The Bootlegger's Mistress

By Marc Curtis Little

A streetwise African American teenager hastily departs bigoted Anderson, South Carolina in the 1940s. During her travels over a span of nearly eighty years, she assumes the identity of her alter ego while living a good life as a nationally respected media mogul. But it is marked with deep-rooted secrets: one involving the murder of a White man a

• Language: English
• Publisher: MLPR Books
• Release date: Oct 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9780578737485

Marc Curtis Little

Marc Curtis Little is an award-winning author of seven novels and one of America's better known independently published writers. His historical fiction-inspired novels FAITHFUL SERVANTS: THE COLLECTOR'S EDITION, AFTER OBAMA, MAGNIFICENT REDEMPTION and THE BOOTLEGGER'S MISTRESS have earned five Next Generation Indie Book Awards since 2014, along with two National Indie Excellence Awards (2011 for ANGELS IN THE MIDST and 2021 for THE BOOTLEGGER'S MISTRESS) and a Winners Award from the Independent Press Awards for THE BOOTLEGGER'S MISTRESS in 2021. As a radio broadcaster, Little was cited by Billboard Magazine seven times over fifteen years as a top personality and programmer, and the Public Relations Society of America recognized him twice with the President's Award for contributions to the public relations industry. A native of Newark, New Jersey, Little lives with his family in Jacksonville, Florida.

Book preview

Carrie was counting the money after Mr. Butler’s office closed. The quiet of the building was somewhat chilling, just as the events of the day were frantic. Hours earlier, watching from another room, Carrie witnessed an argument between her father and Mr. Butler. Her father, Hallie Lacey, had warned the White man to stop making suggestive remarks to his daughter. Butler, whose attitude toward Blacks typified the mindset of many southerners in the United States during the 1930s, told Mr. Lacey that he was lucky he didn’t take advantage of her, since she had been sending messages in the way she dressed while working for him.

You need to leave me ‘lone, Carrie had told Mr. Butler, as he walked toward her. The only light in the tiny room came from the moon in its half phase.

You not gonna do anythang ‘cause people been noticin’ how you dress when you come in here, Mr. Butler had whispered. ’Dey know you been here all times of night, and ‘dey done seen you wit’ me when I be gamblin’. Ain’t nobody gonna know wha’ I did ‘cause you cain’t tell. Now you might as well go on ‘head an’ take off yo’ clothes if you don’ want me to tear ‘em off you.

Carrie realized she was in no position to ward off Mr. Butler’s advances. She was only fifteen. Many townspeople already gossiped about her father’s wisdom in allowing her to work for Butler, but she knew of the plan her father had conceived. Carrie also knew that if her father ever discovered Mr. Butler had done anything to her, his life would be in danger. No matter what penalty he might suffer, her father would defend his child’s honor.

As I sit here and listen to the speakers talk about me, I wonder if they are talking about the person I truly am. The unconventional traveler from upstate South Carolina through Jacksonville, Florida to Newark, New Jersey. I moved, like many others, during the Great Migration of Blacks from the south to the north in the 1940s. A woman who doesn’t know her family. A checkered past. That’s me.

I hear them speaking about my alliances with the she-roes of yesterday: Shirley Chisholm, the first Black woman elected to Congress; Barbara Jordan, the first Black woman from the south to be elected to Congress; Dorothy Height, the longtime women’s and civil rights activist; Flo Kennedy, the celebrated attorney and feminist; among others. About my friendships with women who had to fight being doubly discriminated against—for being female and being Black.

I appreciate being saluted at this Women’s History Month luncheon that is honoring many of New Jersey’s prominent ladies. I didn’t only work with Black women. I collaborated on many projects that included Newark native Muriel Fox, a highly esteemed White woman, and many others from her side of the racial divide.

Connie Woodruff, Sally Carroll, Alma Flagg, Louise Scott-Rountree, State Senator Winona Lipman, Gladys Barker Grauer, Bernice Bass, Edith Mae Savage and Jeroline Lee were just a few of the Black women honored at this event for their contributions to Newark. While their legacies were intact before they passed on, mine is just getting there at the age of ninety-five. But, do the speakers know the real me?

My mind is racing through the events of my life before I arrived in Newark in the early ‘50s, but I can’t begin to talk about any of that in mixed company. Not because of the misery those conversations might inflict. Not because of the pain in memories of good people who are no longer with me. Not because of guilt for things I might have said to someone, statements I now regret. None of that.

My thoughts now are focused on the events, if revealed, that would change people’s minds about who they think I am. Could it be I am the devil in disguise? Perhaps. Could it be that the skeletons in my closet have meat on them? Oh my God, am I really going there?

Inside, I am screaming. Outside, I feel a cold sweat. Is it noticeable to the overflow audience? What about the people who are seated close to me at this head table?

The minister is walking to the microphone, to give the benediction. Thank you, Lord, we’ll be leaving soon. I will try to avoid small talk while I get out of here. I pray that no one notices my frantic state. I’ll let my grandson know that I am ready to get away from this claustrophobic environment, so he can get my coat and we can hurry to the car.

The minister says Amen. The crowd moves toward the exits. My escort tells me there are some people who want to take a picture with me. I don’t mind, especially when she says I look too good not to appear in a photo with the attendees.

I walk toward the back of the room. My grandson, Nathan Absalom Caughman, whose nickname is Baby Boy, walks step-by-step with me while he holds my coat. He notices the sweat on my face and remarks that I look weary. I assure him that I feel fine, but to be certain, I take my compact from my purse, dab my forehead and cheeks with the puff.

People are effusive in their praise of my career. I assure them I was blessed to be in the midst of greatness, that if it is an angelic choir, I merely play the harp.

After a while, I start to feel better. Memories of the past are fading and my body’s aches begin to ease. As I get closer to the group who want a photo with me, I dab my forehead again and wipe away the sweat that remains. It is this moment when they walk up to me. Officers from the Newark Police Department.

They ask me to identify myself. Though Baby Boy questions the right of the authorities to detain me, I tell them my name is Dicie Caughman. When one of them asks if I am from Anderson, South Carolina, I refuse to answer. I want to know why he needs to know. He demands that I answer his question, but Baby Boy says that if there is an intent to arrest me, he needs to read the Miranda Rights to me. According to the officers, they only want me to come to headquarters voluntarily, for questioning.

No sweat pours from my body. No body language showing despair. An expressionless face.

My mind begins racing in reverse, taking me back to a place that was once nirvana, then transformed to perdition in the blink of a child’s eye.

The little boy peered into the backyard of the Lacey home, eyeing the pretty girl playing with her friend. It was the early 1930s.

Carrie, who is ‘dat boy over ‘dere? He keep lookin’ ova’ here.

I dunno. Go ask him.

Uh uh. He look funny. Look at his hair. It look like White folk.

Stop bein’ silly, Nappy Eddie. Carrie walked toward the boy next door.

Wha’ yo’ name?

Louis. Louis Bilal.

You from here?

Nope. I’m from Newark, New Jersey.

Where ‘dat at?

You not s’pose to ask people ‘bout ‘dey business, girl. Nappy Eddie said as he joined the conversation.

My daddy tol’ me if you wanna know somethin’ you ask.

I don’t mind. She ain’t botherin’ me. Newark, New Jersey is up north.

You talk funny, Carrie said, kinda like our teacher at school. She went to college in Washington, D.C.

Nappy Eddie began eyeing Louis from head to toe with a prejudiced mindset. Whatcha doin’ here?

My grandmother is leavin’ here to go to Newark. Me and my mother are ridin’ on the train with her. My father said she in danger down here. ‘Dese White people ain’t right in the south.

Where yo’ daddy? Nappy Eddie asked.

He in jail.

Why?

’Cause he ain’t afraid of White people.

My daddy ain’t either, but he ain’t leavin’ his home, Carrie said. ’Dis is his property an’ he say ain’t nobody takin’ it.

My grandma said ‘dat too, but some White people ‘round here tol’ her she need to leave her property. And ‘dey wasn’t real nice. ‘Dat’s why she goin’ back to Newark wit’ us.

’Dey tol’ my uncle ‘da same thang, Nappy Eddie said.

Carrie! a voice called from the house. You chirren wan’ sumpin’ to drank?

Yes ma’am, Ms. Lacey! yelled Nappy Eddie.

Since when yo’ name Carrie? Carrie bellowed to him. You betta’ be nice to me befo’ I call you a name beside Nappy Eddie.

You not s’pose to call me ‘dat. An’ you ain’t s’pose to say bad words.

Just go in da’ house an’ git the lemonade, boy, Carrie said. Louis walked out of his grandmother’s backyard and into Carrie’s front yard.

Who is you an’ Carrie talkin’ to? Carrie’s mother asked Eddie.

A boy name Louis. He say he from up north. He look funny, Ms. Lacey. He got ‘dat good hair.

He’s a Muslim.

Wha’s a Muslim, Ms. Lacey?

They don’ believe in Jesus Christ an’ they don’ like White people.

My uncle don’ like White people neither, but he love Jesus Christ. ‘Dat mean my uncle part Muslim?

Louis and Carrie were engaged in a deep, yet innocent conversation. You look like some of ‘da girls in Newark. Pretty brown skin, good hair, nice teeth.

’Dey tell me I git it from my granddaddy. He a Cherokee Indian. He met my grandmama when ‘dey was young an’ married her when she was a teenager. He tol’ us a lot ‘bout our Cherokee family befo’ he left here. He go to another state las’ year.

Wha’ he tell ya’?

How he help ‘da White people make money afta’ ‘da boll weevil ate up ‘da cotton fields.

Wha’ he do?

I ain’t s’pose to tell nobody ‘bout it, but since you ain’t stayin’ here I guess I can tell you. He showed White people how to make moonshine.

Moonshine? Wha’s ‘dat?

It’s somethin’ chirren ain’t s’pose to drank. An’ it stank too, Carrie declared with emphasis while holding her nose.

I know wha’ you talkin’ about. ‘Dey drink that stuff at the places they call speakeasies up north. My father went ‘dere a lotta times, but afta’ he heard ‘da Honorable Elijah Muhammad talk ‘bout how a Black man should do the right thing, he became a Muslim an’ stopped goin’.

Who ‘dis Elijah Muhamma’?

He ‘da smartest man in ‘da world. Kinda’ like a preacher.

My granddaddy is a smart man too. He taught my mama a whole lot ‘bout savin’ money, an’ she taught my daddy ‘da same thang. ‘Dey don’t say a lot ‘bout ‘dat ‘cause ‘da White people might try to steal ‘dey money. You thaink all white people bad?

Uh uh. I go to school wit’ some of ‘em. The teachers treat me an’ the other colored children different from ‘da White children. A lot of us smarter ‘dan ‘dem, but we get lower marks on our report cards. My mother went to ‘da school a bunch of times an’ tol’ ‘da principal ‘bout it.

We cain’t go to school wit White chirren down here. An’ ‘dey school look betta’ ‘den ours. But me an’ my brothas an’ sistas read real good an’ we know ‘rithmetic real good. Mama tol’ us ‘dat no White child is betta’ ‘dan us an’ one day we gonna be able to prove it.

’Dat’s real good, but yo’ family need to move before ‘da White people take your land. My father said White people in ‘da south don’t like Negroes ownin’ property. He say Negroes live better in the north.

Is ‘da White people up north better ‘dan ‘dese down here?

Yeah, I think so. They don’t treat Negroes up there like they treat Negroes down here. My father say it’s because the law is different up north.

Do yo’ daddy like White people up north?

My mind is all tied up in ‘what if’ and ‘what could be’. What does the Newark Police Department want to talk to me about? What could be so important that they sent detectives to pick me up? What if they find what they’re looking for?

We follow the detectives to the F.B.I. headquarters in Newark. Once we enter the building, Baby Boy is not allowed to accompany me to the holding room. I get testy with him after he asks if he should call a lawyer. Though I begin having reservations about going into a questioning session with the police without legal representation, I nonetheless walk with them to an office in the basement. There are detectives from Anderson, South Carolina in the room who are investigating a murder.

They ask me about knowing a McArthur Haygood, a Silas Osborne, about knowing people in Jacksonville, Florida. I tell them nothing. I then let them know if they are not filing charges against me, I can walk out of the office. They begin to get belligerent with me, stating they could turn the case over to the F.B.I. and they could keep me in the room while questioning me until I get legal representation. Thank God for the two Newark Police Department detectives stopping the questioning and reminding the officers from South Carolina that they are not in a position to arrest me, which would prevent the F.B.I. from intervening.

Relief overwhelms my 95-year old body as the two detectives escort me from the F.B.I. building. They tell me they made the decision to meet with the South Carolina law enforcement officials at the F.B.I. headquarters so I wouldn’t face a media frenzy from reporters at the Newark Police Department headquarters. One of them knows my name, but has no idea of my accomplishments during a professional life that has spanned over sixty years. He agrees with Baby Boy that I am a national treasure.

Really? The same young girl who was forced to help a liquor bootlegger who also owned an unsavory gambling club? The girl who helped him keep track of the profits from his illegal enterprises? The same young girl who unlawfully transported peaches to cultivate a specific type of moonshine that was exclusively produced by the same Southern mobster and his notorious henchmen? The young girl who worked behind closed doors with this White man. Is she a national treasure? I counted his money and helped keep the federal government from taxing it; we paid bribes to local law enforcement to keep their mouths shut. I delivered all he needed.

I was perceived by some to be the colored equivalent of the gangster moll, Bonnie, of the infamous Bonnie and Clyde bank robbing gang—someone who was more than merely working for the dealer. Figure that out for yourself. I dare you.

I do remember certain things that happened in Anderson, South Carolina in the 1930s, even though conventional wisdom says that the mind of a 95-year old woman is not capable of such mental agility. I recall the expressions of the people who saw me driving the dealer’s car to run his errands, going in and out of his business establishments to make transactions, sitting at the table when he and his friends played poker, observing the games of shooting dice, stuff that a girl my age should not have been doing.

There was a master scheme behind all of this, conceived by a single individual, my father. As my mind wanders, I see the finality of what he believed could happen if his personal mission had been taken to its worthy conclusion.

The events of that tragic night are unfortunately being unearthed; a calamity which dramatically changed everything my father worked for. Now, all these years later, my life has been thrown into a dizzying series of occurrences, and I am faced with the choice to be their caretaker…or, will I be their victim?

Hallie Lacey arrived home from the fields after a day’s work. His wife had dinner prepared as usual. The children—three boys and four girls—including Carrie, had set the table. With the help of his father-in-law, Lacey had transformed the fields from growing cotton after the boll weevil devastation in the early 1920s, to harvesting fresh fruits and vegetables. Peaches, apples, blueberries, strawberries, sweet potatoes, peanuts, collared greens, carrots and cabbage were the main crops.

Mr. Butler came by ‘bout an hour ago. Say he wanna speak wit’ you, Mrs. Lacey said. We got problems wit’ ‘dem folk?

Nothin’ I cain’t handle. Don’ worry.

Daddy, ‘dis little boy from up north say ‘dat White people is evil an’ ‘dey wanna take yo’ land. ‘Dat’s not true, is it Daddy?

Eat yo’ suppa’, Carrie. Don’ you chirren worry ‘bout ‘dat. Who tol’ her ‘dat anyway?

Ms. Mae’s grandson. ‘Da little boy who father had to leave from down here a few years ago, Mrs. Lacey said in a hushed tone, her eyes expressing bewilderment.

"You mean ‘da man who was talkin’ ‘bout followin’ ‘dose Muslims up ‘dere in ‘da north?

His grandma tol’ me he in jail fo’ fightin’ police up ‘dere." The other children were quiet, busily eating until they were all startled by a knock on the door.

Hallie, I need to speak wit’ you, a tall, well-built, White man said as Mr. Lacey opened the door.

I’m eatin’ my suppa’, Mr. Butler. There were three other white men dressed in overalls with Butler.

I need to talk to you righ’ now. Mr. Lacey went outside. Mrs. Lacey stood a few feet from the doorway.

Mama, I’m scared, Carrie said. The other children began to cry.

Hush up right now, Mrs. Lacey demanded. Yo’ daddy will take care o’ ‘dis, ya’ hear?

The four men spoke to Mr. Lacey in a disrespectful tone. You Negroes don’ wanna do wha’ you tol’, Mr. Butler said, giving the impression that he was a slaveowner’s overseer brandishing a whip.

Yeah, long time ago you woulda got whipped fo’ steppin’ outta line, nigga, one of the other men said as he held a cigarette butt between his nicotine-stained fingers.

Lacey, ain’t nobody gonna whip ya’, I’ll see to ‘dat, Butler said in a calmer voice. But you ain’t workin’ ‘dis land like you s’pose to, an’ I ain’t makin’ no money.

’Dis land is my land an’ I’m givin’ you what we agreed I s’pose to give you.

You need to stop sayin’ ‘dat, Hallie. You got no proof ‘dis is yo’ land. You agreed to work ‘dis land, wit’ yo’ family out ‘dere heppin’ you. Now, is you understandin’ me?

"Mr. Butler, you know jus’ what ‘da arrangement is ‘bout ‘dis here land an’ who own it. ‘Dat was settled when ‘da hydro’lectric plant got built a long time ago. You know ‘dat. My wife’s daddy had ‘dat lil’ piece o’ property ova’ on ‘da Seneca River an’ sol’ it to ‘dose ‘lectric people. ‘Da deal was