by Alice Duncan
Jackson, whose Christian name, I learned, was Joseph, escorted his brother into the living room and made introductions. Henry and Joseph Jackson didn't look much alike, but I don't look much like my brother or sister, either, so there you go.
"I understand you and your family moved to Pasadena from Tulsa, Oklahoma, Mr. Jackson," Sam began. "Can you tell me why you did that?"
Henry Jackson appeared uncomfortable. "The Klan's been makin' life a misery for us black folk there in Tulsa, Detective. I decided to move my family away from the violence and lynchin'."
"I've read about the riots and violence in Tulsa," said Sam. "Did the Klan pick your family in particular to torment?"
The Jackson brothers exchanged a worried glance. I perked up some. The brothers knew something, but would they reveal their knowledge to Sam? Some of whose brothers-in-uniform belonged to the same organization that had driven Henry Jackson's family from its home?
"If you know of any reason you should be singled out for Klan attention, I wish you'd tell me. Your knowledge might help us put a clamp on Klan activities here in Pasadena before things get even worse for you and your family," said Sam, sounding almost gentle, for him.
"I... I seen something," stuttered Henry Jackson. "Back in Oklahoma." Big help.
"What did you see?" asked Sam.
"Well, I ain't real sure—"
"Henry!" came the stentorian voice of Mrs. Jackson. "Tell the man what he needs to know, and do it now."
"Yes, Mama," said Henry meekly. I was impressed. Even if the woman couldn't practice honest-to-goodness magic, she could sure get things done. I approved.
"The truth is that I ain't sure what I saw," said Henry, sounding miserable. "But if I seen what I thought I seen, then I seen a white man kill another white man."
Oh, my goodness!
"In Tulsa?" said Sam.
"Yeah. I didn't know anyone'd seen me, but I reckon someone did, 'cause things started happening to my family. They burned a cross on my property, and somebody tried to shove me down a flight of stairs. I worked the elevator in a law office in Tulsa, and this was at work. Then they put notes in my mailbox saying as to how they was gonna kill my family and my kids and burn my house down."
"And that's when I told him to come here," said my Jackson. "But somehow or t'other, word done spread, and now they's after him here, too."
Sam shook his head, as much in frustration as annoyance, if I were to guess. How do you catch people who run around in white sheets and won't show their faces?
"I'm sorry, Mr. Jackson. This has to be a frightening time for you."
"You can say that again."
Sam didn't bother. "Do you have any idea at all who the men in Tulsa were? The one who killed the other man and the man who was murdered?"
After a short spate of silence, Henry said, "Well, I heard folks talkin' in the elevator the next day, and I heard the name of Bruce McIntyre. He be the dead man. I don't know who the killer was."
"Bruce McIntyre." Sam wrote down the name, and I could envision cable messages flying back and forth between Pasadena, California, and Tulsa, Oklahoma, in the next few days. "Well, that's something, anyway."
"Hope it helps," said Jackson.
"Me, too," said Henry.
"I understand your children have recently been bothered," said Sam of Henry.
"Yes, they been bothered," said Henry, sounding angry about it, and I understood completely. "Some white man in a sheet driving a big ol' Cadillac car tried to run 'em down when they was goin' to school."
"Good Lord!" I cried, horrified.
Sam looked at me, and I vowed to remain silent for the remainder of our sojourn in the Jacksons' home.
"Where do they go to school?" asked Sam.
"Grover Cleveland Elementary School, on Washington," said Henry Jackson. "They was walkin' up Mentone to Hammond. Then they walked to Lincoln and went on up to Washington. When they crossed over to Washington from Lincoln was when they was almost hit. Crossin' the street at Lincoln."
I pictured the intersection in my mind. The area was residential, and most of the people living there were of one color or another, but not white.
"The Cadillac missed 'em by an inch," said Joseph Jackson. I think I'll keep calling him Jackson from now on, because otherwise my brain will develop a cramp.
"I got 'em taken care of," declared the deep, mesmerizing voice from the fireplace.
When we turned to glance at her, she held up another little doll, all dressed up in a tiny white robe and a tiny white dunce cap, and she very deliberately stabbed a pin into the doll's leg. I didn't say anything, keeping to my vow, but I did gasp a trifle. Sam's lips only compressed slightly.
"Mama's got her own ways," said Jackson.
"That she do," said Henry.
"May I speak to your children, Mr. Jackson? Perhaps they saw something else that might help us identify the perpetrator of this deed." Sam.
"I 'spect you can talk to 'em, but they don't much like talkin' to white folk," said Henry.
Don't ask me why, because I don't know, but his comment offended me for about five seconds. Then it occurred to me that if my own children had almost been run down by a Negro in a sheet and dunce cap, they probably wouldn't want to talk to black folk. So I forgave Henry and his children. Not that it matters.
Henry left the room to fetch his kids, and I asked Jackson, "How's Jimmy doing? Is he still playing the cornet?"
"Oh, yeah. He gots himself a good job now, playing in a jazz band for them white folks in Los Angeles. Why, he play at the Coconut Grove at the Ambassador Hotel sometimes. He have to go in through the kitchen, but he makes lots of money."
Very well, my ire rose. Jimmy Jackson was good enough to play for the white folks, but he wasn't good enough to walk in through the front door in order to do his job? That wasn't fair, confound it! I refrained from saying so, mainly because Sam pinched my arm, blast the man.
It didn't matter anyhow, because Henry came into the living room again, herding three small black children in front of him. They were a good-looking group of kids, if you discounted their expressions, which ranged from fearful to sullen.
"These here folk are gonna try to help you, Gracie, Steven and Wilbert. Don't be afraid on 'em."
I heard something that might have been a snort from the fireplace, but didn't look to see if Mrs. Jackson had done anything else to the doll she'd just stabbed with the pin. To tell the truth, I was becoming rather ill at ease in her presence. Not, of course, that I believed in her voodoo any more than I believed in my own brand of spiritualism, but there was something about her that grabbed one's attention, if you understand what I mean.
"Good evening, children," said Sam formally. "Will you please tell me what happened when the car almost ran you down?"
Silence ensued. It didn't abate. It stretched out until it became downright nerve-wracking.
That being the case, and because it's hard for me to keep quiet even under normal circumstances, I said, "It's all right, kids. Sam here wants to help find out who's been tormenting your family. He wants to learn who's doing it, arrest him, and lock him in jail."
The three children looked at each other and then up at their father.
It was Jackson who spoke next. "Miss Daisy's tellin' the truth, boys and girls. She be a friend of mine from way back, and she knows what she's talkin' about."
That was nice of him.
So Wilbert finally spoke. He was the oldest of the trio. "It was a white man in a white robe and white pointy hat, an' he drove straight at us when we was in the crosswalk. I had to grab Sissy and Stevie or we'd all be black spots on the pavement on Lincoln."
I presumed Grace was referred to by her brothers as Sissy. And ew. The notion of these three, vibrant, living children, who ranged in age, at my guess, from five to thirteen or thereabouts, being run down in the street made me sick.
"Did you recognize anything about the man driving the car?"
"No, except I saw he was
white, 'cause of his hair. It was that kind of reddish color. Not as dark as yours. More orange. I saw the machine, though. It was a Cadillac. Nice car. I think they call them things touring cars. The top was down, and there was two men in it. The one drivin' looked older to me than the other one. Don't know why."
"You can't remember why you got that impression?" pressed Sam.
Wilbert peered at his father, as if asking his permission. Henry Jackson nodded. "If you know anything, son, you tell this man right now."
So Wilbert, after heaving a sigh, said, "The fella drivin' was fat, and he had that orange hair. The one next to him was skinny and... I dunno. He just seemed younger. Spryer. I... I don't think he wanted the old man to run us down, 'cause he hollered somethin' at the older man."
"Do you remember what he hollered?" asked Sam.
Again Wilbert glanced at his father, who nodded and said, "Just tell 'im, son. They ain't your words. They's that bad man's."
Wilbert's lips pressed together for a moment before he blurted out, "That younger feller, he said, 'Christ Jesus, don't do that'. At least that's what it sounded like to me. He hollered it, and slapped his hand onto his pointy hat."
And I, for one, hoped he squashed it flat. I didn't say so.
"But neither man called the other by name?" asked Sam as if he were hoping for more.
"Well..." Wilbert scratched his head. "The fat man, he said somethin', but I don't rightly know what it was."
"Was it a word?" Sam pressed. "A name? Did it remind you of anything?"
"Well, sir, I do know he told the younger one to shaddap. I heard that much."
Sam appeared puzzled, so I said very softly, "Shut up." He shot me a scowl, I rolled my eyes, and he finally caught on. Men. I swear.
"I see," said Sam. "Anything else?"
"Well... I think maybe he called out the other fella's name, but I didn't catch it."
"You didn't hear the name? Did what he say remind you of any other word?"
Appearing frustrated now, Wilbert shook his head and said, "It don't make no sense. It sounded like eats or feets, but that don't make no sense at all."
"Hmm. Eats or feets. It might have been a name, all right, although it probably wasn't eats or feets. Maybe the name rhymes with one of those words or contains one of those words."
Wilbert shrugged, which made perfect sense to me.
"Thank you, Wilbert. And that's everything you can think of? You didn't see any other people or hear any other words that might have been connected with those two men?"
Wilbert shook his head. "Nothin' but a lot of screamin' from some ladies walking on the street. They all come over to make sure we was all right."
Good for the women. Would that one of them had written down the car's license number and telephoned the police. Oh, well.
Sam sighed. "Thank you very much, Wilbert. If you do think of anything, will you please tell your father or your uncle?"
"Yes, sir." Wilbert seemed relieve his ordeal was over.
"Thanks again. I'll talk to your father and uncle now. You children can go back to... whatever you were doing."
"They was gettin' ready for bed," said Mrs. Jackson from her throne beside the fireplace, shooting a quelling look at the three children, who scurried out of there as if scorched by invisible fire. The woman had power; I'll give her that.
After the children left the room, Sam turned to address Jackson and Henry. "And I don't suppose you saw anyone when they burned the cross on your front lawn." He sounded defeated.
Both men shook their heads, and Jackson said, "Nope. Sorry. Wish we had. I'll tell you in a second if I recognized any of them bastids. Or at least give you a description on 'em."
"Joseph," said Jackson's mother.
Jackson jerked to attention. "Sorry, Mama."
"You don' 'pologize to me. You 'poligize to the young lady."
"Oh, there's no need for that," I hastened to assure everyone. "People say worse things than that in front of me all the time." Especially Sam, although I didn't mention him in particular.
"It's all right, Miss Daisy. I do apologize for using bad language in front of you."
I gave up trying to convince him his language was mild compared to what I was accustomed to. And I thought "bastids" was a rather polite word for the animals who'd burned a cross on his front lawn and tried to kill his kin.
It soon became evident that the two Jackson brothers had nothing more of a significant nature to report to Sam, so we prepared to leave the Jackson home. I first paid a special visit to the regal being beside the fireplace. "Thank you, Mrs. Jackson. I appreciate your juju."
"You jus' be sure to carry it with you, child," she admonished me. "And come back to talk to me one of these here days. Soon."
Oh, my! "I'll be happy to," I told her in all honesty. After all, how often does a fake spiritualist get to compare notes with a semi-famous voodoo mambo? I don't know about New Orleans, Louisiana, but in Pasadena, California, I can tell you from experience: not very darned often.
It was a happy Daisy Gumm Majesty who left the Jacksons' well-kept home on Mentone Avenue and got into Detective Sam Rotondo's Hudson automobile that evening.
Chapter 9
We were almost at my house when Sam spoke again. "You're going to do it, aren't you?"
I'd been fingering my juju, thinking to myself that I'd heard of voodoo dolls before and wondering if this was one, when Sam's question jerked me out of my contemplation. "I'm going to do what?"
"Go back and talk some more with that woman."
"Sure! I've never been given the opportunity to speak with a real, live, honest-to-goodness voodoo queen before. Or voodoo mambo, I guess is the appropriate term."
"Criminy."
"Oh, bother you, Sam. It'll be interesting. I'm always ready to learn more about my line of work."
"If you start making little dolls and sticking pins in them, Daisy Gumm Majesty, I'll... I'll... well, I don't know what I'll do, but it won't be pleasant for you."
"Don't be nonsensical, Sam. I won't do that. For one thing, I don't have that particular skill. I expect you have to know a whole lot of lore about voodoo and what kinds of things to say over the dolls and how to make them look like whoever you want them to look like and stuff like that before mutilating a doll can be effective." Recalling to whom I was speaking, I added hastily, "If it can be effective at all, which is highly unlikely. You don't think I believe this nonsense, do you?"
"Everyone who hires you thinks you do."
"The only people who hire me have more money than brains. You already know that. Recall Mrs. Pinkerton, if you will."
"I'd rather not," said he as he pulled his machine to a stop next to the curb in front of our house.
Sam came into the house with me, but he didn't linger. He said he had to return to the police department and write down what little he'd learned from our visit to the Jackson family. It wasn't much, and I understood how disappointed he must have been. At least he now knew why Jackson's brother was being persecuted. At least, I thought I knew. I figured whoever killed Bruce McIntyre had kin in Pasadena, and they didn't want McIntyre's murderer's name to come out. I wondered if the killer's name was Keats or Dietz or something like that.
I was still pondering the matter when I fell asleep with Spike curled up under the blanket next to me.
* * *
The next day, Saturday, the telephone rang just as Pa and I were finishing breakfast. Ma had already gone to her job at the Hotel Marengo, and Vi was on her way to Mrs. Pinkerton's house, where she'd prepare an evening meal and then come home and cook for us, bless her heart.
"Bother," said I, glaring at the telephone on the kitchen wall. Not that its ringing was the 'phone's fault. "I've already told Mrs. Pinkerton I'd be at her house at ten thirty. What the heck does she expect of me, anyway?"
Pa only chuckled and went back to reading the Pasadena Star News.
So I shoved myself away from the table and stomped to the telepho
ne. It took a whole lot of self-control to sound spiritualistic and soothing when I said, "Gumm-Majesty residence, Mrs. Majesty speaking."
You could have knocked me over with a spring zephyr when a man's shaky voice said, "Mrs. Majesty? Is your dad there?"
"Why, yes, he is," I said, startled. I didn't recognize the voice.
"This is Charlie Smith, and I need to talk to Joe."
Merciful heavens! What did this mean? Charlie Smith didn't sound happy. At all. "I'll get him for you, Mr. Smith," I said, and carefully allowed the receiver to dangle so it wouldn't hit the wall and knock Charlie Smith's eardrums cockeyed.
Pa had put down his newspaper and was gazing at me quizzically.
"It's Mr. Smith, Pa. He needs to talk to you." And I returned to the table and resumed eating my scrambled egg. Which I'd fixed myself, and which was a trifle leathery. Cooking and I just don't get along, and that's all there is to it.
"Good morning, Charlie," said Pa.
It was only then I realized that I hadn't shooed the party-line neighbors off the wire. Oh, well. If Charlie Smith had something of significance to report, the neighborhood would get a thrill.
I don't know what Mr. Smith said to Pa, but it must have been fascinating, because Pa said, "Stop right there, Charlie. Don't tell me anything else over the telephone. Why don't you come here, and I'll see if Daisy's friend can join us."
Daisy's friend? Did he mean Sam? The detective? Good Lord. Whatever could have happened overnight to Charlie Smith that required Sam's presence?
"All right. See you in a few minutes."
And, with an odd look on his face, Pa hung the receiver gently in the cradle. When he turned to me, his expression was troubled.
"What's the matter, Pa?" I wasn't sure I wanted to know.
Oh, that's a flat lie! I was avidly curious.
