Yazoo, Mississippi 1918-v2
Mercury Cotton Plantation, 10:00am
- The King of Cotton
Mississippi was the greatest place on earth, at least as far as my paw always told me. We had wealth most couldn’t even imagine. After General Lee defeated The United States in the War Between the States—-effectively solidifying our secession and transforming us into the economic juggernaut we are today—-the cotton industry exploded. My paw, Mercury Sr., was a cotton farmer. We had about a hundred negroes in our employ, all putting in the work to help us gather and process that sacred crop. My mother had died when I was a baby, leaving only me and my paw. Amelia, our house maid, was the only motherly figure I’d ever known.
My paw didn’t believe in not working, nor did he believe that you punish those who help you. We were right there, picking cotton right alongside them, separating the seeds from the fibers. My paw and I with their help built lodgings for them that had the very best beds, kitchens, and personal hygiene facilities one could get their hands on these days. We never had a negro want to leave our lovely little slice of heaven. Life and business were good.
Our plantation stretched for twenty-thousand acres across the Mississippi Delta, fields as white as the clouds against the brown soil. Our house stood up against the tree line, giving us a vantage point of our whole cotton kingdom. My paw loved what he did, especially since it provided us a means to a great life, and a means to give to those who needed most.
But at some point, people came along who had the most devious intentions.
My paw had a choke hold on trade between the Confederate States and the United States. Folks from New Rome—formerly New York—and Chicago Prime would often visit my paw, wanting access to his trade routes and resources. He always politely rejected their offers and sent them on their way. They’d offer him money, women, cars, houses, you name it. They all wanted in. But, my paw was an oak—he would not be swayed.
One morning, about ten o’clock, paw and I were walking down the path from our house, watching the workers work, listening to the mocking birds mimic, feeling the warm breeze wash across our bodies. I was about eighteen at the time, getting ready to start learning this trade a little more to carry on my paw’s legacy as a cotton magnate. My father was in his favorite white slacks, white shirt, and black suspenders with a ten gallon stetson crowning his head.
“Ya know, Jr., life is an interesting thing when you’re on top of the world.” Paw said.
“What do you mean, paw?”
“Well, people never want anything from you until you have everything to offer, then they won’t leave you alone.” He laughed and bumped me gently with his elbow.
“Are you talking about all those men who keep coming around here in the weird, dark suits with the funny accents?”
“Them, and all the people at church. Ha! You’d think Mr. and Mrs. Norris would never ask for a thing considering he has more workers than we do! But, it’s not always about material wealth that draws people son—it’s about status. And we sit on top.
“But just remember this, son,” he got down close, placing his hand on my shoulder as he spoke. “Just because people have less than you, doesn’t give you the right to treat them poorly. We have a God-given duty to protect those who can’t protect themselves, to do justice to those who do evil, and to be fearless of those who want to rule with fear.”
“That’s what the war was all about, right paw?”
“That’s right, Jr.”
We turned and faced back towards the house as we heard Amelia come running down the path towards us.
“Massa Jones! There’s someone here to see you! They say it’s urgent.” Amelia said with little breath left.
“Thank you, Amelia. Jr., come with me.”
We headed for the house at a fast pace, but not running. We opened the back french doors and entered the living room. Two men in black pinstripe suits were standing in the foyer on the other side of the room from us.
A subtle look of concern shadowed my paws face, but he always betrayed that with his greetings, “Gentlemen! To whom do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit to my humble abode? Would y’all like anything to drink? Amelia, would you please get these gentlemen something cold to drink. It’s a mighty hot day.”
The man on the left spoke. He had no facial hair of any kind. No beard, mustache, no eyebrows. I’m sure if he took his hat off, he’d be completely bald. He was a tall man, about my height, and had lean, hard muscle underneath his fine suit. “No thank you, Mr. Jones. Our presence here is strictly for business. You see, our boss, he don’t like being told no. So, we was wondering what it would take to hear you say yes.”
“Well, gentlemen, like I said before, it’s not a matter of price, but principle. You want access to a trade source, but you don’t want to disclose what it is you want shipped. I can’t abide that.” My paw never let his smile fade from his face, nor did he allow his tone to be anything other than pleasant. “So, unless there’s anything else I can do for you, I believe you know where the door is.”
The one on the right was identical to the man on the left, but he had nothing but hair. His beard was full, like something out of a King Arthur story, and you could barely see his eyes through the mess of hair coming down from his hat. He spoke through the jungle of hair, “Mr. Jones, with all due respect, but you’re turning down a very powerful man. Don—”
“And he’s irritating a man who can’t be bought or intimidated. Who do you think wins this little war in the end?”
The air in the house was still. The two sides looked at each other in a negotiation stalemate. The birds could barely be heard outside through the glass and walls, the workers were none the wiser to the tension building inside.
Slick and Hairy looked at each other, then looked back at my paw and me and conceded. “Alright, Mr. Jones. I can’t say our boss is going to like this very much.” And they left out the door.
Paw blew a long breath out of his nose as they did. Once the door shut, he turned to me and said “You see, son, this is what I mean. People always want more. You can’t sell your soul for it.”
These were the last words my paw spoke to me. I heard screaming coming from outside as bullets came flying through the living room. My paw fell on top of me, shielding me from the hail of hot lead tearing through our home. After a few minutes the sound stopped. I heard a screech of tires in the distance. I asked my paw if he was ok, but he didn’t respond. I felt a warm dampness cover my body. I pushed my paw off of me, and he just flopped to the side, motionless. In my panic, I patted his chest and smacked his face to try to wake him up. I looked down and his white shirt was now completely crimson. The blood in his happy face was replaced by an ice cold blank stare. The light in his eyes snuffed out.
I sat and cried into my blood stained hands as fury and sadness washed over me like a tidal wave. Amelia came running into the living room along with the workers from outside. “Jr., is you ok?” Amelia asked, fear and panic shaking her voice.
“He’s dead! Paw is dead!” I screamed through a broken and hoarse voice.
I got up and ran out front, but no one was there. The negroes working out front had scattered when the gunfire had commenced, and two of our armed guards laid dead on the grass near the driveway, now being covered in falling magnolias. The rest were running from and driving from their various posts, but it was too late.
Chicago Prime, 1931-v2
The Office of Mercury Jones
Old Illinois, 12:00pm
- Light Reading
I cracked open the files Wally gave me on Senator and Jessica Callahan and began thumbing through each page trying to spot anything that stood out as useful information. Mostly what I found were articles either praising or condemning the senator for his opinions on the immigrant presence here in Chicago Prime, some donor lists relevant to his recent re-election campaign, and a list of current and future pieces of legislation the senator had planned to either have passed, torn down, or bolster.
I opened up to Jessica Callahan’s part of the folder, and was immediately met with a headshot. She was spectacular looking. Having seen her lifeless body, I knew she was a blonde, but a dead body is a much different experience than an alive one. Her hair was full and styled like any woman with money would have it. Her lips were full and soft looking without needing any cosmetics. Even her nose and ears had a breathtaking beauty about them. She was a one of a kind woman. Real shame. I set her picture beside the folder and thumbed through the paper. I found articles tearing her down as being vocal in the political sphere as a woman, ‘Blonde Bombshell Speaks Out Against Don.’ Some articles even accusing her of being a friend of Dorothy, which I find laughable. Ever seen a dyke this good looking? Fat chance.
I set the folders aside, having committed the necessary details to memory—not that I had a choice—and opened up the senator’s autobiography, soon to make my way to Jessica’s book.
I spent the next couple of hours reading through each book, seeing if any leads popped out. The Callahan’s were popular, but not for any good reasons, save some fans and political associates. Senator Callahan had passed several bills that greatly reduced the import of lima beans to Chicago Prime, stating that ‘dependence on resources from external manufacturers would only continue to cripple the state's already fragile economy.’ He was instrumental in increasing the budget for the police force when opposition parties were more concerned with redirecting those funds to more social conventions, like homeless shelters and immigrant housing. “Interesting that the senator is so against immigration, seeing as how his entire autobiography is about being a success story as a half Mick. Maybe the American part of him was taking over? Who knows.”
Jessica was another story. She was constantly shoehorning herself into debates she wasn’t invited to in order to argue creating an armed security system for small businesses who were falling victim to extortion from the crime families around the city. “She had some balls, if nothing else,” I said to no one.
No one wanted to touch the crime families. They were big money for politicians, big businesses, and even the police force. Don Gabridone even had partial ownership of the White Socks. So for Jessica Callahan to actively want to set up blockades against their means of doing business took some serious cajones.
“But why kill Jessica, and not her husband? He had more political sway than she did, and most people in the media smeared her half the time anyway,” I said, still to no one.
There had to be more than just some defence being played from either of them.
The phone rang. I answered after the second ring.
“Jones.” It was Delaney again.
“We got another body. This time, Old Illinois.”
“Ok. Why are you telling me? Cops come here all the time.”
“It’s at The Gin Joint on Milky Way.”
I didn’t speak.
“Jones?”
“I’ll be there in a minute.” and hung-up.
- The Temperance Society
I locked my door on the way out, and walked down the stairs towards Sammy’s Soda Joint. The stairs were the only ones in the building that led to Sammy’s without going in from an external entrance. The music was still playing when I entered, some Duke Ellington wailing away on the jukebox in the corner. The room was dim, full of smoke and broken dreams caught in the current of booze and music. The bar sat on the backside of the room, just to my right as I exited the stairwell. It was a straight line from wall to wall, facing a sea of seats and wooden tables. Some folks were playing darts, others shooting some billiards. There was an Out of order sign on the bathroom. Sammy stood behind the bar, both hands holding him up as he surveyed the local wildlife sipping away on their gin. Yeah, Sammy ran a gin joint he called a soda joint. Not that booze was illegal, but it kept the temperance society off his back. But sooner or later they found out and came knocking on his door—or barging in—to demand he stop selling the ‘devils poison.’ Honestly, if it weren't for Sammy, I’d never get a good night's sleep.
“Howdy, Sammy.”
“Afternoon, Merc.” Sammy’s voice was deep and resonant, but full of tar from hundreds of thousands of cigarettes smoked over his lifetime. He had trained it to carry over the noise of a busy bar, but at noon his joint wasn’t so busy.
“I guess you know why I’m here.” I said, lighting my own coffin nail.
Sammy nodded his head, and gestured with his eyes towards the bathroom.
“You see anything?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. Gal walks in last night—Redhead, nice rack—orders a couple sodas, starts chatting it up with this fella—nice dressed guy, looked like a banker or other—and then they left as far as I knew. Tab got paid, so I stopped paying them anymore mind.”
“You get the name of either of them?”
“Girl’s name was Stacy. I don’t know about the guy.”
“Any other details on the guy she was with? Color hair? Distinguishing characteristics? Scars?”
“Yeah, now that you mention it, he looked like he had just gotten out of the shower. Real slicked back hair. Kinda tall. Maybe about your height.” Sammy held his hand up flat to indicate where on him the top of the guy’s head might have been if they had stood side-by-side. “No scars or nothing.”
“Thanks Sammy. Anyone been in or out of the bathroom since?”
“Not that I’ve seen. I locked it and put that sign up as soon as I got here this morning. Called it in shortly after that.” Sammy reached into his apron and pulled out a small key with a long, looped rope on it tied to a wooden block that said Washroom.
“Much obliged, Sammy.”
Patrons shot me sideways, skeptical looks as I walked through the bar. A bald man with a scar running down his face gave me a familiar smirk as he saw the one I sported upon my own mug.
“Howdy.” I said to the man.
The sound of my accent quickly turned his amusement into disdain, and he went back to enjoying his noon-time drink.
The inside of the restroom was unsurprising. A single line of 2 stalls hugged the wall to my left across from a pair of sinks to my right. There was a small window at the top of the wall near the ceiling shining some sunshine into the restroom, illuminating the body of a buxom, readheaded young lady.
I bent down to examine her body more closely. She was in a baby blue dress that ended right below her knees. Not a very modest girl. Her breasts were nearly spilling out as the fabric of her attire was almost not enough to contain it. She was probably twenty-two to twenty-five years old. Her lipstick was purple. She looked like something out of a fairytale.
There were no visual marks indicating any struggle, no postmortem markings I could see on her skin. The most remarkable of all was the way she was positioned. She was on her side with one hand forward holding a stick and the other was back with her fingers playfully splayed, like she was trying to hold her balance on an invisible rail. There was water underneath her, mostly coming out from behind her on the ground. I stepped back to get a better look. She looked like a fairy.
The way the sun hit the water behind her made it look like she had wings. Her red hair showed brilliantly in the sun, bathing the restroom in soft hints of red.
I looked around the restroom for any other clues. On top of one of the stalls was a little toy rat. I grabbed it. But there was no note. I checked her shoes, nothing. I checked under her dress, but still nothing. I stood up and placed my hands on the sink. I looked up in the mirror and could see myself. I looked tired. Rode hard and hung up wet. Not much sleep combined with drinking and smoking will do that to a man. My white suit was looking dingier than normal, in much need of a good cleaning.
I turned on the hot water, ran my hands underneath it and scrubbed my face and hands.
I grabbed a towel to dry my face. When I pulled the towel away, I could see a semblance of who I used to be. I also saw something I didn’t expect.
The mirror was gathering condensation from the hot water forming steam, but not on every part. I leaned closer to the places where condensation wasn’t forming and breathed hot breath onto it.
“Love, The Rat King” was written across the mirror in some kind of transparent film. Invisible until you add some moisture to it. I turned the water off and just stared.
Just then, the door flew open. A woman in a very puffy dress and a very loud, shrill voice began barking at me.
“And just who do you think you are?!”
“I should be asking you that question, ma’am.” I turned and began walking towards her to leave.
The lady looked down to see Stacy’s lifeless body on the ground. I didn’t think she could, but she got louder.
Her scream almost caused every patron in the building to spill their drink. Hell, even I jumped a little, and I don’t scare too easily.
“Anastasia! Oh God, my dear Anastasia! Who’s done this UNSPEAKABLE act?”
She turned to me, arm out, stopping me from leaving. I glanced over her shoulder and saw a line of ladies who all looked similarly to her in the way they dressed. They were all clutching their necklaces, fear and worry dawning on their faces as they tried to look over the shoulder in front of them to see what was going on.
“Ma’am—”
“Gloria Allgood! Not ma’am! You are speaking to the President and Founder of the Ladies of Temperance and Good Behavior Society, so I expect the utmost respect when spoken to!”
“Pardon my propriety. Mrs. Allgood, if I knew the answer to that question, I wouldn’t be here right now. So, I really wish I knew the answer to that question. Now, for the love of God, move out of my way, and let the police come take a look at her. And if you don’t mind, I’d love to ask you some questions myself.” Police flooded into the bar, immediately heading towards the restroom.
Mrs. Allgood looked at me with the same disdain scarface had earlier. “A southerner. Just what we need around here. But, fine. If it’ll help find the one who did this to our Anastasia, I’ll cooperate.”
