A Negro and an Ofay (The Tales of Elliot Caprice Book 1)

by Danny Gardner

  “Elliot Caprice. I’ll be damned.”

  “Look here, I’m back in town takin’ care o’ thangs. I’m stayin’ up in my uncle’s room.”

  “I don’t think Betty’s gonna like that too much.”

  “Betty still take cash on the barrelhead?”

  “You know that, cousin.”

  “Betty can mind her goddamned bidness. Don’t go skimpin’ on his accommodations neither. He old, but he ain’t stupid. Ya get me?”

  “Sure, boss.”

  Elliot swiped two dimes from the counter top.

  “We square?”

  “Sho’, Elliot. I ain’t neva minded you nun. It’s just my sister. You know how she can be.”

  “Yeah, I know. That’s why this ain’t no permanent arrangement. I’ll give this back to you later.”

  Elliot walked over to the pay phone.

  “Hello. This is Elliot Caprice. Is Attorney Robin in?”

  The lunch counter at the S.S. Kresge on Pettengill had prices affordable enough to make the segregated accommodations bearable. Had he gone anywhere else more comfortable, the undesired attention as the prodigal son returned would have slowed him down. The seating sections were blanket corporate policy, administered by absentee management. Graffiti scrawled above the “colored patrons only” sign read “Colored folk wouldn’t eat here!” Good ol’ Southville.

  He took his coffee as he had on the job: black and strong. He used it to chase down two hard-boiled eggs plus toast. It took him all of ten minutes to eat without pleasure. A cop’s breakfast. Just enough to keep him on his toes. He laid down a dollar, the tip equal to the bill. Once fed, his brain bathed in caffeine, Elliot was prepared to get himself a haircut and a shave, some duds to show up to his meeting looking professional, and to claim the wheels Izzy gifted him from the yard. It was the colored man’s post-prison trifecta.

  Elliot wanted to make it to Boots’ Barber Shop before it opened, but soon learned Boots had already been busy an hour, his waiting chairs filled with the asses of neighbors Elliot would rather not enjoin in conversation. Boots had been cutting Elliot’s hair from the time he was a boy, when Uncle Buster realized he couldn’t trim the child’s wild miscegenated locks without messing it all up to hell. He knew Elliot well enough to see that he wasn’t there to socialize, so Boots took him next. A few customers gave dirty looks, but no one spoke up. Elliot Caprice had enough of a reputation that no one wanted to test him, especially not fresh out the joint. A master raconteur, Boots did all the talking. He filled Elliot in on Southville current events as he gave him a classic taper, keeping it higher on the top so he could part it naturally. After a straight razor shave, Elliot felt, if not like a new man, at least a clean one. He tried to pay but Boots would have none of it.

  “Welcome back, baby boy.”

  “Thanks, Boots.”

  “See you in two weeks?”

  “Sure.”

  A neighborhood barber is a Negro’s priest.

  For one so frequently subjected to Izzy’s brutal collection techniques, Spats Culpepper couldn’t have been happier to see Elliot at the door of his tailor shop. Elliot wondered if he still had a thing for the ponies. When his wife Nanette—a slender older creole whose fast hands and keen eye made her a whiz at alterations—saw Elliot, he knew. She blurted out canned excuses why her husband didn’t have Izzy’s money. It took five minutes for Spats to get her to relax, which was good because she was liable to reach for the pistol she kept in the thread drawer. For years, Spats had been Izzy’s go-to for suits. On a few occasions, Elliot managed to dissuade his boss from having something on Spats broken if, for no other reason, he still had tailoring to finish. Those favors Spats never forgot. He granted Elliot easy credit terms out of gratitude. Elliot chose a two-piece, on the lighter side of charcoal gray, cut from open-weave wool to keep him cool. He chose a powder blue shirt and grey tie, a pair of Florsheim Imperials a half-size big, but good enough, and a straw Panama hat that perfectly matched. Nanette performed the alterations at record speed just to get Elliot out of their boutique. She loved ol’ Spats to a fault but would have no parts of any of Izzy’s crew, past or present, friends or not. Elliot didn’t blame her for disliking him. When he thought back to those days, he didn’t much like himself.

  As Elliot walked to the Roseland Boys’ auto lot, he saw himself reflected in the large shop windows along the main drag. He felt better now that he had cleaned up. He had a purpose again. One far closer to his heart. He almost felt relieved until he remembered how he spent the intervening years tending white folks’ business while he allowed his own to wither on the vine. He had only himself—and perhaps a world that lavished upon colored men the means to destroy their own lives—to blame. His time in the war gave him such high hopes. The camaraderie of patriotism was infectious. Once he returned to racial segregation’s tyranny of despair, it made him feel stupid for believing it could be any different. He wasn’t the first colored man back from overseas to find himself locked out of post-war opportunity. He may have been the angriest. Now he was fresh out of jail after being on the skids. It was bad enough he was broke. Now he owed three people favors. He may have been clean, but it was no triumph.

  Amos was hard at work chopping a Cadillac for parts when Elliot walked into the shop. Pity the poor bastard for which his ’50 Coupe de Ville made good on his marker. He stood six feet tall, was broad-shouldered, had a thick neck, strong arms, and hands made for hurting men. Amos was well into his fifties, as indicated by a graying mustache underneath a receding hairline that fell back well past his temples. He almost looked fatherly until you ventured close enough to notice the scars.

  “What’s that’cha say there, Dangerous Doyle?” Elliot said. Amos dropped his wrench and wiped his hands on his smock. He approached Elliot dukes up.

  “Na what’ya gawna do if I chrow da straight right?”

  Amos threw a slow yet menacing fist. Elliot dipped at the knees. He rose on the other side and feigned a double right hook: one to the body, one to the temple. He kept his guard hand planted on his right cheek.

  “Deahs da stahf, babe.”

  Everyone Amos liked was “babe.”

  “Gawt youah trailin’ hand up.”

  “Fundamentals.”

  “Nobody minds deah fahkin fandamantas.”

  Elliot snickered when he realized he missed Amos’ mush mouth.

  When work was slow, Amos taught Elliot fighting techniques. Elliot learned the brutal art of incapacitation: eye gouging, temple smashing, fish-hooking, limb-breaking. Uncle Sam may have taught Elliot how to kill men, but Amos taught him how to save his own life, taking the next man’s life in the process.

  “Izzy let you know I was comin’?”

  “Shah. I gawdah go bayhk ta dis chawp. You fin’ a cah an’ I’ll get da keys.”

  Elliot walked the rows of parked collateral. The yard sat on an acre behind Sugartown wherein some of the finest automobiles stretched end to end. Elliot was interested only in those stored underneath tied-down tarpaulins. He knew those were Izzy’s keepers. The rest may have looked nice, but they were certain to be missing a drivetrain here, a carburetor there. He came across an Oldsmobile. As he peeled off the tarpaulin, he beheld the power of a Rocket 88. It had a burgundy body accented in black. The interior was burgundy leather. It had a detachable fiberglass hard top, a little gift to private industry from the brainiacs at the War Department. It boasted a Hydro-Matic transmission. It was beyond classy. It was a car from the future.

  “Nice, huh?”

  “Mighty nice,” Elliot said. “Almost too nice.”

  “Some blues singer come up wit’ two shit-kickers from da Chicago Outfit usin’ dis one to cavah his nut. Tol’ Izzy to take it or leave it.”

  “Izzy took it?”

  “Just took it and said beat it. He ain’t tha same, Elliot. This rat fuck callin’ himse’f da Turk has him fak’d up in the head. It’s good you’re back, babe.”

  “I’m not back to wor
k for Izzy, Amos.”

  “Don’t matta. It’s just good youah aroun’.”

  The scars on Amos’ face twisted into a look of concern.

  “You think he’d mind if I took this one?”

  “Let’s get some of dese boats oudadaway so we can get her in the garage. Turn up da idle, like da old days.”

  “Yeah,” said Elliot. “The good ol’ days.”

  After Amos worked his magic, Elliot started her up. The sound under the hood roared like a Midwestern thunderstorm. First, the loud clap. The rolling crackle. The consistent hum that sounded like a soft rain on pavement. Eight horses, all running in unison. Amos nodded in approval. Though he only tinkered for his own amusement, his handiwork was still the best around.

  “Gah ’head.”

  Elliot barely touched the accelerator. She leapt forward like a hungry beast. Elliot hit the brake. He had to catch his breath.

  “Too much?”

  “Hell naw!”

  He took her through a few donuts in the dirt before speeding off the lot and out onto the main drag. He could feel she wanted to go. He geared her into park, took a deep breath, counted to three, threw her in drive and floored the pedal. He drove fast cars before, yet this wasn’t just speed, but power he felt so little of since 1945. He aced all the Army’s tests. That earned him the right to choose his own field designation. His college experience may have even earned him an officer’s path. Instead, he chose the tank corps—sweaty, stinky, stifling, dangerous. Elliot got to ride around in a death-dealing monster that was impervious to bullets. Easy peasy.

  He returned to the shop. Amos grinned ear to ear. The man found joy working on cars, as opposed to working over people.

  “Oh, mama,” Elliot said, laughing wildly. “She’s true blue!”

  “I was worried for a secon’, deah.”

  “Ah, I’m out of practice. They had us colored cops drivin’ rusted boats. A fella tries makin’ a run for it, you didn’t chase ’em. You’d just shoot ’em.”

  “Whaddya say, fifteen?” Amos said, wrench in hand.

  “Fifteen would keep me from killin’ myself. Say, you got any touch-up paint?”

  “Deah’s a buncha cans o’ enamel on da she’f.”

  Elliot chose taxicab yellow. He found a fine-tipped brush soaking in a can of thinner. When Amos was done, he walked over to watch Elliot scrawl the name “Lucille” on the wheel well.

  “Who’s that?”

  “She kept a bunch of us safe in Europe,” Elliot said, as he added three exclamation points.

  “She pretty?”

  “Big. And ugly. Once you needed her though, she was a real beauty.”

  “Was it bad, fightin’ in da war?” Amos sounded almost tender.

  “Not as bad as coming back,” Elliot said. “Part of me wishes we were still fighting.”

  CHAPTER 7

  He parked Lucille at the corner. He checked his reflection in the rearview—hair, teeth, tie, collar, all tip-top. He was showing up, hat in hand, to Mikey Rabinowitz up on his offer. His self-accusing spirit plagued him with guilt, but the thought of his uncle in bed in that flophouse made him the worst kind of desperate. His principles were long out the window. The best he could hope for is, whatever job he’d get, Mikey Rabinowitz would pay him enough to make the self-betrayal worthwhile. If he was lucky, maybe he’d get to keep the suit on.

  Elliot opened the door to find Mike yelling into the phone. Elaine pleaded with an older white fella seated atop her desk, compress held to his bloody forehead.

  “Smitty, now you’re our only server.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Elaine,” Smitty said. “I like you plenty, but—”

  “What if you had some backup?”

  “Backup? I ain’t a cop.”

  “How about next time—”

  “Next time? Wouldja look at me?” Smitty removed the compress. Elaine pushed his hand back to his forehead.

  “Just…keep it there,” Elaine said. “Michael, hang up the phone.”

  “Maybe I’ll come down there myself. I’ll serve you. Right up your ass!” Mike slammed the phone down on the receiver. “I got a mind to call Amos. He’d bite his goddamn nose off.”

  “Hello?” Elliot said. Everyone finally noticed he was standing there.

  “Elliot, right? Elaine Critchlow. I’m Attorney Robin’s paralegal.”

  “And his old lady,” Elliot said as he shook her hand. “I was outside your place yesterday.”

  “You were?”

  “Got a haircut. Say, if it’s a bad time, I could—”

  “It’s not a bad time. It’s a great time.” Mike paced the floor. “You got a gun on you?”

  “Michael. Calm down.”

  “Uh…not at the moment. What’s goin’ on?”

  “We have to serve a court order on the manager of an A&P by today,” Elaine said.

  “Said manager gave Smitty what-for,” Mike said. “Smitty—”

  Mike snapped his fingers at the bloodied process server.

  “What?”

  “You told him you were an officer of the court?”

  “I told you I told him.”

  “You told him you were serving him?”

  “Before or after the can of peas hit me in the goddamned head?”

  Elliot tried not to snicker.

  “You couldn’t get it in his hand or shove it into his fucking apron?”

  “Michael, stop berating him. He’s been through enough,” Elaine said. “I’ll call you a doctor.”

  Elaine reached for the phone. Smitty laid on his back across the desk.

  “I’d have liked to give you a better orientation,” Mike said. “You up for starting work a little early?”

  “I’ve never done this before,” Elliot said.

  “There’s nothing to it.”

  “From the looks of Smitty here, seems like there’s plenty to it.”

  “If we don’t add him to our witness list by the end of the day, we won’t have enough to push for trial,” Elaine said.

  “A&P won’t settle without the threat of trial.”

  “We’re not taking a settlement.”

  “We are most certainly taking a settlement. Unless the NAACP is finally paying us a retainer.”

  “We spoke about this.” Elaine crossed her arms. Smitty groaned.

  “It’s Green Stamp redemption, Elaine. We’re not taking the cause of free toasters for Negroes all the way to the Supreme Court.”

  Elliot raised his hands in surrender. Mike and Elaine looked at him as if he was calling them to order. That always happened—Elliot took control just by being present. He hated it.

  “So what? I gotta get this fella to sign somethin’? I drag him back here?”

  “Just hand him the court documents. Let him know he’s been served before you record it in a ledger. If he doesn’t come to court, they’ll put a bench warrant on him.”

  “So why couldn’t Smitty do that?”

  “Asshole didn’t let me get a word in,” Smitty said. “He saw that I had papers in my hand, grabbed me and pushed me right out the back. Then the jagoff threw a frickin’ can of peas at me.”

  “I take it you don’t like peas.”

  Elaine frowned. Mike chuckled.

  “How many other guys you have serving process?”

  “Just Smitty,” Mike said.

  “Not anymore,” Smitty said.

  He walked out of the door. Mike didn’t protest. Elaine audibly sighed.

  “It’s the race cases,” Mike said. “Nobody wants to get involved.”

  Elliot wasn’t sure if he himself should get involved. He could have told them he wasn’t up for a hassle, but he needed money.

  “You say there’s nothing to it,” Elliot said. “I can give it a go.”

  “First things first,” Mike said, just before he opened the door to his office. Elliot followed him into the small, purposeful space. A worn desk. Old filing cabinets. Stacks of corrugated boxes all over the
floor. On the wall hung his diplomas from the University of Illinois. The glass in the frame of his juris doctorate was cracked.

  “Close the door, will you?”

  Elliot did so. Mike stood behind his desk, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. Elliot braced himself for either the big hello, or goodbye.

  “Obviously, I’m in a bind.”

  “Yeah,” Elliot said. “But that’s not what we’re talkin’ about right now, is it?”

  “Why aren’t you a cop anymore?”

  The way Mikey pursed his lips when stressed reminded Elliot of Izzy. He couldn’t tell if he found it threatening or comforting.

  “You said yourself I still am. For the time being, anyhow.”

  “C’mon, Elliot…”

  “Truth is, I never really took to it.”

  “Were you—”

  “Dirty?”

  Mike shrugged. Somewhere inside his heart, Elliot found some truth to tell.

  “May I sit?”

  Mike gestured to a chair. The two of them in a squat office, both raised by the same man. Elliot as a soldier. Michael as a sire. Brothers, of a sort. The Jacob and Esau of Southville.

  “Did you want to fight?”

  “In the war?”

  Elliot nodded.

  “Not as Izzy Rabinowitz’s son, I didn’t. I was angry, same as every other Jew,” Mike said. “But the armed forces were full of anti-Semites. The old man told me not to be fooled. That the goys weren’t fighting for us.”

  “They didn’t much like colored folk neither.”

  “So I’d imagine.”

  “Most of us figured things would be better when we got back. In Europe, I’m respected for my part in the fight. Go where I want. Do what I want. Walk arm in arm with a white woman in broad daylight, if I want.”

  Elliot clutched at his hat. His jaw tensed.

  “I come back here, I have to take off my class A on the boat and stuff it in a sugar sack ’cuz peckerwoods are stringin’ up colored men in uniform. Fellas survive the German front, just to wind up swingin’ from a tree here at home.”

  He realized he was lost in his own thoughts.

  “After that, I just couldn’t go back to pickin’ string beans.”