CHAPTER 12
Lake effect fog provided needed cover. It was hard for him not to ascribe the weather to providence. Not that he felt at all worthy of God’s protection. More as if the Great Absentee Landlord finally turned on the radiator.
He hung a right at Foster, walked a manageable distance and found a stretch of elevated tracks near Clark Street under which he could tuck Lucille away. That put his getaway less than a klick from Willow’s location. He was still fit enough to make a run for it full speed back to the car if need be. He covered her with alley debris, patted the .45 underneath his jacket and started on his way. At the corner of Clark and Foster, he realized he was practically kitty-corner to Bill Drury’s neighborhood. The thought made his palms sweat. He quick timed it to Lawrence Avenue and eased his pace leading up to the Green Mill, passing St. Boniface’s cemetery on his left. It was all too ominous, even for a man comfortable risking death. The headstones in the mist. The voices in the distance. Even in the fog, he could see the neighborhood was fading. More vagrants hung about, many in old military wear. Broken men. The broken women they chased. The Aragon Ballroom up the way must’ve had an event. The crowd had begun to spill out onto the sidewalk toward the famed cocktail lounge in a steady stream. The marquee read “Coleman Hawkins feat. Howard McGhee.” Elliot noticed beat cops across the street, so he hunched his shoulders, dropped his chin and blended in, sliding between the Good Time Charlies and Bettys that dominated the sidewalks on both sides of the street. Murmuring patrons whined over the early end to the show due to McGhee’s inability to play the entire set. Something about aitch. Jazz was still in favor, but Jazz brought heroin. In Chicago, Uptown caught it worse than any other neighborhood.
He made his way to the door leading to the apartments above. When he entered the skinny lobby, he stood over a junky couple begging for change while he read the mailboxes. He scanned the names until he found “Ellison, W.” handwritten above box 207. He knocked on the door. When no one answered, he put his ear near the keyhole. No movement inside. There were stairs at the far end of the hall, likely to another door out to the street, so Elliot first made certain the coast was clear. He checked the door frame molding for a key, got lucky, and opened the door.
When he walked in, the first thing he noticed was the decor. It was a hodgepodge of cultural influences: long strings of beads hung from the archways dividing the rooms, woven mats on the floor, an acoustic guitar, some bongos, poetry books. It was cluttered, but vibrant. A stained sectional couch dominated the living area. A coffee table scarred by cigarette burns held the center. A primo hi-fi system stood along the opposite wall next to four huge stacks of vinyl LPs. Dizzy Gillespie. Miles Davis. Dave Brubeck. More obscure, avant-garde artists.
He walked to the small eat-in kitchenette and opened the tiny icebox. No food inside, but she did have bottles of Pabst. Dirty dishes and crawling things populated the sink. On a small table lay playing cards, an ashtray, a scrapbook. The ashtray had reefer roaches inside. He flipped through the pages of the scrapbook. Seemed as if Willow’s kink was following musicians around. She saved all her autographed show bills. She took plenty of snapshots. A few photos included a dark-haired girl with very large eyes. She liked patterned headscarves. Her nose could have made her Jewish or at least some flavor of Mediterranean. She seemed pretty, but the slight drooping of her lower eyelids suggested pain. Or narcotics. In each photo, she was pressed against one of the Negro musicians. Her smile was confident. She was one bold snowflake.
A handbill for tonight’s performance at the Aragon was inside, yet to be archived. A blocky Polaroid camera was hung by its strap around one of the kitchen chairs. He went into the bathroom. Chemical bottles from Eastman sat on a credenza: developer, stop bath, fixer. A large timer that glowed in the dark sat on the sink. In the tub were trays, likely corresponding to each. A red light bulb in its fixture. A group of towels. An artist? A journalist? Likely a wastrel. Parents pay the rent. Photography covers her habits.
He took great care to leave everything as he found it. He closed the door behind him before he returned the key to its hiding place. His next move was to seek her out at the Green Mill.
The glittering marquee illuminated the tide fog. Waves upon waves of people crashed upon the concrete shore. He had no use for politeness, so he played the belligerent veteran, pushing his way through the crowd of young adults on holiday from their own cultural constraints. He entered to looks and a few sneers for his mode of dress, yet no one stopped him from entering. This was Uptown in its decline. Folks knew how to mind their own business. He stood by the bar in a pretty good spot to watch as Coleman Hawkins, likely out of consolation for the debacle at the Aragon, belted out an impromptu jazz set for a worshipful crowd of white folks. Willow had to be here, he told himself. When the first bars of “If I Could Be With You Tonight” flowed from Hawkins’ tenor saxophone, the crowd leaned forward on the edge of their seats. Elliot wormed his way near Al Capone’s booth, chosen for its view of both exits. He perched himself on the wall, hands in pockets. The band segued into “Soul Blues.” Hawkins was now speaking Elliot’s language. He nodded his head along to the standard twelve-bar rhythm. Coleman helped make it easy for him to fit in. The lights were low. The joint was packed. No one paid him any attention. He scanned the crowd to no avail, checked the clock over the marble bar and realized he had been there over twenty minutes. Sooner or later, someone was going to ask him to buy a drink or leave. He figured he could make it back to Lucille. Maybe nap until morning. Or just stand outside Willow’s door until she returned. If she returned.
Those notions ended when a ruckus at a table in front of the stage gave away Willow’s position. There she was, in typical dress, camera in hand, intent upon getting her shots, but she was being oppressed by a stranger kneeling down next to her. The oily haired goon was dressed in coat and tie. He had an annoying goatee that only made him appear petulant, like a beatnik crossed with a Chicago Outfit dago. Maybe he purchased her a drink or two. Maybe it was time to reciprocate. Words were exchanged as he grabbed her by the soft underside of her right arm. She snatched back in a huff. Before he could grab her again, she threw her drink in his face. The oily prick retaliated by belting her. She fell out of her chair. The crowd didn’t appreciate the commotion. There was shushing and calls for the management. If Coleman noticed, he didn’t let on. Elliot resisted the urge to jump in so soon.
The bouncer pushed his way through the crowd, but before he could reach them, Willow stood up, grabbed her camera from the table and gave the asshole an uppercut full of lens. It kicked off a full-blown brawl. When the oily suitor stood up, Elliot could see he was a big bastard. The band stopped playing. Hawkins called for calm. When the bouncer arrived, he was blocked by several patrons fighting to get clear. Before Willow could regroup or get away, the jerk grabbed her by her hair. He produced a blade to use on her in the worst way. He almost got her across the face, until he lost four fingers on his knife hand. Elliot watched them fly off in a spray of blood after he fired a single shot. It wasn’t panic or reflex that guided his hand, but prescience. The same sense that told him the moment he took the gun from the barn it was certain he’d use it to kill someone. He just didn’t expect it would be now, here, in full view of the jazz-loving public.
Coleman broke camp with the band, leaving their instruments. The booths reserved for discerning clientele were emptied. Willow’s abuser was on his knees, screaming. He scanned the floor for his missing digits. Willow looked around in a panic. The poor girl was abandoned by the musicians she worshiped.
“Willow! Willow Ellison!”
Willow looked up to see Elliot motioning for her to run to him, but she instead reached for her jacket from off her chair. Elliot ran to her and grabbed her arm, but she reared back to belt him.
“Christ, lady. I’m trying to help you!”
“I need my jacket,” Willow said.
“Leave it.”
Elliot yanked her up into his arm
s. He leapt into Capone’s booth. He kicked the table over. They crouched down behind it. Willow tried to get away. Elliot grabbed her arm again.
“Enough grabbing, alright?”
“Relax. I’m a friend of Margaret.”
“Who?”
“Alistair. I’m a friend of Alistair.”
“Well, friend of Alistair, what do we do now?”
It was pandemonium. Screaming bodies built up at the doors. Everyone was shoving each other. The two beat cops Elliot saw earlier were outside the window looking in, nightsticks drawn. His only play involved flimsy legend. He grabbed Willow’s arm, pushed the table out of the way, ran toward the bar, and flattened the bartender standing in front of it holding a shotgun. He tossed her over the art deco masterpiece of marble and soapstone, leaped over, and pulled up the spill mats.
“Please let it be here.”
He finally found an old trap door, pulled it open and pushed Willow inside. She fell. Elliot then found a crude flip switch, threw it and jumped in himself. Down they went, in the large dumbwaiter that carried contraband during Prohibition. They descended into the underbelly of the Green Mill Cocktail Lounge.
“Holy shit,” Willow said. “I can’t believe it’s real.”
Everyone knew of the legend of the tunnels, but only Elliot Caprice was brazen enough to count on their actual existence in an emergency. They reached the bottom but weren’t in the clear. The trap door was more than myth, but the tunnels of Bill Drury’s tales hadn’t been used for years. They could be walled off, or collapsed. Elliot hopped out of the dumbwaiter. He looked around until he saw what seemed to be clear egress, bleakly illuminated by pale yellow utility lights. He placed his hand on the wall as he walked. Willow grabbed him around his waist. It was a claustrophobe’s nightmare. He felt her quivering hands. They walked a bit farther until the sound of scurrying rats vibrated at their feet. Willow began screaming. Elliot pulled her in close. If they were going to get out of there, she needed to calm down.
“The trapdoor was there, right?”
“Yeah…yeah…”
“These are the tunnels. Stands to reason we should be able to make it to the utility corridors. We’ll wind up somewhere on the other side of the street.”
“Right.”
She grabbed him tight around his forearm. They trudged through the dark and stink until they reached the opposite end of the concrete caverns. A dirty, musty stairway that hadn’t been used in decades waited for them underneath another weak utility light. They climbed the stairs to find the door was locked. He tried leverage, but to no avail, so he helped Willow down a few stairs, grabbed the rusty iron handrail cemented into the wall for leverage, and kicked at the door twice until it flew open. He stuck his head out of the doorway to see they were now at the far end of the alley adjacent to the entrance of the Green Mill. He placed their distance at one hundred fifty yards, give or take. A pendant light cast them in a sickly pale green. Willow tried peeking out over his shoulder, but he held her back.
“Wait a sec.”
He used the butt of his .45 to break the bulb overhead. Once they were cloaked in darkness, she was free to see three patrol cars out front. Foot cops questioned remaining patrons. It wasn’t the first time the Green Mill had violent disturbances, so it was only a matter of time before the cops moved on.
“We should hide out here for a few minutes.”
“Did anyone see us go down that shaft?”
“Maybe. Joint’s been mobbed up since Capone. No one wants trouble.”
They watched until the alley was awash in the headlights of an approaching car. Elliot grabbed Willow and leaned his back against the vestibule. He mashed her, which covered their faces, though he kept one eye open to see up ahead. A cop in a watch commander’s uniform rode past them slowly. Elliot held Willow tighter. She melted in his strong arms. The cop eventually passed them in his cruiser headed westbound toward Broadway. The coast was clear. Elliot wanted to observe, but Willow yielded her mouth to him. She pressed her pelvis into his. Her soft sighs were adorable.
Elliot’s mission-mindedness left him uncertain what to do about his fast-approaching erection, but before he could free himself of her passion, she took control of their kiss, her tongue leading his in a dance bordered by her pillow-soft, unpainted lips. Her hair smelled of lavender, which pleasantly masked the faint aroma of the reefer she enjoyed earlier. She took his face in her hands. He grabbed them, gently pushing her away. She cooed a soft moan of disappointment as she stared into his eyes. Elliot was immediately embarrassed.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “I gotta see this.”
Willow stepped back as he returned to his observation posture in the doorway. Already, the watch commander waved away his patrolmen. The bar manager was still out front, keeping the big shot cop distracted. Nothing operated without local pay-offs. He obviously wanted to know what restitution he’d be entitled to for his protection money.
“We should go now. We’ll take the long way around, back to your place.”
“Okay.”
They stepped out into the alley, Elliot ahead of Willow. She caught up to him, taking his hand.
“So we look as if we’re together.”
Willow Ellison was a bravely liberal young woman. Her male acquaintances came in two colors. All of them enjoyed her. Few had made her feel safe. Only Elliot saved her life. She was his if he wanted. Elliot looked back at her, into her large doe eyes. Those sad lower lids. He noticed her tiny cheek freckles. The creases at the sides the lips he kissed. That kissed him. He found her beautiful. Immediately it bothered him that, in the entire ordeal, which involved shooting off a man’s fingers in a crowded night club, taking a chance on one of Bill Drury’s cockamamie folk tales, wading through a rat-infested tunnel, and narrowly avoiding arrest, only now did he feel nervous.
CHAPTER 13
Charlie Parker kept Elliot company as Willow fetched a couple of Pabsts from the icebox. Her ass was perfect. She threw it as she walked ensuring it would be the only thing Elliot could think of in her absence. They had made love in stages, their bodies coming together as if performing a musical composition—at first vibrant and passionate, inspired without control, settling into physical syncopation—fucking each other, fucking for one another, fucking each other again. He ravaged her using his tongue, his fingers, his cock, all in no particular order. It was immediate. It was deliberate. It was incredible.
She returned holding their beers. As they sipped together, she leaned against him and listened as strains of “I Can’t Get Started” caressed their ears.
“You just get back?”
“Hmm?”
“Your outfit? You look as if you’re on leave.” She took a sip out of her bottle.
“I was in the big war. These were just clothes I had handy. I needed to see you.”
“You wore a disguise for that?”
She laughed. Her eyes did a little dance in time to Verley Mills’ harp strings.
“No, no.” Elliot laughed. He found himself having fun. “I needed to be incognito. Too many cops.”
“Cops usually show up when you shoot a guy.” She nuzzled him under his chin.
“Though not when you hit a fella with a camera.”
“He had it coming.”
“Poor bastard will never pose for a picture again.”
They laughed. They kissed as if they had known each other their entire lives.
“You’re in trouble?”
“I know for sure I’m persona non-grata.”
“You’re too brave to be a criminal.” She kissed his cheek and had another swallow of beer. “So why are you looking for a jamoke like Alistair?”
“Legal business.”
“He and his chippie would show up to my sets. He always brought good shit. She was a wallflower.”
Willow laid on her back and upward as she related her memories. Elliot noticed her breasts defied gravity. If her soul wasn’t so old, he would have been afraid she was
underage.
“She hired me.”
“The limey girlfriend is now the boss?” Willow said. “How’s that work?”
“Married the boss man,” Elliot said. “That’s what caused the rift between them. Turns out, he bailed on the job so no one has seen him. Until he returns, loose ends stay untied.”
“Alistair was weird. Never knew why he liked hanging around that cold fish. She put on the highbrow, but Alistair could be wild when he got loose. He liked getting high. One hit or snort, you couldn’t shut him up. Would go on and on about himself having been to this place or another. Always spoke of ships.”
“A traveler?”
“Of some sort. Said he took the gig driving for those rich stiffs in order to work his way in. Means to an end. That the boss took a liking to him. We met in business school. I was in secretarial classes. Figured I’d pay my way following jazz acts by working as an office girl.”
“Yeah?”
“All the big names come through here. I’ve met them all. I even get down to the colored neighborhoods on the South Side. I love the Regal Theater. Ever been down that way?”
Elliot could tell Willow didn’t notice his race. He just nodded his head to keep her talking, making notice of the second of Alistair’s lady friends who were unable to tell.
A Negro and an Ofay (The Tales of Elliot Caprice Book 1) Page 12
