The Devil's Own Rag Doll (32 page)

I found my gun and popped the wheel. I pulled the empty shells out one by one with my fingernails, then drew out six bullets from my pocket and reloaded. I looked over at Thrumm, took a good, careful look.

“Thrumm,” I said, “why ain't you gone from here?”

“Why ain't I gone? Where am I gonna go? I'm beat up all to hell, I got no money, I lost my work. I'm just as likely to be here as anywhere in this world.” Thrumm wriggled his gun around, trying to figure out what to do with it, then finally slipped it into the pocket of his baggy trousers. He started to shake his head. “You got no idea what it's all about, do you?”

“I don't claim to,” I said.

“He got you jumpin', don't he?”

“Who?”

“You know who!” said Thrumm. “Who you think? Santy Claus?”

“However it is,” I said, sliding my revolver back into the rig, “you better hustle your bony ass out of here.”

“I ain't leavin' jus' yet.”

“The way it looks to me, you're a nigger with a gun in a house with three dead white men. See how that goes?”

“I ain't leavin'. I got some lookin' to do here for just a bit.”

“Hey,” I said, cracking a stiff smile that made my face feel suddenly old, “you haven't lost your balls, have you? I think I might know where they are.”

Thrumm furrowed his brows and muttered, “I never had any balls.”

“That's a little joke,” I said.

“It don't strike me funny.”

“You looking for something the police ought to be interested in?” I hooked my thumbs in my pockets. “Or you just figuring to roll these stiffs?”

“Brother, you oughta be thankin' me somehow, ain't that so? If not for me, it would be
you
laying there with your tongue hangin' out by now, ain't that so? You can't just let me be alone in here for a little bit?”

I rubbed my thumb over my chin. I said, “I guess you got something there.” I glanced at the clock on the wall over Thrumm's head. “It's getting late.” I walked past Thrumm and into the darkened hall, my feet thumping, my hands in my pockets. When I reached the door, I turned and said, “Take the truck out there, if you can find the keys.”

“I aim to,” said Thrumm, following. “Listen, you know he wanted you to come up here and kill these dumb-ass crackers for him, don't you?”

I thought for a moment and saw it for myself. “I guess,” I said.

“Man,” said Thrumm, “you just the Devil's own rag baby doll, ain't you?”

I stepped through the door and into the night.

CHAPTER 18

Sunday, June 20

KILLERS IN SHOOTOUT WITH DEPUTIES,
the header might read.
THREE DEAD IN BATTLE AT REMOTE SHACK.
Bobby would have loved it, anyway. I wished I had something left in me to enjoy it, too. But there was only the ache of every part of my body and the rawness in my throat, less from Frye's grip than from the splash of acid from my churning stomach. I had called the county sheriff's men too late in the night for the story to make the early Sunday editions, but no matter. Later in the day, or early Monday, the hacks would print it up. The county men would figure a way to keep Hardiman's name out of it. Things were a little different up in Macomb.

I figured I was through. The previous night's work should have gone a long way toward making me feel better, but I felt even farther away from a good life. I had left a foul, reeking mess at Hardiman's cabin, and even if the county boys and the newspapers left me out of it, I knew that one day it would come back to haunt me. Frye and the blond boys would never put their rotten touch to another girl like Jane, it was true; except as ghosts, they had lost all power to harm. But I understood that what had happened could not have been the culmination of anything.

Toby Thrumm seemed to know that I had been set up to take Frye and the two big boys out of the picture. Maybe Sherrill had come to think of them as a liability. Maybe the horrible violation of Jane Hardiman brought up the same bile in Sherrill that it brought up in me. I rolled it over in my mind to judge if Sherrill might hold to such an old-fashioned notion, and thought it might be so.

Revenge is supposed to be sweet, I had heard.
Sweet Revenge.
Though I had indeed found revenge for so many of the wrongs that had been done, I could not taste any sweetness—because I knew I had done nothing to stop the “catastrophe” that Old Man Lloyd was sure would occur. In fact, I had stupidly helped Sherrill along by ridding him of Frye. If Hardiman's cottage had been a base for Sherrill's operation, any trace or clue would now be lost to me. I had reached the end of my initiative. I only felt filthy and worthless.

What had Toby Thrumm been sniffing after at Hardiman's cottage?
It must have been
something,
if Thrumm was willing to come for it after what he'd been through, up there in Macomb County where big stretches of scrub and farmland hid an awful lot of well-armed backwoods types. Bobby was right; it couldn't have been anything but money. I pictured a satchel of bills, taken by extortion or blackmail, or maybe from stickups or bank jobs. It was commonly known that the Klan and various other syndicates often pulled bank jobs to fund their operations. If a gang of men thought nothing of lynching niggers, they wouldn't mind taking dough from a bank the rude way; they thought Jews ran all the banks anyway. So it seemed sensible to me that there might be a big chunk of money floating around somewhere, maybe the same sack of dough that Pease had hoped to stick his mitts into. Gathered together in a bag, concentrated, it was enough to make men snivel after it, to make them forget their business and their better judgment. I thought of Jasper Lloyd and his promise of money for me, and I wondered how his offer might compare to the bundle that Sherrill seemed to control. I wondered, if I could find Sherrill and get a drop on him, if he'd stoop to offering me money to do his dirty work as well.

But how could I find Sherrill? How could I do anything? All I knew was that they were all smarter than me. I had bungled and botched everything I had put my hand to so far. I had killed the two blond boys, but that was only a sign of how meatheaded they were. Frye would surely have killed me if not for Toby Thrumm—poor Toby Thrumm, who figured I was worth saving even after I'd busted his nose. It all made me very tired. What had I ever done right? My father was gone, Tommy was gone, Bobby was gone, my sister Eliza was gone, Jane Hardiman was gone. Maybe Alex was gone for good, too.

I'm the one who drove him away,
I thought.
Eileen knows it, too.

Whatever catastrophe had been planned for the impending summer, whatever specific trouble Sherrill had in the works, I knew it was beyond my feeble power to help. He had been working with sense and purpose all along, and I had been fumbling stupidly after him. Briefly I thought of chasing down Rix or Hardiman, even Frank Carter or Jasper Lloyd, but it wasn't hard to give up on each idea. I was through. Though I had not earned it, I was ready to take a day of rest and wait for my end to find me.

It would have been a beautiful Sunday, really, except for the pressing heat. There was not a cloud in the clear blue sky, and there was a little breeze to keep the air from fouling. But the last day of spring seemed like a day in August. It was as if the earth had moved a bit closer to the sun. Would the government be afraid to tell us if such a thing had happened? From my school days I dimly remembered something about the way the earth went around the sun. Would tomorrow be the longest day of the year?

It will be for me,
I thought.

I had been sitting in my car for almost an hour, mulling things over and sipping bottles of beer pulled from a tin bucket of ice on the far end of the seat. I thought it might actually be pleasant along the river, maybe on Belle Isle, but I knew that on a Sunday all the decent places to relax on the water would be packed with people, hot and snappish from bumping elbows. And I wasn't feeling sociable. So I just sat there with all the windows down, sat and stared out the windshield and over the rounded hood. Some of the neighborhood kids were blowing off firecrackers, too eager to hold their stash till the Fourth of July. I watched them idly and remembered all the things I had wanted to rip up as a boy.

How will it go?
I wondered. Would the whole city go up in flames, or had Sherrill just paid off a bunch of crackers to storm the colored sections of Detroit? I had never given much attention to all the Bible-thumping preachers who'd tried to save me over the years, and so I could not form a picture of the fire and brimstone that seemed impossible to stop. The only smart move left for me was to take the money and sail my old car as far away from the city as I could. But I never went.

I've been playing the sap all along,
I thought.
If they need me for the final hand, they can come and find me.

I fired up the car and slipped it into gear. I pulled away from the curb and held the icy bucket to keep it from falling as I turned the corners and made my way to Eileen's house, two blocks away. I guess I had been intending to drive there all along. She was sitting on the top step of the porch as I came up, her hair tied up with a scarf, wearing a white dress that showed her shoulders. She squinted and tipped her head a bit as I approached.

I sat down near to her, a step lower. For what seemed like a long time, we said nothing. Though it was inching along toward evening already, I thought the sun might burn her pale skin if she continued to sit there. But it seemed unimportant. We did not touch.

Two big sedans rumbled onto the lazy street, one from Campau and one from up the block. They stopped on either side of the street in front of the house. I stood up and stepped down to the walk in alarm as well-dressed colored men poured out of the autos. They walked toward us in a semicircle. I kept my elbows tight to my sides and my hands in my pockets, so it wouldn't be obvious that I'd left the shoulder harness in the car with my revolver.

Horace Jenkins stepped to the front of the men with a businesslike smile. “Beautiful day, wouldn't you say, Mr. Caudill?”

“I'd say it's too hot for this kind of trouble.”

“There's no trouble here, Detective. There's no need to look on the dark side of everything that comes your way. You might even say we've arrived with a mind to stave off trouble.”

“What's with the mob, then?” I counted eight men altogether, but just a couple of them hard enough to matter.

“We are a group of men who love the Lord, that's all.” Jenkins caught Eileen's eye and touched the brim of his pale gray hat. “We've just finished a little business at the church. There is strength in numbers, as they say.”

“Where's your little monkey Noggle?”

“We take care of our own,” said Jenkins. “Mr. Noggle has had a run of bad luck, as I'm sure you're aware.”

“Bad luck, my ass.”

“Mr. Caudill, it's the Lord's day. And there is a lady present.”

“What do you want here, Jenkins? Does it look like I want to get friendly with you? Do you have a reason for dragging all this riffraff up to the nicer side of town?”

“Mr. Caudill, a little polite conversation wouldn't hurt you. It's the cornerstone of civility. I might ask after your health, as it seems obvious you've had a run of bad luck of your own. But I can see that you are busy, so I'll be brief.” Jenkins stepped close to me and spoke softly. “You should have accepted our help earlier,” he said.

“I'm listening.”

“A few moments ago, I received news that Roger Hardiman was taking his supper alone, just a few blocks from here, at the Pigeon Club, a place I believe the police know well.”

“You heard from who?”

“Detective, there are colored folks all throughout this city of ours, cooking, sweeping floors, mending clothes, parking cars. You shouldn't believe that we're any less intelligent or capable than white folks. A skin of color can make a person almost invisible in a way. We hear things, we see things,” he said, sweeping his arm broadly. “Just as all the neighbors here peeping through their curtains can see a group of Negro men before you.”

“Well,” I murmured, “I don't care anything about it.”

“I think you do. I think you must care,” said Jenkins. “You have family to think of, just like the rest of us.”

“Your people—have you heard anything about my nephew?”

“I'm sorry,” said Jenkins. “Nothing.”

“Well,” I said, scrambling for footing in the conversation, “what's your interest in all of this? What's your profit?”

“The future of this city and the condition of race relations are of great concern to me,” said Jenkins. “I'd like to leave something for my children to be proud of.”

“That's fancy talking,” I said. “If you know so much, why don't you go roust Hardiman yourself?”

“We all have a place in this world, Detective. The Lord provides it for us. All we have to do is listen.”

I lowered my eye for a moment and considered. Jenkins was right; I'd have to go after Hardiman, shake him up a little. It was my place to go. It looked like I had the choice: I could lay off chasing Sherrill, quit the force, find some kind of regular work, and see where things went with Eileen. We could make a good start with the money outside the city, where they were putting up cheap little houses on nice plots of land. We could at least make a go at being happy.

But then maybe the unsettled business would continue to eat away at me from the inside, and I'd go early to my grave anyway, hacking up my lungs like Frank Carter. Maybe Sherrill and his cronies would gain enough footing to spread throughout Michigan and Ohio and Indiana and even up into Canada, like a cancer in the heart of the nation that should have been cut out early. Even if I couldn't ever understand the whole tangled story about my father and Lloyd and Sherrill and Frye and Rix, Tommy and Bobby and Thrumm and Jane Hardiman, it seemed clear that I was mixed up in all of it, and reasonably there was no one else who could try to pull the plug on the whole sordid operation. I saw the choice before me: I could pick up now with Eileen and try to leave the troubles behind, or I could get down to the dirty business with Sherrill and Hardiman and probably die in the trying.