Three Days Before the Shooting ... (191 page)

“‘McMillen,’ he says, ‘when a man reaches my age money turns out to be nothing more than the coldest damn dregs of all his life’s labor. Even his sweat is more valuable, because here in this hellhole of Washington it can at least cool him off every once in a while. Hell, I wore out fifteen of those damn straight-life,
nickel-today-nickel-when-you-git-it life-insurance policies you see on the floor before I learned I was being drained of my interest on what I thought was a good investment. And that’s when I started saving my money in banks. Then next thing I know those damn depressions started eating on me. And twice in my life I get hit by high-placed embezzlers. Once before they set up the Federal Reserve, and again in 1929. And all that time the value of my hard-earned money was going down down down like that elevator out there in the Washington Monument. So don’t talk to
me
about the value of money!’

“And then, gentlemen, he
really
starts preaching:

“‘McMillen,’ he says, ‘for years I’ve tried to live by a standard that was already depreciating even faster than a strong ooze-out fart can fade in a windstorm. So while I was denying myself the pleasure of good times, women, and whiskey my life was being turned into an outrageous sideshow that outdid anything that even P. T. Barnum ever came up with! That’s the truth, and Barnum was the master and still reigning champion of
all
kinds of bullshit. But through all those long years I went about obeying the law and stayed patient and humble. What’s more, I prayed and held on to my faith in my old-time religion. That’s right, and you know it. As a young man I never went to dances or hung out with whores, and as far as I know I never lied or cheated, even when it caused me to suffer. What’s more, I kept gnawing on hope like a dog on a bone, and even during the worst of times I believed that eventually things would get better. Which was a gift of faith from our stubborn ancestors, who learned during slavery that it was better to suffer all kinds of white folk’s arrogance, hypocrisy, and foolishness than to lose their faith in God and the future.

“‘McMillen,’ he said, ‘This was my philosophy: I firmly believed in the perfectibility of all mankind, including black folks like us—even though I recognized that some of us are truly dog-assed and thoroughly disgusting. And most of all, I believed in the progressive improvement of this so-called democracy. Why? Because every once in a while it’s been blessed with leaders who have the ability to come up with creative ways of getting things done. Those beliefs were the rock on which I rested my faith. Why? Because when I was just a young boy the good Lord saw fit to free me from slavery. So right then and there I determined to live according to His rules and achieve as much perfectibility as was humanly possible. Mister Lincoln tried to open a way for us to move up in this society, and even had the Constitution amended to help us over the rough spots we’d find in the road. Sure, he got the back of his head blown off for his efforts, but that made me all the more determined to be a patient good citizen and practice manliness so I’d never lose faith and embarrass the sacrifices he’d made for us and the country.’

“And then, gentlemen, Mister Jessie stares at me stern as a judge, and all of a sudden he starts in to laughing. He laughs ‘til his cheeks start running with tears, and that gets
me
to laughing from watching
him
laugh. Then he stops for a second
and leans back against his coffin, and you could hear something inside of it pop like a firecracker, and that starts him to laughing like he’s having a fit.

“Then he says, ‘McMillen, for years you’ve respected my intelligence, but right now I’ll have to confess that in so doing you’ve been sadly mistaken. Because today it turns out that after all my ninety-five years of earthly experience I’m nothing more than a knuckle-headed fool!’

“‘Take it easy, Mister Jessie,’ I says, ‘and don’t you be playing yourself cheap like some broken-down hustler.’

“And he says, ‘No, McMillen, you listen to
me!
Like a confounded fool I had everything figured out according to logic. I was born into slavery, you see, so it would take quite a while for me to catch up with the liberty which Jesus Christ and Mister Lincoln had provided. And since there were men at the bottom of society—which is where I started, both in terms of time, of place, and of color—and men at the top such as Abraham Lincoln, Ralph Waldo Emerson’ (he was always carrying on about those two), ‘Jay Gould, and the Right Reverend Henry Ward Beecher. So there was hope for me, both in the world and this mammy-made nation. And since the Bible teaches that there’s heaven above and hell down below, with Satan the master of hell, and the Holy Spirit, God the Father, and his son Christ Jesus sharing the throne of heaven above, then everything in the universe was going along in orderly, metafitical’—no, that’s not the word he used—it was
metaphysical
, and the term he used was ‘metaphysical progression.’

“Then he went on to say, ‘So a man was born and given a chance to help achieve his best possibilities by the way he conducted his living. Then when he died he was buried, and in God’s good time he’d be judged and go either to heaven up above or to hell down below. It was a marvelous scheme with a place for everybody and everything in it. And the fact that God up in heaven sent His own only son down here to live as a
human
was enough guarantee that I could at least become a United States citizen with full recognition.

“‘So you see, McMillen,’ he says real earnest, like he’s pleading for me to believe him, ‘I have lived the best way I know how, and was determined to take care of all early matters which I could control, whether they be physical, political, or spiritual. And what’s more, I rejected all notions of rebellion—which wasn’t easy—and kept playing the game in good faith and with high expectations. So while I was still in the full strength of my manhood I bought that damn casket when it was white and covered with silk. Bought it so when time came for my dying I could be put away in good Christian fashion, and owing no debts outstanding to God, to man, or government. Because I figured that since flesh is weak, and time uncertain, life is a gamble and truly capricious. So I lived in fear of the Lord and clung to my respect for justice and good law and order—such as I found it. That way I kept my faith in the orderly processes of justice, and in the checks and balances of this so-called democracy.

“‘But now look at me and what’s around me! Things in Washington have
gone to straight hell! Here I’m ninety-five years old and no good to myself or anyone else. I’ve got enough gadgets in my body to stock anything from a five-and-dime to a hardware store. And except for a few my teeth are all false, I can’t read worth a damn without glasses, I keep a miniature radio plugged in my ear in order to hear fairly clearly. So I’m no good for myself and my children don’t want me. But even with all that I still don’t see any prospect of passing on to my last and long-waited reward …’ ”

“Was he drinking?”

“No suh, just carried away. Because for a man his age he had a good memory and was still pretty spry.”

“Then what happened?”

“He keeps on talking, and gentlemen, I’ll never forget it.

“‘McMillen,’ he says, ‘I was in this town when they killed Mister Lincoln, and I watched when they took F.D.R. to his last resting place. And between those sad events I’ve seen all
kinds
of crooks, thieves, highbinders, and scoundrels come here to Washington and do their nastiness in the name of liberty, economy, and Lord knows what else before they passed from the scene. Different backgrounds and names but the same nasty nastiness. And with few exceptions it’s been a matter of highbinders and clipsters, phonies and conmen taking over high places. So instead of times getting better they only get worse.’ ”

And suddenly, as though alarmed by the trend his recital was taking, McMillen looked at the detectives and said, “Now, gentlemen, please understand that
that was
Mister
Jessie
talking, not me.”

“I hope not,” the Sergeant said with a dubious frown, “but get on with your story.”

“So then Mister Jessie says, ‘McMillen, I fought in that war between our country and Spain and left some of my own precious blood on San Juan Hill. Then Teddy Roosevelt gets so much credit for whatever
he
did that you’d have thought he won the war single-handed. And with our people getting little credit for the part they played in winning that fracas I had some crooks in the War Department swindle me out of my pension! I’ve been a fool, McMillen, a muddle-headed fool! Because all these years I’ve been so busy worrying about how to die well and not be a burden to my kids and my relatives that I’ve neglected to
live
well. So instead, day by day, I’ve been wasting away!’

“Then he says, ‘Forty years ago I took some of my savings and bought that coffin. Then I bought a suit shirt and tie, and a pair of Stacy Adams shoes—which were the finest, and something I’d denied myself the pleasure of wearing on earth. But now every damn thing is worn out from waiting. The suit’s fallen apart, the shoe leather’s gone withered and dry as Adam’s first fig leaf, the coffin’s full of holes, and now the worms are in there raising hell for me to quit stalling and provide them a banquet.

“‘McMillen,’ he says, ‘seeing what’s happened to this coffin has finally
opened my eyes to the true, disgusting nature of our human existence. I’ve got nothing to live for or look forward to. No
now
or
hereafter
. No justice from my government, and no hope for heaven or escape from hell. Years ago I broke a warm friendship with a fellow for saying that the only reason God made poor Job so downhearted and miserable over all those long years wasn’t just a matter of testing the strength of Job’s faith, but God’s way of having some fun by tricking the Devil. But now look at
me!
Hell, after years of self-sacrifice and right living in hopes for the future, things haven’t improved worth a damn! Even my
coffin’s
fallen to dust! So with the end drawing nigh it’s time I started living for
me! …’ ”

Suddenly fingering his earlobe, McMillen paused with a sigh and said, “And gentlemen, to my best recollection, that’s what happened….”

“Best recollection of
what?”
the Sergeant exploded. “Are you trying to snow us with that talk about Job? You haven’t said a
word
about how he came to be sitting up there in that coffin! And that … that woman back there, what’s she doing in a place like this? What else went on besides a lot of drinking and subversive yakking? Did the two of you rob and kill him before you stuffed his body in there?”

“Now wait,” McMillen yelled, “it wasn’t
nothing
li
ke
that!”

“Then get on and tell us what
happened
!”

“Okay, okay,” McMillen said, “but first, can I ask you gentlemen a question?”

“What kind of question?”

“It’s whether you gentlemen are Northern or Southern?”

“Northern or Southern! What the hell has
that got
to do with it?”

“Well, you see, Sergeant,” McMillen said, “I’m coming to something that’s really kinda delicate, and since most
Southern
gentlemen tend to be kinda
touchy
about some of the things I’ll be having to say, I don’t want them thinking I’m being insulting….”

But before the Sergeant could respond I heard a whoop and a resonant belch and looked around to see the woman reeling in the chair as she stared from the shadows.

“Gen’lmen, gen’lmen,” she snickered, “what he wants to know is which side of the line you on. Is it Mason’s or Dixon’s, or just plain colored—Whoops!”

Snapping suddenly erect the Sergeant bumped into the coffin as he yelled, “That’s enough out of you! Just one more word …”

“Sure, sure,” she said, “but answer Uncle Remus, and then I want you to tell
me
one lil ole thing: How the hell can the poor bastard sit there with a buncha creeps like you and keep confusing you with gen’lmen? Far’s
I
can see, he’s the only gen’lman among you. Thass right! ‘Cause who but a gent would pay me for doing my number in a costume as darling as this!”

And flinging the blue jacket aside, she quivered with laughter.

“Listen, gentlemen,” McMillen shouted, “and I want it strictly understood, that lady’s being here was no idea of mine—no, suh!”

“Then why the hell is she here?”

“That’s what I’m about to tell you, and you can bet your life it’s the truth. After Mister Jessie raves some more over his coffin going rotten on him, he just stands there in the middle of the floor with a strange look on his face. He must’ve been thinking up a storm too, because all at once he’s yelling, ‘Hell and damnation! Hell and damnation!’

“Then he looks at me and says, ‘McMillen, I’d damn near forgot it, but back when I was a youngster and out of a job I portered a while in a whorehouse.’

“Which for him was so unbelievable that I says, ‘You did
what?’
‘That’s right,’ he says, ‘I worked there damn near a year and never had a go at the goods!’ Then all at once he yells like somebody’d jabbed him in the butt with a pitchfork.

“‘McMillen,’ he says, ‘here’s what I want you to do. I want you to take this money and go get us a case of the best bourbon whiskey you can find …’

“‘Now wait, Mister Jessie,’ I tells him, ‘you don’t want no
case
of whiskey.’

“‘You’re right,’ he says, ‘so make it a dozen. And along with the whiskey bring me a woman. And make sure she’s a redhead or some kind of blond.’ And gentlemen, when he said that he
really
upset me.

“I knew something strange was happening, but I truly couldn’t dig it. So I says real quiet, ‘Mister Jessie, I know you’re upset, but isn’t that going too far? First you call for whiskey when you don’t even drink. And now you’re calling for a woman when you’re much too old for that kind of action.’