The Dying Crapshooter's Blues (27 page)

“I
do
say so!” Troutman snapped back. “And we can't have it! I have other officers I can put on this if you're not capable. We've lost a lot of time, but if you want out, I'll take care of it. Right this minute!”

The Captain refused to rise to the chief's bait. “That won't be necessary at all,” he said evenly. He looked at the mayor, cutting Troutman out of his line of vision. “I promised you results, and I'll deliver.”

Mayor Sampson nodded and sat forward in his chair. “I hope you do,” he said. “We can't afford to have it hanging over our heads any longer. I've got important people calling every day, wanting to know what we're doing to guard their welfare. I want this put away in the next forty-eight hours. You understand?”

The Captain said, “Yes, sir.”

“No longer. Or there will be consequences.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Chief?” the mayor said. “Are we clear on this?”

Troutman's face went a shade darker at finding himself a target of the diatribe. “Yes, Mr. Mayor,” he said, sounding like he was gagging.

The Captain all but clicked his heels, turned smartly, and walked out, holding his face and posture rigid.

 

Jake finished packing the trunk. He wasn't looking forward to the drive, but Mr. Purcell was anxious to leave. It didn't matter to him that they had been up until two o'clock the night before. He could sleep in the car. Jake was the one who would take the beating.

Right now, the weather was clear all the way up the eastern seaboard, and Purcell made the prediction that they'd be in New York no later than Sunday. Jake rolled his eyes in dismay. That translated into three spine-breaking days behind the wheel for him.

Once they had everything loaded, they climbed in and left Atlanta the same way they had arrived, moving quickly from the city to town and then farmland. Mr. Purcell fell oddly quiet for the first hours, and Jake figured he was still fretting over the business just before they left with the Negro singer.

Mr. Morgan had come steaming to their door at the crack of dawn. The man was furious. A guest had complained that he had seen the two of them walking down the hall with a Negro carrying a big guitar. The man had griped loudly to the desk clerk about
allowing coloreds in the hotel,
and other guests had overheard. The house detective was sent to search, but could locate neither the two New Yorkers nor any Negro with a guitar. He went into the back of the house and grilled the colored help. They were silent to a man.

Mr. Morgan wanted answers.

“We brought him in,” Mr. Purcell told him directly. “We were able to come through your back entrance and get him upstairs without anyone seeing. We had no help. The fellow didn't know where he was. He is blind, you know. It was completely our doing. Is that clear enough?”

“We can't have it!” the manager said, his face flushing. “I'm sorry, but you'll have to vacate.”

“We were checking out anyway,” Mr. Purcell said, and closed the door.

This was true, though they might have stayed another day to try to round up and record more Negro singers. New York wanted the disks yesterday, in a rush to duplicate the masters and get the thousands of vinyl copies in the stores and catalogs. There was money to be made.

It was a clear sign that the recorded music business was on the verge of something. No longer were phonograph records only for the well-to-do. Poor families, black and white, could afford a small Edison player. Mr. Purcell knew that he and Jake would be back to the city, time and again, and so would Vocalion, Okeh, and every other label with the budget to send an engineer and rent a room. Atlanta was going to be a busy place for the record companies for years to come.

 

Lieutenant Collins looked up from his desk as Captain Jackson came stalking into the detectives' section like a careening truck, growling under his breath. The other detectives had seen this before and knew to keep their heads down and eyes averted. Collins didn't have the luxury. The Captain glared at him as if he'd done something wrong, which brought a moment of panic that went away when he realized it was just more of the man's ongoing rage.

Jackson made a sweeping gesture with his hand, and Collins got up to follow him into his office. Once inside, the senior officer jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Collins closed the door and waited.

Captain Jackson stood staring down at his tidy, severe desk without moving or speaking, his face a chunk of bloodless stone. For almost a minute, there was no sound except the traffic outside on Decatur Street and the ticking of the clock on the wall.
The lieutenant pictured the other detectives on the other side of the wall with their ears poised, waiting for the explosion. Though Collins was used to the Captain's catalog of bad moods, this one was dragging on too long. He reached behind him for the doorknob with the intention of slipping out unnoticed.

“Wait a minute!” the Captain said. Collins stopped. “Run down that fucking Joe Rose and arrest him.”

“On what charge, sir?”

“I don't give a goddamn!” the Captain barked. “Suspicion of something. Pick him up, bring him in, and put him in a cell.” He banged furious knuckles on his desk. “Then find that nigger gal of his. You know the one I'm talking about?”

“Yes, sir, but she—”

“Pearl Spencer. The one with the smart mouth. Let's see how smart she is when she's locked up in the Tower. Pick her up and bring her in. Go find her brother, too.”

Lieutenant Collins was genuinely surprised. “What did he do?”

The Captain glared. “You hear what I just said?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He works at Lulu's on Houston. You know that place, don't you?” He treated the junior officer to a sidelong glance.

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“And if he ain't there, they got a house on Lyon Street.” The Captain stopped, and a certain wild light came into his eyes. “Make sure they put him and Rose in a cell together.”

Collins blinked. “Rose is white, sir.”

“I don't give a shit if he's blue!” the Captain yelled. “Take them down to the colored section and toss them both in the worst cell they got. You understand that?”

Collins nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Jackson glowered for a few seconds. “Where's Nichols?”

“He comes in at noon.”

“As soon as he gets here, stick him on that desk.” He treated his subordinate to a narrow-eyed stare. “He's not to move. You understand?”

“Yes, sir. I'll take care of it.” The lieutenant reached for the doorknob again.

“That ain't all,” Jackson said. Collins stayed where he was, wondering frankly what he had ever done to end up assigned to this madman.

“I want every officer we can spare out on the street. Send half of them down Decatur and the other half on Central Avenue. They're to round up every goddamn criminal they can lay hands on. Tell them they can crack as many heads as they want. I want it all shut down. No more liquor, no more numbers, no more whores.”

Collins did his best to hide his astonishment. “Are you talking about a sweep?”

“I'm talking about law enforcement!” the Captain thundered. “You know what that is? Does anyone in this building know what the hell that is?”

Collins kept his mouth shut. This was crazy.

“I want both them damn streets as clean as church on Sunday morning!” the Captain raged on. “I don't want a drop of whiskey or one damn betting slip or a piece of pussy for sale anywhere downtown. Is that clear enough?”

Collins nodded, though he knew it was an impossible task, and was sure the Captain didn't have the authority to order it. The mayor and the chief of police had announced a plan to clean up the two scarlet thoroughfares, designed to show both of them in the best light. Now Captain Jackson was staging his own assault without even consulting them. They'd be furious. The bedlam it would cause, on the street and in the official corridors, would be a huge waste of time and effort that would produce neither the items stolen from the Payne mansion nor the thief who had stolen them. If that was his intention.

The lieutenant also understood that this was not the time to raise these points. Captain Jackson was in full rant, pointing a wild finger out his window and the streets beyond.

“I'm finished fucking with these people!” he snarled. “Someone's going to give up those jewels and the party that stole them by sunup on Friday! Is that clear to you?”

Collins gave a quick nod and made a quicker exit, out into a room that was dead with silence. The other detectives sat staring at him. He spent a few seconds considering resigning on the spot, then gestured for them to gather around.

 

Pearl was heading back into town to see Joe, intending to fill in what she hadn't told him in the room. Not everything; she didn't owe him that. She just didn't want him caught in the middle. That went for Sweet, too, though he wasn't a part of anything, except for being her brother. That was trouble enough as far as he was concerned.

Halfway up the Houston Street incline, she spotted the blue Atlanta police wagon and realized she was too late. She ducked into the space between Kelly's Grocery and the bicycle shop. Peeking out, she saw Joe come around the corner from Peachtree, and felt her heart jump into her throat. She wanted to call out to warn him, even though it was too late for that, too.

She watched him stop and saw his body tense with an urge to bolt. Then he relaxed and started walking again. A police detective intersected his path, and two uniformed cops appeared from behind to slap cuffs on his wrists and walk him to the wagon. She got a second shock when the rear doors swung open and she saw Sweet sitting inside. Her gut twisted and she leaned against the bricks for support. A few seconds later, the nausea was swept away by a spike of fear. She slipped away from the street through the alley, then turned east for home. If she hurried, she might beat them there and have time to grab some things to take with her.

 

When Joe rounded the corner at Houston Street, he saw the police wagon parked in front of Lulu's and knew it was there for him. Then he caught a glimpse in the open back doors and was astonished to see Sweet Spencer sitting inside, his hands in cuffs that were shackled to the floor. Sweet, staring morosely out the open doors, lifted his chin as his eyes flashed a message that told Joe if he wanted to run, now was the time.

Joe knew that would be foolish. An officer was already moving from the passenger side of the wagon and he sensed someone else coming from behind. A quick look told him that two cops had been posted by Lulu's and were now moving at an angle to block him from escaping back the way he came. Not that he intended to run. They'd get him, now or later. If he bolted, he'd have to keep going, and stay away for a long time.

Lieutenant Collins was leaning against the hotel's facade, right next to the double doors. He dropped his cigarette, straightened, and stepped to the middle of the sidewalk. His boyish face wasn't so placid and in fact was drawn with a certain tension.

Joe knew it was real trouble when the detective went through the formality of producing his badge again.

“Mr. Rose,” Collins said. “You're being taken into custody, on suspicion of burglary.” He bit off the words as if it was Joe's fault he had to perform this ridiculous duty.

Joe knew there was no point in arguing. The arrest had to be the Captain's doing, and nothing he said would change anything. Collins jerked his head, and Joe started across the street with a patrolman on either side of him. One of them snapped handcuffs on him. He didn't have to be told to step up into the wagon. They didn't shackle him to the floor, a deliberate nod to his pale skin, and an acknowledgment that Sweet unbound might be a dangerous character.

Joe slid along the bench until he was across from the Negro.

Sweet stared into his eyes. “You're fucking up my life, Mr. Joe,” he said softly. “I knew you was going to, soon as you showed up in the kitchen. I knew it.”

“I didn't do any crime, Sweet.”

“You laid down with my little sister. How about that for a start?”

Joe said, “She's twenty-three years old. And they ain't taking me to jail for that.”

“You know they gonna get her, too?” Sweet said. “They gonna stick her in the women's wing. Least I hope that's where she's goin'.”

“They haven't got anything,” Joe insisted. “They're fishing.”

Sweet gave him a hard stare. “She was workin' at that house that got robbed. Don't matter if they fishin' or not. They got her right there.”

“You know if they had any proof, we wouldn't be sitting here.”

Sweet grunted and looked away, his brow folding stubbornly. “You need to give them whatever the hell it is they want. Both of y'all.”

Joe said. “I don't—”

“Y'all better get me out of this shit!” Joe was surprised when Sweet's gritty black eyes came around all fretful and his voice broke a little. “You listen to me,” he said. “I can't go back in. If I do, I know I'm gonna kill the first man crosses me. You understand? I don't care if it's the damn warden or some poor nigger sissy, someone gonna die. And then they'll hang me. I'll end up a dead man. All 'cause you can't keep your damn hands off Pearl. And because you didn't have nothin' better to do than mess with a fool like Jesse Williams.”

Joe gave him a curious look. “You think this has something to do with him?”

Sweet ignored the question. “What the hell's wrong with you, anyway?”

Joe kept his mouth shut, puzzling over Sweet's mention of Jesse. The Negro glared at him for another few seconds before his gaze wandered off again. The cops closed the back doors of the wagon and the clack of the steel lock echoed off the sheet metal roof and sides. The engine coughed, the gearbox rattled, and they rolled out into the street.