South Central Noir

“One of you get a bag and put the money in it and the rest of you get out before you can’t,” said the other cop.

Jerry Taylor told his friends to leave then went behind the bar where he knew there would be empty paper bags. He brought one to the poker table and gathered all the money. He was weeping when he finished. He gave the bag of cash to one of the cops, then started to lean over Samuel.

“You’re going too, Sambo. Can’t leave no eyewitnesses.”

Mae was shaking. She’d read a story in the Sentinel about some rogue cops out of the 77th who robbed colored businesses. The beauty parlor where Velma Jackson worked was one of them, but the woman who owned it had a slot in the wall by her station where she dropped most of her money, leaving only enough in the register to make change. When the cops came to rob her one Saturday night after closing they netted about twenty bucks. They didn’t believe that’s all a colored shop had after a busy Saturday, but they couldn’t prove otherwise and the woman’s husband was outside in the car leaning on the horn.

And here were two cops come to rob Samuel. She grabbed her .45 — like everybody in Louisiana, she had a gun because snakes and gators didn’t need an invitation to visit.

Jerry was dragging his feet and the cop who’d shot Samuel hit him on the back of the head with the butt of his gun. Jerry tripped down a few steps before gaining his balance and hurrying down the final few steps and out the door. Oh God, she wanted to kill them! She raised the pistol and fired into the ceiling.

The roar in the narrow stairwell was deafening. Both cops fired at her but missed, then dashed out onto the street. Mae hurried down and locked and bolted the door, then knelt down beside Samuel. He was gone — she knew that. The filthy cop shot him in the heart. He probably died immediately and for that she was glad. No suffering for her Samuel. She’s the one who’d suffer now. Forever. But she should be dead too! If only the cops had taken the time to aim, she would be. Then they’d both be dead. There was no one to miss them, so what did it matter?

The phone kept ringing and someone kept pounding on the door. She struggled to her feet and shuffled to the stairs. Good thing there was a railing to hold on to. She stood at the door, listening.

“It’s me, Mae. Jerry. Open the door. Please.”

Mae slid the bolt back, then turned the lock and opened the door a crack. Jerry was there, and behind him, A.C. Jennings, the lawyer. She knew who he was, his picture was in the Sentinel so often.

“I don’t need a lawyer,” she said when she was back down on the floor, sitting beside Samuel, his head in her lap. “Unless you can make that cop pay for murdering my husband.”

Jennings explained that calling the police to report her husband’s murder by an LAPD officer would bring dozens of them to this place — where they’d find evidence of illegal activity including gambling, prostitution, narcotics, along with “proof” that her husband was killed because he assaulted a police officer. They would take possession of this building, close the restaurant, “and maybe even seize your home.”

Mae was too stunned to speak. She just kept watching Jennings, as if he’d walk back his words. Instead, he said, “Your husband died suddenly of a heart attack, Mrs. Hillaire. His good friend Jerry Taylor, an accountant at Golden State Mutual, was present, and is helping you with the details for his funeral.

“But what about the law, Mr. Jennings?”

“The law does not protect us.”

“Then what do you do?”

“I keep good people like you from making bad mistakes. Now please, Mrs. Hillaire, we need to get this room cleaned up—”

“Why, damnit! Why?”

“In case those cops come back or send others. There will be nothing to see.” He asked if she knew why Eddie Lloyd helped the cops rob the poker game.

“He was mad ’cause Samuel wouldn’t sell his hot dogs here. He argued that people wanted a hot dog with chili as much as a fried chicken or fish dinner, but Samuel said no.”

The lawyer was thinking so hard the gears in his brain were grinding. He knew everyone in South Central, whether they knew him or not, and he knew Eddie Lloyd had two hot dog stands — one on Florence and one in Watts. “I wonder if the cops came for Eddie’s stands and he made a deal—”

“He’d keep his money and give ’em ours,” Jerry said bitterly.

Jennings didn’t argue the point. He asked Mae to change out of her blood-soaked dress, shower, and put on clean clothes. Mae, looking sad and lost, clutched her dress with both hands.

“Bernice can help you, Mae,” Jerry said gently.