Chapter 9
“The Savoy”
Marguerite bathed and prepared herself for a rendezvous with a married preacher named Richard Goode, who also served as the Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan. She usually met her clients, as she called them, while Johnnie was in school or after she went to bed. Goode had been paying for her sexual expertise for years, unbeknownst to the Klan for obvious reasons. Their sexual liaison was a closely guarded secret, but like most secrets, word leaked out. The few colored folk who knew about it kept quiet for various reasons. Most of them feared repeated reprisals from the Klan, but Robert Simmons had his own reasons for keeping it quiet.
Simmons was a black man who owned the Savoy Hotel. His family owned it since he was a little boy. Now, he managed the hotel’s daily operations and often greeted guests at the main desk. The hotel earned its reputation for allowing mixed couples to check in several years earlier when Simmons let one of his friends bring a white woman there to make love.
Simmons was against it at first, fearing the white populace might burn down his hotel if word ever got out. Slowly, the news spread that it was okay to bring white women to the Savoy. Late one night, Richard Goode brought Marguerite to the hotel. He was surprisingly cordial, but he made Simmons promise to keep it quiet. If he agreed, Goode promised he would see to it that nothing happened to his hotel. When Simmons asked how he planned to do that, Goode told him he would simply tell the Klan that any white woman who would sleep with a nigger was trash and was of no use to the white race. It would be best to let the degenerates leave the race so the pure white women would remain.
Simmons agreed. Since then, mixed couples had the freedom to go to the Savoy to indulge their carnal appetites. Strangely enough, racial problems continued to pervade the city. The Savoy was the only safe haven in New Orleans for such activity. Simmons, as did many of the black men who worked there, hated the idea of black women sleeping with white men. Nevertheless, Simmons allowed it to go on in his hotel because these illicit affairs made him a lot of money.
It had been hot all day, but now it was quite cool. The wind felt good on Marguerite’s skin at first, but she was getting cold. She folded her arms to keep from shivering. She was standing at the corner of Waite and Henry Streets just two blocks from where she lived, wearing a short black skirt and pumps. She wasn’t wearing any panties because Goode loved to feel her up as he drove down the street, grinning.
She heard a car coming. It’s about time. She thought it was Mr. Goode, as he demanded she call him, arriving to pick her up, but it wasn’t. It was Sable Parish Sheriff Paul Tate, who was a regular client before his wife found out. He stopped the black and white, then rolled down the window.
“Now, what’s a fine thing like you doing out here, Marguerite?”
Sheriff Tate got out and leaned against the patrol car with his arms folded. He was wearing a beige uniform and a black wide-brimmed Mounty hat. He was tall and slender and sported a thick mustache.
Marguerite walked over to him, feeling sexier with each step, and said, “Hi, Sheriff Tate. How you doin’ tonight?” She reached out and patted his beer belly. She could smell beer on his breath. “Still drinkin’ in the squad car on lonely nights, huh?”
“You gettin’ beside yo’self, woman. Don’t think you can talk to me any way you want. I’m still the fuckin’ sheriff.”
“I know you the sheriff, Paul, honey. I know,” she said, rubbing her hands across his chest.
“You waitin’ on the preacher to pick you up for one of his late night snacks?”
“Uh-huh,” Marguerite said, sliding her hand down to his crotch. She could feel him stiffening in her hand. “You need a snack tonight?”
Sheriff Tate couldn’t contain his lust. He never could with her. She was the sexiest woman he had ever known. He couldn’t be in her presence two minutes without wanting to take her. He tried for years to leave her alone, but his lust kept him coming back for more. He grabbed her shoulders and kissed her deeply.
“Now, Paul honey, you know I have a date tonight,” Marguerite said, pulling away. “If you want to see me, all you have to do is call.”
“You know I shouldn’t be seeing you, Marguerite. Why do you torture me so?”
“Am I torturin’ you?” Marguerite teased.
“You know you are,” Tate said and kissed her again.
Marguerite could see Goode’s dark blue Chevrolet out of the corner of her eye, just down the street. She knew he was watching. She pulled away and backed off, then she folded her arms and smiled. “Yo’ wife still houndin’ you about seein’ me?”
Tate told her that he promised his wife he wouldn’t see her again, but Marguerite wanted to keep the money coming in. She had a nice little nest egg saved up. “Let’s leave my wife outta this.”
With a serious tone, Marguerite said, “Sheriff Tate, are you going to arrest me tonight or what? ’Cause if you are, go ahead and arrest me. If you’re not, then you need to let me handle my business with the preacher.”
“Marguerite, you know I’m not going to arrest you. I just don’t understand why you would take that hypocritical Klan leader as a client.”
“Oh please, Paul. Where you get off callin’ anybody a hypocrite? Look at you. You’re the parish sheriff and you drink on duty. You pay me to have sex and you’re married.”
“Yeah, well, at least I’m not a redneck racist.”
“You’re not, huh?”
“No, I’m not.”
“So, you don’t call us niggas?”
“Hey, I only call the bad ones that.”
“Just the men, you mean. Yet you wanna fuck me every chance you get.”
Sheriff Tate got back in the car and started it. He looked at her again, and said, “Put me down for tomorrow night.” Then he drove off.