The Dying Crapshooter's Blues

Title Page

Table of Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright © 2007 by David Fulmer

 

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

 

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

 

www.hmhco.com

 

The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Fulmer, David.
The dying crapshooter's blues/David Fulmer.—1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Police—Georgia—Atlanta—Fiction. 2. Gamblers—Fiction. 3. Atlanta (Ga.)—Fiction. 4. Jewel thieves—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3606.U56D75 2007
813'.6—dc22 2006016221
ISBN
-13: 978-0-15-101175-9
ISBN
-10: 0-15-101175-3

 

e
ISBN
978-0-547-35080-6
v2.0814

 

 

 

 

In Memory of Thomas R. Mertz.
1946–2006. A brother.

 

 

 

 

“Mr. Williams was his name—Jesse Williams. See, he got shot here on Courtland Street. And after getting shot, I'd taken him home, sick from the shot. And so he gave me this request. He said that he wanted me to play this over his grave. That, I did.”

 

—B
LIND
W
ILLIE
M
C
T
ELL, AS TOLD TO
E
DWARD
R
HODES IN
1956

From down the alley, a voice cut through the falling night like a honed blade.

Sharp whispers were not such an odd thing in the shadows off Decatur Street, nor was it so strange when two shapes abruptly animated and split apart, like stage actors who had just heard the call to places. Swept by the swirling wind, they kept their faces hidden and disappeared in opposite directions. Then it got quiet again.

 

Central Avenue was on fire. The gambling and sporting houses along the street that stretched south from the rail yards pulsed with light and motion this December night, as men who were low on funds tried to win some in advance of the holiday, and those who had received something extra in their pay envelopes went looking for a woman and a drink to spend it on. Coarse laughter rumbled over the sounds of tinny brass and clunking pianos from the horns of Victrolas. Though shades were drawn, there was no doubt what kind of commotion was going on inside the houses. It looked to all the world like a typical Saturday night on Atlanta's scarlet boulevard.

And yet a certain unease was hanging about, a guest in a bad humor. The veteran rounders sniffed the air like dogs catching a bad scent. Sports who knew better snarled at each other over card tables, and fisticuffs broke out left and right. In the upstairs rooms, the sporting girls bickered back and forth, hissing with venom. The whiskey in the speaks tasted a little raw even for moonshine, and too many of the gamblers couldn't get a decent hand or make the dice roll their way to save their souls.

Still, the action on the avenue never missed a beat on this, one of the last Saturday nights before Christmas. Those who believed the rumors that business was going to be shut down after the first of the year bet harder at the tables or ponied up for lookers who had all their teeth and spoke in complete sentences instead of one of the homely and sullen country girls who did it for a half-dollar and never smiled. No one with sense could deny there was something in the air.

 

On this same night, less than two miles distant, the Payne mansion was splendid in its annual yuletide glory. Every window glowed with festive light, and the ten-foot blue spruce trees on either side of the front door were festooned with little globes inside which cheery candles flickered. Even the tall wrought-iron fence that surrounded the corner property was draped in ropes of holly. Indeed, the massive two-story brick in Greek-revival style with solid columns at its portico had been decorated with such élan that the society scribblers would fairly swoon as they filled their columns with the kind of fawning attention to detail that would make their readers think they had been there. The charity Christmas party was such an event that every year brought rumors that certain unexplained deaths among the affluent class had actually been suicides over being left off the guest list.

The night had brought a bustle of excitement that rippled in and out the heavy front doors with the guests, dressed to the nines, the women aglitter in gems and swathed in gowns from the
Davison and Neiman stores, and the gentlemen stiff in tuxedos of inky black. Music from an eight-piece orchestra was barely audible over all the gay chatter and clinking of glasses.

Outside, a line of automobiles stretched along the Euclid Avenue and Elizabeth Street curbs in four directions. There was not a single Model T in their number; indeed, it appeared that a parade of luxury models had come to a stop: Duesenbergs, Wintons, Chryslers, Whippets, Cords, and a dozen other marques, their nameplates basking in the glow of the streetlights. Chauffeurs were de rigueur, of course, and so Negroes in fancy livery stood around stamping their feet and clapping their gloved hands against the cold. Every few minutes, a pint bottle of homemade whiskey would appear, make a round, and go back into hiding.

Local wags would note that half the automobiles had either been parked there purely for show or had owners who were impossibly lazy, as their homes were within a few minutes' stroll.

Inside the house it was such a hectic event, with so much frantic activity, that no one paid attention when one of the colored maids passed a slip of paper to another, who gave it a quick read and with an absent smile folded it into her apron pocket.

The second maid, dark skinned and sharp featured, made her way to the door that led from the bustling, overheated kitchen to the basement stairs. Keeping her face intent, as if on a pressing errand, she stepped through the door and closed it behind her. She lingered in the basement only a minute and was not missed.

The party bubbled merrily on until the stroke of midnight, when tradition demanded a toast. This year, the glasses were raised to the great city of Atlanta, to those upstanding citizens who had made such generous donations to the Christmas fund, surpassing the previous year's, and finally to new mayor John Sampson for his exemplary efforts in maintaining their safety and protecting their interests. With that, the couples in their tuxedos and furs began to take their leave. The foyer rang with hearty
farewells as the guests went out the door and down the walk to their waiting automobiles.

It was when the last of the wraps were being collected from the second floor that Mrs. Charles Payne stepped into the master bedroom and noticed a zebrawood jewelry box that had no business being out sitting atop the dressing table. Lifting the lid, she found it empty, cleaned of a half-dozen pieces of her best jewelry. She let out a gasp and called faintly, then louder, and one of the maids ran down the hall and down the stairs to fetch her husband.

The crack of the pistol echoed and died and the gray wisp of smoke from the barrel drifted up into the December night.

Officer J. R. Logue stared openmouthed and bleary as the body folded and collapsed onto the cold sidewalk. He had never shot a man before. It wasn't that hard. He rolled that curiosity through in his addled brain as he turned around and stumbled into the darkness of Gilmer Street.

In the silent wake of the shot, Little Jesse Williams lay on the hard concrete waiting for the angels or blue devils to come claim his bad luck soul. When a tortured minute went by and none appeared, he managed to crawl across the rough concrete to the facade of the Hong Luen Laundry and, with a jagged groan, propped himself against the bricks next to the door, his numb legs stretched out before him.

The slug had gone through his coat, vest, and shirt, and settled like a hot stone below his rib cage. He watched with dull eyes as the blood dribbled out to pool in his lap and then trailed onto the sidewalk. Though he had guessed it might someday come to this, he'd always imagined it would be some big-legged woman's jealous husband rather than a drunken rednecked cop
who ended it. That part was his fault; he had played a bad hand, and now he was paying for it.

Tilting his head back to look up at the dim stars, he felt no anger and no sadness. He knew as well as anyone that life for a black man was short and hard. There was so much trouble and toil and so many ended up the same way. Jesse smiled through the pain, thinking how much that sounded like the refrain of an old gutbucket song. The truth was that Little Jesse Williams had chosen to gamble all his days, and now his last deal was going down.

He knew where he was heading. He had seen the bodies laid out on cooling boards and had stood at more gravesides than he could count. He had listened to sweet-voiced choirs offer up their solemn hymns of grief and had heard blues shouters cry out about this man's evil spirit or that woman's loving heart. Now it was his turn to see what all the fuss was about.

He pictured the inscription on his stone:
JESSE LEE WILLIAMS,
1896–1923.
REST IN PEACE.

All this drama was waylaid when a black man named Robert Clark stepped out of Lynch's Alley. He had been lingering there with the last half inch of whiskey in his pint when he heard a white man's loose voice call out. The words didn't make sense until the crack of a pistol shot brought a second of clarity. Robert peeked out, his eyes going wide, then drew back and waited before stepping from the shadows again.

Crossing over a silent Courtland Street, he heard a rough moan and saw the body flopped against the storefront. As he edged closer, a head came up into the glow of the streetlamp, and he caught sight of a familiar face, fox-sharp, medium brown, wicked-eyed, and now cleaved into halves of light and shadow.

“Jesse!” he cried. “Goddamn! Lookit you!”

When Little Jesse turned, his coat fell away to reveal the dark, wet patch that had stained his vest and fine silk shirt.

Robert said, “Goddamn, boy!” He nearly put a toe into a
tiny puddle of blood that had gathered on the sidewalk and recoiled in a staggering hop.

“Did you see it?” Jesse grunted. “You see what he done?”

“I didn't see
nothin
'!” Robert's voice shook and he looked around, feeling his heart thump. Of all times for the street to be deserted. He crouched down, his eyes rolling side to side as he tried to get his brain to tell him what to do. He jerked around at the sound of an automobile. A Chevrolet touring car rounded the corner two blocks north and motored along the other side of the street, the engine gurgling and fenders wobbling against the frame. It passed without slowing. The avenue once again fell oddly quiet for this part of town, in the middle of the rambunctious triangle formed by Edgewood Avenue and Decatur and Peachtree streets, and on a Saturday night to boot. It was spooky, and Robert was wondering if it would be best to just leave Little Jesse in God's hands. He didn't want any part of a man's dying, and he couldn't do him any good, anyhow. All the same, he couldn't abide Jesse's haint walking around his bed in the middle of the night, payment for deserting him during his last minutes on earth.

As if echoing Robert's nervous thoughts, Jesse said, “Feel like I'm fixin' to die.” He groaned again and his eyes fluttered and closed.

Robert couldn't tell if Jesse had just that second passed, and he wasn't of a mind to stick around to find out. He was in need of another drink and tried to pull from his memory the number of the house on South Bell where the old conjure woman sold shorts of corn liquor out her kitchen window. She was known as a kind soul who couldn't say no to a Negro in need. With a jerking motion he stood up, turned away, and started back across the street.

Just as he reached the safety of the dark alley, he was startled by a young man moving along the sidewalk from the direction of Warren Street.

“Willie!” Robert jumped back a step.

Slender and just under medium height, with skin the color of caramel, Willie McTell carried a big boxed guitar slung across his chest, as if ready to play at a second's notice. Blank, up-staring eyes marked him as blind, and yet he made his way at a steady, unfaltering pace, as if guided by some other kind of sight. Even at that early hour, within shouting distance of the first light of dawn, he was dressed nattily, his suit clean and pressed, his white shirt buttoned to the chin, and his tie knotted precisely. Though the weather was brisk for mid-December, he wore his overcoat open. A slouch hat perched rakishly on a close-cropped head.