The Dying Crapshooter's Blues by David Fulmer Page A

as he gazed past Joe to something on the wall. “I never had no business with him at all.”
    â€œYou didn’t get on his wife, did you?”
    That brought a short, pained laugh. “If he got one . . . you know . . . she’d be a damn cow.”
    â€œHe ever roust you?”
    Jesse said, “Not that I recall.” He heaved another breath. “I just seen him around . . . he’s a drunk . . . never harmed nobody . . . not that I know . . .”
    â€œWhat happened, then?”
    â€œI was . . . at the crap game,” Jesse stuttered, pulling a breath between every few words. “You know we got us . . . a regular game. Every Saturday night . . . over on Fort Street. Took my money . . . and left out.” He made himself smile. “Gonna go see a woman I know . . . in a house downtown. I was on Courtland . . . corner at Edgewood and he . . . he come up behind me.”
    â€œLogue.”
    â€œThat’s right. Logue.” He stared, drifting off again.
    Joe prompted him. “Jesse?”
    Jesse blinked like a lizard. “Then he say, ‘Hey, nigger! Your name Jesse Williams?’ Then he said . . . somethin’ I didn’t catch . . . and he . . . he snapped his pistol.”
    â€œThat’s all?”
    â€œHe jes . . . walked away. Let me there to die.” His eyes found Joe’s. “And that’s just what I’m ’bout to do, ain’t it?” The question came off on a failing breath.
    He was struggling with his answers, so Joe let him rest as he pondered. There was something wrong about it. Whether Jesse was lying or evading or suffering the effects of the wound, there were pieces missing from his story.
    Before Joe could question him any further, Little Jesse raised his head an inch or so. “Listen to me,” he said, gritting his teeth. “I didn’t no way have this comin’. You understand?” He caught a hard breath. “You know . . . I done plenty wrong in my life. I likely should have been . . . been dead long time ago. But I . . . I for damn sure don’t want to go like this.” He raised up a little more, straining. “That fucker shot me . . . for
nothin’.
” His voice broke and he sank back on the pillow. His eyes got wet. A moment passed and he said, “You got to help me, Joe.”
    Joe said, “Do what?”
    â€œDon’t wan’ die . . . for nothin’.” The words went into a slur.
    â€œJesse?”
    â€œYou got to . . . to help me . . .”
    Joe started to protest, then stopped. Jesse had gone out again. For a second, Joe wondered if he had just passed over. Then he heard him sigh, long and low. It wasn’t done yet.
    Joe looked in Willie’s direction and saw the blind man tilting his head their way, listening to every word.
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    Rather than drive back to his house, the Captain asked Lieutenant Collins to drop him off at police headquarters. The lieutenant was dismayed, thinking Jackson was now going to order him to work through the Sunday afternoon. But when they pulled up to the building on the west end of Decatur Street, the Captain told him to take care of one piece of business before he went home. Once he had related the details, he got out of the car and, with a wave that was almost sprightly for that dour man, sent him on his way.
    Collins watched the Captain amble across the sidewalk, up the steps, and through the doors, thinking it was odd that he seemed so unconcerned about all the trouble over the theft of the jewelry from the Payne mansion. But of course, the man had a reputation for closing his cases, one way or another.
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    To please Jesse, Willie spent time toying with more words to the song he had begun. To the first couplet, he had added,
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A sinful guy, black-hearted, he had no soul
Yes,