The Hidden Hand of Death Page 3
My eyes wandered to down the counter. I was surprised. There was a Negro sitting at the other end. He was all alone. He wasn’t supposed to be in here. They wouldn’t serve him. I wondered why he was there.
The waitress walked over to my table.
“You’re late tonight, Ryder.”
I shrugged. “I had an unusual night.”
“Listen Ryder, you see that Negro over there?”
“I do.”
“He says he came here to see you. I would have asked him to leave if it wasn’t for that. Look, you know we don’t serve colored people in here. It’s my boss’ policy. I have to follow it. I should have thrown him out, but then he mentioned your name. I thought maybe he knew you.”
“I don’t know him. You can tell him to come over here. And, Gertie, ask what he wants to eat and prepare it. Serve it to me.”
“But you’re just going to give it to him, right?”
“Of course.”
“If my boss came in now, I’d be fired.”
“Your boss usually show up at three in the morning?”
“Not usually. Ryder, I serve him I have to throw away the plate, the silverware, the cup and saucer for coffee.”
“Put it on my bill.”
“Please, Ryder. Be careful who you send here.”
“I didn’t send him. I don’t have any idea who he is. But I know this, Gertie. We’re fighting in Europe against a dangerous man who thinks some people, some groups, are better than others. We shouldn’t take that view right now.”
“I’ll send him over.”
She walked away, said some words to the Negro, and went behind the counter.
The Negro got up and walked slowly to my table.
“Excuse me, are you Mr. Ryder?”
“I am.”
He was very young with a soft voice and a soft face.
“Can I sit down?”
“Sure. Who are you?”
“My name is Robert Johnson McTell, but all my friends call me Blue on account of the fact that I’m always playing the blues on my old beat-up guitar.”
His face brightened.
“You know who Robert Johnson was?”
I shook my head. He would have been disappointed if I had known. His face beamed. He was itching to tell me.
“He was a blues singer. And a guitarist like no one else. He died four years ago, but my daddy grew up in Mississippi and claims he once saw Robert Johnson play. I don’t know that I believe my father’s claim. Anyway, the story among blues players was that he was a regular player, pretty good only. Then, the story goes, he went to a crossroads and made a deal with the devil. He gave up his soul for the ability to be a great guitar player. And that’s not all, Mr. Ryder. My daddy knew another blues player name of Blind Willie McTell. My daddy liked him so much he took his name. That there is the story of how I got my name.”
“I’m going to call you Mr. McTell. Is that all right?”
“You can call me any name you want as long as you help me.”
I stared at him.
“How did you find out about me?”
“I interviewed a few people I was considering hiring. I was asking for advice. Your name came up a lot. They said you had once give money to an old colored lady. I haven’t heard of any white man doing that. I figured I better see you.”
“I didn’t give her help because she was colored, Mr. McTell. I gave her the money because she was a person in need. I would have helped her if she were green.”
He nodded.
Gertie brought “my” food over. I waited until she started to walk away and then I passed the plate to McTell.
“So what kind of trouble are you in?”
“I got a confusion that’s making fun of my brain.”
“I need you to be a bit more specific.”
“You funny, Mr. Ryder. I work for my money. I work as a car mechanic. I like it. There’s a problem. You work hard. You use your brain to figure out the problem and your hands to fix it. I hope one day to own my own car shop.”
“So far no problems.”
“I got problems every day, sir. Just like this restaurant. I can’t go where I want. I go to certain neighborhoods, people slam and lock their doors, the cops come flying to take a look at me. I go into a store, they look at me to see if I’m stealing.”
“They’ve had bad experiences with Negroes.”
“I know that. People don’t have money. They think white people owe them because of how we have been treated and how we are treated. I don’t agree with that. I think people should give us jobs and we should work. But that’s part of my confusion. I can’t get a square deal in this country.”
“Okay, it’s not fair. You have every right to be angry. But not to rob or beat up people or shoot anybody.”
“I’m not stupid. I know that. I’m just explaining that it’s part of my confusion.”
“Spend some time eating.”
He nodded gratefully and went to work on his scrambled eggs, cheese, interrupting his wolfing down the food only to have large gulps of coffee. I didn’t blame him. Gertie made great coffee.
He ate quickly and then looked up at me.
“You sick of me yet, Mr. Ryder?”
“Not yet. I want to hear about the rest of your confusion.”
“That’s why I come to you.”
He looked down, pausing. I wasn’t sure if he wanted to tell his problem to a strange white man.
Finally, he decided and said, “I got drafted today.”
I shook my head. “I want to fight and they won’t take me on account of my heart. They want you, but you don’t look so enthusiastic.”
“That’s my confusion, Mr. Ryder. The country wants me to fight for it. I hear stories. I heard they send colored boys ahead first to fight them Nazis. We get killed and kill some of them and then them Georgia boys, all white and safe, go in and kill the rest.”
He took a final sip of the coffee.
“That’s my confusion. I know I should fight. Especially the Nazis. They’re killing the Jews. That’s no good. But the country shouldn’t call on me to kill those Nazis. At least they shouldn’t without giving us our rights first. Let me come into a diner at night and order food before I have to maybe get killed to protect the country.”
“So what do you want me to do, Mr. McTell? I can’t tell the U.S. Army what to do.”
“I want you to shoot me a couple of times in my left foot. That way the Army won’t want me. I’ll have to walk around with a limp for the rest of my life, but at least I’ll be alive to do that walking.”
He paused. He needed to get out what was inside, and he needed me to let him get it out.
“It’s like I’m in a cave, Mr. Ryder. There’s a bear outside. The bear is all the things people do to Negroes. The cave is the rules. It is doing what I’m told to do. If I stay in the cave and do what I’m asked I’ll be safe from the bear, from being lynched or yelled at or cussed. But now what the rule is I have to put my life in danger to protect a system that doesn’t treat me fair.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. McTell. I won’t do it. The society isn’t fair. You’re sure right about that.”
“Okay. Then tell me one reason I should go. Just one.”
“I’ll give you two reasons, Mr. McTell. First, you’d be helping to defeat Hitler and the Nazis. It’s a fight to the death between him and us. We may treat you unfairly, but he’ll put you in camps. They say he’s killing the Jews. You think he’s going to treat the Negroes any better?’
“What’s the second reason, Mr. Ryder?”
“The first reason was doing good for the country. The second reason is doing good for you. You don’t go, you’ll walk around for the rest of your life wondering if you should have. Take a guy. He sees a fire in a house. And he sees a little girl in a window on the second floor. If he goes in he risks his life. But if he doesn’t go in he thinks of himself in a certain way the rest of the time he’s alive. He’s got a confusion too.”
&n
bsp; “You think I’m like that man?”
“I think you’re a good man, Mr. McTell. A very good man. I think if you get somebody else to shoot your foot that every time you see a newsreel in the theater or read a paper or hear the radio about the war, you’re going to feel a pain inside. And after a while the pain is going to get worse and then even worse after that.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“So you think I should go fight.”
“You’re your own man, Mr. McTell. I want to fight and I can’t. Maybe that’s making me mislead you. But I’m not calling you a coward. Your people deserve better. Maybe this war will make people see that. Give them a chance. I don’t know. Maybe they’ll misuse their freedom. But I know you and your people deserve a chance.”
“You’re an odd white man, Mr. Ryder.”
“So I’ve been told. Many times.”
McTell stood up and put out his hand.
I shook it.
“You’ve fed my body and my mind, Mr. Ryder. Not many white men would do that. I’ve got some thinking to do.”
“I’m glad to help, Mr. McTell.”
I watched as he disappeared into the night.
Gertie came over.
“He was very polite, Ryder. Could you help him?”
“I don’t know, Gertie. I don’t think he knows.”
“Now it’s your turn for food. What is it that you’d like?”
“A hamburger, Gertie. More well-done than usual. And very strong coffee.”
“You always say that.”
“It’s another way of saying it’s good to see you, Gertie. Any calls?”
“Nope. You should put up a big advertising sign. Then people would know you were here. They could come in person or if they were afraid to do that they could call. I wish they’d get themselves over here. And I could use the business.”
“Did I get any of those visitors you like?”
“I’m glad you said that. There is a guy coming in tonight to see you, Ryder.” She checked her watch. “Maybe in an hour. You’ll be surprised. He asked me to tell you he’s okay. I’ve seen him in here helping people who were so down on their luck they forgot what luck looked like. He’s like you. He helps people when no one else is there. Of course he’s not like you in another way. But I’ll let him tell you that. I just want you to know that he’s an okay gentleman.”
“Okay. I’ll talk to him. Right now, I’m going to be busy thinking and planning, Gertie.”
“You’ll want to talk to him. It will be like putting money in the bank in case you need it later.”
I looked up at Gertie. There was a sadness in her eyes as though she dreaded dealing with other customers with their reminder that there would still be more strangers to come and disturb her. She pushed her black hair back to keep it out of her face but without caring if it was in any order.
“You having trouble at home again, Gertie.”
“Depends. You call a man who comes home reeking of gin and stinking of cheap perfume trouble?”
“Yeah I would.”
“Then I got trouble. I got trouble up over the ceiling. I can never stop working. Every night here I have to do my job. Then the morning comes and I stop only to start it again at night. All day and all night. That’s my routine. I don’t know if it’s worth it.”
I looked up at her, “You’re the Sisyphus at the all-night diner.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Then I heard the front door open and looked
up.
The man who walked in could double as a wrestler. Or professional muscle. He looked around, found my booth and walked over.
He was looming over me, but deliberately made his voice come out softly.
“Gertie said she’d speak to you about me.”
“She did tell me you’d be here. She’s as dependable as the sun.”
He nodded, sat down, reached into his jacket pocket slowly so I could see him, and pulled out a wallet. He opened the wallet and showed me a badge.
“Simon Hill. I’m a homicide detective.”
I had a second of panic. Suddenly the unhappy married couple at the counter could really be detectives waiting to help Simon Hill arrest me.
“You guys got the place surrounded?”
“It’s just me, Ryder. No arrests. No subpoenas. No nothing except for a simple conversation.”
“You know I have to consider that you may be wired.”
“I’m not. But I’m going to be doing most of the talking. You can just be quiet. And I’m not going to be talking about any of your so-called crimes.”
I nodded and took a sip of the coffee that just arrived.
“You know who I am, Detective. You and I shouldn’t be talking.”
“A lot is going on in the world that shouldn’t be happening.”
“I have nothing to say about anyone.”
“And I’m not asking.”
“So what do you want?”
“I want to hire you.”
I couldn’t stop myself. I laughed.
“I’m Jack Ryder. The detectives don’t hire me. They don’t talk to me. They spit at me. They threaten me. They tell jokes about me to take out their aggressions and anger that they can’t arrest me. They do just about anything but hire me.”
“My sister is missing.”
I kept staring. “I’m sorry. I’ll listen, but I’m not making a promise, Detective. For all I know, this is still a trap.”
“Fair enough.”
“You want a piece of pie?”
Hill nodded.
I signaled to Gertie. “Piece of your best pie for this gentleman.”
A hefty piece of chocolate cream pie appeared quickly.
“I’m going to get fat,” Hill said.
I could see a deep pain in his eyes. Oddly, I thought it was the same kind of pain I saw in Robert Johnson McTell’s eyes. Hill was staring off someplace far away from a booth in an all-night diner.
I looked at him and he looked at me for a few seconds.
Then, I said, “What do you mean missing?”
“She went out one evening. She told her husband she wanted to get some eggs. She never came back.”
“You’re a detective. Every cop in the city will help you.”
“They’ve looked.”
“Let me be obvious, Detective. You called her family and friends?”
“Of course.”
“She work?”
“Yes. She’s a teacher. Third grade in a public school in Queens. I talked to the principal and all the teachers I could find. She didn’t get in touch with them.”
“What did the cops find?”
“She has been seen several times. Two of those times was getting food. She wrote checks. We know she’s living in the City. That’s what is so frustrating. Where’s she living? Why did she run away?”
“What does the husband say?”
“He’s as baffled as anyone else.”
“They have a good marriage, Detective?”
“There’s no such thing as a good marriage, Ryder. I say that from experience. They did better than most. I don’t think he has a wandering eye. I know she doesn’t.”
“You search the house?”
“Yes. No notes. No diaries.”
“And no children?”
“No. I was thinking about that. I know she wanted children. Maybe she was frustrated about not having any.”
“I wouldn’t think that would make her run away. Maybe talk to some doctors.”
“Her husband says they didn’t. Talk to doctors, that is. Or any counselors.”
“You put up a reward?”
“Not yet. You think I should?”
“At least a thousand. Take it out of the money you were going to use to hire me, Detective.“
“Call me Simon.”
“Not yet Detective. I don’t see what I can do. I’d say that if you want to hire me you’re wasting your money.”
“Look Ryder. Let’s not lie. I don’t like you. You kill people and you don’t get caught. I don’t like the people you kill, but it’s bad for the cop business if you walk away for killing anybody, even guys who, between us, deserved to die. Anybody gets killed, anybody, and it’s our job to catch and put away the killer. Maybe in the chair. Maybe in a cell. So we don’t like it when we don’t catch the killer. It’s a matter of public morals. So that’s why I don’t like you.”
He paused.
“It’s my job in life to look after people. I take it as a personal insult if someone in New York City gets killed. So you see I get insulted a lot. I’ve got a fuel inside me that makes me go after the killers. I have to make it right. Part of it is guilt. I failed to protect the people under my care. Don’t think I wanted to come here. Don’t think I respect you. Don’t think I like you.”
He stopped to chew a piece of pie.
“I had to come here. I’m really worried, Ryder. What if her memory is gone and she doesn’t know who she is. Or what if she made some terrible mistake. Maybe I don’t know her as well as I think and she’s mixed up with some opium dealers or something. I don’t know why she’s missing. I just know she is.”
“So why me, Detective? You must know a lot of good private detectives.”
“Because you’re the best. They tell me you see around corners. You’re not afraid to…”
“To get tough.”
“Exactly.”
“And you think I may have to?”
“I’m afraid of the truth. Cops can’t beat up a reluctant witness. At least in public. They can’t bribe people or threaten them. Private eyes even have to follow rules or they get their license pulled. You don’t have a license. You can get rough if you have to. You have. You do what’s necessary to get the job done.”
“What if I do it and in payment I call in a favor you don’t like?”
“I won’t break the law. I won’t hurt anyone.”
He was looking down.
“What is it, Detective?”
“I…I made up an idea about you. I…that’s the reason I decided to come to see you. I studied you very hard before I figured I could approach you. I looked at every report we have about you. I talked to some people who wrote stories about you for the papers. Most of those stories never got published by the way. I see who you hurt. They’re all bad people. You give justice to the bad people we can’t catch. But you also give justice to the people lost in the cracks, people who won’t or can’t come to us. You’re all that passes for justice for a lot of people, Ryder.”