Three Days Before the Shooting ... (190 page)

“Covered with
what?”
the officer said.

“With anything handy—use your jacket!”

“My jacket?”

“Hell, yes! And that’s an
order
!”

And now the woman reacted.

Seeing the unhappy policeman approach with his jacket in hand she giggled and blew him a kiss. Then, watching him cover her nudity and step quickly backward, she smiled and lay fingering the cloth of his jacket as though deciding whether to let it lie put or snatch it away. And with that I thought, Whoever she turns out to be, she’s by no means a Lady Godiva, and headed back to the Sergeant.

Glaring at the man in the chair, he stood with his back to the coffin, which I now realized was old and quite battered. And in the course of his questioning we
learned from the man in the chair that its state of decay had indeed triggered the confusion which followed.

Get this: The man in the coffin had rejected his lifelong faith in religion, fallen into a profound state of frustration, and gone on a Jack Daniel’s toot after discovering that time, termites, and an enviable long life had reduced his choice of a last resting place to a worm-eaten shell. Which discovery he denounced as an insult from God, the universe, and the United States Government! Such was the start of the chain of events which led to my being dragged out of bed and into the nightmare in which I now floundered.

Just think of it! A man lives so long that he outlasts his coffin, but instead of prizing his longevity he abandons his faith in religion! Which suggests once again—as others have argued—that some of our black Americans are indeed of a very strange mixture. If so, the man in the chair was a notable example.

Before responding to the Sergeant’s questions he had to be reassured that yet another man—and a
white
man at that—was gone from the premises. And then, encouraged by whiskey which the Sergeant had sloshed in his glass, he gulped down a drink, gazed at the man in the coffin with a mournful expression, and nodded. At which, thanks to the pain in my groin, I had the presence of mind to activate my recorder.

Which proved most fortunate, for as it turned out he was either a natural-born mimic with a photographic memory, or a spellbinding trickster whose eye for significant detail and ear for speech rhythms might have served him well as a novelist.

And now with a sigh he gazed at the detectives and said, “Okay, gentlemen, I’ll tell you whatever I can.”

“Fine,” said the Sergeant, “and you can start by giving us your name.”

“My name is Aubrey McMillen.”

“And his?” the Sergeant said with a nod toward the coffin.

“That’s my friend Mister Jessie….”

“Jessie,” the Sergeant said, “but what’s his first name?”

“That
is
his first name. His last name’s Rockmore, just as you called him outside the door. His full name’s Jessie Wellington Rockmore.”

“Very good,” said the Sergeant. And taking the posture of a prosecuting attorney he bent slightly forward.

“And now, Aubrey,” he said, “tell us what kind of work do you do.”

“I’m a super,” McMillen said.

“A super? For whom?”

“For Mister Jessie. I work right here on the premises.”

“And what about those servants out in the hall?”

“Servants?
What servants? Those folks are
tenants
! And what’s more, it costs good money to live in this house.”

“They’re
tenants?”

“That’s right, every man and woman amongst them. And not only that, they all have good jobs and keep up with their taxes.”

“I see. And what about you?”

“Me too!”

“Good! And have you other employment?”

“Not anymore. I been working for Mister Jessie for close to ten years. And before that I worked for …”

“Never mind,” the Sergeant said, “we’ll get back to that later. For now just tell us what happened here tonight.”

“Well, suh,” McMillen said with a sigh and a shake of his head, “it went this-a-way: Early this morning Mister Jessie told me to bring him that coffin up from the cellar. So I got holt of Elroy—that’s the young man who gives me a hand now and then—and we brought it up here and sat it there on that table, which is where Mister Jessie told us to put it.”

“And why did he want it up here?”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t rightly know. Me and Mister Jessie been friends for years and he liked to talk with me about most anything. In fact, he talked to me more than he talked to anybody, but he’d never said a word about having that coffin.”

“Does he have relatives, kinfolks?”

“Oh, yes, but Mister Jessie can’t stand them. That’s why he lives here all by hisself.”

“What about his wife, did he have one?”

“Yes suh, but she’s been dead for ten years or so.”

“And did his relatives ever visit him?”

“Not very often, because with him being so straightlaced and strict they don’t get along. And that’s how he likes it. Deep down, Mister Jessie doesn’t think too highly of what he sees in most folks, whether they be relatives or strangers, black, white, or whatever. So as far as he was concerned his kinfolks were just some more humans and not to be trusted. So rather than arguing with them all the time Mister Jessie chose to sit here day after day reading his Bible. Otherwise he’d be reading books or the
Post
and that paper which Congress puts out. Which was the one he was
always
fussing about over the things they printed. He even tried to give me a subscription so he could argue with me about it. But while I’d argue about the Bible once in a while, that thing Congress puts out just makes me mad. Though no way as mad as it made Mister Jessie.”

“And why was that?”

“Because he disagreed with most everything it stands for. And according to him those folks in Congress keep violating the Constitution, the Fifteenth Amendment, the laws of the Bible, and a heap of others which I’m not educated enough to know much about. Not that he’d been to college, but he taught his own self things that even most college folks seem not to know.”

“With all the books in this place he was
self-educated?”

“That’s right, along with his magazines he read all kinds of books. He was also well off—as you can see from this building.”

“Do you mean that he
owns
it?”

“Oh, yes, he owns it! And what’s more, he’s proud of it and the rest of his property.”

“Which brings us to the point of what happened here tonight. How did it start?”

“Well, it went this-a-way. After me and Elroy get the coffin up here and resting on the table, Mister Jessie looks at it a long time and starts in to mumbling. And right away he seems to forget about Elroy and me. Then he circles his coffin about seven times, and all at once he gives it a thump like he’s testing a melon for ripeness. And when a big cloud of dust rises up out of there he bucks his eyes like he’s seen him a ghost. Then he goes to mumbling and balls up his fist and comes down on the lid like he’s swinging a hammer, and when it explodes with more dust he takes a step back and starts in to coughing. Then he unlatches the lid that’s now closed and runs his hand way deep inside and drags out a fancy old suit—a black one—that’s falling apart. Then he drags out a pair of those high-button shoes with fancy gray uppers, the kind men who could afford them used to wear years ago. And while he’s looking them over he’s mumbling and shaking his head. Then his face starts to working up such a storm and that skin under his chin starts to wobbling and shaking like a mad turkey gobbler’s. Then his face breaks out with sweat and he starts snatching other stuff out of there like he’s looking for something that’s really important …”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Well, the first was some plates and some bowls and a pitcher. Then some forks and some knives and a statue of a skinny old man who’s sitting on a horse that’s as skinny as he is. He’s some kind of foreigner and thin as a rail, and in one hand he’s holding a shield and in the other a long slender sword that’s missing its point. Then came a big glass jug with a sailing ship in it, like the kind you see in those movies about Christopher Columbus. And then he pulls out a big box of grits with a picture of a colored man on it….”

“Grits,”
the Sergeant shouted, “what the hell are you telling us?”

“See for yourself,” McMillen said, “it’s right over there with Uncle Ben on it.”

“And what else did he take out of there?”

“Well, then came a box with Aunt Jemima on it, then a Bible and a beat-up pistol—an owlhead, which you can see right over there—and some life-insurance policies that’s long past their time. And then he reaches in again, and when he straightens up he’s trembling and in his hands he’s holding a box that’s made out of tin.

“That’s when he wipes the sweat from his face and says, ‘It’s been so doggone long that I damn near forgot it!’ And all at once he turns to me and says,
‘McMillen, give that there little nappy-chinned helper of yours a dollar and get him the hell out of the house.’

“So instead of a dollar I slips Elroy a couple of bucks and a quarter and he heads for downstairs….”

“Why did
you
pay the boy?”

“That was part of a game Mister Jessie liked to play on me. He’d borrow my money just to see if I had it. Borrow today and pay back tomorrow. Not that he needed it, ‘cause not only did he get good rent from those folks out there in the hall, he had plenty cash in the bank and hardly spent any of it except for something to eat and things like underwear and shirts every now and then. Yes, and all those magazines, newspapers, and books. He didn’t even smoke or chew tobacco….”

“But judging from that bottle he’s holding and the smell of this place he
drank
like a fish, isn’t that right?”

To which, grasping his glass, McMillen replied, “Oh, no, he didn’t! And if it’s that Jack Daniel’s you smell that makes you say that I better explain it.”

“Then get on with it!”

“Oh, no, gentlemen, Mister Jessie didn’t smoke, chew, or drink. Neither did he hang out with women. So he had no need to spend much of his money. What’s more, a man from some big museum up there in New York was always coming here and trying to get him to sell him those dishes and things over there in those cabinets. Offered him all kinds of money—way up in the thousands—but Mister Jessie wouldn’t sell. And right here in D.C. a Smithsonian man wanted those pictures of Indians and other folks he collected, but Mister Jessie refused him. Told me one time that he’d give some of his pictures to the folks at the college for nothing if only they had enough sense to appreciate them. And when I asked him how come they didn’t he said it was because they refuse to learn anything about this country which they don’t see right away as being connected directly to them and our people. Said he offered to gift them those pictures of Indians he has in his storeroom—and he has some fine ones—but according to him those folks didn’t want them. And that made Mister Jessie
really
disgusted.

“‘McMillen,’ he said, ‘those fools are supposed to be educated, but the truth of the matter is that they don’t even realize that for better or worse the black man has taken the place of the red man, even to getting hog-tied and scalped every time he forgets to sidestep and duck.’ Which was too complicated for me, but Mister Jessie used to say some pretty low-rating things about those folks at the college. But as far as
I’m
concerned they seem to be doing a pretty fair job….”

“Never mind what he thought of teachers, get back to my question!”

“Yessuh. So after I pay Elroy his money we go downstairs and I lock the door. And when I get back Mister Jessie’s reaching in his coffin and dragging out some of those goldbacks which that lady back yonder is wearing….”

“Do you mean gold certificates?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I’ll be damned, and she’s debasing them! So then what?”

“So then Mister Jessie stacks some of his goldbacks on the lid of his coffin and says, ‘McMillen, this stuff’s been stashed for so long that it’s a crime to even possess it.’ And all at once he grabs a bunch of those goldbacks and stares at them, and right away he does something I never heard him do in all the years we been friends—he
cusses!

“‘Goddamit,’ he says, ‘it has to slip up on me at a time when by rights I ought to be long dead and buried, but now I’m glad that it’s happened. Because for once in my life I broke the damn law!’

“And when I hear that I’m speechless. Because Mister Jessie was as clean-cut a man, black
or
white, as I’ve ever known. He was what folks who knew him would describe as being an upright citizen and good Christian gentleman….”

To which, with a sly glance at Murphy, a devout but hard-drinking Catholic, the Sergeant smiled.

“All right,” he said, “so your friend was some breed of Protestant. Now get on with your story.”

“Well, it looks like his cussing causes something to snap in Mister Jessie’s poor head. Because after standing there stacking that money and mumbling he stares at it a while like he’s mad as hell and getting even madder. And all of a sudden he sweeps it down on the floor like he’s truly disgusted.

“And that’s when I asked him, ‘Mister Jessie, what the hell are you doing, treating your money like that? Sure, it might be old, but it was backed by hard cash. And since you’re no criminal or anything like that you can turn it in at the bank and they’ll give you full value.’

“Well, suh, why did I say that? Mister Jessie looks like he’s about to grab that coffin and wallop me with it.

“‘Full value some hell,’ he yells. ‘There ain’t enough gold in all Fort Knox to repay me for all the trouble that damn stuff has cost me. Back there in the eighties, denying my family most everything they needed. Pulling nickels and dimes out of my own rusty hide and letting that white man use me to beat those poor ignorant white folks out of their family inheritance—all that fine Spode and Chelsea, Sandwich glass and sterling. McMillen,’ he says, ‘wars, depressions, and thieves in high places have put more dross in our silver and brass in our gold than all the lead in the bullets that got fired in the Battle of Gettysburg. And by now grand theft and bad monetary policies have cut the value of whatever’s left over!’