The Dying Crapshooter's Blues (38 page)

As he strode up the walk, he heard voices from inside, rising in jagged peaks, the two men's and one woman's. When he reached the front porch, he found the door unlocked. He opened it a foot and slipped inside.

The voices were coming from the direction of the hallway that was on the opposite side of the front room. Joe slipped to the arched doorway and perked an ear. He could make out the Captain's gruff growl and May Ida's twittering soprano. The third person wasn't speaking.

He poked his head around the corner. Shadows played at the other end, cast in the bright kitchen light. Halfway along the hall was an open doorway to a bedroom. Under the cover of the blustering shouts, Joe crept the five paces to duck through the doorway and lurk in the darkness, listening.

“You think I'm going to let this alone?” the Captain was demanding. “You understand what she done?”

May Ida whimpered, “Grayton . . . stop . . . please.”

“You need to let her go, Captain.” It was Collins, his voice steady, a man working for calm. Thinking of poor Al Nichols with the badge clutched in his hand, Joe wanted to rush him at that moment. He kept still, though; now wasn't the time.

“Why's that?” Jackson barked. “You been fucking her, too? Along with everybody else in town?”

“We need to stop this before it goes too far,” Collins said.

“Already gone too damn far.”

There was some movement and May Ida cried out.

“You think I didn't know?”

May Ida whimpered again, and Collins said, “Captain—”

“She'll spread them fat legs of hers for any-goddamn-body! You think I don't know? I know! I know everything!”

Not quite,
Joe thought as May Ida's voice went up in a keening swoop.

“You shut up!” the Captain growled. “Now, what'd you tell that fucking Rose?”

There was a second of stunned silence. May Ida wailed, “What?”

“What the hell did you tell him?” the Captain bellowed.

“That's enough!” Collins barked.

“I'll say when it's enough,” Jackson grunted. “And you can drop that weapon right about now, too.”

Joe peeked from the doorway, saw Collins's silhouette cast against the white enamel of the icebox. A shadowed hand extended and a shadowed pistol dropped to the floor with a thump. Joe could just see the tip of the barrel, a few inches from the threshold.

“All right, it's gone,” the detective said. “Now why don't you put the knife down?”

“You giving orders now?”

There was a thick pause. Joe thought he heard Collins whisper
Don't
! and then a thin dark scream from May Ida. Collins's shadow bolted suddenly and there was the sound of a wild scuffle, chairs rattling, glass breaking, the two men huffing and cursing, May Ida's shriek going up and down like a siren.

Joe covered the two steps to the doorway and snatched up the detective's pistol. He yelled, “Stop!” before he could fix on the tableau in the kitchen and untangle body from body.

The three of them froze, stunned by the intrusion. The Captain and Collins were locked in a grapple, their arms around each other's necks in a violent dance, Collins's hand grasping the Captain's right wrist. Above the wrist, Jackson's hand held a kitchen knife. May Ida had crumpled to their feet and was grabbing at one side of her throat, where blood seeped from a short slash.

Joe understood. The Captain had been holding his wife and had taken the moment to try to cut her throat. It hadn't gone deep enough to do fatal damage, though, and Collins was on him before he could finish the job.

“You!” There was a mad glitter in the Captain's green eyes, and his lips curled into a half smile as he realized that someone else wanted in his clutches was standing a few feet away.

Joe saw it coming. Jackson took advantage of those seconds of surprise to throw Collins back against the sideboard with a low grunt. Then he reached down to snatch May Ida by her curls and wrench her head back at an angle. He was bringing the knife down, muttering the words, “Now, you fucking whore . . .” when Joe pulled the trigger.

The Colt barked and flashed in that small space, and the Captain twisted around in a spasm that sent him backward into the corner. The knife tumbled to the linoleum. Jackson started to slide down, staring at Joe, his eyes spitting hate. He grabbed his chest where the wound was bleeding, his crazy eyes fixed on the man who had shot him. He managed to snarl, “I'm a
police
officer, goddamn you!” He slid down to the floor. “I'm a . . . a . . .” He sputtered, as if he had forgotten what he wanted to say.

Joe was gazing in wonder at what he had done when, behind him, he heard Collins say, “No!”

May Ida came spinning from her crouch on the floor, took two strides, snatched up the knife, and drove the blade into her husband's solar plexus. He let out an animal groan as she leaned her weight against it.

“There,” she said in an eerily calm voice. “There.” She straightened and let the Captain topple over on his side. She held the red-stained knife dangling idly at her side.

In the stunned second that followed, Collins stepped up to lift his pistol from Joe's hand. Joe jerked it away and drew back, leveling the weapon at the lieutenant.

“You went to Al Nichols's place,” he said. “You were there.”

The lieutenant nodded carefully. “He told me to come talk to you. Someone got to him first. He was still alive when I came in. He couldn't make it, though. Not with a wound like that.” He took a grim pause. “My guess is Baker did it. But I was with him when he went down.”

Joe dropped a slow hand into the pocket of his jacket. “He grabbed this,” he said, holding up the badge.

The lieutenant looked down and spotted the faint trace that Albert's hand had left on his coat. He looked at Joe again. “May I have it?” he said. “And the weapon, please.”

Joe glanced at him and saw a face that had gone cop blank, the mouth set in a line and the eyes cool and flat. He handed over the badge and the pistol. The lieutenant placed them on the sideboard. Before he did, though, he grasped the pistol firmly by the grip, erasing any trace of Joe's handprint.

May Ida turned around, again assuming the pose of the helpless girl that was her mask and shield. She held up the knife. “What shall I do with this?” she asked simply.

“Just lay it on the table,” Collins said in a steady voice.

May Ida did as she was told, then dropped her hands to her sides, standing a little stiffly, like a small child about to be dressed down over some mischief. She looked between the detective and Joe, her eyes wide and expectant.

“Both of you stay where you are,” Collins said. “Don't touch anything and don't try to leave. Please.”

He walked out of the room. May Ida gave Joe a sweet, absent smile, then cast a pensive gaze out the window. In the silence, they heard the lieutenant crank the telephone and then start speaking in a clipped voice.

Momentarily, he came along the hall and stepped back into the room to address Joe. “Do you know what happened to Corporal Baker?”

“I laid him out across the seat of the car,” Joe said. “He might come around in an hour or so.”

A hint of a smile twitched at the corners of Collins's mouth. He said, “In that case, you may leave, sir.”

“Wait a minute,” Joe said. “What's going to happen to him?”

“To who?”

“Baker.”

“Oh. He'll be prosecuted. I'll see to it.”

“He needs to be put to sleep.”

“I'll take care of it, Mr. Rose.”

“What about Sweet Spencer?”

“I'll have him released. Most likely tomorrow.”

“Tonight, Lieutenant,” Joe said, softly insistent. “You know what kind of place that is.”

Collins paused. “All right, sir. I'll make the call.”

Joe nodded, mollified. There was nothing more for him to do there. He looked over at the Captain, crumpled glassy-eyed on the floor. He shifted his gaze to May Ida and she smiled at him fondly, but with a vexed expression, as if all this bedlam had her puzzled.

“Mr. Rose?” Collins said. Joe looked at him. “If you happen to see Miss Spencer, tell her it would be smart for her to return those items that were stolen. If she has them, I mean.”

“If I see her, I will,” Joe said.

“And then you'll want to think about your own plans.”

Joe understood; it was a warning to get out of town.

He left them there, stepping into the hall, through the living room, and out the door, closing it behind him. When he got to the sidewalk, he saw that some of the neighbors had come out of their houses, alerted by the gunshot. Little huddles formed at certain
doorsteps, arms crossed in the chilly evening as they whispered back and forth. A few of the men were moving cautiously toward the sedan, peering in at the body slumped across the seat.

Joe made a quick escape around the corner of Pine Street and past the Luckie Street School, and turned south toward town. As he reached the edge of the city, two police sedans whizzed by. Though they were moving at a furious clip, neither employed a siren. Joe thought he saw the face of Chief Troutman in one of them, but they went by so fast that he couldn't be sure.

 

Willie opened the door without asking who was knocking, as if he knew who was calling. Joe was relieved to find him home and some of the tension he had been carrying blew away.

“Joe,” the blind man said in his soft voice. “Come on inside.”

Joe stepped in and closed the door behind him. It was a simple, tidy little space that was warm, close, and rather homey. An iron-frame bed occupied the far wall. The twelve-string Stella reposed there, as if resting before the night's performing. To the right was a chest of drawers. Opposite it was a washstand and in the corner next to the door was a worn easy chair with a lamp next to it. A picture hung on each wall, cheap art in cheap frames. Joe smiled at that; not that Willie would know. Or maybe he did.

Willie said, “Take the chair, Joe.” Joe sat, sagging onto the brocade cushion. “You want a drink?”

“Not right now.”

Willie crossed to the chest of drawers, leaned against it, and cocked his head as if hearing some wayward echo. “Something happen tonight?”

“A lot happened tonight,” Joe said. He was quiet for a few seconds. “My friend Albert Nichols was murdered. The cop I knew from Baltimore? Him. I got there too late. So I went to Captain Jackson's house. And while I was there, he tried to murder his wife. And I shot him.”

The blind man was stunned. “You shot
the Captain?
”

“Not a half hour ago,” Joe said.

“He dead?”

“Dead as he can be,” Joe said.

Willie said, “But you're not . . . well, my Jesus. Since when do you carry a gun?”

“I don't,” Joe said. “This lieutenant named Collins was there, too. I picked up his pistol. The Captain was taking a knife to his wife and I put one in him.”

Willie's brow stitched. “I ain't following. This have anything to do with Little Jesse?”

“It has everything to do with him.”

“You want to explain it so a poor blind Negro can understand?”

Joe rolled his eyes at this quip. Then he said, “The Captain paid that cop to kill Little Jesse.”

“Because why?”

“Because Jesse was working for him. He had him rob those jewels so he could produce them and make some hay out of it. He wanted Jesse out of the way.”

“Good lord,” Willie said.

“Logue made a mess of it, so he had to go.”

“The Captain hunted him down and shot him?”

“Or another cop, a corporal named Baker.”

“What about Robert Clarke? Him, too?”

“He saw what happened. That was right before you came along. He should have kept his mouth shut. But he didn't. Baker got him, too.” Joe sighed, steadying himself. “I got Al Nichols involved in it. He dug something up. The Captain found out and sent Baker to his house tonight to make sure he didn't use it. I found him there. And after that I went to Jackson's house.”

“That wife of his in the middle of it, too?”

“She was. She's lucky to be alive.”

Willie mulled all this. “Why the hell didn't Jesse just say what was going on?”

Joe settled back. “I suppose he didn't want to tell me what he'd done. Or maybe he was protecting Pearl.”

“He was sweet on her?”

“Maybe so.” He smiled sadly. “Hey, there's a song for you.”

Willie straightened from his slouch, crossed to the bed, picked up his guitar, and sat down on the edge of the mattress. Idly, he began strumming the strings.

“And what about the jewelry?” he said. “That ever gonna turn up?”

“I hope so.” Joe hesitated, then said, “I have to find her first.”

Willie went back to strumming, though his touch on the strings was so light Joe could barely hear it. After he had played a few bars, he said, “You sure you don't want a drink? It's in the top drawer.” He tilted his head.

Joe got up and went to the chest, where he found a short bottle of rye and two short glasses. He poured one full for each of them, then carried Willie's to him. Rather than sit, he stood in the middle of the floor, pondering all that had transpired. At one point he laughed a little, and Willie cocked his head quizzically.

“What's funny?”

“I just realized that the Captain's wife will probably get some kind of widow's pension from the department.”

Willie was quiet for another long moment. Then he said, “You going on the run now?”

“I'll have to leave pretty quick, that's for sure.”

“They won't want you for shooting a policeman?”

“I don't think so,” Joe said. “The Captain was as dirty as can be. They'll make up a story. Maybe say someone came after him, like some criminal he arrested. So it would be a revenge matter. And the wife isn't going to say a word.”