1937 Green Book

New Orleans was a bust. It rained all the time, even during the funeral. No one cared — neither sister nor brother, it was sad all around. You’d begun to wonder what the hell you were doing there in the first place — why’d you even bother?

Closure — you reasoned, finally, as you drove away. There will be no cause to talk or think bout it anymore.

Expecting to get away from all that, you decide to drive to Hot Springs, Arkansas.

Your copy of the 1937 Green Book had more entries for Hot Springs than most cities you’d visited down South. Ned Halper had described Hot Springs as a nice, clean vacation town. Last year, he’d invited you to visit any time, if not for a bit of rest and relaxation. You and Ned were partners in the Chicago Police Department years ago. After that, he’d left to become Chief of Police of Hot Springs.

Also, there was that phone call from Taylor Beaumont — Editor-in-Chief of The Hot Springs Picayune. He’d offered you a job — some sort of security detail for the paper. The money was good enough that you took notes. You told him thanks — but not even that much money could make you leave Chicago.

This was two months ago. Things are a lot different now.

As you drive within the city limits, you thought bout hollering up Ned but decide against it. Best not bother the man on a Sunday night. You’d gone this far with just your wits, the Green Book and enough luck that it’s been mostly uneventful.

Even deep, down South.

Besides — you’re taking a long-awaited vacation.

Hot Springs has a few fancy hotels like the Pythian Baths and the National Baptist — but you opt for a cheaper tourist home instead. You show up at Mrs. CC Wilson on Pleasant Street — the first one you picked out.

“What do you do, Mr. Johns?” is the first thing she asks after you introduce yourself. She’s a tall, older woman — abundant, full-bellied and handsome in that plain, unintentional way.

“Private detective, ma’am,” you tell her, “from Chicago.”

“You working on a case down here in Hot Springs?”

“No ma’am — I’m on vacation.”

“Call me CC,” she says, as she lets you in.

Mr. Wilson — or Doc, as CC calls him — is everywhere except in person. His portraits are all over the house — he’d died last year of heart disease. CC tells you that he was a podiatrist at Woodmen Union Hospital, where she works as a nurse. Your room has him smiling in his lab coat, next to your bed.

You ask to borrow the house phone and holler up Taylor Beaumont. He seems excited and suggests yall meet first thing tomorrow at Wills, a breakfast joint near downtown. You check for a Wills entry in the Green Book — there isn’t one.

“I’ll be in a blue seersucker suit and glasses,” he tells you.

“And I’ll be the Black man,” you say, without any irony.

Next Chapter — Toast

Halfway Crook — Table of Contents