The Empress File

“I’ve got to talk with Harold.” She led the thick man into a back room and shut the door.
    “T HE PROBLEM with Commies is double crosses are built into their system,” John said when the door had closed behind them. He was leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. “It’s all hobby politics. They never have to deal with anything real. They just fuck with each other. We got to think about that.”
    “Maybe you should hold down the Commie bullshit,” I said. “At least until we decide something. And stop talking to her tits, for Christ’s sake.”
    “Was I?”
    “Yeah, you were.”
    Marvel and her friend spent ten minutes in the back. When they came out, she plopped down on a couch, and the thick man moved behind her. They both looked us over. “We’re in for now,” she said. “What do you want to know?”
    I opened the portable and said, “Notes.”
    “I T ’ S STILL NOT EASY for black folks to get decent city jobs,” Marvel said, leaning forward, her elbows on her knees. I’d asked where she got her inside information on the machine. “There are a few black cops and clerks, but most of the blacks who work for the city have menial jobs. Nobody pays any attention to them; it’s a hangover from segregation, when a nigger was less than nothing. You wouldn’t hide anything from a nigger cleaning lady any more than you’d hide it from her mop. So there are still a lot of invisible people around—cleaning ladies, janitors, garbagemen. Some of them are pretty smart. And we talk. There’s not much that gets past us.”
    There were four men and a woman on the Longstreet City Council. The woman, Chenille Dessusdelit, was mayor and was also the city’s chief administrative officer. She had an insatiable hunger for money, Marvel said. And she was intensely superstitious.
    “Her mama and her husband died about six weeks apart, and that’s when she really got strange,” Harold said. “She was always superstitious, but after that it was stars and crystals and talking to the dead. There used to be a Gypsy fortune-teller in town, an astrologer. Chenille’d see her every week. Then the Gypsy died, too.Come to think of it, a lot of people die around Chenille.…”
    “What kind of name is that? Chenille whatever it is?” I asked.
    “Deh-soos-da-leet,”
Marvel said, and she spelled it. “It’s old French. The French go way back here in the Delta, back even before the English.”
    “All right.”
    Of the other four council members, one was black: the Reverend Luther Dodge. Besides presiding over a Baptist church, he ran a city recreation center on the black side of town. He had demanded a special investigation of Darrell Clark’s killing but agreed that it should be done by local officers, one black, one white.
    “That guaranteed that the cop’d get off,” Marvel said. “The local boys wouldn’t cut on one of their own.” When the final report came out, whitewashing the shooter, Dodge had acquiesced to it.
    “If we take down the town, is Dodge a potential front man for whatever’s left?” I asked, taking it down on the portable.
    “Not for me,” Marvel said. “He’s as bad as any of them. He’s in on the city council deals, and he clips the receipts at the recreation center. We figure he takes a hundred dollars out of the swimming pool receipts on a hot summer day. And we have a lot of hot summer days.”
    “He has an eye for the girls,” Harold said suddenly. It was something of a non sequitur, but he carefully didn’t look at Marvel.
    “What Harold’s saying is, Dodge has been trying to get into my pants since I was twelve,” Marvel said.
    “So he’s human, big deal,” John said, not quite under his breath.
    Marvel suppressed a grin and started to say something, but I broke in: “We take him, too?”
    “Yeah. Take him.”
    The other three city councilmen were white.
    Arnie St. Thomas, Marvel said, was a loan shark—and he used the city’s money in his operation. Another, Carl Rebeck, was an insurance agent. He didn’t do much, just voted the way he was told, and collected a piece of pie. “He’s not smart. I doubt that he even knows that what he’s doing is illegal. To him, it’s just business. The councilman does favors for people, and they pay him for it.”
    “Who’s the fifth guy?” I asked, typing.
    “Lucius Bell. He’s a cutie pie,” Marvel said with a genuine smile. “He’s a farmer. He’s honest, I think, ’cept for one