Little Black Girl Lost (21 page)

“W
here do you get off havin' this fuckin' jigaboo bangin' on my door in the middle of the night?” Tate demanded when he entered Napoleon's office.

“Who the fuck you callin' a jigaboo?” Bubbles shouted and slapped Tate upside the head.

Tate turned to retaliate, but Bubbles hit him in the stomach. When he doubled over, Bubbles grabbed the back of his shirt and tossed him face first into the wall like he was a rag doll. Then he threw a left-right combination to his kidneys. Tate groaned and leaned back, reaching for his bruised organs. Bubbles put his huge, mitten-like hands on the back of Tate's head and slammed his face into the wall three times. Dazed by the repeated blows, Tate staggered a few steps to the right and fell against the wall.

“Now get somewhere and sit yo' ass down,” Bubbles shouted. “And if I hear that jigaboo shit again, I won't be so gentle.”

“Now that that's settled,” Napoleon said, finding it difficult not to laugh along with Lucas and Johnnie, “have a seat, Sheriff.”

Still dazed, Tate stumbled over to a chair near Napoleon's desk. Bubbles, as was his custom, took out a small bottle of bubbles and blew them in the direction of the debilitated sheriff. He always blew bubbles either before or after he killed or beat someone into submission. He chuckled.

“Tate, do you know this young lady?” Napoleon asked.

Tate had taken such a quick and fierce beating that he hadn't noticed anyone was in the room besides himself, Napoleon, and Bubbles. He looked at her.

“Yeah, I know her,” Tate said. “She's a sweet girl. What's she doing here?”

Napoleon looked at Bubbles, giving him the signal to start the beating again.

“You just don't get it, do you, Tate?” Bubbles said and backhanded him. “You're here to answer our questions, not the other way around.” He blew a few more bubbles at him.

“How did you know Richard Goode killed her mother?” Napoleon asked. “And Tate, spill it all. I'm in no mood to dance with you tonight. The first time I think you're lying, I'm going to turn Bubbles loose again.”

“I ain't gon' be as nice as I was the first time.” Bubbles smiled.

“I saw him do it,” Tate confessed.

“You saw it?” Johnnie shouted. “You never said you saw it!”

“Yeah, I saw the whole thing,” Tate continued. “It was a set-up from the word go. Apparently, Marguerite was attempting to blackmail Goode. When he got out of the car, he had a duffel bag with him. When she got out of her car, he showed it to her. Poor Marguerite must have thought she hit the jackpot. She didn't stop to think why they were on a quiet back road instead of their usual meeting place.”

“So, what happened?” Johnnie asked, relieved to finally hear the truth.

“You saw her, Johnnie,” Tate said. “He beat her like I never saw nobody get beat in all my life. He took that German gun of his and beat her practically to death. Then he shot her in the head.”

“And you just stood by and watched?” Bubbles asked incredulously.

“What the hell could I do?” Tate shouted. “You know how them people are. They cain't wait for an excuse for a uprisin'. Besides, I didn't know he was gonna kill her. I just thought he would beat her to scare her. I didn't know he was gonna kill her. I swear I didn't.”

“Would you have done anything if you did know?” Bubbles asked sarcastically.

“Of course I would have. I wouldn't stand by and watch someone be killed. I am the sheriff.”

“But you would stand by and watch someone being beat to death. Is that it, Sheriff?” Bubbles asked.

“Fuck you!” Tate shouted.

“Fuck me? Fuck me?” Bubbles repeated. “If we didn't need your sorry ass, I'd kill you just for the fun of it.”

“All right, that's enough,” Napoleon warned. “Show the sheriff to his car, Bubbles.”

“Let's go, Tate,” Bubbles commanded. “You served your purpose.”

Napoleon waited for them to leave then he said, “Here's what I propose we do. We wait a few months until this blows over, then we kill him.”

“I want him to suffer the way she suffered,” Johnnie said. “I want you to take his gun and beat him with it first, then kill him. That's biblical justice, Napoleon. That's what I want. Biblical justice.”

“And that's exactly what you'll have.”

T
he funeral was held at Mount Zion Holiness Church, at the corner of Waite and Henry Streets. As irony would have it, this was the same corner where Richard Goode picked Marguerite up for their regular meetings at the Savoy Hotel. The small white steeple church was overflowing with people; even the Negroes from Ashland Estates came. The atmosphere was significantly charged with the raw emotion of indignant colored people. Most of the people in the neighborhood considered Marguerite the white man's whore, but her death served as a vivid reminder of the fact that a white man could kill a colored person and get away with it, and it angered them.

Dressed in black, Johnnie sat in the first row of uncushioned pews with Lucas, Benny, and Brenda. As Johnnie watched the parade of people viewing the body, she could literally feel the contempt around her. She could hear the persistent murmuring, which was filled with an outrage ready to burst at the seams. Dennis Edwards shouted, “This is bullshit! How long we gon' put up with this?” Attorney Ryan Robertson shouted, “What can we do? We don't even know who did it.” Philip Collins, the barber said, “When a black man is accused of raping a white woman, do they care which black man did it? Hell no! Then why should we care which one of them did it? Let's just pick one and kill him.” Without realizing it, the men were getting louder and more obnoxious as their anger boiled out of control.

If they keep talkin' like that, they gon' spoil the whole thing. Maybe even get more colored folk killed,
Johnnie thought.

Napoleon Bentley, Marla, and Bubbles walked down the aisle. Suddenly there was quiet, yet the venom was still in the air. Everybody liked and accepted Napoleon, but right now, all they saw was a white man who had the nerve to barge in on their time of mourning.

One man stood up and said, “What the hell are you crackers doin' here?”

Before Napoleon could respond, Benny stood up and said forcefully, “This ain't the place and this ain't the time for this kinda talk. If y'all cain't respect the ceremony, at least respect us and let us bury our mother in peace.”

Rahim Muhammad, of the Nation of Islam, owner and chief editor of the
Raven,
the Negro newspaper, stood up and said, “Brothas and sistas, the brotha's right. Now isn't the time for retribution. But I say unto you that the time is coming when we will arm ourselves and defend to the death, if necessary, our women and children like any other man. A race riot is inevitable. The white man will come to destroy us again. This is what he does. Just as he destroyed the so-called American Indian, just as he enslaved us, just as he exploited the Chinese, just as he drove the Mexicans out of Texas, surely he will come to this place. We must prepare ourselves or we will die. If you doubt what I say, just remember the riots in Tulsa. Just as the police didn't save the people of Greenwood, the police won't save us. We must save ourselves.”

The audience responded with loud applause and verbal acknowledgments of agreement.

Bubbles whispered to Napoleon, “We gon' hav'ta have a talk with the Muslim before he blows the plan to hell.”

While everyone was completely captivated by the statements being hurled back and forth, Marla and Lucas were making eye contact. She looked good in that black dress and those dark shades. Lucas was so stiff he could be used as the bit for a jackhammer.
Well, just once more,
Lucas thought.
But this will be the last time I see Marla Bentley.

“Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,” Reverend Staples shouted as he took the podium.

Silence filled the sanctuary when his words thundered in the small church. Dressed in a black robe with gold tassels, he looked out at the audience with righteous indignation.

“Jesus, when He saw the moneychangers in the temple, made a whip and beat them. And He told them, He said, ‘Make not my Father's house a den of thieves.' Here, sister Marguerite Wise lays in preparation for her final resting place, and you people have lost your collective minds. You all are carrying on as if you've forgotten that we're here to celebrate the passing of a saint from this life to the next.”

Someone shouted, “She done passed from this life to the next, that's fo' sho'. But a saint she ain't.”

The congregation murmured in agreement.

“Now, you listen to me,” Reverend Staples shouted. “All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. Who are you to question the salvation of this sister? Need I remind you that Jesus had Rahab the whore in His lineage? And even if this woman fell short of God's salvation, I'm not here to preach the gospel to her, but to you. The gospel is for the living, not the dead. It is for self-righteous people like you, whose only assurance of salvation is the known sins of others.”

Johnnie listened attentively to Reverend Staples. While she knew what the Bible said about vengeance, she would see to it that Richard Goode got what was coming to him. God could have him when she was through with him.

L
ee Shepard, Dennis Edwards' neighborhood mistress, entered the backyard of Johnnie's home, wearing a provocative dress and showing plenty of cleavage. She was tall, thin, and exceptionally good-looking. All the men at the reception found themselves staring at her, dazzled by her sassy persona as they watched her float across the manicured lawn. Even Reverend Staples stopped talking and stared mindlessly at the pompous vixen. As she walked by Dennis and Denise Edwards, she could hear an argument erupt between them. She smiled and began her trademark flirtations, which was how she seduced Dennis.

“Johnnie?” Johnny Wise said to the daughter he hadn't seen since she was five years old.

Not recognizing the voice, Johnnie turned around politely, expecting to see a guest who wished to express condolences. When she saw him, she knew intuitively that the man standing in front of her was her father. Johnny was a pretty man, tall, light-skinned and solidly built with thick, wavy hair that his daughter inherited. He was holding the hand of a beautiful black woman who Johnnie immediately knew was his wife.

“Daddy?” she managed to say.

“Yeah, little one.” He smiled.

“I haven't heard that name in so long,” Johnnie said, embracing him.

They took a couple steps backward and looked at each other admiringly. His wife cleared her throat to get his attention.

“Oh, I'm sorry. this is my family,” he apologized. He introduced his wife, Jasmine; his son, John Jr., 10; and his twin daughters, Carla and Simone, 8.

Johnnie embraced her newly found brother and sisters. The sight of her father and the new family drowned the grief of the day. Johnnie embraced Jasmine, who stood there watching, unsure what to do, suddenly being a stepmother. To her surprise, Jasmine sensed no animosity.

“I'm so pleased to meet you,” Jasmine bubbled. “I've been telling your father that we needed to come down here for years. I'm sorry we had to come under these circumstances.”

“So am I,” Johnnie said, remembering the terrible tragedy that brought her father home.

“Jaz, baby,” Johnny interrupted, “do you mind if I speak with my daughter alone? It's been so long. We have a lot to talk about.”

“Sure, honey.” Jasmine understood. “Come on, kids. Let's get something to eat.”

“Little one, is there someplace we can talk?”

“Yeah, let's go in the house.”

T
he house seemed to have just as many people inside as outside. Benny saw his sister and Johnny, the only father he had ever known, walk in the kitchen through the back door. He and Brenda were sitting at the table eating their dinner. Excited to see him, Benny embraced Johnny and said, “Long time, no see. You and your family have to come out to the coast and see us sometime.”

“We will, son,” Johnny assured him. “Is this little Jericho?”

“Yeah,” Brenda said. “You wanna hold him?”

“Yes,” he said, taking the toddler in his arms. “How's your training comin', son?”

“Good. I'm in great shape,” Benny told him. “Jack Wilkins is a tough son-of-a-bitch. Gotta be in the best shape of my life.”

“Wish I could be there for you, son.”

“Yeah, me too, Dad. So, how long y'all gon' be in town?” Benny asked him.

“A couple of days,” Johnny answered.

“Yeah, me and Brenda gotta be goin' tonight. The fight's in Los Angeles. Long drive home, man.”

“I know what you mean. Jasmine is a principal back in East St. Louis. We gotta be gettin' back too.” He handed the baby back to Brenda. “If y'all don't mind, I need to talk to my daughter, okay?”

“Sure, no problem,” Benny said. “We understand. Y'all need to catch up.”

“Come on, Daddy.” Johnnie grabbed his hand. “I'll find a place for us to talk.”

 

 

“How you doin', Lucas?” Marla asked. He was standing under a tall, leafy tree, trying to avoid the scorching rays of the sun. “You sure have changed your style of dress since the last time I saw you. That's a really nice suit. Did your girlfriend pick it out for you?”

“Thanks, Marla,” Lucas said, looking around to see who was watching them, hoping Napoleon wouldn't put two and two together. “Yeah, she picked it out.”

“So, have you been thinking about me since that last time we saw each other?” Marla asked. “ 'Cause I've been thinking about you a lot. The offer's still open. You do remember the offer, don't you, Lucas?”

“Yeah, I remember.” Lucas tried not to smile. “So, where's Napoleon? Is he here?”

“Is that what you're worried about?” Marla wondered aloud. “He's here someplace, probably looking for your girlfriend.”

Lucas frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” Marla smiled. “I know my husband, and I've seen your girlfriend. If you want to talk about it, you know where to find me.” She walked away.

Lucas was about to follow her, but he got the feeling he was being watched. He looked over his shoulder and saw Bubbles staring at him. Bubbles raised his glass of Johnny Walker Red and took a swallow. Lucas smiled nervously, wondering if Bubbles knew what was going on. He walked over to Bubbles to try to find out if Napoleon was having him watched.

Bubbles didn't suspect anything until he saw the guilty look on Lucas' face, like he had done or was about to do something he shouldn't. He'd seen that look many times. In fact, he too had once worn that look of guilt, that paranoia that came from wondering if anyone suspected that he'd had what didn't belong to him. If he was right, Bubbles thought, he would have to warn the kid without letting him know he suspected something. And if he suspected, others might too.

“So, where's Napoleon?” Lucas asked.

That confirmed it for Bubbles. Something was definitely going on between the kid and Marla. “He's around, kid,” Bubbles admitted. “You never know when he's gonna show.” He waited a few seconds to let his words sink in. When Bubbles saw the wheels in Lucas' mind start to churn, he quickly changed the subject. “Startin' Monday, I'm supposed to show you the ropes. You ready for this kind of life, kid?”

“Yeah, Bubbles, I'm ready.”