolled his eyes at this quip. Then he said, “The Captain paid that cop to kill Little Jesse.”
“Because why?”
“Because Jesse was working for him. He had him rob those jewels so he could produce them and make some hay out of it. He wanted Jesse out of the way.”
“Good lord,” Willie said.
“Logue made a mess of it, so he had to go.”
“The Captain hunted him down and shot him?”
“Or another cop, a corporal named Baker.”
“What about Robert Clarke? Him, too?”
“He saw what happened. That was right before you came along. He should have kept his mouth shut. But he didn’t. Baker got him, too.” Joe sighed, steadying himself. “I got Al Nichols involved in it. He dug something up. The Captain found out and sent Baker to his house tonight to make sure he didn’t use it. I found him there. And after that I went to Jackson’s house.”
“That wife of his in the middle of it, too?”
“She was. She’s lucky to be alive.”
Willie mulled all this. “Why the hell didn’t Jesse just say what was going on?”
Joe settled back. “I suppose he didn’t want to tell me what he’d done. Or maybe he was protecting Pearl.”
“He was sweet on her?”
“Maybe so.” He smiled sadly. “Hey, there’s a song for you.”
Willie straightened from his slouch, crossed to the bed, picked up his guitar, and sat down on the edge of the mattress. Idly, he began strumming the strings.
“And what about the jewelry?” he said. “That ever gonna turn up?”
“I hope so.” Joe hesitated, then said, “I have to find her first.”
Willie went back to strumming, though his touch on the strings was so light Joe could barely hear it. After he had played a few bars, he said, “You sure you don’t want a drink? It’s in the top drawer.” He tilted his head.
Joe got up and went to the chest, where he found a short bottle of rye and two short glasses. He poured one full for each of them, then carried Willie’s to him. Rather than sit, he stood in the middle of the floor, pondering all that had transpired. At one point he laughed a little, and Willie cocked his head quizzically.
“What’s funny?”
“I just realized that the Captain’s wife will probably get some kind of widow’s pension from the department.”
Willie was quiet for another long moment. Then he said, “You going on the run now?”
“I’ll have to leave pretty quick, that’s for sure.”
“They won’t want you for shooting a policeman?”
“I don’t think so,” Joe said. “The Captain was as dirty as can be. They’ll make up a story. Maybe say someone came after him, like some criminal he arrested. So it would be a revenge matter. And the wife isn’t going to say a word.”
He drank off the rest of the liquor and placed the empty glass atop Willie’s dresser. “I’ve got something to do, Willie.”
“Sometimes it’s best to just let things be,” Willie said. “You know that.”
“Sometimes, yeah,” Joe said. “Not this time.”
Officers had been assigned to block off Plum Street and chase the nosy neighbors back indoors. Chief Troutman arrived in the second car on the scene. A reporter who had received a telephone call about a possible shooting at Captain Jackson’s residence came rushing along, hanging on the back of the Pope motorcycle that the photographer used to buzz around town. The reporter was promised news as soon as it could be released. When he got pushy, a burly patrolman was assigned the task of placing him on the seat of the motorcycle and standing by until it roared away.
The medical examiner, a veteran of thirty-odd years who had seen every imaginable kind of bloodshed, was collected from his home and rushed to the scene. Neither he nor anyone else was all that surprised to see the Captain on the floor with a bullet hole high in his chest and a knife wound in his gut.
Joe knocked on another door that night. It creaked open and he felt a mixture of relief and the old familiar fear to see Sweet’s hulking form standing there. For all he knew, Sweet would now grab him by the throat, drag him inside, and murder him on the spot. No matter that his little sister had been much to blame for what had happened. Joe was her willing or unwitting partner and that might be enough.
And yet, he saw that Sweet’s face wasn’t at all hard. It was sagging with resignation, in fact, and the big eyes looked dog tired. Behind the big man was a mess that he had begun to put back the way it was.
“She ain’t here, Mr. Joe,” he said. His voice was heavy, too.
“You know where she went?”
“I suppose she’s out lookin’ for you.” He let out a baffled sigh. “You know I never could keep her in line,” he mused. “She always went her own way. I guess I should be pleased she ain’t dead.” He regarded Joe curiously. “You have anything to do with them letting me out?”
“A little bit. I asked someone to take care of it.”
“Uh-huh.” He paused, and when he spoke up again, some of the edge was back into his voice, though more fretful than angry. “I don’t want her disappearing for good,” he said. “She’s all the family I got. You understand?”
“I do,” Joe said. “I don’t think you need to worry about that, Sweet.”
“Go on, then,” Sweet said, and closed the door.
When he got back to his room, he found her there, sitting in his one chair, slouched down, a hand over her eyes to keep out the light. An old carpetbag valise was at her feet, and her coat was draped over her lap. She didn’t look up at all when he came in.
After a moment’s pause, he said, “I guess you heard what happened.”
“I saw,” she said. “I was on the street when the police cars went by, and I got a taxi and went to that house. I saw all those coppers and everything. Then I saw you come out and walk away. And I figured it was all over.”
“It is.”
She drew the hand away from her face and said, “I’m glad about that.”
“Yeah, I guess you would be.” He glanced down at the bag at her feet. “Where are you going?”
“Away,” she said. “I
don’t know where. Once I get to the station, I’ll catch whatever’s leaving.”
Her words brought a soft blow to his chest. “Don’t wait,” he said. “That lieutenant will come for you. For the jewels.”
Her eyes flashed. “You want me to go right now?”
His eyes flashed right back at her. “You started all this, Pearl. So don’t play wounded.”
“I didn’t start nothin’,” she said. “I got dragged in, just like you.”
“You could have backed out any time.”
“Yeah, I could have, but I didn’t.”
She glared at him for another few seconds, then sagged a little, dropping her eyes. “I knew as soon as Jesse came by the house to tell me I needed to go get hired on for that party that something was going on. I thought it was you.” She shook her head slowly. “He should have known he was getting set up. He thought he could be some kind of a big-time rounder. He wasn’t nothin’ but a pimp and a gambler. And a fool.”
“When did you see him?”
“I watched the back stairs. I didn’t see when he went up, but I saw him coming down.”
“Is that when he gave you the jewels?”
“That’s right.”
“Why didn’t he just turn them over like he was supposed to?”
“He thought he could run a game on the Captain. I told him if he was going to do that, they’d be safer with me. That way he could make his deal and they couldn’t touch him.” She shrugged. “I didn’t know he was going to get shot.”
“He was a dead man the minute he threw in with Jackson.”
Pearl stayed quiet, brooding. Her gaze shifted and she stared at his feet. “You’ve got blood on your shoes.” She raised her eyes. “And your . . .” When he didn’t say anything, she sat up, her hands fidgeting. “What the hell did you do?”
“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “It’s done. And you’ll be in the clear. As long as you don’t try to run with the jewels.” He paused, then said, “Where are they?”
She didn’t respond right away as a strange smile worked its way from her eyes to her mouth. Then she reached up and began undoing the buttons of her blouse. Joe watched, transfixed in spite of himself. Once the third one was undone, she pulled open the blouse to reveal a gold chain from which a single green stone dangled. Joe’s practiced eye widened.
“And what about the rest of it?” he said.
“All safe,” she said.
He didn’t have to open her valise to know what that meant. “You’ve got to give everything back. It’s the only way.”
She paused, then nodded and absently began to put her dress back together. When she finished, she stood up.
“I’m going.” She pulled on her coat and hat and picked up her bag. She didn’t look at him. “So, you think I betrayed you?” she said.
“You did. And look what happened.”
He wanted to hear her explain it, but she didn’t say a word. Whatever she had done, the truth was she owed him nothing. He came into town, used her body for his pleasure for a few months every year, and then went on his way. He had never stopped long enough to let himself care for her beyond a good time. So when it came down to a choice between him and the brother who did love her and had tried to protect her all these years, there was no question what she would do.
“I’m sorry I caused you this trouble,” she said. “And I’m sorry about your friend. It wasn’t me killed him, though.”
She walked to the door. Now she was standing next to him, though they both kept their gazes averted. There was nothing to say. She waited for him to reach out, turn the knob, and open the door. She stepped outside and he closed it behind her.
He heard no footsteps fading down the corridor. After a moment, he turned toward the window and saw a few snowflakes were coming down, fluttering white. Beyond that was a cold and dark blue night that seemed to stretch on forever. He opened the door and found her standing there, her head bent and her hands clasped before her, a posture that was almost prayerful.
“Come back inside,” he said.
She gave him a small, puzzled, hopeful smile as she stepped over the threshold.
“I’ll tell the clerk I want the room for one more night,” he said. “In the morning, we can pack up and leave.”
She watched his face as if she was searching for something.
“We?” she said.
Acknowledgments
My thanks to those at Harcourt who help turn humble words into modest legacy: Jenna Johnson and Sarah Melnyk in New York, Cathy Riggs, Kelly Eismann, and Sara Branch in San Diego, and Debbie Hardin and Dan Janeck.
To my readers: family, friends, and strangers, knocking on my door with kindness and support.
And to Dion Graham, a partner in crime.
About the Author
DAVID FULMER’s first novel, Chasing the Devil's Tail, was a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Mystery/Thriller Book Prize and the winner of the Shamus Award for Best First P.I. Novel. He lives in Atlanta.
