South Central Noir

“But I ain’t never had one of ’em serve me,” a woman said in a mocking, plaintive tone.

The shorter of the two cops reached for his gun, but Etta James, who had joined her colleagues, grabbed his arm. “Don’t you want to tell Mama all about it instead of shootin’ somebody?”

“I’m sorry you hate LA so much, darlin’.”

“I don’t hate it, Samuel — how could I? I’m here with you.”

“But you don’t really like it here, Mae, I know you don’t.”

Mae held both his large, rough hands in hers. Squeezed them tightly as she looked all around their carefully tended backyard with its fruit trees and the barbecue pit that Samuel had built, and across the yard to the house: their perfect, beautiful home that was everything Mae had dreamed of — and more. The only thing missing was children, and they had accepted that there would be no kids for them and that was all right. Really, it was. They had each other. “I do not ever want to go back to Louisiana, Samuel. I don’t even like remembering what it was like to live there. Being here is like being in some kind of...”

“Magic land?”

Mae grinned at him. He loved LA and she didn’t want to do or say anything to spoil that feeling. “Someplace where you can get in the water and ain’t no gators? I guess that is magic. But I wish I had a wand to wave — I’d warm up that water for sure!”

“No doubt about it, the Pacific Ocean is some kinda cold water. Up here anyway.”

Mae remembered the stories he’s told her about his service in the South Pacific during the war. “Is it warmer down by Mexico?”

Samuel brightened. “You wanna visit Mexico? Why?”

“The one thing I hoped and prayed for when we left Louisiana and came here was that we were leaving evil white folks behind, but they just as mean and evil here, ’specially the police. And that’s true everywhere in this country, Samuel. All the colored newspapers and magazines from all over everywhere — New York and Chicago and Washington, DC, and Atlanta and Detroit — evil, mean, nasty white folks doin’ what they was doin’ in Louisiana: hatin’ us to death.” She looked about to cry. “Are there white folks in Mexico?”

Samuel almost wished they never had to leave the safety and serenity of their backyard but recognized the thought for the foolish wishful thinking that it was. They needed to leave this very minute so he could prepare for his monthly poker game.

They were upstairs above the restaurant. It was a large room — part of it used for storage and the rest held a fully stocked bar, a poker table, a television set, and a radio. Samuel didn’t spend much time here because he preferred being home with Mae, but several of his friends enjoyed the room even though they had to bring their own booze.

“I hope Eddie Lloyd makes it today,” Mae said. “The cops had him pulled over on Florence this morning.”

“Probably ’cause of that brand-new Cadillac. You know how they hate that, a colored man with a new car, ’specially a Cadillac.”

Eddie was indeed the first to arrive. “Mae, Samuel, how’re y’all doing? Ruthie said to tell you hey.”

“How’s Ruthie?” Mae asked.

“She’s fine.”

“How’re you doin’, Eddie?”

“Fine, thanks, Samuel. Tell the truth, I was a little outta sorts this morning, but I’m fine now.”

A steady flow of heavy male feet ended all conversation until all six poker players were present, then a general exchange of pleasantries lasted until they had drinks and snacks and their usual places at the table. Mae bid them good night and retired to the combination bedroom — sitting room next door. She could have gone home but Samuel liked for her to stay, and while she knew that he appreciated her presence and having her ride home with him, he also used her presence to end the games that dragged on too long. She drifted off to sleep while reading.

Mae jerked awake. She thought she heard feet on the stairs, but now fully awake she heard only Jerry Taylor’s silly laugh and Samuel’s challenge to put up or shut up. Mae picked up her book, found her place, and resumed reading Brown Girl, Brownstones. She decided she wanted to visit New York City before Mexico.

Pounding footsteps woke her again and this time there were loud voices — Samuel’s and white men. She quietly crept to the door and peeked into the main room. Two cops! They had their guns pointed at the five colored men around the table. Five men, not six. Eddie Lloyd was gone. So it must have been his footsteps she’d heard earlier.

“I said put the money in a bag, nigger. I’m not gon’ ask you again. And I mean ALL of it, all three hundred dollars.”

Samuel stood up but he didn’t collect the money. He looked at Eddie’s vacant seat, then at the cops. “You think it’s all right to break in my place and steal from me?”

“We didn’t break in, smart-ass,” one of the cops said.

“That’s ’cause Eddie left the door unlocked,” Samuel said. “He set us up. That’s how you knew how much money would be in the pot.”

“You talk too damn much,” the cop said, and without another word he pointed his gun at Samuel and fired.