A dark smile crept into the corner of Sy’s mouth as he now stood over Mrs. Dillon. He didn’t like to scare women, but this one was different, he thought. So, he leaned in close so that the teller could not hear what he was about to say. His cold, dry breath hit her nose. “If I find out that she has been fired for telling me his name, I’ll not only make sure you don’t have a job anymore, but that the community knows that you refused to give me his name. Do you understand?”
Mrs. Dillon lowered her once proud head and swallowed hard while nodding her head in acknowledgement of the warning. He turned back towards the large photo of Mrs. Walker and tipped his hat. Then he walked back out of St. Luke Penny Savings Bank into the cold, rainy October day to find Jeffrey Peterson.
***
He exhaled deeply once he was outside the walls of the bank. The rain was gone, but large rain puddles covered St. James Street and the sidewalk. He pulled his coat up close to his neck, lowering his hat over his eyes and headed up the street towards his office on Jackson Street. His mind was in overdrive rethinking over the events of this morning and afternoon.
The Petersons were of the highest echelon in Jackson Ward, so he knew that he couldn’t just go to Peterson’s home and accuse him of murder without proof. He could lose everything he had, which wasn’t much, if he were wrong. But there was something more valuable than anything. The thought of losing Lena behind false claims was more than he was willing to gamble with.
So, he had to be absolutely sure. He needed hard proof. Sy took the flyer out of his pocket and read it again. The annual Black and White Ball was this Saturday and he was sure Peterson would be there. All of the wealthy Negroes in the Ward would be there as they always were each year, dressed in their finest garbs and acting as if they had not a care in the world. It was an invitation only event, as everyone knew, and to receive one put you on a different playing field than regular Negroes in Jackson Ward. The only way Sy was going to get into this event to talk to Peterson was by an invitation; he couldn’t crash this party.
Sy looked up from the flyer and found himself standing in front of the place of the one person he knew he could trust to get him an invitation without raising suspicions; Perditia’s Kitchen and Salon was open for business. He folded the flyer gently and put it back inside his coat pocket, and opened the door to the salon.
Chapter 20
It was really a building divided in half by a thin wall. On one side was Perditia’s Kitchen, a small 20-seat eatery where folks could come and sit down to a nice home-cooked Southern meal for a few cents. Today, as with most days, it was overrun with customers who laughed and talked loudly amongst themselves. The walls were covered in photos of Negroes who had brought pride to the race. Bill “Bojangles” Robinson, Cab Calloway, Duke Ellington and the former heavyweight champion of the world, Jack Johnson.
The smell of collards wafted over into the salon where Sy had entered. He looked around him. Negro women were bustling around with curlers or towels in and on their hair. Smoke waved in the air from the hot steel combs the women used to straighten their hair. Sy shook his head in disbelief. Why would a woman willingly put heat to her head was beyond him. He had seen heads on fire, melting even. The smell of burning hair co-mingled with the collards created a sour taste in the air. Sy quickly covered his mouth; it smelled like decaying flesh to him. A young Negro girl about 14 years old approached him. “Can I help ya?” she asked
Sy removed his hand from his mouth and asked for Mrs. Jones. The young girl pointed to the far back room where Sy quickly headed without hesitation. He found Mrs. Perditia Jones at her desk enjoying a cup of tea with Prometheus Jackson who had a smile as wide as the state of Virginia on his face. He looked longingly at Mrs. Jones the way Sy looked at Lena, but only when she wasn’t looking.
Sy cleared this throat to announce his entry. “Sy,” Mrs. Jones exclaimed in surprise. “Come in, come in,” she said as she put down her teacup and prepared to rise.
“Please don’t get up on my account, Mrs. Jones. I just came to ask a favor of you.”
Prometheus Jackson had risen upon Sy’s entry. “Mr. Sanford, excuse me. I’ll let you talk to Mrs. Jones. I guess I best be goin’ anyhow,” he said, a little dejection in his voice. He had been looking forward to being alone with Mrs. Jones for some time. When she had finally accepted his offer after the unfortunate discovery of the body of Miss Young, his heart had danced at her acceptance. Now, he had to leave her, his chance to get closer to her gone for the moment.
“Mr. Jackson, thank you so much for the tea,” cooed Mrs. Jones as she put out her hand for him to take. He kissed it instead, his eyes intent on her. This rather unexpected action on his part made Mrs. Jones blush from head to toe.
“Mrs. Jones, thank you,” and with that he let go of her hand, picked up his coat and hat, and left the room, patting Sy on the back as he did so.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt—“ he had started to say, but the always business-minded Mrs. Jones waved him off with her hands.
“Nonsense! It was just tea,” she said smoothly as she brought her hands to her cheeks and patted them. “Sit down, Sy. What do you need?”
Sy did as he was told, taking off his hat as he sat down in front of the alert madam. He cleared his throat before speaking. “Mrs. Jones, I need to get into the Black and White Ball this Saturday.”
Mrs. Jones stopped fanning herself and squinted her eyes at Sy. Her voice raised in anticipation. “Does this have to do with the killins’?”
“Yes,” he replied, his voice flat, and he kept it at that. He didn’t want to tell her that he had a name of a suspect just yet. Too much was at stake if he should be wrong and stepped on the wrong toes.
Mrs. Jones, for her part, sensed that Sy was not being fully straight with her; he wasn’t looking her in the eyes for one. But she would not push him. She had learned a long time ago not to push a man to talk when he wasn’t ready. That sometimes, one’s body language told the story for you. This same tactic also worked in business, and she used it often to her advantage especially when dealing with men who still thought women were not smart enough to handle money, let alone run a business.
“Alright! I’ll have an invitation for you in a few hours.”
Sy rose up from his chair. “Thank you, Mrs. Jones.” He put on his hat and prepared to leave the room.
“Sy, have you spoken with Lena yet?”
“Not yet, ma’am. I’m on my way back to the office now,” he responded softly.
“Good.”
Standing back outside in the cold, Sy thought about what he’d say to Lena when he got in. They had avoided one another the entire morning. There was so much they needed to talk about. “And I don’t even know where to begin,” he admitted out loud into the cold, fall air. But one thing he was sure of: Jeffrey Peterson was a killer.
***
Sy walked into his office hoping to finally be able to talk to Lena, but she wasn’t there. Instead, he found a note: “Not feeling well. Went home early.”
“Damn!” he swore.
“Bad news, huh!” a sultry voice exclaimed.
Sy turned to find Mena standing in his doorway wearing a fox faux fur and a brown cloche hat with a feather fan on the left side. She didn’t look like she worked in a cookie plant, Sy thought to himself as she stood with one hand on her hip and bringing a cigarette to her red lipstick-covered lips with the other.
“Mena. What … what are you doing here?” he stammered nervously still holding the letter from Lena in his hands.
She smirked and let out a small chuckle. He looked as if he had been caught doing something naughty. She was intrigued, but she had come here for business, she reminded herself as she came fully into his office, shutting the door behind her. “You told me to call on you if I heard anything about poor Mary’s death, remember? May I sit?”
Sy shook his head in affirmation. “Here,” he offered, pushing a chair out for her to sit. He walked around to the other side o
f his desk and opened a drawer, pushing the letter into it. He looked up to find a matching pair of green eyes smiling at him. His skin tingled.
He sat down in his chair, breaking eye contact. “So you remembered something?”
“Yes, in a way,” she replied as she took one last drag and then put out the cigarette in the ashtray on Sy’s desk. I’m leaving town, Mr. Sanford,” she announced coolly.
“And what does that have to do with Mary”?
She smiled with her mouth, but something else was in her eyes: fear. “Have you discovered your killer yet? I saw the paper this morning – about that woman, Sara,” her voice trailed.
Sy watched her carefully now. She was digging for information, and he wanted to know why.
“Do you know somethin’, Mena? ‘Cause if you do, then you have to tell me¸” he urged.
A wicked laugh roared from her just then. She stood up and walked over to the window. “Why should I tell you what I know? Why should I tell you anythin’? What’s in it for me? No one’s ever done nothin’ for me, you see. So, why should I care who he kills next?”
He went over to her at the window and grabbed her by the shoulders, turning her around to face him. “You know who he is, don’t you? Tell me.”
“Why?” she asked again.
They stared at one another, eyes locked in a contest of wills. He let her shoulders go and went back to his chair. “I need … I need to end this. I have so much at stake, you see—“
“Like that pretty woman who left here a few hours ago?” Mena spat out viciously. Sy looked up in surprise. “I’ve been waitin’ for you to come back … across the street, you see. You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”
He said nothing as he stared at her. “No, you don’t have to tell me. I already see it. I wish someone would look at me like that.”
“You’re beautiful, too, Mena,” he offered up.
“But I’m used, Sanford. I’m a nigger whore,” she spat out vehemently. “Don’t feel sorry for me,” she replied in response to seeing him cringe at her words. “I know what I am. Everyone does. Maybe that’s why he didn’t kill me, too. It’d be no surprise, no fun, to find a dead whore on the shores of the James River. Everyone expects that, right?”
“A dead woman is a dead woman. It don’t matter her work,” Sy replied.
The room fell silent as both thought about what the other had said. Sy walked back over to Mena by the window. She watched him closely as he came toward her. If only things had been different, she said to herself.
“His name, Mena.”
A heavy sigh escaped her lips. Mena was tired. She had been hiding from Jeffrey ever since that afternoon when she had let him know that she knew about him. She had only revealed her hand because he was about to dump her, and she couldn’t have that. She had somehow convinced herself that she could be Mrs. Peterson. She had counted on that to change her life – no more boarding rooms or cold stew to eat. It would be fine clothes, respect and … and a home. Tears welled in her eyes at the thought of it all, but she quickly wiped them away and turned away so that Sy could not see.
“Jeffrey Peterson,” she whispered into the window. The sun had set and a smooth, cold darkness had descended upon the city. “He’s all she talked about to me. Country girls are pathetic. A man pays a little bit of attention to ‘em, and they tell anyone who’ll listen,” said Mena disdainfully. “Well, I let her talk! She thought I was her friend. She called me her best friend, can you believe that? Huh! Well, I went lookin’ for her man, and I found him.”
Sy stared at Mena with pity. She had betrayed Mary, but what could he do about that now? His head rang with excitement. He could now close this case and leave the Ward with Lena. “Will you come to the police with me?” he asked gently. He had to get her to Sheriff Mason fast.
But Mena just laughed and looked at him as if he had horns growing out of his head. “No!” she exclaimed as she backed up to the door.
“But Mena, we have to—“
“Who’s gonna believe a whore over a rich man like Jeffrey?” she hissed. “No! I’m leavin’ town tonight.”
“But you can’t, Mena!” Sy begged. “I need you to help me!”
She continued to shake her head as she reached for the door knob. “I gave you his name, and that’s all I’ll give you. Goodbye, Sy,” and she quickly ran out of the office.
Sy ran to the door after her, but it was too late. She was gone, and besides, she was right. No one would believe her. Not Sheriff Mason and not even the people of Jackson Ward. He slammed the door closed behind him. “Damn it!” he hollered in the empty room. His eyes grew large as saucers. He went to his desk and yanked open a bottom drawer, and pulled out a new bottle of bourbon. Breathing heavily, he opened the bottle and took a long swig. Then, he grabbed his coat, balled it up with the bottle inside and headed for the door.
Chapter 21
Sy was awakened by a loud, persistent knock on his door. He had fallen asleep drinking his favorite drink – bourbon. The bottle rolled off his lap and crashed onto the floor sending shards of glass everywhere when he jumped up to answer the door. “Shit! Shit! Shit! Who the hell is it?” he barked at the door as he stepped on a piece of glass.
The knocking just kept going. At first, Sy thought he was back in basic training and the knocking was the warning his fellow trainees gave when the drill sergeant was on his way to the barracks. But the pain in his foot from the glass brought him back to reality. Someone was trying to get in to his place.
He threw open the door. Lena was leaning in the door frame, blood running from her nose. It was all down the front of her yellow dress, creating its own design. Her hair was in disarray with visible patches of hair missing, and her lips were swollen to the size of a plum, matching her left eye. Sy was speechless for a second. He was hoping this was a bad nightmare.
“Sy,” Lena cried through her swollen lips. Her raspy voice told him this was not a dream.
He grabbed her quickly and nearly threw her into his room. He slammed the door shut and stood with his hands on his hips. Sy looked at Lena from head to toe with a blank, cold stare on his face. The look caused her to shrink into herself as she stood there.
“Amos did this to you.” He meant for it to be a question, but it came out a flat statement. She nodded her head up and down in response. “He did…he beat you like this.” His breath was barely making it out of him.
“He … he never been so mad. I mean, I never seen him so mad,” she said as tears fell on her swollen cheeks. Sy gently pulled her down onto the sofa this time, but he could not look at her.
“Tell me what … happened … all of it.”
Lena just cried for a few seconds, wiping at her bleeding lip and nose with a bloodied handkerchief. The sleeve of her yellow dress fell off her shoulder as it was ripped during the fight with Amos. Sy watched as she tried to put it back in place as she sat on the sofa trying to find the words to explain what had happened that morning. But the sleeve kept falling off her shoulders. She finally gave up.
She started to cry uncontrollably as her entire body shook from head to toe. Sy reached over and brought her to him. He held her tight as she vibrated with her tears; he had to simply wait for the tears to stop to get the story. He felt that he needed to hear the story more than anything right now - more than breathing, even.
A few moments later, Lena’s body stopped shaking and she pushed herself up from Sy’s embrace. She couldn’t look at him, so she kept her head low as she spoke so softly, Sy had to lean forward and strain to hear her tell the story.
“It started last night. I … he’d come home drunk. I tried to … to help him, but —” and she rose from the couch and stood over by a window. It was still overcast outside and Lena thought how the darkness outside mirrored the pain she was feeling in her body now.
“Lena, you ain’t got to tell me more if you don’t want to,” said Sy from directly behind her. She hadn’t even heard him get up from the old, rickety
sofa. But she continued to look out the window into the dark morning.
“It’s alright. I have to.” She paused for a second, took a deep breath and continued. “He’d been drinkin’. When he came home, he startin’ throwin’ stuff around, yellin’ and cussin’ somethin’ awful – worse than what I ever heard from ‘em. He ordered me to cook his dinner, then he passed out. I started dinner, and when he came to, I told him I’d made a special dinner for us – I had it set out, showed it to him, and I ...” She stopped for a moment as the memory of his fist plunging into her stomach made her cringe.
“Next thing I know, he was on me. He punched me like I was in the ring with him. I tried to scream, but he put one hand on my mouth and hit me with the other. I don’t know what I done to him. I woke up on the kitchen floor this mornin’. He weren’t nowhere ‘round the house, so I…I just’ come straight here.” She turned around to face Sy who was also staring out the window, his eyes lost in the image of Lena nearly dead on her kitchen floor.
“I can’t go back there no mo’, Sy. I think he thought he killed me and ran,” she said as her body started to vibrate with fear and tears again.
“I don’t think you should go back, Lena. You can stay here with me…yes, you stay with me.”
Lena laughed softly. “I can’t do that, Sy. People will talk…”
“To hell with what people say, Lena,” Sy screamed as he walked to his kitchen and pulled a beer out from the icebox.
“But it ain’t right, Sy and you know it. Please don’t drink right now while I’m talkin’ to you,” she pleaded as she put her hand on the beer bottle at his lips.
Sy put the down the beer and grabbed Lena’s hands and kissed them. Then, he kissed her neck wildly as if he were afraid she’d disappear into the air if his lips and hands released her.
“Sy, please, no,” and she pushed him off of her. “I can’t. I’ve got to find out what happened to him first.”
“What does it matter, Lena? Let me take care of you now.”
Murder on Second Street: The Jackson Ward Murders (Sy Sanford Series Book 1) Page 12
