Doc used a stethoscope to listen to Elliot’s pulses.
“If the farm is seized, where is he?”
“The SRO across from Sugartown.”
“Ugh. Betty’s joint.”
“Room twenty-one. I offered up my place.”
“Nah. He wouldn’t.” Elliot rubbed his temples. Doc put away his instruments.
“At least you are here,” Doc said.
“Don’t know what I’m gonna do about it. I have some war pension checks comin’ to me, but that don’t sound like it’s gonna be enough.” Elliot put back on his shirt.
“Go talk to him.”
“Maybe tomorrow”
Doc waved Elliot off.
“It’s late. He’s probably asleep.”
“Shoyn yetst.”
“Fine. Right after you’re done chewin’ my ass.”
Doc slapped him on the thigh, hard.
“By the way, nice touch sending in Mikey Rabinowitz.”
“Isadora didn’t appreciate it.”
“How’d he know?”
“How wouldn’t he? Michael refuses to help his father, even now that he needs him.”
“Hard to believe he needs anyone.”
“There’s a new player in the loan racket. He’s running out of allies. He’s trying to legitimize, and fast.”
“He’s not broke, is he?”
Doc took a seat atop his desk.
“No. His finances are still intact, but his influence has waned. This new character trades on fear. Everyone wants to stay out of the fray.”
“At least his green is still long. I may be asking him for a loan.”
“I can give you my answer now if you like.”
Elliot’s stomach dropped when he heard the voice. Izzy Rabinowitz stepped in from the rear alcove. He didn’t favor Doc Shapiro in appearance much at all. He was the same height as Mikey, but had much harder facial features that he concealed underneath a gray fedora that perfectly matched his powder gray fresco suit. He wore white spats atop his deep gray Florsheim Imperials. The spats matched his hat band. The shoes matched his mood. Izzy never bothered announcing himself. If he called upon you in person, it wasn’t for pleasure.
“Isadora.”
“Ira.” Izzy took off his hat. “Figured you’d be here, kid. I see you’re in one piece.”
“Mikey is really good at what he does,” Elliot said.
“That’s one opinion,” Izzy said. “The cops, kid? Figure I taught you better than that.”
“You taught me a lot. Learned a lot more through observation.”
“You sound like your preacher friend, our new sheriff. Can you believe it?”
“You didn’t make that happen?”
“This shit-show of a government is all goy. Well, minus one.”
“A Southville con took place without you?”
“There’s that mouth.” Izzy sat in a chair. “Glad I was able to help your defense.”
“I don’t remember you bein’ there.”
“Your half-colored brain go soft, kid? You know how it works, as does Mikey.”
“Don’t hassle him about it. If he wasn’t there, I’d—”
“Aah, give it a rest,” Izzy said. “Fuckin’ Clarence Darrow. I don’t mind tellin’ ya I don’t like your attitude.”
“I just didn’t expect to run into you when I’m in dire straits.”
“Everything’s gotta be on this kids terms. Ira, he hasn’t changed a bit. So what, kid. You need work?”
“Sheeeit—”
“How you figurin’ on makin’ good on those expert legal services that saved your tochas?”
Elliot hopped up from the exam table. He had enough height on Izzy to seem threatening. He wasn’t crazy—Elliot kept his hands soft—but Izzy went too far.
“You don’t get to claim that for yourself.”
“Watch your mouth, kid.”
“I called George. He asked Doc to help. Doc called Mikey, not you, which I’m sure pissed you off ’cuz all roads have to lead through Izzy Rabinowitz.”
Izzy stood. Using the hand speed of a much younger man, he grabbed Elliot by his collar.
“Isadora,” Doc said, aghast at Izzy’s aggression. Elliot did nothing. Their eyes locked. This was a battle of wills.
“You wanted to try it straight. I told you it wouldn’t work out. You could’ve come back to me, but you ran off to the war.”
“There was a draft.”
“You know they were passin’ over coloreds.”
“Not this colored!”
“Half-colored. The stupid half.”
Doc jumped between them before Elliot could do something he’d regret.
“Not in my place,” He said, to Elliot. He turned to Izzy and said nothing. Only stared. A breyteh deyeh hoben. Once Doc spoke, no one else dared say shit. Not even his younger cousin Isadora, the Midwestern rainmaker. Izzy let go of Elliot’s collar. He retook his seat.
“You know what hurts the most, kid? I stopped bein’ good enough for you, but you join the most crooked bunch of bastards in all creation. Chicago PD makes my organization look like the Little Brothers of the Poor.”
Elliot looked away. Doc was relieved the argument ended.
“So what can I do for you? As if I haven’t done too much already.”
“Ask him, boychik,” Doc said. Elliot exhaled. All he could muster was a statement.
“I have to get the farm out of hock.”
“The farm,” Izzy said, sarcastically.
“I can’t have my uncle in that fuckin’ flophouse.”
“Hey, he went to a bank. He took his chances.”
“He didn’t know what he was doing.” Elliot felt guilty hearing himself say it.
“Believe it or not, I like Buster. Everyone does,” Izzy said. “But I’m sure that bank note ain’t small potatoes. If you don’t pay, I’d have to sell it anyway. This is a bad pony for everybody. Let it go.”
“Isadora—”
“Don’t Isadora me, Ira. I got a guy movin’ in on me. Sets up in Rockford, callin’ himself The Turk, of all things. How’s a Jew supposed to take that?”
“As a threat,” Elliot said.
“These are tense times, kid.”
“Don’t be cruel, cousin.”
“You give him the money,” Izzy said. “And once it’s down the drain, you’d have to start chargin’ all the poor unfortunates.”
“Give half. I’ll cover the rest for him.”
“Doc, stop.”
“Come back to work for me, and—”
“I ain’t gonna do that,” Elliot said. Izzy almost looked hurt.
“Ask me for anything else.”
Izzy looked away. Elliot took a moment to ponder his consolation prize.
“I could use a car.”
“You remember where the yard is. Go see Amos. Pick one out.”
Izzy stood.
“I’ll pay you for it after I get my war pension.”
“Relax, kid. I’m flush with cars. Every schlepper wants to use one to cover their vig, like I’m fuckin’ General Motors.”
Izzy took Elliot by the chin. There was a hint of affection, but only just.
“You’ve never looked so bad, kid. Get your shit together.” Izzy turned his back. The conversation was over.
“Cousin,” Izzy said, as he walked toward the door. “Let yourself out of this office once in a while.”
“Cousin,” Doc said. “Best to Rebecca.”
Elliot stared at the floor.
“I meant what I said—”
“No, Doc.”
“The money doesn’t matter to me, boychik.”
“That’s ’cuz you ain’t got it. You the onliest Jew that doesn’t care about his mazuma.”
“There are a few of us.”
“Yeah. You and Abraham Heschel. Maybe I can get the other half from him.” Elliot stood up. “Nah, Doc. I have to deal with this by my lonely.”
Doc went to his desk for
his strongbox. He took out a sawbuck.”
“Nothin’ doin’, Doc. C’man.”
“Shtum. Folg mikh.”
Doc pressed the ten-spot in Elliot’s hand. Elliot looked down to the floor in shame.
“Isadora is right. You look like shit. See your uncle.”
Elliot nodded, rose to his feet and left.
He could have cut through Sugartown to shorten the walk to Miss Betty’s SRO, but he didn’t trust himself to avoid stopping for a drink. One would lead to several. That would lead to trouble. Uncle Buster would see him worse for wear, but not drunk to boot. He ventured over to Pettingill Road, the east-west drag named after one of Southville’s founders. From there, he’d keep to the unlit stretch of back road along Route 30. Questions dominated his mind. Was he somehow so important to Izzy that things would take a turn in his absence? Was Uncle Buster dying without the farm or was it always killing him?
The war changed everything. Most of his compatriots in the 761st knew little of Jews. For the average Negro, the existence of concentration camps was an abstraction. Just another example of how ofays do each other when there were no niggers around. Once Patton took colored regiments deep within German territory, they witnessed atrocities that eclipsed the tortures of Jim Crow. For Elliot, it was personal. This one could have been Doc. That one could have been Izzy or his wife or one of his sons. The alienation of Negroes and Jews into third-class citizens was a grim commonality. To Elliot’s mind, something similar befalling Negroes was more than possible—it was likely. All it took was another economic depression. Maybe some masterful propaganda. Then the next concentration camps to be liberated would hold colored bodies. This was his motivation for joining the Chicago Police Department. That, and being cheeky. He desired to legitimize himself. Perhaps help legitimize colored folk overall. Sure, the stable paycheck was nice. Serving as an example of the social legitimacy of post-war Negroes was more important.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
The dirt stretch ran out. He jogged through a clearing in the remains of a defunct string bean farm. In the distance was the four-story tall, fifty-yard long monstrosity that was Miss Betty’s SRO. It began as temporary housing for migrant workers. The first two floors were built from the ground up by displaced area farmers, courtesy of FDR’s Work Protection Administration. By the close of the WPA in 1943, it had become a shanty for drifters. It was of no more use to the government, so it was deeded back to the county for the sum of one dollar. Somehow, Betty Bridges, one of Sugartown’s prevailing women of the night, managed to gain legal possession of the shanty. Perhaps it was through blackmail or something equally nefarious, but it certainly wasn’t her charms. Once the vagrants were driven out by her raucous personality plus a well-compensated Sheriff Dowd, she used the money she squirreled away through the years to recondition the place. Miss Betty’s Single Room Only was born.
The last time Elliot saw it, it had a newly built third floor of brick. Now a fourth floor sat atop the third, constructed of reclaimed wood. He snickered when he saw an electric sign outside. Of course, the “Miss Betty’s” part remained lit, but on alternating circuits blinked “single rooms only” and “no guests.”
He walked inside. A few sleeping indigents were seated in the lobby around a television that only offered static. Elliot wondered if the old bag charged tenants to watch by the minute. Her brother Percy, as clueless as ever, was asleep in the booth underneath a racing sheet. Elliot ducked around an old payphone booth. When the coast was clear, he darted up the stairs. As he approached room twenty-one, he took a deep breath before knocking softly. Behind the door he heard snoring louder than a dying bear moaning. He opened the door to find Nathan “Buster” Caprice dead to the world. He shut the door as quiet as he could, but his next step touched a creaky floor board. Buster sat up straight. He reached for a hickory axe handle he kept near his bed.
“Unk. It’s me.”
“Wha?”
“It’s me, old man. Wake up.”
Elliot took a step back while Uncle Buster fumbled for the light switch over the bed. He didn’t want to see the business-end of that hickory. Buster’s eyes adjusted to the light.
“How long you been standin’ there?”
“Just now. I ain’t been back but a minute.”
He was black as night. His coarse gray hair made him look regal. His deep-set, piercing eyes had dark pupils which were framed by yellowing whites. Specks of red brought on from decades in the sun looked like constellations.
His shoulders were broad. His neck was thick. He looked more boxer than farmer. He put the hickory down. Elliot noticed that his large, calloused hands trembled.
“How long have you been sick?”
“Shapiro tol’?”
“I was just at his office. I come up from Springfield,” Elliot said.
“That old Jew stay tellin’ tales, don’t he? Damn Walter Winchell—”
“What are you doin’ in this shit-hole? Doc said he has a room for you, at least until you get on your feet.”
“He do enough for me already.”
Buster sat up on the edge of the bed. He reached for a bag of Drum tobacco and his rolling papers on the end table. Elliot watched as his uncle’s old black hands make a perfect smoke, shakes or not.
“Want one?”
Buster lit one for him before he rolled one for himself. Elliot sat down next to Buster on the bed. He filled himself not only with smoke, but the memories of long, sleepless nights on the front. Of stakeouts, where coffee and cigarettes kept him alert.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the farm? I could’ve helped.”
“I figure you wuzn’t comin’ back. Why bother you wid’it?”
Buster took a long drag. He sucked in a bit more air, which caused the smoke to dance on his palette. He looked like one of the sculptures Elliot saw in Italy—the Mouth of Truth.
“Well, I’m here now. How much do we owe?”
“Thirty-one hunned,” Buster said, releasing the smoke.
“Christ, Unk?! Were you buyin’ slaves?”
“Roosevelt’s old program ran out. These big food companies come through buyin’ up crops, seasons in advance. Other farms got money to pay health insurance ’n such. Just wanted to keep our field hands, is all.”
Buster took another drag.
“Soon as I got sick, they all up and quit anyhow. Ain’t dat always the way.”
The smoke escaped his nostrils as he spoke, like an old black dragon.
“How long we got until we lose it?”
“Fella at the bank—”
“Loan officer.”
“Who else?”
“Shit, you could be takin’ your financial advice from the janitor for all I know.”
“Can I tell it?”
“Tell it.”
“The loan officer said our back acreage is locked, sum’n or other.”
“Landlocked.”
“That’s it. Said they have ta get some approval for an easement, they called it. Can’t sell it until that comes through, ’cuz the bank wanna divide it up.” Buster took another drag.
“So there’s time.”
Elliot used his fingers to pull out the ember at the end of his cigarette.
“How thangs in the big city? You still on da cops?”
“Man, I can’t show my face back there.”
“Ya caught up in some dirt?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s good you back in Southville. Dirt the natural order o’ thangs ’round heah. You look tired.”
“Tired ain’t the word.”
“There’s enough bed fo’ two. We’ll sort Betty out tomorrow.” Buster patted the mattress. He rolled on his side to make room for his nephew. Elliot laid the opposite direction. It bothered him how much safer he now felt. It was a testament to just how bad he’d fucked up his life.
“I should’ve never left.”
“Sure you should’ve. You restless, like yo’ dad
dy wuz. Better you take that fight out in the world than keep it locked up in yo’sef.”
“Did he stay in a fix all the time?”
“Jefferson caused trouble. Most of ya trouble ain’t yo trouble a’tall. It’s everyone else’s. Like that preacher’s boy. The fat one.”
“Georgie.”
“Either it was him or one of dem kids from Roseland. As soon as they got picked on, you out deah fightin’. Pull a gun wit’ dat rich boy down at college. You go to tha war. You join tha cops.” Buster yawned.
“I just can’t abide bullies is all,” Elliot said.
“Ya stay out of the sun long enough, you look white. Most folks would trade on that, but naw.”
“Some things just ain’t right, Unk.”
“Some thangs ain’t s’pose ta be right.”
Elliot turned onto his side. The powerful simplicity of Buster’s words eased him of his guilt, at least enough to fall asleep. Were it not for the snoring, he would have enjoyed the first real night of rest he’d had in a year.
CHAPTER 6
Elliot opened his eyes to twilight that peeked out from the tears in the vinyl pull shade over the window. Sparrows and blackbirds argued over territory. Crows provided commentary. Uncle Buster was still asleep, the violent snoring reduced to a low grumble. Elliot walked out into the hall. It was too early to encounter anyone else, so he had no need to sneak. He felt free.
The facilities on Uncle Buster’s floor weren’t the worst place Elliot had used in his year laying low. He needed a toothbrush, a razor hadn’t touched his face in days, but at least he could free himself of his funk. After hosing off, he went back to the room. He took some scrap paper and a pencil from the end table.
Unk,
Gone out to take care of some business.
Be back around dinner.
—e
Those two simple sentences scrawled on scrap paper may as well have been a detailed manifesto. It was a personal declaration he wasn’t going anywhere until matters were resolved. He snuck down the stairs to find Miss Betty’s lobby empty. Percy was in the booth, still parked behind his racing sheets. Elliot tapped on the counter.
“What’s that’cha say there, Percy?”
The racing sheets came down.
A Negro and an Ofay (The Tales of Elliot Caprice Book 1) Page 5
