The Killings (17 page)

“Are you ... are you the Lust Murderer? Are you the guy who’s been killing all those Black women?”

“I don’t have time for this shit! You’ll find out soon enough. Now let’s go!”

There was a bottle of pepper spray attached to her keychain, and she uncapped it as she pulled her keys from her purse. The chubby guy stepped forward and reached for her purse, obviously meaning to find her keys for her to hurry her up. Carmen seized the opportunity and did the only thing she could think to do. She attacked him.

Just as he shifted his knife into his gun hand and reached for her bag, Carmen raised the can of pepper spray and aimed it at the center of the chubby guy’s fat face, right between the eyes. She held the trigger down for a full five seconds. The chubby guy screamed, trying to cover his eyes, still holding the weapons. She aimed a kick at his balls even harder than the one she’d hit Albert with. The pointed toe of her pump connected squarely and she felt something break. He screamed again and doubled over. A red stain immediately formed at his crotch.

“Ahhhhhhhhh! My balls! You broke my balls!” The chubby guy was wailing, his voice a high-pitched crescendo.

Good! I hope I ruptured something,
Carmen thought.

The man dropped to his knees. The straight razor fell from his hands and clattered across the blacktop, coming to rest several yards away, but he still held the gun. He held his busted testicles with one hand and rubbed his burning eyes with the back of his gun hand.

“My eyes! You burned my fucking eyes! You’re dead, bitch! I’m going to cut your fucking tits off! I’m going to shove this fucking gun up your ass and pull the fucking trigger! You’re fucking dead!”

He aimed the gun in the direction where Carmen had been standing and pulled the trigger three times, but she was already moving, trying to make it to the blade before the crazy fuck’s eyes cleared. Blood was now leaking copiously from the guy’s groin. He was grimacing in agony and had fallen over onto his side. She’d definitely ruptured something. He wasn’t going to be chasing or raping anybody anytime soon, but he might still get away, come back for her some other time or after some other girl. She could end this all now if she could get to that blade without getting shot. She was only a few yards away, but she had to pass him to get it.

The chubby guy was shooting wildly now. Two more shots went off in the direction of her car.

If that piece of shit shoots my car I’m going to castrate his fat ass!

She had almost made it to the blade.

The chubby guy had stopped shooting and was blinking and trying to open his eyes. Tears were streaming down his face. He was trying to see and was listening for her. His tears were washing away the pepper spray. Carmen reached down and grabbed the blade just as he pointed the gun toward her.

Oh shit.

“Gotcha, bitch!”

“Fuck you!” Dead or not, she was not going to go out without a fight. Carmen raised the blade and charged at him.

Two deafening shots rang out.

TWENTY-TWO

August 21, 1911, Atlanta, Georgia

Robert ran. He wasn’t exactly sure where to find Henry; there were so many possibilities. He could have been at one of the numerous houses, speakeasies, or any of several brothels he ran. He could have been cuddled up with one of his many ladies. He very well may have been helping a rival into a shallow grave somewhere. There was no telling. Robert did the only thing he could think to do. He caught an electric streetcar downtown to Henry Parker’s home back in the Fourth Ward, hoping he wouldn’t get there too late and his friend would be there. There was no telling what that asshole Lacey would do if he caught Henry alone. There was no telling what Henry would do.

The streetcar stopped at Peidmont and North Avenue and Robert quickly disembarked and began to run. Sweat bulleted down his face and soaked his shirt as Robert raced through the streets of the Fourth Ward, searching his memory for the way to Henry’s house. He picked a direction that seemed right and sprinted the two short blocks to Ponce De Leon Avenue.

Robert was out of breath by the time he spotted the large two-story colonial with the huge wooden balcony that wrapped around the entire second floor. There was a large iron fence, more than six feet tall, surrounding the property. Tall magnolias, oaks, and southern pine trees shielded most of the first floor from view. Large white columns rose on either side of the main door and ornate wooden cornices bordered the roofline. Incongruous with its owner, Henry’s home was an idyllic mansion gaily painted in canary yellow and white. Roses, tulips, orchids, and some small white flower Robert couldn’t name dominated the flowerbeds in front of the home.

Despite their years of friendship Robert had only been to the notorious gangster’s opulent home a few times for the annual Christmas party and Thanksgiving feasts. He’d passed by it in the day on several occasions but had never visited. Robert only went to see his friend when Henry returned to the neighborhood, to the home he’d grown up in, to visit his aging mother, or at the speakeasies or Robert’s barbershop. To Robert, the house portrayed an image that was too far removed from the Henry Parker he knew. It seemed artificial. This was not the home of a Black gangster but of a wealthy White family with Black servants. Robert didn’t know the man who called this place home.

The front gate stood wide. Officer Lacey’s motorbike sat by the front steps with the engine still running. With any luck, Henry wasn’t home, but Robert had gotten the impression that Lacey had already known exactly where Henry was before he confronted Robert at the church. It was as if the redheaded bastard wanted Robert there to witness his friend’s arrest as a test of his loyalty to the police force.

Robert dashed through the gate, up the front steps, and through the unlocked front door. Henry stood in the huge foyer pointing a shotgun at Officer Lacey, who aimed a Winchester revolver back at him. They both turned their aims at Robert as he entered the foyer, and he immediately held up his hands in surrender.

“Wait! Wait! It’s me!”

They returned their aim to each other.

“Put that gun down now, boy,” Officer Lacey sneered at Henry. “Before you get hurt.”

“You put your gun down and get the hell out of my house!”

“You’re under arrest, boy. I know you the one been doin’ all these killin’s.”

Lacey’s gun hand trembled as he spoke. His eyes darted from Henry to Robert. Sweat had beaded on his brow and dripped down into his eyes. He blinked frantically, as if afraid that taking his eyes off Robert and Henry for even a second would lose him some imagined advantage.

Henry sneered. His hands were steady, eyes unblinking and unmoving, like the eyes of a reptile stalking prey. “You’s crazy, White boy. I ain’t have nothin’ to do with them girls gettin’ killed and you know it!”

Robert had to do something! He took a cautious step forward. “Let’s all calm down now. Lacey, come on. You know Henry ain’t have nothin’ to do with them killin’s. This here is just crazy.”

Lacey shook his head, lowering into a shooter’s stance and backing up further to give him a better view of the two men. “I don’t know no such thing.”

“Yes, you do. There ain’t no evidence says Henry had anything to do with this. Henry is all about makin’ money and these killin’s done hurt his business more than most. It don’t make no sense for him to be involved.”

“You better listen to him, White boy,” Henry said.

Robert looked around. There was something wrong. Henry was never alone. Ever. He had too many enemies. How had this cop waltzed into Henry’s home without any resistance? Where were Henry’s men? Where was all the security?

That’s when Robert spotted Roscoe Tillis, one of Henry’s closest bodyguards, creeping past one of the windows on the porch. Roscoe was more than fifty years old and had been a friend of Henry’s mother. He protected Henry as much as a favor to Mrs. Parker as for the generous salary Henry paid him. Robert looked over at Henry and could tell by the smile on his friend’s face that he’d spotted Rosco too, but that was the only indication. Henry’s eyes completely avoided the porch behind Officer Lacey and remained fixed on the policeman’s face. Roscoe was now almost directly behind Lacey, raising his Schofield .44 revolver and slowly aiming it.

He could barely breathe. The humid Georgia air seemed to have thickened and the heat felt like an oven. Robert’s heartbeat quickened. He felt like he should do something,
but what?
If he warned Lacey, he would be betraying his friend and might get either Roscoe or Henry killed. If he didn’t, he’d be an accomplice to the murder of a police officer. Robert felt like he was about to pass out.

“Okay, White boy. I’ll put my gun away, but I still ain’t goin’ nowhere with you,” Henry said, as he lowered his shotgun and placed it on the antique Victorian marble-top table upon which the keys to his home and most of his businesses rested. Lacey smiled, suddenly relaxed and confident. He was a bully through and through.

“Well, it ain’t gonna be quite that easy now. You done pulled a gun on an officer of the law. That’s a capital offense for a colored boy. You uppity-ass niggers got to be taught to respect the law.”

Henry continued to smile. Robert saw the look of confusion flash across Lacey’s face just before it was replaced by one of rage and indignation. He could almost read the officer’s mind. Lacey was going to murder Henry for pointing that shotgun at him. Henry saw it too, and for the first time, his eyes strayed behind Officer Lacey to Roscoe, passing a desperate signal.

Everything was moving too slowly, and Lacey was moving too fast. If Robert didn’t do anything, Henry would be dead in seconds. Robert did the only thing he could think of. He threw a punch.

Before Roscoe or Lacey could fire a shot, Robert’s punch landed flush on Lacey’s jaw, dropping him like a stone. Robert looked down at his fist in amazement. Henry moved in. He slapped Robert on the back as he shouldered past him on his way to where the policeman lay on his back, struggling to get up. Henry kicked the gun from his hand and then kicked the officer in the jaw with his pointy alligator skin shoes. Lacey’s eyes rolled up in his head and he flopped over onto his belly. Blood trickled steadily from his mouth and nose.

“You were going to kill me? Me? You’re a fucking dead man!”

Officer Lacey was on all fours, looking up in a daze just as Henry punched him in the jaw, dropping him back down onto his belly. He began stomping Lacey in the face, smashing his face into a blood-spattered ruin. Roscoe came in through the front door and began landing a few kicks and punches of his own.

Robert felt like everything was spiraling out of control. “Stop, Henry! You’re going to kill him!”

“Damn right, I am!”

Henry walked over to where his shotgun sat on the parlor table and retrieved it. He turned, took a few steps toward Lacey, and placed the shotgun against his head. Robert grabbed the shotgun barrel and pointed it away from the policeman. Roscoe aimed the Schofield at his head. “Let go of that shotgun, Robert.”

There was nothing to appeal to in Roscoe’s eyes. Robert would either comply or be killed. It was his choice. He looked at Henry. “I just saved your life, Henry. Spare his. Don’t make me part of this.”

“You’re already part of this. The minute you joined the police you became a part of this. Why’d you even come down here today? You can walk out right now and nobody would ever say you were here. This paddy would just disappear and nobody would be the wiser.”

Robert shook his head. “There are other cops coming.”

Henry smiled. “I don’t think so. This little motherfucker came over here to kill me. He wouldn’t have brought a bunch of witnesses along with him.”

“He came to arrest you.”

Henry shook his head. “That’s not what it looked like to me.”

“Let me take you in, Henry.”

“What?” Roscoe laughed and Henry joined in.

“You must be out your cotton-pickin’ mind! Why the hell would I let
you
arrest
me
?”

“Maybe I’s should put this fool out his misery.” Roscoe laughed. “He done lost every bit of his mind!”

“I ain’t crazy,” Robert said quickly, his gaze focused on Henry. “You should let me take you in because you know I won’t let anything bad happen to you and you don’t know for sure who else Lacey told that he was coming over here. If he shows up missing, you might wind up in the electric chair. If I bring you in, I can tell them that Lacey tried to murder you and that you fought back in self-defense. You’ve got enough good lawyers to get you out of jail in no time.”

“Yeah, if them paddies down there don’t murder me in my cell first.”

Robert held up his hand. “Think about it, Henry. They ain’t gonna do that. If I start making noise about how Lacey tried to gun you down in cold blood, you think they’s gonna try anything? Not after those riots they had down here a few years back. Folks ain’t forgot about that. What do you think it would do to the image the mayor is trying to put out there to the world of Atlanta being the ‘New South’ if Negroes start getting murdered in their jail cells? I’ll get a bunch of folks from the colored newspapers to come down there with us along with some of the church folks. They wouldn’t dare try nothin’ and risk startin’ another race riot.”

Henry gestured for Roscoe to lower his gun. He smiled and patted Robert on the shoulder. “You pretty smart, ain’t you? I always knew you was. That’s why I knew it had to be you lookin’ into these murders.” He seemed to regard Robert for a moment, and then he nodded. “All right, you can take me in. You got two hours to round up all your newspaper and church folks. In the meantime, me and Roscoe will keep Officer Lacey here company.”

Lacey looked up at Robert through a mask of blood and pain. The officer’s eyes pleaded with Robert not to leave him alone with the two thugs, but Robert had no choice. If he stayed, Lacey would surely die, but if he went to gather the witnesses as he’d promised, there was a strong chance that Henry would keep his word as well and turn himself in and leave Lacey alive.