Little Black Girl Lost (29 page)

W
ith Marshall Law declared and the presence of the National Guard to keep the peace, racial tension eventually subsided. J. Edgar Hoover sent a team of FBI agents into the area under the pretense of investigating the riot, when in actuality they were investigating the local rackets. When news of the riot reached Chicago Sam, he decided to discuss it with John Stefano, the boss of New Orleans. Sam and Vinnie Milano, his chief capo and Napoleon's archenemy, were picked up at the airport by one of Stefano's men. They were driven straight to the Stefano mansion where they would discuss what happened.

On the way there, the driver spotted the FBI tailing them. When they pulled into the driveway, they saw several more FBI agents in dark suits snapping pictures. The driver pulled into the garage and closed it before opening the door for Sam and Vinnie. They were led through the mammoth residence to the den, where Stefano and his bodyguard were waiting for them, smoking sweet-smelling Cuban cigars.

Stefano stood up when Sam and Vinnie walked in. They kissed each other on the cheek. The bodyguard offered them a cigar and a seat then closed the door. Sam sat down, but Vinnie was on duty, as was Stefano's bodyguard. They watched each other, wondering how good the other was at doing his job.

After lighting his cigar, Stefano said, “Here's what we found out, Sam. The Klansman killed the spade just like the
Sentinel
said. Napoleon Bentley, the cocksucker, decided to kill the Klansmen because he's bangin' the daughter of the murdered broad.”

Though he was seething, Sam concealed his anger and said, “You think he loves this woman?”

“Woman my ass, Sam,” Stefano foamed. “The daughter's only sixteen fuckin' years old. I don't mind her being a nigger. Who gives a fuck about that? I've had my share of nigger and spic women. They're fuckin' beautiful. But when it affects my business, that's where I draw the fuckin' line. You never, never let a fuckin' woman affect business, Sam! Never! He's gotta go! I got the fuckin' FBI lookin' up my ass with a microscope. The sons-of-bitches are every fuckin' where. It's fuckin' embarrassin', Sam. But more important, it's affecting business.”

“Calm yourself, John,” Sam said nonchalantly. “I'll have a talk with him.”

“Are you fuckin' kiddin' me?” Stefano said with renewed fury. “The Spaniard's gotta go. I'm losing money with the fuckin' Feebees everywhere, taking pictures and following our every move. The locals are in line, but Feds—you know how fuckin' Hoover is.”

“Relax. He's just makin' it look good, John,” Sam said confidently. “We've got the dirt on Hoover. Don't worry. I've got everything under control.”

N
apoleon knew trouble was on the horizon when he saw Sam and Vinnie come into the Bayou. Rarely did a boss go into another boss's territory without permission. The only time that happened was when the visiting boss was taking over. Since Sam didn't bother to tell him he was coming to town, Napoleon knew his ultimate plan to take over all of New Orleans had finally arrived. When he looked at Vinnie Milano, he could tell that Vinnie still wanted the action in the Colored part of town. It was worth three million dollars a year. The way Vinnie saw it, that money was rightfully his.

Sam and Napoleon smiled when they greeted each other with a kiss. He shook hands with Vinnie Milano; both men were stone-faced.
I'm gonna kill you, you dago bastard,
Napoleon thought.

Bubbles watched the exchange between Vinnie and Napoleon from a distance. He walked over and spoke respectfully to Sam and Vinnie. He knew this day would come the night Napoleon met Johnnie. Everything that happened after that was inevitable, and it was all Napoleon's fault. Now they were both dead men, and nothing was going to change that. Not now. Not after seeing Sam in a nigger joint. It was already settled. It was just a matter of time.

They sat down at Napoleon's table and Sam said, “You really fucked up this time. I mean you really blew it with Stefano. It's a good thing for you I'm on your side. You got the fuckin' FBI lookin' into our business because you decided that a nigger bitch is more important than business.” Sam looked at Bubbles for a reaction, but he didn't reveal his emotion. He just listened stoically.

“Stefano wants you dead, but I said no,” Sam continued. “Everybody deserves a second chance, I told him. I gave him my word that I'd talk to you, and I have. Me and Vinnie are taking the next plane back to Chicago. But remember, you're only here because John Stefano owes me and I owed you. You fuck up again and you're on your own.”

“Thanks, Sam,” Napoleon said. “I guess we're even now.”

“Don't guess, Napoleon,” Sam said. “I won't warn you again. Vinnie, let's get outta this dump.”

Vinnie grinned when they stood up. The smile alone was evidence that this wasn't the end of it as far as Napoleon was concerned. He knew they were planning to come back when the heat was off, but by then, Napoleon would own New Orleans.

T
he presence of the National Guard brought sanity back to New Orleans. Sable Parish was destroyed, Main Street was a heap of rubble but much of Baroque Parish remained intact. Johnnie was supposed to start the Beauregard job a week ago but it was postponed because of the riot. With the curfew lifted during daylight hours, citizens were allowed to go to their jobs and places of business—at least those businesses that weren't located in what was once a thriving suburb, now a charred wasteland.

The Beauregards lived at 1619 Harmony Street in the Garden District.
The Sunday Times
reported that the curfew would be lifted Monday. Ethel called Johnnie and told her she wanted her to start at 8:00. After being restricted to her home for a week, Johnnie had no idea how much damage was done by the riot until she saw what was left of the school. She pulled over to the nearest curb and cried.

She wiped her eyes, put the car in first gear and pulled away slowly, looking at all the burned-out buildings on Main Street. Broken glass, bricks, furniture, and clothes were strewn about haphazardly. As she drove past what was left of the library, she saw a huge dark spot on the steps.
That's where they did it. That's where they killed Reverend Staples.
Business owners were everywhere, trying to pick up the pieces. They seemed to be determined to rebuild; that's what Dennis Edwards said to a reporter from the
Times
.

Bernard Coleman, the architect, when interviewed said, “We intend to rebuild our community and go on with business as usual.” With all the damage, Coleman stood to make a fortune in rebuilding costs alone.

Continuing slowly, she saw many of Baroque's business owners, along with their children cleaning their shops. Philip Collins and his sons were hauling barber chairs back into the shop. When he saw the sad look on her face, he called out, “Don't be sad, Johnnie. We whipped the white man's ass for a change. We gon' be all right! Don't you worry your pretty little head none. We gon' be all right.” He wiped the sweat off his brow with his arm and went back to work.

Johnnie was surprised he knew her name, and wondered if he knew she was the reason for all of this. If he did, he certainly didn't blame her; at least he didn't act like he did. Continuing down Main Street, she saw Bernard Coleman and Michael Nagel, both wearing hard hats. They were looking over some plans sprawled out over Nagel's pickup truck. When they saw her, they smiled and nodded approvingly.

Johnnie pulled over to the curb. “Excuse me, Miss,” she began. “What's going on? Why are people so happy today?”

“Because we approve of what you did, Johnnie,” she said after walking over to the car.

“Uh, what did I do?” Johnnie asked with a confused look on her face. “And how do you know my name?”

“I'm sorry. I'm Lisa Cambridge,” she said, shaking, her hand. “I own Cambridge Books and Publishing. This is a small town. Everybody knows you, but no one blames you. If the police would have done their jobs, none of this would've happened.”

“But what about your businesses? They were destroyed.”

“We've got insurance, dear. Buchanan Mutual is paying for all of this. At the most, we've lost money from daily sales, but that's about it. Bernard says he can make Main Street better than before. We're all excited about that.”

“But what about the police? Aren't they going to arrest somebody sooner or later?”

“I doubt it. Ryan Robertson slapped the city with a ten million dollar lawsuit this morning. The police never came to stop the rioting. He says they'll probably make a deal and he'll drop the suit. But more important, them crackers know not to come here again.”

“Who is Ryan Robertson?”

“Just one of New Orleans' finest attorneys. You oughta meet Ryan and Anita. They're really nice people. One day, when you and Sadie come outta the house, I'll have to introduce you to your neighbors.”

“Okay, well, I gotta go. I gotta get to work,” Johnnie told her, even though she hadn't decided if she was going to take the job. She mainly wanted to see if there was a picture of Nathaniel Beauregard. That would tell her if she was related to them or not. “I'm supposed to start a new job today.”

“Okay, take care. Call me some time. I'm in the book.”

“I will,” Johnnie promised and pulled away.

J
ohnnie drove to the Garden District with a sense of relief, like the weight of the world was suddenly lifted from her shoulders. It was 8:30 when she reached the Beauregard Mansion. Ethel made it very clear that she wanted her there by 8:00 sharp. Johnnie opened her car door and stepped into the blaring heat. Ethel was standing in the foyer watching her as she came up the long walk. The twenty-six room mansion was certainly impressive, Johnnie thought.
I wonder how much work there is to do.

Ethel opened the door. She was petite with high cheekbones—probably a nice-looking woman when she was younger. Her smile was as bright as the yellow dress she was wearing.

“You must be Johnnie,” Ethel said with an accent that seemed to be a cross between New York and the Mississippi delta. “Y'all must really learn to get here on time.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Johnnie said and attempted to enter the house.

Ethel said, “Remember your place.”

Johnnie frowned. “Huh?”

“Go around to the back.”

Johnnie stared at her for about ten seconds then dutifully walked around to the back of the mansion, where Ethel was waiting for her in the kitchen.

“I'll show you around,” Ethel said. “Normally I don't open my own door, but our butler was injured in that awful riot your people started. I swear to God that I don't know why no one's been arrested. All those white people dead and not a single Colored in jail. Does that make sense to you, young lady?”

“How do you know Coloreds started it, maam?” Johnnie asked, ignoring her question.

“Don't be silly,” Ethel said with a laugh. “Why would good white people start a riot?”

“This is a big house, Mrs. Beauregard,” Johnnie said, ignoring that question too. “This seems like a lot of work.”

“Don't tell me you're afraid of a little work.”

“No, I'm not afraid of work.”
You've got a lotta nerve. You seem to be in perfect health. You can clean this house yourself, but you hire a maid and ask me if I'm afraid of work?
“It's just that I was told you have a really big library here. From what I can tell, all the rooms are really big. You have a basement too, right?”

“Yes, but Sadie led me to believe that you were taking the job.”

“I'm sorry she told you that, Mrs. Beauregard, but I'm thinking about going to night school, and I don't know if I can handle the extra work.”

“I see,” Ethel said, scowling.

“I'll tell you what. Let me see how big the library is, and then I'll know if I want the job or not.”

“I hope you'll work for me. I really need someone. It's been months since Betty Jean left me high and dry. She didn't even give me a reason. She just left.”

Ethel slid the French doors of the library open and they entered. The first thing Johnnie noticed were the portraits on the walls. It took every bit of strength she had not to run over to the paintings and search frantically for her grandfather.

“If you worked here, you could use this library to study,” Ethel said, trying to sweeten the offer. “And I'll pay you more than what I paid Betty Jean. How does that sound?”

“Who are the people in these pictures?” Johnnie asked, hoping to hear the one name she would recognize. “Are these the men in your family?”

“Yes, they are,” Ethel said. “The women are on the other side of the room.”

“Do you mind if I look at them?”

“Sure. Go ahead. Their names are inscribed on the frames,” Ethel told her.

Johnnie went from one picture to the next, barely looking at the figure in each portrait. As she read each name, anxiety began to build. Then finally, she saw his name. Nathaniel Beauregard.
Grandpa! It's you!

“I'll take the job,” Johnnie beamed. She was thrilled at the opportunity to get to know them, even though Ethel Beauregard had no idea Johnnie was a blood relative.
I'll get to know my family, and if they're nice people, I'll leave after a few months and never let them know who I am. But if not, I'll bring shame on them all and ruin the entire family.