Customers also appreciated the newly installed air-conditioning, maybe more than the new menu, and the combination of the two created a totally unexpected problem for Mae—having to ask people to leave once they’d finished and paid for their food because there was a line of people outside waiting to get in.

  “Whoever heard of too much success, Mae?” Velma Jackson, who had become a good friend, enjoyed Mae’s unusual predicament even as she helped her navigate it.

  Mae had put up signs all around the room and notices in the menus so nobody could claim ignorance:

  DEAR VALUED CUSTOMERS,

  YOU HAVE MADE US SO SUCCESSFUL THAT PEOPLE ARE IN LINE OUTSIDE WAITING TO GET IN. SO WHEN YOU HAVE FINISHED EATING, PLEASE LET WAITING (AND HUNGRY!) CUSTOMERS HAVE YOUR TABLE.

  THANK YOU,

  MAE HILLAIRE

  So while no one ever claimed ignorance of the notice, quite a few simply ignored it. That’s where Velma stepped in. She patrolled the room, stopping at tables that had been cleared but where people sat talking and enjoying the cool air. Velma would point at the wall of glass that fronted Mae’s. “All those people are hungry and hot too, and Miss Mae would appreciate your good manners by letting some other people sit at this table.”

  One afternoon the door swung open with way too much force, and two LAPD cops strode in, both of them white. Silence descended. The larger of the two cops looked around. “Somebody needs to get up so we can sit down, then somebody needs to bring us some menus.”

  Mae stood up slowly. First she closed the front door, then she fronted the cops. “There’s a line of people waiting to get in—”

  “We don’t stand in no line, and I ain’t gon’ say it again: somebody get up so we can sit down.”

  Two customers hurried forward, Dinah Washington and Eartha Kitt, and each of them grabbed one of the cops by an arm and delivered an award-winning performance.

  “You can share my table, lover boy,” Eartha Kitt growled, “if you let me sit on your lap.”

  “And I’ll make a difference in your night, baby,” Dinah Washington cooed, “I promise.”

  The cops snatched their arms away and glowered at Mae. “You don’t get it, do you, lady? We don’t stand in line and we don’t pay to eat. So whoever you are—”

  “I’m the lady who owns this place and I don’t give away free food. This is a business, not a hobby, and the line for a table is outside.” She didn’t care how mad the two men were getting. She hated cops and wasn’t afraid to let them know. What could they do, kill her?

  “I heard y’all supposed to protect and serve,” Dinah challenged. “Is that right?” She looked around the room where every eye was on her, a familiar experience and she was enjoying it. “Anybody ever been protected by the cops?”

  “I got real protected coming home from work one night last month. Matter of fact, I was so protected I couldn’t go back to work for a week!” a man called out.

  “I got protected like that once,” another man declared.

  “But I ain’t never had one of ’em serve me,” a woman said in a mocking, plaintive tone.

  The shorter of the two cops reached for his gun, but Etta James, who had joined her colleagues, grabbed his arm. “Don’t you want to tell Mama all about it instead of shootin’ somebody?”

  “I’m sorry you hate LA so much, darlin’.”

  “I don’t hate it, Samuel—how could I? I’m here with you.”

  “But you don’t really like it here, Mae, I know you don’t.”

  Mae held both his large, rough hands in hers. Squeezed them tightly as she looked all around their carefully tended backyard with its fruit trees and the barbecue pit that Samuel had built, and across the yard to the house: their perfect, beautiful home that was everything Mae had dreamed of—and more. The only thing missing was children, and they had accepted that there would be no kids for them and that was all right. Really, it was. They had each other. “I do not ever want to go back to Louisiana, Samuel. I don’t even like remembering what it was like to live there. Being here is like being in some kind of …”

  “Magic land?”

  Mae grinned at him. He loved LA and she didn’t want to do or say anything to spoil that feeling. “Someplace where you can get in the water and ain’t no gators? I guess that is magic. But I wish I had a wand to wave—I’d warm up that water for sure!”

  “No doubt about it, the Pacific Ocean is some kinda cold water. Up here anyway.”

  Mae remembered the stories he’s told her about his service in the South Pacific during the war. “Is it warmer down by Mexico?”

  Samuel brightened. “You wanna visit Mexico? Why?”

  “The one thing I hoped and prayed for when we left Louisiana and came here was that we were leaving evil white folks behind, but they just as mean and evil here, ’specially the police. And that’s true everywhere in this country, Samuel. All the colored newspapers and magazines from all over everywhere—New York and Chicago and Washington, DC, and Atlanta and Detroit—evil, mean, nasty white folks doin’ what they was doin’ in Louisiana: hatin’ us to death.” She looked about to cry. “Are there white folks in Mexico?”

  Samuel almost wished they never had to leave the safety and serenity of their backyard but recognized the thought for the foolish wishful thinking that it was. They needed to leave this very minute so he could prepare for his monthly poker game.

  They were upstairs above the restaurant. It was a large room—part of it used for storage and the rest held a fully stocked bar, a poker table, a television set, and a radio. Samuel didn’t spend much time here because he preferred being home with Mae, but several of his friends enjoyed the room even though they had to bring their own booze.

  “I hope Eddie Lloyd makes it today,” Mae said. “The cops had him pulled over on Florence this morning.”

  “Probably ’cause of that brand-new Cadillac. You know how they hate that, a colored man with a new car, ’specially a Cadillac.”

  Eddie was indeed the first to arrive. “Mae, Samuel, how’re y’all doing? Ruthie said to tell you hey.”

  “How’s Ruthie?” Mae asked.

  “She’s fine.”

  “How’re you doin’, Eddie?”

  “Fine, thanks, Samuel. Tell the truth, I was a little outta sorts this morning, but I’m fine now.”

  A steady flow of heavy male feet ended all conversation until all six poker players were present, then a general exchange of pleasantries lasted until they had drinks and snacks and their usual places at the table. Mae bid them good night and retired to the combination bedroom–sitting room next door. She could have gone home but Samuel liked for her to stay, and while she knew that he appreciated her presence and having her ride home with him, he also used her presence to end the games that dragged on too long. She drifted off to sleep while reading.

  Mae jerked awake. She thought she heard feet on the stairs, but now fully awake she heard only Jerry Taylor’s silly laugh and Samuel’s challenge to put up or shut up. Mae picked up her book, found her place, and resumed reading Brown Girl, Brownstones. She decided she wanted to visit New York City before Mexico.

  Pounding footsteps woke her again and this time there were loud voices—Samuel’s and white men. She quietly crept to the door and peeked into the main room. Two cops! They had their guns pointed at the five colored men around the table. Five men, not six. Eddie Lloyd was gone. So it must have been his footsteps she’d heard earlier.

  “I said put the money in a bag, nigger. I’m not gon’ ask you again. And I mean ALL of it, all three hundred dollars.”

  Samuel stood up but he didn’t collect the money. He looked at Eddie’s vacant seat, then at the cops. “You think it’s all right to break in my place and steal from me?”

  “We didn’t break in, smart-ass,” one of the cops said.

  “That’s ’cause Eddie left the door unlocked,” Samuel said. “He set us up. That’s how you knew how much money would be in the pot.”

  “You talk too damn much,” the cop said, and without another word he pointed his gun at Samuel and fired.

  “One of you get a bag and put the money in it and the rest of you get out before you can’t,” said the other cop.

  Jerry Taylor told his friends to leave then went behind the bar where he knew there would be empty paper bags. He brought one to the poker table and gathered all the money. He was weeping when he finished. He gave the bag of cash to one of the cops, then started to lean over Samuel.

  “You’re going too, Sambo. Can’t leave no eyewitnesses.”

  Mae was shaking. She’d read a story in the Sentinel about some rogue cops out of the 77th who robbed colored businesses. The beauty parlor where Velma Jackson worked was one of them, but the woman who owned it had a slot in the wall by her station where she dropped most of her money, leaving only enough in the register to make change. When the cops came to rob her one Saturday night after closing they netted about twenty bucks. They didn’t believe that’s all a colored shop had after a busy Saturday, but they couldn’t prove otherwise and the woman’s husband was outside in the car leaning on the horn.

  And here were two cops come to rob Samuel. She grabbed her .45—like everybody in Louisiana, she had a gun because snakes and gators didn’t need an invitation to visit.

  Jerry was dragging his feet and the cop who’d shot Samuel hit him on the back of the head with the butt of his gun. Jerry tripped down a few steps before gaining his balance and hurrying down the final few steps and out the door. Oh God, she wanted to kill them! She raised the pistol and fired into the ceiling.

  The roar in the narrow stairwell was deafening. Both cops fired at her but missed, then dashed out onto the street. Mae hurried down and locked and bolted the door, then knelt down beside Samuel. He was gone—she knew that. The filthy cop shot him in the heart. He probably died immediately and for that she was glad. No suffering for her Samuel. She’s the one who’d suffer now. Forever. But she should be dead too! If only the cops had taken the time to aim, she would be. Then they’d both be dead. There was no one to miss them, so what did it matter?

  The phone kept ringing and someone kept pounding on the door. She struggled to her feet and shuffled to the stairs. Good thing there was a railing to hold on to. She stood at the door, listening.

  “It’s me, Mae. Jerry. Open the door. Please.”

  Mae slid the bolt back, then turned the lock and opened the door a crack. Jerry was there, and behind him, A.C. Jennings, the lawyer. She knew who he was, his picture was in the Sentinel so often.

  “I don’t need a lawyer,” she said when she was back down on the floor, sitting beside Samuel, his head in her lap. “Unless you can make that cop pay for murdering my husband.”

  Jennings explained that calling the police to report her husband’s murder by an LAPD officer would bring dozens of them to this place—where they’d find evidence of illegal activity including gambling, prostitution, narcotics, along with “proof” that her husband was killed because he assaulted a police officer. They would take possession of this building, close the restaurant, “and maybe even seize your home.”

  Mae was too stunned to speak. She just kept watching Jennings, as if he’d walk back his words. Instead, he said, “Your husband died suddenly of a heart attack, Mrs. Hillaire. His good friend Jerry Taylor, an accountant at Golden State Mutual, was present, and is helping you with the details for his funeral.

  “But what about the law, Mr. Jennings?”

  “The law does not protect us.”

  “Then what do you do?”

  “I keep good people like you from making bad mistakes. Now please, Mrs. Hillaire, we need to get this room cleaned up—”

  “Why, damnit! Why?”

  “In case those cops come back or send others. There will be nothing to see.” He asked if she knew why Eddie Lloyd helped the cops rob the poker game.

  “He was mad ’cause Samuel wouldn’t sell his hot dogs here. He argued that people wanted a hot dog with chili as much as a fried chicken or fish dinner, but Samuel said no.”

  The lawyer was thinking so hard the gears in his brain were grinding. He knew everyone in South Central, whether they knew him or not, and he knew Eddie Lloyd had two hot dog stands—one on Florence and one in Watts. “I wonder if the cops came for Eddie’s stands and he made a deal—”

  “He’d keep his money and give ’em ours,” Jerry said bitterly.

  Jennings didn’t argue the point. He asked Mae to change out of her blood-soaked dress, shower, and put on clean clothes. Mae, looking sad and lost, clutched her dress with both hands.

  “Bernice can help you, Mae,” Jerry said gently.

  Mae hadn’t seen Bernice arrive but was thankful for her presence and followed her into the bedroom, where she took Mae’s bloody dress then helped her into the shower. Bernice was the head cook at Mae’s Family Dining and she took charge here with the easy competence that she used to run the restaurant kitchen. While Mae showered, Bernice watched men from the funeral home carefully but quickly wrap and remove Samuel’s body, and then the lawyer’s cleaning crew got rid of every trace of blood. They’d brought pillowcases to collect everything that needed to be disposed of, including Mae’s .45. The cleaning crew even dug the bullets out of the staircase walls.

  When Mae Hillaire returned to find Samuel gone, she screamed his name and fainted.

  “I can’t hardly believe it, Mae! You’re really stepping away from the daily operation of this place?” Velma looked skeptical, impressed, and a little bit proud. She admired her friend as much as she liked her, and the feelings were mutual. Velma had endured a lot in the last few years and she’d not only survived but she seemed stronger.

  First she had nursed Gus through what appeared to be every possible kind of sickness, which required him to move back into their home. When he’d finally had to go into the hospital, Velma was at his side until the end. Mae never saw her shed a tear until A.C. Jennings gave her the details of Gus’s will, which had come as a complete surprise: the house and car now belonged to her, as did the proceeds of two Golden State Life Insurance policies she never knew he had. Tears first leaked from her eyes, then flowed unchecked, accompanied by deep, racking sobs. Mae held her friend.

  Jennings, who seemed to have an endless supply of neat, white handkerchiefs, produced them one after the other, until Velma was cried out. She drank the glass of water he gave her, then she apologized.

  “You got nothing to apologize for, Velma,” Mae had said.

  “Don’t y’all misunderstand me, I’m glad he’s gone. I just wish I could ask him why I had to wait till he was dead to learn that he gave a damn about me!” She pointed at the file on the lawyer’s desk. “I never knew about none of this! He always told me his business wasn’t none of my business, then, when he was dying, he kept wanting to talk about growing up in Texas. Not one kind word for me.”

  “Maybe he didn’t know how to speak kind words, Mrs. Jackson,” Jennings had said, passing the file across the desk. “Here’s the deed to your house, the title to your car, the life insurance check—all in your name—and Mr. Jackson’s death certificate, and this is all your business.”

  Mae looked across the table at Velma, remembering that day at the lawyer’s office. They hadn’t spoken of it until now.

  “How do you know this is the right time to walk away, Mae? What makes this the right time? After all, you’ve been free for a long time, not like me.” With the death of her son in a prison yard fight a year ago, Velma now was completely free. She knew that Gus Jr. had been charged with murdering a man named Dave Hebert, but Mae doubted that she recalled him as the man Mae and Samuel had run away from all those years ago, if they’d even mentioned his name. In a confrontation described as “stupid as shit” by witnesses, a staggering-drunk Hebert had waved a knife at a high-as-a-kite Gus Jackson Jr. and threateded to kill him unless he told where the fried chicken lady was. He’d slashed Gus to show he was serious. The sight of his own gushing blood had killed Gus’s high and he tackled Hebert and stabbed the man with his own knife, killing him. Witnesses said it was self-defense, and Mae had hired A.C. Jennings to prove it, but what the DA saw was that a Black man had killed a white one. What was the white man doing there, Jennings had asked the jury, but the DA got the question dismissed so no one knew how close Dave Hebert had come to finding the fried chicken lady and Mae didn’t think Velma realized that Dave Hebert’s yelling was more than just the crazy talk of a drunk.

  Mae sighed. Maybe it was time—not just to release her hold on Mae’s Family Dining but to release her closely held worries too. “It’s about the eights, Velma. The eighth month and years ending in eight: Samuel and I left Louisiana in August 1948. That cop murdered Samuel in August 1958. And it’s now August 1968—”

  “Has something happened, Mae?” Velma looked frightened.

  “No, no,” Mae said. “It’s just … I’m still not over Dr. King’s murder. It still upsets my stomach like it was yesterday. So … a four-month and an eight-year. Kind of a balance …”

  “What will you do with your time?” Velma was surprised when Mae laughed.

  “I have discovered the Los Angeles Public Library. If I read two books a day, I still couldn’t read all the books by and about Negroes!” Mae sounded like a little kid in her excitement. “And so many of the librarians are colored women … Negro women … Black women, and they help you find books to read! I wish Samuel was here, he would love going to the library. But we didn’t know about libraries, and we didn’t have time for that anyway. And it’s not just one library, Velma, there’s a bunch of ’em and we can go to whatever one we want!”

  “But you can’t read all day, every day,” Velma said.

  “I think maybe I could. But I don’t have to ’cause I’m learning how to swim. And there’s more than one pool too! Can you swim, Velma?”