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.
Mae hadn’t seen Bernice arrive but was thankful for her presence and followed her into the bedroom, where she took Mae’s bloody dress then helped her into the shower. Bernice was the head cook at Mae’s Family Dining and she took charge here with the easy competence that she used to run the restaurant kitchen. While Mae showered, Bernice watched men from the funeral home carefully but quickly wrap and remove Samuel’s body, and then the lawyer’s cleaning crew got rid of every trace of blood. They’d brought pillowcases to collect everything that needed to be disposed of, including Mae’s .45. The cleaning crew even dug the bullets out of the staircase walls.
When Mae Hillaire returned to find Samuel gone, she screamed his name and fainted.
“I can’t hardly believe it, Mae! You’re really stepping away from the daily operation of this place?” Velma looked skeptical, impressed, and a little bit proud. She admired her friend as much as she liked her, and the feelings were mutual. Velma had endured a lot in the last few years and she’d not only survived but she seemed stronger.
First she had nursed Gus through what appeared to be every possible kind of sickness, which required him to move back into their home. When he’d finally had to go into the hospital, Velma was at his side until the end. Mae never saw her shed a tear until A.C. Jennings gave her the details of Gus’s will, which had come as a complete surprise: the house and car now belonged to her, as did the proceeds of two Golden State Life Insurance policies she never knew he had. Tears first leaked from her eyes, then flowed unchecked, accompanied by deep, racking sobs. Mae held her friend.
Jennings, who seemed to have an endless supply of neat, white handkerchiefs, produced them one after the other, until Velma was cried out. She drank the glass of water he gave her, then she apologized.
“You got nothing to apologize for, Velma,” Mae had said.
“Don’t y’all misunderstand me, I’m glad he’s gone. I just wish I could ask him why I had to wait till he was dead to learn that he gave a damn about me!” She pointed at the file on the lawyer’s desk. “I never knew about none of this! He always told me his business wasn’t none of my business, then, when he was dying, he kept wanting to talk about growing up in Texas. Not one kind word for me.”
“Maybe he didn’t know how to speak kind words, Mrs. Jackson,” Jennings had said, passing the file across the desk. “Here’s the deed to your house, the title to your car, the life insurance check — all in your name — and Mr. Jackson’s death certificate, and this is all your business.”
Mae looked across the table at Velma, remembering that day at the lawyer’s office. They hadn’t spoken of it until now.
“How do you know this is the right time to walk away, Mae? What makes this the right time? After all, you’ve been free for a long time, not like me.” With the death of her son in a prison yard fight a year ago, Velma now was completely free. She knew that Gus Jr. had been charged with murdering a man named Dave Hebert, but Mae doubted that she recalled him as the man Mae and Samuel had run away from all those years ago, if they’d even mentioned his name. In a confrontation described as “stupid as shit” by witnesses, a staggering-drunk Hebert had waved a knife at a high-as-a-kite Gus Jackson Jr. and threateded to kill him unless he told where the fried chicken lady was. He’d slashed Gus to show he was serious. The sight of his own gushing blood had killed Gus’s high and he tackled Hebert and stabbed the man with his own knife, killing him. Witnesses said it was self-defense, and Mae had hired A.C. Jennings to prove it, but what the DA saw was that a Black man had killed a white one. What was the white man doing there, Jennings had asked the jury, but the DA got the question dismissed so no one knew how close Dave Hebert had come to finding the fried chicken lady and Mae didn’t think Velma realized that Dave Hebert’s yelling was more than just the crazy talk of a drunk.