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Authors: David Fulmer
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and plans to introduce him to the family. Soon the dizzy bride-to-be would go about fashioning an idyll, only to find that he could disappear like Houdini, and he hadnât wandered across the street for a packet of cigarettes, either.
It was a risk he took because he adored women and couldnât get enough of their mysterious, entrancing, enticing selves. So he loved them and left them, and sports from New York to Miami delighted in recounting tales of his escapes. The only one he couldnât shed was the most troublesome of the lot, and one of the few who never breathed the word
marry.
No matter; it wasnât any woman who had him thinking about pulling one of his evaporating tricks and catching a night train for Mobile, New Orleans, or another of his winter haunts. Captain Grayton Jackson was after him, and that was no joke.
The last thing anyone on the wrong side of the law in the city of Atlanta wanted was to tangle with the Captain. The man could make any rounderâs life a misery. Just thinking about it sent him after his bottle. He poured himself a drink and carried it to the window to look down on Houston Street, trying to imagine what Jackson wanted with him.
He hadnât done anything so far, except to happen onto the shooting of Little Jesse Williams. That couldnât be it; the Captain wouldnât care if every black man in Atlanta was gunned down in the street. Even if it happened the way Jesse claimed, it wouldnât signify much. Policemen shot Negro criminals all the time.
Â
The Captain was well into his cups by the middle of the evening, and he stalked around the living room and kitchen of the house on Plum Street, his mouth loose as he described the crime that had been committed the night before and threw out hints of how it was going to end up making him a hero.
His wife, May Ida, found herself intrigued, though not by her husbandâs role in the story, real or imagined. Rather, she was dazzled that some bandit had found his way into the Payne mansion, of all places, and during their Christmas gala, of all times, making off with a cache of jewelry. It was some brazen caper, and the Captain described a mayor and chief of police floundering about in helpless fits.
âAnd who do they call?â he inquired of no one in particularâcertainly not her. He jabbed a thumb at his chest. âThey call
me,
thatâs who.â He all but smacked his lips. âThe same sons of bitches that were gonna put me on the street, walking a beat. Now look at what we got here!â He came up with a surly grin of triumph.
May Ida knew better than to comment. He gave not a whit what she thought about this subject or any other. So she let him rail on with his odd mutterings, no more interested in him than he was in her, and returned to her own thoughts with his drunken gripes playing like bad music in the background. It was a typical night at 446 Plum Street.
Â
Skulking back to his rooming house in the evening darkness, Robert Clark had a powerful sense of dread, a swirl of hoodoo that had been hanging at his shoulder like a black cloud ever since he had run off into the darkness, leaving Little Jesse Williams bleeding on that cold corner. Now he couldnât shake the feeling that someone or something was creeping his bed and following in his path and that eyes were on him everywhere he went.
It was his own damned fault. Instead of buying a bottle, going home, and keeping his mouth shut after heâd left Jesse, he had wandered around to the crap game in the empty Raspberry Alley storefront. Even then, he could have enjoyed a last drink and left out. He didnât, though; and that was one dumb-assed mistake.
He didnât know that he had repeated what heâd seen until it was too late. He had finished his own pint, took a couple drinks from the bottle that was going around, and came abruptly out of a fog to realize that he had done just that.
As the blur cleared,
It was a risk he took because he adored women and couldnât get enough of their mysterious, entrancing, enticing selves. So he loved them and left them, and sports from New York to Miami delighted in recounting tales of his escapes. The only one he couldnât shed was the most troublesome of the lot, and one of the few who never breathed the word
marry.
No matter; it wasnât any woman who had him thinking about pulling one of his evaporating tricks and catching a night train for Mobile, New Orleans, or another of his winter haunts. Captain Grayton Jackson was after him, and that was no joke.
The last thing anyone on the wrong side of the law in the city of Atlanta wanted was to tangle with the Captain. The man could make any rounderâs life a misery. Just thinking about it sent him after his bottle. He poured himself a drink and carried it to the window to look down on Houston Street, trying to imagine what Jackson wanted with him.
He hadnât done anything so far, except to happen onto the shooting of Little Jesse Williams. That couldnât be it; the Captain wouldnât care if every black man in Atlanta was gunned down in the street. Even if it happened the way Jesse claimed, it wouldnât signify much. Policemen shot Negro criminals all the time.
Â
The Captain was well into his cups by the middle of the evening, and he stalked around the living room and kitchen of the house on Plum Street, his mouth loose as he described the crime that had been committed the night before and threw out hints of how it was going to end up making him a hero.
His wife, May Ida, found herself intrigued, though not by her husbandâs role in the story, real or imagined. Rather, she was dazzled that some bandit had found his way into the Payne mansion, of all places, and during their Christmas gala, of all times, making off with a cache of jewelry. It was some brazen caper, and the Captain described a mayor and chief of police floundering about in helpless fits.
âAnd who do they call?â he inquired of no one in particularâcertainly not her. He jabbed a thumb at his chest. âThey call
me,
thatâs who.â He all but smacked his lips. âThe same sons of bitches that were gonna put me on the street, walking a beat. Now look at what we got here!â He came up with a surly grin of triumph.
May Ida knew better than to comment. He gave not a whit what she thought about this subject or any other. So she let him rail on with his odd mutterings, no more interested in him than he was in her, and returned to her own thoughts with his drunken gripes playing like bad music in the background. It was a typical night at 446 Plum Street.
Â
Skulking back to his rooming house in the evening darkness, Robert Clark had a powerful sense of dread, a swirl of hoodoo that had been hanging at his shoulder like a black cloud ever since he had run off into the darkness, leaving Little Jesse Williams bleeding on that cold corner. Now he couldnât shake the feeling that someone or something was creeping his bed and following in his path and that eyes were on him everywhere he went.
It was his own damned fault. Instead of buying a bottle, going home, and keeping his mouth shut after heâd left Jesse, he had wandered around to the crap game in the empty Raspberry Alley storefront. Even then, he could have enjoyed a last drink and left out. He didnât, though; and that was one dumb-assed mistake.
He didnât know that he had repeated what heâd seen until it was too late. He had finished his own pint, took a couple drinks from the bottle that was going around, and came abruptly out of a fog to realize that he had done just that.
As the blur cleared,
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