The Dying Crapshooter's Blues (20 page)

She also knew that if she had been born male, her conduct would be applauded with admiring winks and lewd snickers. A woman acting that way was worse than a whore, because at least the strumpets got paid for their favors. She accepted these facts without bitterness; it was the way of a world run by men.

She sometimes imagined that the minister at their Baptist church tailored his fire-belching sermons around her wickedness. She could have been the star in the lurid tales of sin that he spun with such relish. But he was just another fool talking about what he didn't know. Still, she didn't dislike him. He seemed kind enough when he wasn't in his pulpit.

Though she had moments when she sensed something dark and frightening lurking under her skin, those were few and far between and over as abruptly as they began. The terror of her nightmares was always washed away by the morning's light.

As a young girl, she had been taken to doctors intent on finding out what was
wrong
with her. Her behavior baffled them, which baffled her. She didn't understand. She was a cheerful person who greeted her days with a smile. She was never cruel or spiteful. She was clean and did not drink whiskey or take potions or powders to relieve her miseries.

Still, they said she was ill and that the cure for what ailed her was a marriage to Grayton Jackson. She was agreeable; she had always imagined that one day she would be a happy bride. That
dream died quickly, just as soon as it became clear that instead of a loving husband she was betrothed to a harsh, bitter, cold-blooded crab of a man. So she reopened the doors she had closed, reluctantly at first, then with her old abandon.

She had long wished that there might be one fellow who could satisfy her completely, but as yet she hadn't met him, and so she went about her delightful adventures. And the Captain never knew; or maybe knew and didn't care.

For all her regular vacancies of mind and her crazy compulsions, May Ida was not stupid. She had periods of clarity so sharp and brilliant that she surprised herself, her vigilance honed by escaping detection by her police officer husband.

Over the past two weeks she had begun sensing something different from his usual grim and caustic self. His tone had changed. When he was at home, he talked to himself more than usual, even laughing, as if listening to some private joke. While he wasn't any kinder to her, he did seem to notice her now and then, if only as an audience.

Then it began to dawn on her what had him so absorbed, and she wondered if she could steal it and then deflate or even destroy him, in retribution for his absent cruelties. If she couldn't do him in with a gun, knife, or vial of poison, perhaps she could inflict pain that was all the more excruciating for him and that much sweeter for her.

It seemed a delicious prospect, and she stood at the sink, rolling it around in her mind and musing on the various angles, until she heard the colored girl knock at the door and went to let her in.

 

By one o'clock, all the hopefuls had been in and out, and they had enough to fill the disks they had brought along. Mr. Purcell planned to stop for lunch, then begin recording. Of the two dozen acts waiting in the lobby, half of them might pass muster
with New York. Of those, two or three had a chance of turning a dollar, and one might become a known name.

Mr. Purcell was going over his notes from the morning when Jake walked into the room to tell him that there was a Negro out on the sidewalk who had been waiting with the others since breakfast.

The older man stepped to the window and looked out on Walton Street to see a well-dressed man holding a large guitar.

“He's the only one?” He had been wondering why he hadn't seen a single Negro face all day.

“I think everybody figured we only wanted the hillbilly music,” Jake explained.

Purcell grunted with annoyance. It was true that he had forgotten to specify. He didn't think he needed to in a city like Atlanta.

“Isn't he the same one we saw on the street?”

“That's him,” Jake said.

“Did you hear him play?”

“I did. And I think he might be the best of the lot.”

“Really?” Mr. Purcell said. The younger man nodded quickly. “Well, what's he doing out there?”

“They put him out of the lobby.”

“Who did?”

“The desk clerk. He says the manager told him to. So he chased him outside.”

“Well, go down and bring him up.”

“I can't. They don't allow Negroes in the rooms unless they're working.”

Mr. Purcell looked at him, his face pinching in distaste. “Don't allow . . .”

He understood this sort of thing perfectly, because his family's original name was not Purcell at all, but Perzel. He, like his young assistant, was a Jew, and was well aware of the Frank case, which had ended with the lynching of an innocent man. He knew
passions still ran high in these parts. The Klan held meetings outside the city at Stone Mountain, burning crosses by the dozens as they swore their hatred for Negroes, Jews, Catholics, Arabs, Italians, Greeks, and whoever else offended them.

The whole matter exasperated him. It was the third decade of the twentieth century, after all. “Go find Mr. Morgan, please,” he said. “I want to talk to him.”

 

Jake was back with the manager at his side.

“There's a fellow outside on the sidewalk who came to audition for us,” Purcell said. “He waited all morning in the lobby. Before we could get to him, your desk clerk put him out. Now the clerk says we can't have him up here.”

“Because he's colored,” Jake Stein put in.

The hotel manager smiled for a quick instant, looking from one to the other, as if his guests were making some kind of an odd joke. They were Yankees; it might be their idea of humor. The smile went away when he realized they weren't doing anything of the kind.

His voice caught a little when he said, “It's hotel policy not to permit Negroes to the upper floors of the hotel, unless they're in service.”

“I heard that,” Mr. Purcell said. “I'd like you to make an exception.”

“I'm afraid that wouldn't be possible,” Mr. Morgan said, blanching. “If the other guests noticed . . . or someone from . . . uh . . .” He swallowed nervously. “I'm sorry, I'm not per—”

“We've taken a room and one of your suites, and in the winter,” Purcell said brusquely. “And I believe every table in your restaurant has been filled since it opened this morning.”

“Yes, that's true, and we certainly appreciate all the business, of course . . .” The manager's Adam's apple bobbed. “It's just not . . . not possible for me to allow that. The fact is I could lose my job.”

Mr. Purcell eyed Mr. Morgan wisely. “Are you a member of the Ku Klux Klan, sir?”

The manager's back straightened and his face flushed with color. “No, sir, I am not.” After another moment's hesitation, he said, “But of course the owners are.”

Mr. Purcell stared through his spectacles for a long moment. Then he said, “Thank you for your time.” He closed the door.

“I'll be in the office if you need anything further,” Mr. Morgan called from the hall, his voice faint.

Purcell turned to his assistant. “What's the colored fellow's name?”

“It's Willie. Mc-something. McTell, I think.”

“He's that good?”

The younger man was emphatic. “He is, yes, sir.”

“Then let's bring him up here.” He winked, as furtive as a spy. “One way or another.”

With a wide grin, Jake went for their coats.

But when they got outside, the blind singer was gone. The desk clerk's face reddened as he explained that he had apparently given up and left. Asked where he might have gone, Sidney said there was no telling.

Mr. Purcell's face flushed and he raised his voice as he opined that
no telling
wasn't much help.

“I can tell you that them colored musicians is likely to stay over that way,” Sidney said, pointing in a general easterly direction. “You got Decatur Street and you got Auburn Avenue and they got all kind of colored places. He could be anywhere down around there.”

Purcell looked at Jake, sighed, and turned away.

 

At that moment, six blocks distant, Willie was climbing the steps to Jesse's rooms, feeling the weight of disappointment lingering in his gut.

When the young man from Columbia came downstairs, and
Willie asked that his name be added to the list, he caught the stutter of hesitation, a signal of surprise that was easily read. He was the only colored person in the lobby who wasn't carrying a tray or a mop. The young fellow wrote down his name, as polite as could be, then introduced himself as Jake Stein, and said it would be an hour or more before they could get to him.

Willie would have waited all day for his chance, but once the crowd in the lobby had thinned, the desk clerk wasted no time in telling him to move outdoors. He explained that he was on the list. The clerk insisted that he leave, though he could tell by his tone that he didn't feel good about it. Several of the other musicians grumbled about the treatment, and yet no one called him back.

Willie had been asked to make records before, but they only wanted coon songs, and he wasn't willing. He wanted to select from his own song bag, the kind of material he'd picked up out on the road: blues, ragtime numbers, even some of the tunes that were popular during the war, all of them done up his own way, along with some songs he'd written on his own. He believed his were a match for any white man's and better than most. No one he'd ever heard had anything like his booming twelve-string and sweet, churchified tenor. So he deserved a chance to record on the Columbia label, and was willing to stand out in the cold for as long as it took to do it. If nothing else, he might catch one of the record people stepping out for lunch.

He had been on the sidewalk a cold hour and had two dollars in nickels and dimes dropped into the box of the Stella when a kid came along with a message from one of the women tending to Little Jesse. Jesse was going down fast, the boy whispered, and he'd been asking for Willie and Joe Rose.

Realizing he was giving up his chance, Willie dug into his pocket and gave the kid a dime to carry the message on to Joe Rose at the Hampton Hotel. Then he started south on Walton Street.

 

When he stepped into Little Jesse's bedroom, he understood that his troubles were nothing. He could smell that whatever had infected Jesse down in his gut was emitting an odor so sour and heavy that it stung his nose. The air in the room was close, as more people had gathered around with the word that the end might be near.

There was a rustle of motion and a murmur of voices as they made way for Willie and his guitar.

Jesse's breath was low as the blind man settled into the chair in the near corner. “Hey, Willie . . .” He barely opened his eyes. “You got my song done yet?”

“Almost.” Willie sat down, cradled the box on his lap, and brushed his fingers across the twelve-string. “Don't worry. I'm getting right up on it.”

The faintest ghost of a smile curled Jesse's lips. “I believe I can wait a little bit longer,” he said.

 

Joe Rose was not at his hotel, so the kid left the message with the man at the desk.

After Joe watched Lieutenant Collins cross to Houston Street and step into Lulu's, where the driver was waiting, he turned around and went the way he came at a quick pace, cutting down James Street to West Cain. If he'd had any doubts about being in the middle of something, the lieutenant had settled them during their five-minute stroll along Peachtree Street.

When he reached the corner, he scratched some gravel off the ground and tossed a tiny bit at the second-story window, the oldest trick around. A few seconds passed, the curtains parted, and he was looking up at a freckled Irish face. He saw Molly's sudden smile, even in that dim light. With a quick glance up and down the street, he hurried onto the porch, stepped inside, and climbed the stairs, making barely a sound. She was waiting on the landing. She went ahead of him down the hall and into her room.

“Why didn't you come in the way you left?” she said as she closed the door behind him. He noticed the brogue in her voice.

Joe smiled and shrugged, and spent a moment doffing his cap, straightening his coat, and giving his host a closer look. Her deep green eyes were merry over freckled cheeks. He thought she looked like nothing so much as one of the paintings of lasses that appeared on calendars. She was short, not fat but sturdy, more like a shop girl than some hoity miss who would put on airs; the type who wouldn't dream of opening the door for a stranger ducking the cops, in other words. All in all, she presented a kind picture, and yet there was something just a little cunning and watchful in her expression.

“Is your last name Malone?” he asked her. “Or Maguire?”

She shook her head slightly. “It's O'Connell.”

“Joe Rose,” he said. He went into one of his inside coat pockets and drew out a gold cross on a gold chain. “This is for you,” he said. “To thank you for your kindness.”

“You didn't need to do that,” she said. “This wouldn't by chance be a hot item, would it?”

“No, it's not.” This was a lie; it was one of those stolen trinkets he kept on hand for just such instances.

Molly accepted the charm with a smile that told him she wasn't fooled. Laying it aside, she said, “You didn't come back just to give me a gift, did you?”

“No,” Joe said. “I want to talk to you about Officer Logue.”

“Ah, I thought you might.” She gave a sad shake of her head. “Mrs. Cotter told me what happened. My sweet Jesus.” She sighed, then gestured to one of the chairs arranged on either side of the small table in the corner. “Would you like to take off your coat?”

He removed the coat, draped it over the back of the chair, and sat down, thinking how easily she was treating a stranger walking into her room and her life. He was in for another surprise.