The Devil's Own Rag Doll (2 page)

While Bobby worked Thrumm over with talk, I let my mind bring another thing forward. I had caught a whiff when I busted in: opium, probably, or some kind of doctored marijuana. Thrumm looked half gone with it right now. From the way his eyes jittered, I could see that he was plenty spooked, but I couldn't tell exactly where the stash would be. Next to the telephone table there was a battered china cabinet with no glass in the doors and a collection of knickknacks arranged on the shelves. I pulled my right hand from my pocket and picked up the salt-and-pepper sets one by one, tipping them over, pretending to read the bottoms. Every one of them had at least some remnant of salt or pepper inside. Judging from Thrumm's lack of reaction, I knew the china cabinet held nothing of interest.

“We need to find Donny Pease,” said Bobby. “We're told you know where he stays.”

“Fellas, I ain't seen Donny Pease in six month. Tha's the God's truth.”

Even with only one eye, I could see that he was lying. When I heard Thrumm slipping in and out of the hayseed lingo, I wanted to smack the shine off his oily face, try out a little amateur dentistry on his ragged teeth; but I let Bobby keep working him.

Bobby said, “We're told you tipped a few drinks with him last Saturday over to the Forest Club.”

“Who said that? That's a lie.”

I picked up a salt shaker in the shape of a country boy with a straw hat. With one quick motion I turned and threw the shaker through the plaster and through the lath wood of the wall just over Thrumm's head. It was closer than I had intended, the missing eye playing hell with my depth perception. Thrumm didn't have time to flinch. I glowered at him long enough to see the eyes get big under his pomaded, plaster-flecked hair. Then I turned back to the cabinet to thumb through a stack of photographs: smiling Toby Thrumm, half toked, some women, a few other colored men standing around an alley. Back home, backwoods, Deep South. I thought of Thrumm with some disdain. But the photos brought up a twinge of regret in me. Whatever his faults, Thrumm was a man who could feel easy, who could make and keep friends and enjoy himself.

“There's no sense lying to us,” Bobby told him. “I've got the time to stay right here breathing on you until you tell me exactly where to find Donny Pease. We're on the public payroll.” Bobby pulled out a pack of smokes from his jacket and offered one to Thrumm. “No sense making Detective Caudill break out a sweat this early in the day. If he starts to sweat, you start wishing you were a cool breeze.” Bobby leaned close to offer Thrumm a light and spoke in a whisper. “He's wound up tighter than a dress on Rita Hayworth.”

“Well,” said Thrumm, licking his lips again, “last I hear, he's staying with a woman two doors up from the Forest Club, you know, on Hastings over there, on Forest and Hastings.”

As I stepped next to the telephone table, I could see that Thrumm was almost ready to jump up from the sofa.

“Don't lie to me!” Bobby almost laughed.

“I don't lie! If it's one thing I ain't, it's a liar!”

“You already lied to me once, at least,” Bobby said, running his hand back amiably over his forehead. “Why would I figure you'd beat that habit so fast?”

I stood before the telephone table and angled myself so I could make out Thrumm squirming at the edge of my sight. With my right hand I picked up the handpiece, listened, and put it back, then ran a finger over the edge of the table. I still hadn't taken my left hand out of my pocket.

“I ain't so stupid as you all try to put on me. Donny Pease been known to have a temper on him, that's all. You put me in a hard place. But I guess he ain't so much to me, now that I think on it a while.”

“Because you understand,” said Bobby, “if you send us over there and we find out you're yanking our dicks, we'll be back here pretty quick, and plenty hot.”

“Well, I don't know he'll be there,” Thrumm said hastily. “That's just what I hear.”

I felt Thrumm's eyes nailed onto me; I was right on top of whatever he was worried about. So I pulled my left hand slowly from the pocket and gave Thrumm a good long look at it. Pink flesh, bright and shiny where the two littlest fingers should have been anchored to the mangled palm. A lobster claw. With the claw I fingered over Thrumm's war production ID badge from the Packard aircraft engine place, the money clip filled out with small bills, and his keys. I started to pull open the little drawer in the table. I figured it to be some kind of dope, but since we had no intention of taking Thrumm in, I wasn't about to go through the trouble of actually finding anything.

“Two doors up? What's the woman's name?” Bobby asked.

“Listen, I ain't, I ain't exactly sure about that.” Thrumm squirmed, and strained his attention toward me. “You know how that goes. So thick with extra women around here now with the war and all, they lookin' all the same to me.”

“Well, let's put it this way. Some advice. If we have to come back here, you'll want to be somewhere else.” Bobby stood up and shook down his clothes to a proper hang. He looked down at Thrumm but let his eyes go out of focus, as if considering something carefully. Then he gestured to me. “Let's get out of here. If we hurry, we can finish all this before lunch.”

I let my lips curl a bit. I left the drawer as it was, picked up the telephone, and ripped the cord from the base. Then I turned and followed Bobby right out the door. As I trudged to the car through the rising heat of the cloudless day, I thought about what Thrumm had said.

Bobby said, “We'll take it around the block and up the alley and see if Toby Thrumm's a rabbit like I think he is.”

Nobody else ever drove if Bobby Swope was around. He fished the keys from his pocket and we roared off, pretending to be hot for Hastings Street. But Bobby drove around to the next street, parked, and cooled for a few minutes, time enough for Thrumm to throw a few things in a bag. The alley was quiet enough. I guessed that there were plenty of white folks off playing tennis somewhere, getting rich by renting out the broken-down houses to all the colored families. They were jammed in tight in the Bottom and in Paradise Valley, jammed in, as I had read somewhere, as tight as Calcutta. And more Negroes were coming all the time, hitching up from the Deep South or riding over from Chicago or Cleveland to grab a job at one of the big auto plants or making airplanes at Willow Run.

We walked up the alley and waited out of sight in front of the garage door. In a minute Thrumm hot-stepped it toward the garage and began to swing open the big door from the inside. I ducked in and grabbed Thrumm by his spotty shirt and lifted him onto the hood of the old Fargo truck. Thrumm's head and backbone bounced all the way up to the windshield as I dragged him up over the front of the vehicle, and then again on the way down to the dirt floor of the garage. Bobby quietly pulled the garage door closed, cutting down the light to what could squeeze through the murky windows.

Thrumm's eyes got bigger when I pulled out my revolver. I held the barrel of the pistol hard to the base of Thrumm's neck and watched a snaky vein grow fat with stoppered blood. Bobby pulled a little knife from his pocket and absently cleaned his nails for a moment, watching Thrumm with lazy eyes. Then he stooped and eased the blade slowly into the sidewall of one of the truck's precious wartime tires, twisting to let the air hiss out more quickly. Thrumm gasped and jerked but made no attempt to escape. I watched his eyes jumping and judged that I was about to hear another lie, so I twice brought the butt of the revolver down onto the bridge of his nose.

Thrumm yelped and coughed, then held up a pale, dry palm in submission.

Bobby leaned close. “Lie to me again, lover boy.”

“Shoo!” sputtered Thrumm through running blood. “I won't tell no more stories.” Thrumm blinked to get the water from his eyes and moved to get up, but I pushed the nose of the gun into his neck again. “Okay, okay. He stay out on Wyoming, little apartment building next to Bidwell's on Fenkell there, you'll find 'im.”

I stood up, wiped the muzzle of my gun on my trousers, and holstered the piece. I wanted to spit the coppery taste from my mouth.
You could have just told us that in the first place,
I thought.

Thrumm said nothing more. He drew his arms and legs in close and pulled up his shirttail to dab at his bloody nose. Bobby folded his knife and slipped it into his pocket with a wistful look on his face. He turned to push open the big door of the garage. Bright light washed in to show how small Toby Thrumm had become: all out of lies and bluff, smacked down to the dirt floor of his own garage, his blood let out. I turned away from him because the rich redness dazzled my eye.

I knew that the quick escalation of low-level violence had panicked Thrumm into telling the truth. But one thing troubled me as I followed Bobby out of the garage: Why was Thrumm so reluctant to spill Pease's whereabouts? Thrumm was not such a big man, but he was hard in the arms and back from his labor, and Pease had never been anything more than a loser on a slow downward slide, small and soft and used to talking his way through trouble. I was thinking hard as we walked back to the car.

Another thing tugged at my gut. Because I did not see how it could be useful, I had not told Bobby of my acquaintance with young Jane Hardiman. In the late fall of 1941, not long before the Japs came to Pearl Harbor, I was walking my beat as usual. Two girls came out of Bland's Liquor and turned up the street toward me like it was the Easter Parade. To see them walking arm-in-arm like they were, in a district where there wasn't anything but bump shops and beer gardens and grubby factory rats—well, it put a jolt in me. It was getting toward dusk, and I knew the type of trouble that percolated on my beat after sundown. As they came close, I pulled out my billy and spread my arms to corral them to a halt.

The tallest one spoke with a twinkle in her eye. “Some trouble, officer?”

“Not yet there isn't,” I said. “That's the way it's going to stay. What kind of business you girls have with Bland?”

The smaller girl kept her eyes down.

The other said, “He wouldn't sell us any liquor, if that's what you're wondering. He did sell us a pack of smokes, though.”

“Jane!”

“I don't mind the smoking, girly,” I said. “But the two of you can't be anything but trouble for me down here.”

“I'm Jane Hardiman, and this is my friend Missy—”

“Jane! Don't tell him—”

“I don't care who you are,” I said. “I want you off my beat before the wolves come out.”

“Rousted by the authorities! I suppose we're criminals now,” Jane Hardiman said. Her tone was flippant, but her eyes smiled warmly. “Will you have to take us in? I don't think Missy's constitution can accommodate any hard time.”

“If you won't get into a cab, I'll have to call a scout car to take you home.”

“We'll take the cab!” piped Missy.

I brought them along to the cab stand around the corner and put them in the first car.

Jane rolled down the window and beckoned me near. “Officer, I don't suppose you could front us a dollar or two for the cab? We're a little short.”

The cabbie said, “I don't take no charity case.”

The girl was not more than fifteen years old, I judged, but she had managed to confound me. I put my hand on the door and stooped down to get a look at her face. I was ready to pull the money from my pocket.

“I'm just teasing, Officer,” Jane said. “I have plenty of money.” She put her hand over mine—the bad one—and then brought it up to touch my cheek softly just below my patch.

“You've been kinder than you had to be,” she said.

The girl was trouble, all right. I could see that. Smart as a whip and used to having her way. But there was something close and familiar in her eyes. She looked warmly at me, as if she felt
sorry
for me. Sorry about the eye and the fingers, sorry that it was my job to roust the trouble from my little corner of the world.

I stood up and took a step back from the cab, then tapped the door a couple times with the billy. “I don't want to see either of you down here again,” I said.

“Don't worry,” said Jane. “We can take care of ourselves.”

She sat back and squeezed her friend's knee. I could hear her clear voice giving the cabbie a Grosse Pointe address as the car pulled away from the curb.

That was the only time I had ever seen her, and I hadn't thought of it again until Bobby mentioned the name to me for the side deal he had cooked up. She was a smart girl, and I hoped that she had learned enough in the two years since then to keep her safe. As I settled into Bobby's car for the drive to Pease's place, an odd tug of emotion pulled at me: No matter how seamy the situation turned out to be, I hoped that the girl would recognize me when she saw me. I hoped she would appreciate what I was trying to do.

*   *   *

“What a city, eh, Pete?” Bobby asked, his pale face lit up with exhilaration. “I tell you, if this isn't the greatest city in the world, I'm as ugly as Churchill.” He lit a smoke and sucked on it till he trembled, then laughed and coughed the smoke into the air. “Industry! Manufacture! It's all right here! Right here in the middle of the country, down along the beautiful Detroit River. What else could we need?” Bobby sat with his back off the seat, clutching and slapping at the steering wheel with both hands. “Brother, look at those trees. You think they have trees like that in any other city?”

I let my attention wander, knowing that Bobby's spiel would blow itself out after a time.
Nothing is ever as simple as people make it out to be,
I thought. Why would Pease be worth a busted nose to Thrumm? And why would he be willing to cut out like that, just throw his things in a bag and light out? I guessed that Thrumm had to be making at least a decent wage to be able to afford to stay at the flat without a dozen little niggers running about the place, too, and a garage and what looked like his own truck. It was a sweet deal for Thrumm, no doubt about it, and not likely found anywhere but here.