by Guy Johnson
The old man gave him a final once-over then smiled. When he spoke, his voice had a slight hiss from his weakened condition. “You look good, boy. Told ’em you’d come.”
“You were right, Grandfather.”
“You done growed into a man,” the old man acknowledged. “Look a lot like yo’ daddy.”
“Maybe I look like he would have looked had he grown this old.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Jackson regretted them. He was not here to air his issues with his grandfather. He was here to get information and to pay his last respects. He had to stay focused. He sat down in a chair at the foot of the bed.
“Something grinding you, boy?” His grandfather pronounced the word boy as “bwaah.”
“No, Grandfather.”
“Blame me for yo’ daddy’s death, boy?”
The direct question was too much of an intro for Jackson to ignore, but he contained himself. “You don’t want to discuss that subject.”
“Why not?” the old man wheezed challengingly. “Ain’t got much time left, might as well spend it on somethin’ important. Floor’s open. Whatever you got to say.” A fit of shallow coughing racked his body. Jackson stood up, prepared to take whatever action necessary. The old man waved him back to his seat. “Sit down. Sit down. I ain’t ready to go jes’ yet.” The old man could barely raise his head, but his spirit was strong.
“Can I get you something?” Jackson asked as the coughing subsided.
“Jes’ speak your piece. Let me hear yo’ straight-from-the-gut thoughts. Do you blame me for yo’ daddy’s death?”
“Yes.”
“Yo’ daddy was killed by treachery, treachery that was intended to kill us all. Yo’ daddy was the only son I got to raise.” The old man paused, regaining his breath. “That’s why I dedicated my life to getting those who gunned him down.”
Tell me anything, Jackson thought. He knew that his grandfather had spent a lifetime getting even. The death of his youngest son may have added to his zeal, but it did not preempt his own blood lust. There seemed to be nothing for Jackson to say. Why argue with the old man? History could not be changed. His father could not be resurrected.
“That’s part of the reason that I wanted to see you.” The old man chuckled humorlessly.
“To discuss my father’s death?” Jackson was having trouble keeping the barbs out of his delivery.
“Yes and no.” His grandfather paused and gave him a penetrating look. “You can’t hurt me with resentment, boy. Life has done more to me than you could ever do. So, if you finished whinin’, I’ll get on to the important things that I want to cover with you.”
His grandfather’s tone of dismissal was more than Jackson was prepared to handle without retort. “You’re dying and you’re still the same self-centered old bastard that you were twenty years ago! You think you can dismiss my feelings with a wave of your hand! Only the issues that you are concerned with are important! To hell with everybody else!”
If he physically could have, his grandfather would have sat up in his bed. He struggled for a moment then resigned himself to turning his baleful glance on Jackson. In his mind’s eye, Jackson saw the manner in which his grandfather would have turned twenty or even ten years ago on an antagonist: eyes glinting evilly, gliding as close as possible before beginning his attack. There were no rules. There was no mercy, only death and maiming for the vanquished.
“You finished?” There was a petulance in the old man’s tone, as if there had been enough time wasted on foolish talk.
Jackson got himself back on track. “Yes, I’m finished, Grandfather. But I think we need to clear something up first. I came down here to see you. I will be happy to assist you in settling your affairs and to generally help in any way that I can.” Before he said these words, Jackson had had no intention of having any involvement with his grandfather’s activities. Yet, once he said them, they seemed right so he thought he would go with it. He continued speaking without a break. “But I’m not down here to be insulted. I don’t want you to dismiss my feelings or my resentment—”
“You talkin’ like a white boy. Everybody got pain. Everybody got feelings. What makes you special? Whole damn world’s hurtin’!” The old man had a spasm of pain, which he stifled with a grimace. He looked out the window and sucked in a long breath. “I ain’t got time to spend arguin’. I got something to tell you, a little family history; something you gotta know ‘cause you inheritin’ everythin’.”
“I don’t want your money. Give it to Franklin. He wants it.”
The old man laughed; this time it was a real laugh. The coughing began again. It racked his whole body. Jackson again stood, ready to come to his aid or call a nurse, but his grandfather waved him back to his seat.
“Franklin wouldn’t live to see his bank statement. Anyway, he ain’t my blood and I never did take a liking to that boy. Reminded me of his father.”
“I’ve heard you say this before. What do you mean, Franklin’s not your blood?”
“His father wasn’t from me. Was a white man’s child. Ain’t my blood. Ask yo’ grandmother if LaValle was my son.”
It was too much to assimilate. It was the type of information that Jackson felt should have been disclosed years ago. “Did you kill him?” Jackson blurted out. Why not put at least one mystery to rest, he thought. The old man was at the gates; he’d tell the truth.
“Who? LaValle?” The old man’s eyes opened wide with inquiry.
“Yeah.” Jackson nodded his head.
“No. His mouth and his greed killed him. Would have done ’em, but I promised yo’ grandmother that I’d let him alone.”
“You’re a piece of work, Grandfather. You would’ve killed your own son?”
“Wasn’t my son! He was a white man’s son! And he was a traitor to the family that raised him!” the old man answered righteously. “A man who ain’t got no loyalty is just a mercenary, don’t deserve a Christian burial.”
Jackson shook his head and wondered what kind of man it took to be facing death, having committed all the crimes that his grandfather had committed, and still be unrepentant.
His grandfather was peering at him. “You think I’m heartless? Well, ever since yo’ so-called uncle got yo’ mama killed—”
Jackson sat up quickly as if he’d received an electrical shock.
“Got your attention, huh?” His grandfather nodded knowingly. “Well. I tell you about it. LaValle was drinking that night and he had lost a lot of money. Had a problem that way. He was always overdoing it, whether it was alcohol, gambling, or women. Never seemed to know when to stop.…” His grandfather’s words fell into a rhythm, his soft voice rising and falling with his changes in inflection. Jackson sat back in his chair and let the old man’s words pour over him like warm syrup as he re-created with his descriptions the sights and sounds of that fateful night.
Friday, August 18, 1951
In the semidarkness of the Blue Mirror, Jacques (known as Jack in the Bay Area) Tremain discreetly adjusted his forty-five automatic in its holster then pulled his jacket closed. He stood at the back of a crowd that was listening to Sugar Ray Robinson slug it out with Bobo Olson on the radio. The polished wooden radio sat in a prominent place behind the bar and its volume was turned all the way up. The patrons lining the bar as well as those seated at the various tables were intent on the fight. As the announcer’s voice excitedly described each flurry of punches in staccato bursts, he drew cheers or moans from the bar’s occupants. It was a fast-paced fight with each boxer taking his turn in pummeling the other. No one among the listeners thought that the bout would go the distance. In between rounds, people would order more drinks or shout to friends across the room as the fast-talking announcer provided his unrequested analysis. Jack, without making any noticeable effort, was watching the egress and ingress of traffic. He was trying to identify potential problems.
His let his eyes follow the shapely, long-legged form of Verna French, who was waiting tables. S
he was an attractive, light-skinned, red-haired woman who had become an institution at the Blue Mirror during her five-year tenure. Jack watched her weave in and out between tables, professionally serving drinks and bantering easily with customers. She brooked no advances and was generally a no-nonsense type. The only problem, as far as Jack was concerned, was that she was one of his brother’s early conquests.
Occasionally, he would catch the eye of the heavyset bartender, Doke Browner, and with a glance point out a particular individual for his assessment. So far, no one had entered who caused Doke any concern. But Jack was worried; it was going to be a lively evening. He could feel it in the air.
It was Friday night in postwar Fillmore. It was payday and the eagle had flown. Folks had on their best threads and were parading the street. It was eleven o’clock at night and Fillmore was still clogged with cars slowly cruising up and down. Often the street was blocked by people double-parked in their vehicles, shooting the breeze with their friends. Despite the lateness of the hour, the sidewalks were still crowded with promenading pedestrians as people made their way to bars, restaurants, and the late-showing movies located along the Fillmore corridor.
The Blue Mirror Lounge, owned by the Tremain family, was located on Fillmore Street between Fulton and McAllister. It was a large establishment consisting of four rooms. The main room had a long wooden bar running along the right wall as customers entered. Behind the wooden bar was a huge blue-tinted mirror, which gave the establishment its name. Two of the back rooms were used for dice and cards, respectively, and the third served as a small office. The Blue Mirror was a popular place and Friday night was no exception. It was considered one of the nicer cocktail lounges where a colored man or a woman could go without fear of being hustled or assaulted. And for those who wished to challenge fortune, the games in the back rooms were honest.
Jack Tremain was riding shotgun on the games under way in the back rooms. There was big money on the tables. More than thirty thousand dollars would change hands this night. Several merchant marines and sleeping-car porters were in town to gamble their hard-earned cash. Periodically, Jack would make his rounds through the back rooms as well as the bar. He was a little over six feet tall, lean of build and light-skinned. His hair was black and wavy. He had the hairline, the straight black eyebrows, and square jaw of his father’s people and his mother’s large eyes and full lips. Jack was a good-looking man, but not the looker that his older brother was. He had other qualities that his brother did not. As evidence of this fact, Jack had been the one selected to assist in his father’s business. LaValle had been passed over. A fact that LaValle resented in silence around his father, but complained about loudly in Jack’s presence.
Doke signaled to Jack that he was wanted in the dice room. Jack detached himself from the crowd that was engrossed in the fight and made his way to the back. He was buzzed in by Doke, who had a button behind the bar. Once inside, he walked swiftly down a dim hallway lit with one low-wattage bulb to the dice room at the end of the hall. He knocked twice and entered. One of the security staff, Joey, a big, dark-skinned man in a rumpled suit, stood up and informed him of the situation. There were three dice tables in the room, but everyone was crowded around one table. A longtime customer, a large, sweating fat man named Mr. Trotman, was holding the dice and he’d had quite a good run. There was nearly four thousand dollars wagered on the table, more than three times the amount that many of those who were standing around watching would earn in a year. They were waiting for Jack to approve the bet. He nodded to the croupier, who then called out the bet. There was a gasp from the crowd around the table; more than ten thousand dollars lay in the next roll of the dice. As Jack left the room, he heard Mr. Trotman say, “The Tremains run a classy place. They don’t mind a run of luck.” It was exactly what Jack wanted to hear. It was good business to have people win occasionally.
In the bar, the radio had been turned off; the fight was over. People were discussing the decision. One man declared Sugar Ray Robinson to be the best boxer who ever lived and that Olson was given the title because he was white. Another man asserted that Henry Armstrong was the best. Another protested that Joe Louis was the best. The discussion dissolved into Friday-night camaraderie. Doke beckoned Jack over and whispered in his ear that Mr. Trotman had lost on his next roll.
It looked like it was going to be a pretty good evening, until LaValle came into the bar at midnight.
LaValle was drunk again. As soon as he came staggering into the bar, Doke got Jack’s attention. They both knew it meant trouble. LaValle was a mean drunk who, because of his father and his brother’s reputation, would bully people. But basically, he was a pretty boy who liked to make time with other people’s women. Either way, he was a troublemaker. Jack intercepted him as he made his way to the bar. “LaValle, you know Dad said for you not to come into any of the family places when you’re drunk.”
“You ain’t going to tell him, are you, little brother?” LaValle slurred his words, looking over Jack’s shoulder to see who was in the bar. He saw Verna and waved.
“I can’t let you in, Val,” Jack advised, standing in front of his brother.
LaValle knew he could neither bully nor manipulate his brother. He swayed drunkenly back and forth, on the verge of losing his balance. “I got a couple of problems.…” He hiccuped and fell silent. There was a pleading look on his face.
“What sort of problems, Val?” Jack asked tiredly. He had been the foil for every ploy that his brother had ever thought up and he knew him well. Nonetheless, Jack loved his brother and that connection always made him act generously on his behalf.
The nature of LaValle’s problem walked through the door. It was John Tree, the youngest of the three Tree brothers. He was accompanied by two of his ruffian friends and when he saw LaValle, his eyes lit up.
Doke had been watching the interchange between LaValle and Jack from behind the bar, but when he saw Tree enter with his friends, he picked up the shotgun and walked to the end of the bar. Everyone in the Fillmore knew the Tree brothers and that John was trying to build a reputation as a tough guy. Doke waited with the shotgun hidden behind the fold in his apron.
LaValle saw Tree and turned to face him. A smile broke across his face. “This is one of them, little brother, but I didn’t think that he was fool enough to follow me in here.”
Tree walked up to the two brothers with a frown on his face. He didn’t quite know what he was going to do, but he wanted to show everyone that he was fearless. He figured if he just threatened LaValle in his father’s place, it would be all over the Fillmore in hours. “I come to get my money and satisfaction from the punk that likes to hit on women!” he said in a loud, demanding tone.
Jack knew that Tree had only entered the bar to start trouble. Jack opened his jacket, showing his gun, and said quietly, “I got your money and your satisfaction right here. Why don’t you come and take it.”
The sight of the gun along with what he knew of Jack’s reputation made John pause. There was no doubt in his mind that Jack would shoot him if provoked. It was unfortunate for John Tree that he was an ambitious man, for it was his ambition that drove him forward. He taunted, “I heard that the Tremains were supposed to be tough and they always paid their debts. Yet, I got to come after a damn coward who beats on women and lets his mouth take him where his wallet can’t go!” His two backups chuckled encouragingly.
Jack took a step toward Tree. “If you don’t keep your voice down, you won’t be able to finish this conversation.”
There was a moment of silence as Tree saw Joey take a position off to his left. “Whatchoo gon’ do, shoot me?” he challenged. “You gon’ shoot me ‘cause I come to collect my money from yo’ punk-ass brother?”
The lounge grew suddenly quiet as patrons turned their attention to the drama unfolding near the entrance.
“Let’s take him the next time he talks!” Jack ordered. Doke cocked the shotgun. Joey pulled out another shotgun and cocked it.
There was absolute silence in the lounge: Coincidentally, the jukebox was in between records. Everyone heard Jack’s words. People were edging away from the bar. Reputations were important. The Tremains commanded a sprawling real estate empire along the Fillmore corridor consisting of apartment buildings, movies, restaurants, and shoe parlor card rooms. It was the Tremain reputation which kept these businesses operating smoothly, without fear of extortion from other criminals. The police, of course, received their cut on a monthly basis.
The tension between the men at the door was broken momentarily when an attractive, young, dark-skinned woman with a pixie haircut walked through the front door. She walked between Tree’s two men and made her way to Jack’s side. It was Jack’s wife. Without taking his eyes off Tree, Jack pushed her away. “Go stand behind the bar, Eartha. Call an ambulance.” She followed his directions and went behind the bar. Jack goaded Tree, “Open your mouth now! We’ve got the whole bar’s attention. Come on! Let’s do it!”
The jukebox was now playing Billie Holiday’s “Don’t Explain” and that was the only sound in the room.
Tree knew that his bluff had been called. He raised his hands and laughed nervously. He wasn’t a fool. He was outnumbered and outgunned. He knew that if he was to live beyond this night he would have to back down. Tree started to speak and fell silent when he saw Jack’s raised gun pointed directly at his head. He gestured with his hands, indicating he wanted to say something.
Jack ordered, “Apologize for disturbing our patrons!” He kept the gun aimed at Tree’s head. “If you say anything else, I’ll kill you where you stand!”
“Sorry,” Tree said begrudgingly.
“Louder!” Jack ordered.
The taste was extremely bitter in Tree’s mouth. “I’s sorry.”
