It would be no time before Mike heard from his father about getting himself involved with Elliot. They would fight. He would hear about how he was supposed to bring the entire mishpachah into respectability. How he could have hired another Jew, rather than a colored girl. How Izzy paid his way through law school to work for his father, not be some schlepper in Springfield, taking pennies from farmers. In his bones, Mike could feel the battle coming.
Elliot was broke, down, and busted. When he reached out to George for help, he dragged all his Southville folks into it. Doc Shapiro. Izzy’s favorite kid. He put George’s success—corrupt as it was—on the line, just for getting drunk in the wrong joint while on the lam. Damn them big-legged women. Sure, he was thankful to be out of jail, but where would he go? Not back to Southville. That’d be a worse tangle than if he remained in the Meat Locker.
“You really put it on ’em in there, Mike,” Elliot said, breaking the silence. “I’ve seen nickel-slick, but that was dime-smooth.”
“You deal in probate, right? Wills and such?” George said.
“Keeps the lights on as I log time on race cases.”
“A lot of money in race cases?” Elliot asked.
“I have my reasons,” said Mike. “So what will you do, Caprice?”
“What do you mean?”
“Sounds like you’re done with being a cop. What’s next?”
“Mindin’ my lonely.” Elliot smirked as he watched the road.
“Is he always like this?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Right here, midway up the block,” Mike said.
George parked in front of Mike’s apartment building. It was inelegant, meant only for working folks, not well-off ambidexters. He had cut himself off from his family. Izzy would drop dead if he knew his son lived in some WPA joint.
The trio got out of the car. Elliot approached Mike.
“See here, Mikey,” Elliot said. “I know it wasn’t easy for you to do that favor.”
“When the good doctor calls, you don’t say no.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
“Thanks for everything,” George said.
“Good luck in the job, Sheriff. That’s a hard town to serve.”
They shook hands before Mike put his arm behind Elliot’s shoulder. He led him to the side. George stood by the car.
“Not to pry, but if you don’t have plans in the interim, I could use a crafty fella at the office. I’m up to my neck in estate administration but my process servers keep quitting on me. You may knock on the door of the occasional weirdo, but you shouldn’t have to get your hands dirty. It’s easy work.”
“I’m going to put dinner away, Michael!”
The three looked skyward to see Elaine standing in the window appearing most unlike a paralegal. Tousled hair. Modest nightgown, but a nightgown nonetheless.
“I’m coming already,” Mike said.
“Miss Elaine,” George said. He tipped his hat while looking at his feet.
“Sheriff. How’s the breeding coming along?”
“Obviously, I should go,” Mike said. “Consider my offer.”
“Thanks again, Mikey.” Elliot waved goodbye, which was a lot.
Once Mike Robin was gone, George opened the door of the cruiser.
“Don’t that beat all?” George said.
“Fella said he had his reasons.”
Off the two went into the night one white man short of a safer ride on the Illinois highway system.
They rode in silence, no radio, no conversation. They had been friends since forever, so George could feel Elliot’s ticks. Elliot could feel George feeling them. Southville was the last place he wanted to be. Best to stop it before it started.
“Look here, Georgie,” he said. “Get me on to the station up in Lincoln.”
“We’re going back to Southville.”
“You’re goin’ back to Southville. I’m goin’ to Kansas City.”
“Elliot, you just got out of jail.”
“Don’t worry, fat boy. I got folks who served with me over that way. They’ll put up with me for a while.”
“Doc Shapiro made a request, which we both know was an order. You need to see him.”
“He probably just wants to catch up. I’ll call him myself once I’m in KC.”
“He said it’s about your uncle.”
“What about my uncle?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
“Fuckin’ Doc. He and Rabinowitz, the Sanhedrin of Southville. What do you know about it?”
“Can’t say I’ve run into him, really.”
“Good job, Georgie.” Elliot grew agitated. “Southville County’s holiest can’t do a ride-by to make certain the goddamned Caprice family farm hasn’t burned down? Her eminence Mother Stingley didn’t have a pie you could take him?”
George abruptly pulled over to the shoulder, slammed on the brakes and shoved the gearshift into place. He could hold his composure better than most, but mention his mother in less than pleasant terms and George would come right up out himself.
“I should have hung up on your arrogant ass—”
“Language, Georgie.”
“You may be surprised to know that while you’ve been gone, life moved forward. Elliot Caprice isn’t the most important person—”
“Whoa.”
“I’m have responsibilities to an entire county. I don’t have time to step and fetch for your precious Jews—”
“Hey, watch it now, George.”
“Go to hell, Elliot!”
“Man, you gonna burn through all your allotted curse words for the month.”
Elliot joked because he was nervous. No one wanted to face George Stingley when he was done playin’.
“Alright, Reverend.” Elliot raised his hands in surrender. “Alright. I’m not tryin’ to be an asshole. I’m just under the gun is all.”
“I stuck my neck out for you, again.”
George punched the steering wheel with his big, black fist. The cruiser went silent. They didn’t look at each other. A few cars passed by, their headlights cast light through the dark moment between friends.
“I didn’t say thank you,” Elliot said.
“What else could I have done?”
“You could’ve hung up.”
Another car passed. This time, it slowed down to look inside their vehicle.
“It’s getting dark. We better get on.”
George started the cruiser.
“You’re welcome.” George said. “I’m just glad you’re alright.”
They pulled back onto the highway.
“My uncle, huh?”
“Tell him it concerns his uncle. That’s all he said.”
“Damn.”
The year Elliot spent on the run, he hadn’t thought once that Uncle Buster could have needed him. Even before, the extent of their contact was brief letters containing money Elliot knew the proud man would never spend. Occasionally he’d call making small talk, but nothing more. He never let on about what he was doing. It was safer that way. When everything fell apart, he chose to run rather than track his misery back to Southville. It was the right thing to do. Still, in all, he wasn’t there for his uncle. Buster Caprice was more man than most, yet he was only a man. In the time he was away, Elliot forgot that he would eventually grow old.
“You think it’s something serious or Shapiro just playing games?”
“Doc doesn’t play games.”
“Where am I taking you, Elliot?”
Everything within Elliot told him to say the train station in Lincoln.
“I guess we’re goin’ home.”
CHAPTER 5
It was a chilly Chicago night, but the final package Elliot carried made it hot as summer. He tapped at his chest to feel the thick manila envelope through his black leather jacket. He worried his nervous sweat would ruin the contents inside. The risk was enough for him to reconsider the entire score. He should have pulled up stakes the min
ute he was left out in the cold, but his guilt about his past as the youngest, blackest member of the Roseland Boys wasn’t going to resolve itself. Besides, he was a Caprice. That meant he always finished what he started, personal risk be damned.
The northbound Red Line train pulled into Addison station. Only a few late riders—likely third-shifters headed home from the stockyards—were on the car with him. He pulled down his black eight-panel cap to obscure his face. For good measure, he fingered his service revolver in his right pocket. Just before the doors closed, he hopped off. A quick check of his surroundings yielded no additional worry. He traveled late enough where it would be easy to spot a tail. If things had to get messy, no witnesses.
He felt the heft of the gun in his pocket as he trotted down the stairs to the street below. The southbound train passed overhead as he checked all directions before he jogged west, cutting through a neighbor’s walk to the alley behind Bill Drury’s place.
The garage door was closed, which left him standing in the alley, out in the open. Like an asshole. Whatever Bill was doing, he wasn’t covering Elliot’s ass, per usual.
He stood off to the side near some city ashcans, just outside a pool of greenish amber streetlight. Drury had until twenty to show before he’d dangle.
“Thousand one…thousand two…”
He saw light through the side-door window pane. Elliot banged on the door. Up it went. Drury stood on the other side, chewing on a stubbed cigar, making that same annoying Cheshire cat grin.
“You’re late,” Elliot said.
“I was having dinner.”
Elliot pushed past him.
“Please. Come in.”
“Goddamn it, Bill,” Elliot said. “I don’t mind tellin’ you I’m tired—”
“Why don’t’ you come up?”
“What?”
“My daughter made pot roast.”
Elliot stared through Drury, blinking at the utter mundanity of the offer. The notion of retiring to the man’s eat-in kitchen to enjoy dinner was absurdly enticing. Maybe, after they look at the contraband for which he risked his life, they’d discuss the Bears’ chances at the championship. Debate White Sox versus Cubs.
“Man, I should’ve been gone.”
“She makes a damn good pot roast. I made her leave it on the stove, in case you wanted some.”
Drury smiled. Not like a jerk, but an honest-to-goodness, happy to see you smile. Elliot and Bill had become something close to good friends. They related to each other’s absurd level of rage at society gone wrong. They both loved being a cop, but despised what had become of the Chicago Police Department. They mutually exploited each other—Bill wanted fame and fortune, Elliot wanted payback—but they respected each other, in a twisted sort of way. Sure, Drury would throw him under the bus if he had to, but Elliot expected that of white folks. Besides, Drury was a North sider, which was far different than South Side ofays, who figured they shouldn’t have to look at colored folk once they came home from working with them all day. He was good Chicago. By comparison, Elliot was barely allowed to stand in Izzy’s back yard. Drury was once brass, and here he offered up his daughter’s pot roast to a half-colored mule. Elliot almost felt bad at what he was to say next.
“We can’t do this again, Lieutenant.”
“You serious?”
“One day, I’m gonna wind up steppin’ on my own dick. This shit is too hot.”
“Don’t worry, kiddo. I’ve kept you out of it.”
“Oh, I bet you have.”
“Hey, have I ever screwed you before?”
“After Kefauver, there ain’t much screwin’ left.”
Elliot pulled the envelope from his jacket. Drury took it.
“This is heavy,” Drury said.
“Don’t I know it.”
The latest delivery was about an inch thick. This haul was the real deal.
“You did good, Caprice. Goddamn, pally. This is a score.”
“The last score.”
“I’ll assume there’s nothing in here about—”
“You know our deal, Bill.”
“Rabinowitz would be the cherry on top,” Drury said. “You don’t owe him anything.”
“I know I don’t.” Elliot looked over his shoulder. “If we’re going to stand here, can we at least close the garage door?”
“Let’s have a drink. To celebrate. C’man.”
“I’ll have one in your honor. Once I’m back on the South Side.”
Elliot offered Bill a final handshake. Drury hesitated.
“Caprice, you’ve got the mind of an arch criminal.” Drury took his hand. “With the heart of a cop.”
“So, I’m fucked either way.”
Drury laughed, looked as if he wanted to say something else, but the sound of thunder broke through the garage. His jaw exploded. His chest went next, which left a mosaic of blood and flesh on Elliot’s face. On instinct, Elliot yanked his service revolver from his pocket. His left shoulder caught fire.
“Elliot,” George said. “Elliot, wake up.”
Elliot opened his eyes. Straight ahead, through the rolling dusk, were the poorly sequenced street lights.
“Are you alright? You were thrashing about pretty good there.”
Elliot said nothing.
“I figured I’d let you sleep,” George said. “How’s your head?”
“Still attached. Guess we’re here.”
“Yep.”
She sat as he remembered her: a patchwork of farmland. A few industrial employers. Neighborhoods for all the different classes, sectioned off by race. It supported two congressmen but only one hospital. The fire department was modern. The only law was George. The main drag was paved as were the affluent blocks. The rest were still dirt roads lit by gaslight. Nearly equidistant between St. Louis and Chicago, and situated along the Illinois River, Southville was the midpoint between Missouri bondage and Chicago freedom. It bore the appearance of small town U.S.A., which was good for mobsters like Frank Nitti, who used it as a place to stash loot. In time, the town was flush, so much that folks got used to finding an occasional body in the corn stalks.
George hung a right at Aberdeen Avenue.
“New lights, huh?”
“Yeah. Roseland Boys got the city fathers to put them in last year.”
“Why you would ever want to be sheriff is beyond me.”
“My father wanted me to want it.”
“They do that, don’t they,” Elliot said. “Be thankful you had the one, Georgie Boy. I got three fathers. Ain’t nan one happy with me.”
George stopped the car outside Doc Shapiro’s. The light was on in his exam room.
“Case in point.”
“It’s good to have you around again,” George said. “Will you stay?”
Elliot grunted.
“Well, just let me know whatever you do. If it’s safe to say, I mean.”
“Thanks, Georgie. You did me right.”
“Let me know if you want to meet up at Duffy’s later.”
“Duffy’s? When did you start drinkin’?”
“When I started fishing bodies out of the river for a living.”
The sheriff pulled off. Elliot walked up to the door. It was locked, so he walked around the corner to the alley. The special entrance was cracked open. Doc saw them pull up—he saw everything. He wondered when the last time one of the Izzy’s crew was brought in for triage.
Doc was doing busy work: replacing consumables, sorting records—everything he himself used to do. This meant he was ill at ease. Rummaging through his things was a sign he was rummaging through his mind.
“What’s that ya say there, Doc?”
He didn’t turn around, which made Elliot feel even worse.
“Zay mir moykhl tatenui.”
Doc walked over to Elliot. He took his ward’s face in his old doctor’s hands, which smelled like antiseptic and tobacco, his only vice.
“Ever the doctor.”
Elliot
winced. Doc noticed the swollen area on the rear right side.
“What did they do to you?”
“Nothin’ I probably didn’t have comin’ to me.”
Doc sat him down in the examination table. He looked in Elliot’s eyes. “Follow my finger.” He moved it up, down, then across. Elliot blinked wildly.
“You’re concussed. You’re also in the bottle.”
Elliot rubbed his forehead.
“It’s been a hard night. Month. Year.”
Doc walked to his medicine cabinet.
“George mentioned something about my uncle?”
“He’s no longer on the farm. Last I heard, the bank put it into receivership.”
“The farm’s been foreclosed?”
“Meynt azoy.”
Doc returned with aspirin. He handed them to Elliot, who swallowed them without water. Doc grabbed his stethoscope and listened to Elliot’s pulses.
“I took a shot upside the head.”
“Shtum.”
“I’m fine.”
“Take off your shirt,” Doc said.
It was easy to see why Elliot hesitated. He had fresh scratches from the wallops along with so many old scars. Those from the war that bore keloids Doc recognized. Newer ones, circular in composition, he did not. One was on the back of Elliot’s left deltoid. Its match was at the front of the same shoulder, irregularly shaped.”
“What katsev treated you?”
“Doc—”
“Why didn’t you go to a hospital?”
“What sent my uncle to a bank for a loan?” Elliot said, changing the subject. Doc exhaled.
“A big canning company from out west came to town offering contracts to plot owners. Buster held out.”
“Unk’s no sellout.”
“His work-hands were being hired away, so he took out a loan for the planting season. After that, he fell ill.”
“His heart?”
Doc nodded.
“Losing the farm has only made it worse.”
A Negro and an Ofay (The Tales of Elliot Caprice Book 1) Page 4
