Everyone knew what went on in the house on Franklin Street. Well, most adults, anyway.
It was no secret, but people did not dare talk about it, at least not in mixed company. They didn’t want others to know that they knew what was going on there and certainly didn’t want anyone to think they had ever done business there. Maybe they had, maybe they hadn’t, but it was nobody else’s concern either way.
Few people in town remembered when Mamie King first moved up from the bottoms, the poor side of town, to Franklin Street. Mr. Davis at the bank loaned her the money for the house. No one knew why he made the loan to a poor black woman because he died from a heart attack the following week. Some said he knew Mamie’s mother, and that was all anyone ever said about it.
Mamie King’s business prospered, and she never missed a payment on the loan.
Once a week, “Mamie’s girls,” as they called themselves, piled into her white Cadillac convertible and rode around with the top open, smiling and waving at people. They wore brightly colored T-shirts with “Meet me at Mamie’s” on the front. Mamie drove them from “The Homes” all the way to “Down Under” along the river. She never wanted to exclude anyone, no matter their race or social standing.
“All our hearts work the same,” she would say, referring to more than the muscular organ beating in their chests.
Mamie’s girls came from all over: a Chinese woman from California; a Mexican from Texas; white and black women from New Orleans; and an American Indian from Oklahoma. When women arrived at the Franklin Street house looking for work, Mamie interviewed them, took them to her doctor for examination, then shopped with them at three or four stores downtown so they could get “acquainted.”
Mamie King knew almost everyone in town. She knew when babies were born, when newcomers came to town, and when people died. She even knew many of the river boatmen, transients passing through each week.
One cold winter, a single mother with three young children was having a hard time financially. Just as she hit rock bottom and did not know where her children’s next meal was coming from, a white Cadillac pulled up and parked in front of her house, and out stepped an older black woman wrapped in a long red coat with a fur collar.
“It’s Miz King, Mama!” cried the oldest child, peering out the front window of their dilapidated shotgun house.
Before long, the bare kitchen was filled with sacks of groceries from Piggly Wiggly.
There were many stories like this. A person never knew when or where Mamie King and her big generous heart might show up.
Except for a few people.
Sheriff Boo Tiller had held office for fourteen years. Every Christmas season, without fail, Mamie King paid him a visit and presented him with a bottle of the finest Kentucky bourbon.
Considering the entire state was still under prohibition, he had no idea how she got it, and he did not ask. The sheriff stashed the gift in a locked cabinet behind his desk. Fourteen unopened bottles sat there. Sheriff Tiller did not drink.
Though her profession was illegal, and everyone knew it, when she showed up with a bottle of whiskey for the sheriff, police chief, mayor, town council members, and any other official who might have the right to shut her down, the men knew what she wanted in return. And they complied. After all, she had been operating since before some of them were born.
The town bordered the east side of the river where the terrain was hilly and green. Franklin Street meandered from one end of town to the other, and with Mamie’s house being on the north end, traffic was minimal, and life was quiet.
No one parked in front of the house on Franklin Street; parking was in the back where the downhill slope conveniently hid cars from being seen by passersby. Customers came through the back door into the kitchen, where they could take a cold beer or Coke from the refrigerator and leave payment in a slotted box on the dinette table.
If someone stood on the front porch knocking at the door, they were not a customer.
It was not unusual to see expensive luxury cars parked behind her clapboard house. Sometimes the fancy cars did not bring clients, at least not the kind one might expect.
“Come on in, boys. Y’all wanna a Co-Cola or coffee?” Mamie opened the screen door wide for two well-dressed men.
“Good mornin’, Miz King. Mmm. Do I smell cinnamon rolls?” one man said.
“You know it, Clyde. I’ll fix you and Sam a plate and coffee. Then we’ll go to my room.”
Sam said, “I’ll take mine out to the car and wait, if you don’t mind, Miz King.”
While Mamie served up the food, Clyde said, “You must put some secret potion in that coffee. It’s the best in Mississippi.”
She smiled. “I get it from New Orleans. You can’t find better coffee anywhere. It’s that chicory they put in it.” She handed Sam his food. “Take plenty of napkins, Sam. I don’t want you to spill anything on your suit.”
Mamie knew how to win people over. Satisfy their bellies and the rest is easy.
Her bedroom office was the largest room in the house, which wasn’t saying much, with one window facing Franklin Street and looking out across the front porch. Another window faced the side street.
A high canopy bed was covered in pink and white satin sheets and pillows, and a red velveteen bedspread touched the floor. A rolltop secretary desk, two soft chairs, and a small coffee table neatly filled the space opposite the windows.
“Have a seat, Clyde, and tell me how good those cinnamon rolls taste.”
He sat in the same chair as he had the last time he visited. “Delicious, Ma’am,” he said with his mouth full.
She lowered the window shades and pulled the draperies closed.
Mamie had information for him, but she was careful, being responsible for the girls’ livelihoods and safety. Her business was one of mutual trust and privacy. Outside of the Franklin Street house, the girls kept client information private. It was the one place men could come and know their identity and anything spoken was confidential.
Well, almost anything.
Clyde lowered his voice and got right to the point. “Miz King, do you have any information about the Klan? We’re looking for the men who made threats against two legislators last week. This election may turn out to be deadly.”
Mamie replied in a hushed tone, “One of the girls hosted a gentleman with a very loose tongue a few nights ago. That Democrat running for senator is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He’s the Klan’s candidate.”
“State senate? You mean Jerome Jeffries?”
“That’s the one.”
“Who was the man with your girl?”
“Now, Mr. Clyde, you know I can’t tell you that. You trying to scare away the customers?”
“Can’t blame me for trying.” He held his hands open.
Mamie said, “There’s something else my girls are hearing that’s got them upset. You know the Yancee girl who had some trouble down at Walnut Bayou two days ago? The girls heard she was in a tiff with her boyfriend Barrett. He’s filled with meanness, that one is. But the Klan is going after Tommy Jones, the young black man who works at Brown’s Hardware. They’re going to blame him for it since he knows the girl. She don’t want to tell anyone it was her boyfriend who beat her up, so she’s going along with the lie.”
Mamie’s eyes pooled with tears. “Oh, Mr. Clyde, please get your men to help Tommy. I hate all this evil in the world. I’m sorry the girl was hurt, but it ain’t Tommy’s fault. Those devil Klansmen are riled up. I’m not sure where Tommy is, but when they find him…”
Mamie covered her mouth with her hand as the tears spilled down her cheeks.
Clyde leaned forward in his chair. “Mamie, you know where Tommy is, don’t you?”
She looked at her coffee and shook her head.
He tried again. “We want to protect him. We want to shut down the Klan. But we can’t help if we don’t know where he is.”
She lowered her hand from her mouth and stiffened her jaw. “Tommy ain’t done nothing wrong. So help me God, if anything happens to that boy, I’ll ruin you and Sam. Do your wives know you do business here? I have witnesses, you know.”
Clyde shook his head. “Now, Miz King, we ain’t never done that kind of business here and you know it. We’ll do our best to protect Tommy and stop those devils. Where is he?”
She sighed and took a sip of coffee. “You’ll find him down in the bottoms.” Looking up at the ceiling, she said, “There’s so much hate in this world. Oh, Lord, I know I have a special calling to help people. Why does it have to be so hard?” She closed her eyes.
Mamie had been an informant for years, giving the FBI information on the KKK, illegal moonshine, murders, and other crimes. In return, the FBI protected her. They were not about to give up their source. She was too valuable.
Within the week, the residents at the Franklin Street house heard the situation had been “handled,” and Mamie saw Tommy Jones back at work at Brown’s Hardware. As he lifted a box onto a shelf, he cut his glance in her direction and gave her a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
The next week, a loud banging on the back kitchen door made the girls jump.
“Miz King, you in there?” A tall lanky young man stood outside yelling.
Mamie heard the commotion from her room and came to the kitchen door, which was open, but the screen door was latched.
“Whatcha want, young man?” Mamie asked.
“You know what I want, Miz King. I’m a man, ain’t I?”
She could smell the alcohol through the screen.
“You don’t belong here. Go on now. Go on back home.” She quietly motioned to the girls to leave the kitchen.
“Wha’dja mean, Miz Mamie-Doll? I hear you got some pretty girls in there who can take real good care of me.”
“Look, Boy. You get off my property before I call the police. Go on, leave now.”
“I ain’t your boy, and I got money just like all them other men who come here. You ain’t gonna call no police. They’ll shut you down in no time. Everyone knows what y’all do in this old beat-up shack.”
“You ain’t got no business in here. Now, I said, get off my property.”
She reached on top of the refrigerator next to the door and pulled down a revolver. Mamie hadn’t used it in so long she had almost forgotten it was there. Seeing it in her hand was enough to get the man to back away.
“Don’t you worry, Miz King. I’ll get what I came for.” His threat frightened her.
When he left, two girls came back to the kitchen.
Niki, the Californian, said, “Mamie, that’s the Yancee girl’s boyfriend, Barrett. He’s the one who beat her up.”
“I know, Niki, and he ain’t nothing but bad news. We’ll have more trouble from him, I’m sure of it. Be careful. Don’t let him in, whatever you do.”
“You gonna call the police, Mamie?” Ginger asked . “Cause if you are, I better go pack my suitcase and catch the next train out of here.”
They didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Not yet. He hasn’t hurt anything. If you see him on the property again, call me.”
Lacey appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Does anyone else smell gasoline?”
Everyone sniffed the air. “Are you sure it’s not your cheap perfume, Lacey?”
They snickered.
“Haha. Very funny.” Lacey looked worried. “The odor is pretty strong in the front room.”
Without saying a word, Mamie strode past them and went straight to the front door, which was seldom used. She jerked it open. Feeling the cold splash on her legs, she gagged from the gasoline fumes.
Barrett was on the front porch and greeted her with a sarcastic grin and a cruel laugh. “Didn’t think you’d see me again, huh, Miz Mamie Doll?” His shirt and jeans were drenched with gasoline as he emptied the last of it onto the wooden porch from a dirty Coleman ice chest.
“What are you doing, Barrett? You’re drunk. Stop it before somebody gets hurt.” Mamie’s voice was frantic.
The five girls in the house, frightened, had gone to a neighboring house where they called Sheriff Tiller.
Barrett sneered at Mamie. “Did you think I didn’t know who got me in trouble with my girl’s daddy? You have ruined everything for me. Now you will pay,” he said, in drunken anger.
When Barrett struck the match, the force of the explosion knocked him off the porch and into the street. His clothes burst into flames, while he lay motionless.
Mamie, blinded by the giant orange fireball, felt the fiery heat in her lungs. Her clothes, then her skin, melted in the flames as she collapsed onto the floor.
The fire truck and ambulance arrived, but it was too late for Barrett who died in the middle of Franklin Street when his head hit the pavement. Mamie was still alive when the firemen brought her out of the doorway and to the ambulance.
Sheriff Tiller was there.
“I’m so sorry, Mamie. I’m so sorry.”
With closed eyes and scorched lips, she managed a few scratchy words, “Such meanness in this world. Help them, Boo.”
“Mamie, you did good. Showed the whole town a lot of kindness we didn’t deserve. Everything’ll be alright. You hold on. It’ll be alright.” Tiller didn’t know what else to say.
The ambulance drove away with Mamie.
A deputy came to Sheriff Tiller’s side and said, “The coroner is taking care of Barrett’s body, Sir.”
Boo nodded. His radio crackled and gave him the report that Mamie King was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.
“Sheriff, what do you think made Barrett do such a thing?” the deputy asked.
Boo looked up toward the sky. “I wish I could tell you. Who can explain what makes people hate?I’m gonna miss that lady.”
Tiller turned to the deputy with sadness in his eyes. “Let’s go have a drink, Deputy. I know where to get some fine whiskey.”
Based on actual events.
