Echoes of a Distant Summer (31 page)

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.”

Jack lowered the gun, but he kept it pointing in Tree’s direction. “How much do you say my brother owes?”

“Over eight hundred dollars.”

“Is it true?” Jack asked his brother, but still keeping an eye on Tree. It was just like Val to do something stupid like this. The whole community would be talking about it for weeks. This was exactly the kind of foolishness that really pissed off their father.

“Yeah, I lost a few games,” LaValle admitted cavalierly. “Eight hundred seems about right.”

“Eartha, please get the money out of the till and bring it here.” Jack shook his head at his brother. It was always the same thing. Val overrated himself in every game that he played. Against amateurs he seemed like a professional, but against professionals, he was just a good amateur.

LaValle saw Jack’s disapproval and said, “A run of bad luck. I musta dropped my wallet. The check’s in the mail. What the hell’s the difference?”

Eartha gave Jack the money and Jack threw it on the floor at Tree’s feet. “You got what you came for, now get out of here!”

Tree stooped and picked up the money. The bile was rising in his throat. He stuffed the money in his pocket next to his switchblade. As he turned to leave he growled, “We ain’t through with this, not by a long shot!”

LaValle, always one to rub in a victory, stepped forward and slapped Tree on the back. “That’s a good boy,” he said cheerily. “Tell your brothers they can find me here too.”

Tree spun without thinking and slashed LaValle across the face with his switchblade. LaValle fell backward with a wail. Jack had begun to move as soon as Tree started to turn. He arrived just after the knife sliced through LaValle’s face. He swung the butt of his gun hard and felt it crunch against Tree’s temple. Tree fell over a table and sprawled on the floor. Tree’s two companions, who were headed out the door, were caught by surprise. Both men were met with Joey’s shotgun when they turned around to see Tree fall to the floor. Jack pointed his gun at the semiconscious Tree and pondered killing him. A few minutes earlier, he would have shot him without a second thought. At that time, he had been posing a threat to the establishment. Now, he was lying on the floor at Jack’s mercy. It didn’t seem fair that Tree should pay with his life for LaValle’s stupidity. Tree was just doing his job, just as Jack was doing his. He put his gun in his holster and kicked Tree in the head to make sure that he stayed down, then bent quickly and removed the knife from Tree’s hand and checked his body for other weapons. Jack pulled a revolver from beneath Tree’s jacket. He signaled Joey to lock the front door.

Jackson turned to survey the situation in the bar. People had come forward from among the onlookers and were assisting with towels, trying to stop the flow of blood from LaValle’s face. Even if he had killed Tree, Jack knew that it was highly unlikely that anyone would go to the police. In the Fillmore, black people did not view the police as friends. Besides, John Tree was a rising young thug who was known to strong-arm regular people for their hard-earned cash. He was not popular. Jack’s father, King, on the other hand, had stature; he may not have been liked, but he was respected. The people that he killed were mostly crooks and criminals. He generally left the common man alone. So the police were not the concern. It was the possibility that a gang war would break out with the Trees that had the customers upset, although it was clear that some of the folks looked upon this as an opportunity to align themselves with the legend of the Tremain family.

LaValle was moaning and sobbing, but he was in no danger. Eartha had called a family doctor. From the sounds his brother was making, Jack surmised that he was lamenting the cosmetic consequences of his injury. Jack didn’t feel sorry for his brother. The whole evening had disintegrated because of his stupidity.

Joey brought Tree’s companions over to the bar at gunpoint. Jack decided that Tree and his pals should be held in the office until his father arrived. After all, Tree did have two older brothers in the business. If any real harm came to him, it could trigger acts of retaliation. Tree was still unconscious from the blows to his head. After assuring himself that they were disarmed, Jack made Tree’s two companions drag his unconscious body back to the office.

LaValle was seated near the bar with his head back. He was being attended to by two women, but he pushed them out of the way when Tree was being dragged past. He screamed, “You cut my face, you bastard! You cut my face!” His voice was laden with despair. Before anyone could stop him, LaValle swayed to his feet and snatched an empty beer bottle from a nearby table and broke it across Tree’s unconscious face. His two companions, now duly intimidated, dropped Tree’s arms and stepped back. LaValle bent down, took the broken neck of the bottle, and slashed it across Tree’s face and neck. “You cut me, you bastard! You cut me!”