The Devil's Own Rag Doll (11 page)

“Well,” said Johnson slowly, “Captain Mitchell gave us clear instructions to follow your lead.”

“Is that all he told you to do?”

“I don't follow you.”

“What I'm asking you, Johnson, is if there's anything fishy going on that I should know about.”

“You mean between me and the captain.”

“That's right.”

“Well,” said Johnson, “let me ask you something. Is it true you once knocked Joe Louis down in a scratch fight?”

“That's true enough,” I said. “But he was just a kid then.”

“Then there's nothing fishy going on.”

I looked hard at Johnson, and he looked right back. We stared at each other till I was satisfied. I said, “So you didn't find anything to speak of.”

“Hold on,” said Johnson. “I didn't say that. We were getting the stiff-arm from everybody, sure enough. I was getting a little hot, I guess. It's hard not to take it personally. But Walker was all right, so I kept as cool as I could. Anyway, we got to a place a few doors down from Pease's building, just as dumpy—I guess I'd hate to live like that, just the smell of it—and we rapped on one door. You could hear the old man talking long before he dragged himself to the door. ‘I'm coming, I'm coming,' he says. ‘You got my boy?' He opens up the door finally. It's an old man hobbling around with two canes. I can't say what's wrong with him except he looks like he's jumped off a grain silo. His legs are all splayed out so bad that he's walking on the inside of his ankles.”

“I don't give a shit what he looks like,” I said.

“I know, I know. But I'm just remembering. You told me I couldn't write anything down. The old man figures we're there to help him find his grandson. Starts mouthing off a little. Walker tries to calm him down, you know, tries to talk to the old fellow, but he wasn't having any of that. He starts cussing us out. ‘You think my grandson jus'
run off?
He a altar boy down to the Holy Sepulcher—'”

“Did you get the boy's name?”

“I didn't want to look too interested, and Walker was doing the talking. The boy didn't come home Thursday or Friday night. And I looked up Holy Sepulcher, it's only—”

“I know where it is,” I said. I stroked my chin for a moment, sliding my thumb and forefinger slowly over the places I'd missed shaving. “Tell you what, Johnson. You go down to Sepulcher and have a word with the priest, have him keep an eye out for the boy.”

“I think I can do that.”

“And keep it under your hat, got me?”

Johnson nodded. “I can do that, I guess. I get the feeling I'm lying when I leave Walker out of it, though.”

“Walker can take care of himself,” I said. “He's a grown man.”

“I don't worry—it would just be easier to be able to treat everybody the same. Wouldn't have to remember so much to keep the stories straight.”

“Everybody's not the same.” I stood up and worked out the kinks that had formed all down my spine. “If everybody was the same, we wouldn't have a job.”

I turned away and walked slowly out of the room. Johnson closed his locker and followed. We made our way down the stairs to the old interrogation room. I wondered if Captain Mitchell was like Johnson when he started out on the force. I couldn't see Johnson ever getting that hard without going through a war, as Mitchell had. It seemed clear to me that Johnson would be moving up in the department, though, with or without his uncle's help. It was like he walked onto the job expecting advancement. What did he think of me? I guess I've always had one foot out the door. With everything I've done and everywhere I've been, I never quite felt like I belonged on the inside.

“You wouldn't believe it at first,” Bobby was saying as we entered, “but it's true. Just like chocolate cake.” He looked up and waved an arm as a theatrical introduction. “Caudill and the boy wonder have arrived.”

“Morning, Detective,” said Johnson. He nodded to Walker.

“Listen, Pete,” said Bobby. “I was just telling Walker about my rules for living.”

“He doesn't seem amused.”

“It's not a laughing matter,” said Bobby. “We've got just a short time here, just one life to live. Any shortcut you can get to figure things out is going to help you in the long run. Am I right, Walker?”

“If you say so, Detective.”

“Can you tell Detective Caudill what you told me about Pease?”

“Well,” said Walker, “if he wants to hear it.” He paused for a signal from me and satisfied himself with my attention. “Johnson probably told you that we didn't find much of anything. The folks in the neighborhood weren't happy to see us. They didn't give us much. I gather they didn't think much of Mr. Pease. He didn't seem to have any friends among his neighbors.”

“You think that might have something to do with the fact that he liked going around with white girls? How would something like that go over in the colored district?”

“Jesus, Pete, do we need to get into that?” Bobby asked.

“That's all right,” said Walker. “Detective Caudill is trying to get the lay of the land. I can understand that. He's right. I don't expect Mr. Pease was well liked down there for a number of reasons. He was going about with white women, it's true. That's one thing. But he was also known to be a thief with a criminal record. Johnson and I heard some whispers about possible use of marijuana. We also managed to figure out that Pease was a pickup man for the numbers racket over there. Now, colored folks tend to look fairly well on the numbers. They have the idea that they can make a little money with it.” Here Walker paused. He seemed to hope that Johnson might pick up the tale. Then he said, “But I guess in this respect, colored folks are something like white folks: We don't like men like that in our neighborhoods, where our children walk to school and play on the stoop.”

I guess he might have been directing this last comment toward me. It struck me so, but I couldn't say why. I said, “So, boiling it down, we don't have a clue where Pease might be.”

“Do we know who's heading up the numbers down there?” Bobby asked.

“He was getting to that,” said Johnson. “I made a few calls and picked up the name. Rufus Beamon. Turns out that's an old friend of Walker's.”

I was thinking about Johnson making a “few calls,” but I said, “That so, Walker?”

“That's right,” said Walker. “We grew up together over in the Valley. You might say we were partners in trouble in the old days. You know how boys go. But old Rufus kept a liking for troublesome ways.” He paused and pulled a drink from his coffee, gone cold. “It took the better part of the rest of the day to track him down. I spoke to him, and he claims he hasn't seen Pease for a few days.”

I felt like my skin was getting red all over, like I was flaming up somehow. I was dizzy. It was me and not Walker, I guess. Maybe it was my blood fizzling out from not eating. But all I could think was
I'd hate to have to sit in on a poker hand with him. Not only don't I know what he's holding, I'm getting so I don't know what's in my own hand.
It seemed that Walker was talking directly to me, trying to stir up something personal, but I couldn't really say that he wasn't just being polite. If he was playing, I couldn't beat him, and I couldn't even say if he
was
playing. I managed to say, “Could you tell if he was on the level?”

“I've always known Rufus to be an easy liar, but he knows me, and he knows I haven't been putting any extra money in my pocket. If Pease has gone missing, it wouldn't mean much to Rufus. He could get another pickup man anywhere. Rufus wouldn't go to any trouble for him. So I would say he hasn't seen Pease.”

“Bobby,” I said, “can we lean on this guy?”

Bobby shook his head slowly. “Not without drawing a lot of attention.”

“If anybody had a beef, we could send them to Mitchell.”

“I'm not worried about anybody beefing,” said Bobby. “I'm just thinking that it wouldn't be worth the commotion.”

“So you think”—I had exhausted myself somehow, though I hadn't really done a thing—“we can take Walker's judgment on this? This guy doesn't have anything to tell us?”

Bobby let the question hang in the air for a moment. Then he shrugged his shoulders and said, “Sure. I think we ought to send Walker around on his own to see what he can find out with his people.”

I looked sharply at Bobby and blurted, “You think that's all right?”

“I think Walker's a man who knows when to talk,” said Bobby. “Am I right, Walker?”

We all looked at Walker intently. He looked from man to man and then nodded slowly.

“I'm telling you, Pete, Walker's our man.”

I thought for a moment. Though I had set up Johnson to dig for me without telling Bobby, I felt that I had lost some footing, like I was the odd man out instead of Walker—and I wasn't sure that didn't make sense. All of it rattled around in my head for a moment, and then I said, “You don't have a car, do you, Walker?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, Bobby,” I said, “are you going to send Walker out by himself in a scout car? How do you think that'll go over with the boys in the garage?” I knew that to the men on the force, the few colored officers trickling in represented the cowardice of Mayor Jeffries in the face of pressure from Jenkins and other civic leaders pressing for change. If we took Walker to check out a scout car, it would surely mark the first time a colored officer had been allowed to take a car alone, and probably the first time a colored officer had even been allowed to drive one. I couldn't help thinking that men had been lynched for less. And if something like that came along by the time we had finished all our business, wouldn't everyone suppose I had a hand in it?

Bobby stood up and wafted his hat back and forth, brushing it against his leg. Then he let a big grin burst over his face and said, “We'll find out, I guess!”

*   *   *

I had never touched a colored man in friendship. I had rousted dozens over the years, cracked a few heads, arrested my share, and shot more than one colored man dead. I guess a colored criminal didn't feel so much different to me from a white hoodlum. Certainly they were no filthier. But standing there, with my mind bugging out, and with everyone waiting on me to say yea or nay, I couldn't remember ever so much as shaking the hand of a colored man. Certainly, I had never been known to be the chummy sort. I hadn't ever laid my hands on a great number of white men, either, to put it that way. If my father hadn't been such a terrific backslapper, I could say it was something in the way I'd been raised. Finally, as I could see they were waiting for me to say something, I muttered, “You better go with him, Bobby. They'll dump a load on him if you don't.”

“You should go instead,” said Bobby. “I'd like to see the look on Farley's face if you and Walker came up together.”

“Piss on that fat bastard.” I just shrugged. “He's been a pain in the ass since before I was on the force. My old man used to take me in there and Farley would try to scare me with his stories, rolling his fat ass around on that chair of his. How can a man spend his whole life on the job sitting down?”

We all walked out and stood to the side of the building, where the early sun bounced off the marble and the sidewalk and wanted to cook us from every angle. Bobby and Walker crossed the street to the garage.

When they were out of earshot, Johnson said, “What should I do with the boy if I find him?”

“Take him out for ice cream,” I said.

“I mean how should I handle it? What should I tell the people at the church if he's there and I take him away?”

“Johnson, you are a police officer. People will do what you tell them, if you can look 'em in the eye. You carry a weapon. You wear a uniform. If you can act like you're in charge, then you'll be in charge, and you won't have to take any guff from anybody.”

That shut him up. Johnson said nothing more as we waited for Bobby and Walker to return. He followed as I sidled toward Bobby's car, which was parked, as usual, blocking the hydrant in front of headquarters. We watched as the scout car pulled out of the garage with Walker behind the wheel. I could see Bobby's white hands moving inside the cab, directing Walker to pull up right in front of the building. Bobby jumped out and slammed the door, but stuck his head immediately inside the open window and began talking excitedly to Walker.

I walked up and rapped my knuckles on Bobby's bony back.

Bobby pulled his head out of the car. “Priceless, Pete, I'm telling you straight. Farley's eyes popped right out of his head when I gave Walker the keys. He says, ‘You can't let that darky drive! He's not certified!'”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him Walker was my chauffeur,” said Bobby.

“You're a laugh riot. It'll be even funnier if they find Walker with his toes pointing up.” I leaned toward the window of the scout car so Walker could hear as well. “I'm thinking, now, with what's happening, maybe we should be looking for Toby Thrumm, too. You know anything about that name, Walker?”

Walker shook his head.

“It was Thrumm that set us up to find Pease. Seems after we got done talking to him, he got the tar kicked out of him and ended up in the hospital. At least that's the story we got from Jenkins.”

“Jenkins!” Walker perked up. “You mean Reverend Jenkins?”

I said, “Is that funny to you, Walker?”

“Not funny exactly.”

“Well, what is it, then?” I had intended just to send Walker on his way, and now found myself engaged in a conversation that seemed likely to drag on. My neck began to ache from craning my head into the car's window.