South Central Noir

A Model A, long as a boat, had eased up behind me. It was still light out, and plenty of folks was on the street. The driver paid ’em no mind. Like there wasn’t nobody on the street but me — and him. I hollered at the creep. He ack like I was talkin’ French. ’Round 55th, that raggedy boat jumped right onto the sidewalk. Penned me against the fence. The driver left the motor running. Jumped out. Ran around. Jerked me off the Flyer.

It was the phony cop from Zimmerman’s. I felt the cold edge of a straight razor layin’ against my throat. He took his time. Made the blade flash and flare under my chin.

“Now listen, you pissant beanpole,” the phony cop said. “I know you been following me.”

“Following you?”

“Yeah, following me!” he shouted. “Like you don’t know. I gots eyes every-fuckin’-where. Don’t you think I seen you? And you tryin’ to ack like you ain’t doggin’ me? Snapping nasty pictures. Niggah, please.”

I was tryin’ to tell him I ain’t never followed nobody, and even if I did, I... The pig-ass punk hauled off and punched me in my eye. I fell hard. My beatdown commenced from there.

Folks yelled. Honking they horns. Telling the man to let me go. But nobody got out to help me.

When the phony cop was done whuppin’ me, he kicked me in my eye. Got in the car.

“If you know what’s good for you, ya little roach, you’ll keep my activities out yo’ mutherfuckin’ brain. You dig?”

I did.

He drove off.

That was December 13 — the night of the Louis fight. A right uppercut to the body stopped Paulino Uzcudun at the Garden in four rounds. From the main stem, all the way downtown, the streets was swarming with fans. Cheering the champ. Dancing wild. Crazy drunk. Acting a fool. Like nothing serious was going on, ’cept the fight.

They fount another murdered girl that night, off Avalon, behind the dugouts at Wrigley Field.

I learnt about the murder Saturday morning after I got to work. Uncle Balthazar made me wear an eye patch all day. Just before my shift ended he called me into his office. Officer Kimbrow was there. Wasn’t in uniform. Was dressed like a colored banker: briefcase, Borsalino, pin-striped blue suit, beat-up brogans.

He couldn’t stop staring at my busted eye.

“Lord amighty, Theus, is you missing a headlight?”

“I rather not talk about it,” I said.

“Well then, let Officer Kimbrow talk,” my uncle said. “Tell him.”

“I’ve been fired,” Officer Kimbrow said.

“Cops get fired?” I responded.

He explained all the troubles he’d been having as a colored cop, serving a force openly hostile to colored folks. Following the noninvestigation of the Magnolia Teal murder, Officer Kimbrow launched his own investigation. Snuck ’round, copied files, surveilled suspects, took photos. All firing offenses.

“I started to notice a pattern,” Officer Kimbrow explained. “All the killings was at nighttime. On some festive occasion that brought large crowds of Negroes together. All the killings was perpetrated on pubescent girls, helpless and alone.

“Those is the facts. Any event that inspires happiness and civic unity is a target. Etna Pettipeace was kilt on June 19, Juneteenth; Marietta James was kilt on the Fourth of July; Magnolia Teal was kilt on September 24, the day Joe Louis stopped Baer in four. Last night, again after a Joe Louis fight, LaDora Ragland got kilt.

“The ringer in the bunch is Paulina Crabtree. She was kilt on August 22, a curious choice for your run-of-the-mill murdering simpleton. August 22 is obscure, neither a local nor a national holiday. But those historically in tune, like I is, knows August 22 marks the arrival of the last slave ship on American shores — Mobile, Alabama, August 22, 1859. Now how many folks knows that?

“That’s how I knew the killer was a Black man; a Black man with deep knowledge of Black history; a Black man with a deep hatred for Black life, for himself, and for Black womens in particular.

“I developed detailed profiles of likely suspects — all noted Central Avenue intellectuals. My list topped twenty souls. Only two suspects stayed uppermost on my list, both graduates of Black colleges. Two brothers. Theotis Palsey, notorious con man, wife killer, and rapist. That’s the cat you photographed at Zimmerman’s. Ten years ago, he ran a bullshit church west of the Furlong Tract named the Holy Temple of the Living God the Redeemer of Zion. Meaning himself.

“He began his killing there. First his teenage bride. Then two girls in the choir. Theotis is supposed to be rotting in county prison, but he ain’t. He escaped from a maximum-security cell back in March. While he was on the lam, he put out a statement blaming Black womens for his incarceration. The colored girl killings started three months later, in June.