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

by Danny Gardner

  “What’s goin’ on, Georgie?”

  “Go to Miss Betty’s, pick up Elliot.”

  George checked his gun before walking toward the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the Caprice farm,” George said. “Bring him there. Wear your uniform. Arrest him if you have to.”

  “Baby,” Buster said. “You gotta get up, boy.”

  Elliot woke in Buster’s room at the flophouse. He could see his uncle standing over him, backlit by the diffused late afternoon light, like a stained glass saint. Elliot slept clear through the morning. He still had Willow’s smell in his nose.

  “What’s goin’ on, Unk?”

  “Ned Reilly is downstairs. Says he needs to talk to ya.”

  Elliot and Buster walked down the stairs to find Ned waiting for them by the lobby door. He stood straight in full uniform, as opposed to slouching in his farming dungarees. He was also wearing his star, which was most unlike him.

  “Ned. Dressed kind of official, ain’tcha?”

  “We need to get on over to the farm, Elliot.”

  “Wha happen?” Buster placed his hands in his rear pockets.

  “I can’t say just yet. George sent me here before he went up to the place. He’s there now.”

  “Lemme get my woolen,” Buster said.

  “That isn’t such a good idea, Mr. Caprice.”

  “My nephew. My farm. I’m comin’.”

  “I’ll be okay,” Elliot said. He patted his uncle on the shoulder. “Ned’s just doin’ his job. I’ll be back. In no time.”

  Buster Caprice pointed a weathered black index finger in Ned’s direction.

  “I know yo’ mama,” Buster said. It was country folk code for no screw jobs.

  On the drive, Elliot rubbed his eyes.

  “You look pretty tired.”

  “Worked late last night.”

  “What work are you doin’, Elliot?”

  Elliot slowly turned toward Ned.

  “You puttin’ cop questions on me, Ned?”

  “Just askin’ is all. Not back to collectin’, are you? Maybe took your place handlin’ the Jews’ business?”

  Elliot turned away without answering. He watched the road, wondering if anyone saw him break into the barn. At best, it would be a misdemeanor. If the bank leaned on George to press charges, he could argue his right to his own personal property. Still, something in the way Ned maintained his distance made him uneasy. Ned Reilly was George’s boy, going back to when they all were kids, and he had always been a better friend. Elliot’s presence usually rendered the deputy a third wheel. Once he went away to college, Ned had George to himself. Ned followed George, listened to him, grew to appreciate the straighter path. He never tried influencing him off his square, like the young mischievous mulatto had so often done. Whenever Mother Stingley chastised her baby boy, she knew two things: Ned Reilly was innocent and it was all Elliot Caprice’s idea. Though Ned was respectful of their close bond, there was no love lost when Elliot went away. Even still, Ned was Irish. He cared about the community. Elliot was a fellow Southvillian. Normally that counted for something.

  “I’d appreciate the courtesy of some insight here, Ned.”

  “Alls I know is a bank officer took an assessor up to the property this morning. They’re close to getting that easement from the county, so they can parcel out the land like they want.”

  “What that have to do with me,” Elliot said.

  “Fella from the bank comes into the jail afterward reporting something he found in the barn. Said they found the gate chain broken. They took George into his office in private. After they spoke, Sheriff had me fetch you to the property.”

  Ned glanced over at Elliot.

  “Look here, Ned. This ain’t what it looks like. There were some things in there I needed for work—.”

  “Don’t tell me anything else, Elliot. I ain’t got a position on it one way or another. Save it for George, alright?”

  They made the rest of the trip in silence as Elliot pieced together what little information he had. He left the chain intact. Zero residual presence inside. None of it made sense to him.

  Ned drove up to the open gate. Ned was polite enough to allow Elliot to walk up the drive. When they got out the car, Elliot kicked around the gravel seeking clues.

  “I thought you wanted to walk, not disturb an area under investigation?”

  “It’s a point of egress, Ned. You were going to drive through it, so either it’s already been swept or you didn’t find anything.”

  Elliot leaned over the trespassing sign. Cut heavy-gage chain lay in the gravel. George’s cruiser was parked outside the barn. When the Sheriff stepped out the Dutch doors, the two could see the tension in his shoulders from a hundred yards away.

  “We should get up there,” Ned said.

  Ned walked past George into the barn. A pool of light shone through the open grain door above.

  “The hell’s goin’ on here, Georgie?”

  “Come inside.”

  Elliot followed George down the drive bay to the tack room. He knew. Even before he saw the sheet over the lumped mass. He knew it when he saw it written all over George’s grim countenance. From the moment he got that first haircut at Boots’ place, when he dared feel the light of day on his face—dared to intend the best for himself—he knew tragedy was approaching.

  “Ned,” George said. He motioned toward the mass on the barn floor. Ned Reilly grabbed the front of the sheet.

  “Don’t.”

  Elliot’s whispered plea wasn’t just to Ned, to stay his hand so he couldn’t see that which was underneath. It was also to Fate, whose infinite capacity for cruelty Elliot had momentarily forgotten.

  “You need to see this,” George said.

  “Let me,” Elliot said, his voice barely registering.

  George nodded and stepped back. Elliot grabbed the sheet and pulled it gently. He swallowed his own scream as he beheld the pale, lifeless face of Willow Ellison.

  CHAPTER 15

  He could hear George speaking to him but paid no attention for he was already plotting Willow’s revenge, focused on where to begin, and who to beat answers out of. It hadn’t occurred to him that he could have been a suspect until Ned Reilly pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

  “We’ll get Mike Robin up here,” George said. “You have rights.”

  “There’s no way in hell you think I could’ve done this.”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  “Do you know her?”

  “Of course I do, Ned. That doesn’t mean I killed her or brought her body to my own barn.” Elliot ran his fingers through his hair.

  “The body makes the property the scene of a crime. This place gets tied up for months. That buys you time,” Ned said.

  “I’d have to be crazy.”

  George and Ned looked at each other in silence. Elliot felt all alone.

  “It’s been a rough couple of years for you, Elliot.”

  “Oh, fuck you, George Stingley.”

  “Who’s the girl?” George was using his preacher’s stare. The question froze Elliot in his tracks. The shock had passed. The grief had arrived.

  “Her name is Willow. Willow Ellison. She’s from Uptown. She’s…she was a photographer. Followed jazz acts.” Elliot remembered their kisses. That poor girl.

  “In Chicago?”

  “Yes, George. Chicago. We were together last night.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I needed to interview her for a case I’m working on. I picked up a side hustle based on work I’ve been doing for Mikey Robin.”

  “This Mikey know you’re working side hustles?” Ned fingered the cuffs.

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Keeping secrets isn’t going to help you much now, Elliot,” George said.

  “When last I saw her, she was alive in her apartment. I found her on the floor, doped up on heroin, so I put her in her bed. I retur
ned to Southville, went to sleep in my room at Miss Betty’s, and that’s where Ned found me.”

  “Can anyone other than the deceased account for your whereabouts?”

  “That’s not relevant until you learn how long she’s been dead, Ned! Jesus Christ, do they give you assholes any training?!”

  “No need to insult me, ace,” Ned said. “Just want to know why there’s a dead body in your barn.”

  “If you’re working a case, as you say, what were you doing in her bedroom?”

  “What grown folk do, George.”

  “That’s real professional.”

  “Stuff it, preacher man. This isn’t Sunday’s sermon.”

  “You’re not in control here, Elliot. I am,” George said. “Right now, I’m at a crossroads.”

  “Oh, I bet you are.”

  “The farm was locked down. Maybe you assumed no one would be here for a while,” Ned said. “It’d give you a place to put her until—”

  “You think I would hide someone’s dead body in my uncle’s house? Someone I killed?”

  George Stingley fixed his gaze upon Elliot. His disappointment finally came to the fore.

  “I think something happened that you hadn’t intended. You needed time to figure out what to do next. You counted on this place being locked up. Maybe your old pal George the Sheriff could help you fix it.” George took off his glasses. “Like I helped you fix St. Louis.”

  “You self-righteous bastard.”

  “Don’t make us do this nasty,” George said. He pulled his revolver. “I’m still your friend.”

  Elliot, wounded in so many places, in so many ways, stood shocked. Everything felt like a bad dream.

  “Wait a second, George,” Ned said. “Look, Elliot isn’t my favorite person in the world.”

  “Thank you for your candor, Ned.”

  “He says he didn’t do it. It sounds to me he’s making sense.”

  “This guy I’m looking for, he’s connected to a wealthy family, and what I think is a clear case of murder. The more I dig into him, the more he seems like the type to do something like this,” Elliot said.

  “Fine. We’ll take you in. You attest to what you know. We handle this the right way,” George said.

  “So the right way is leaving me twisting while some ofays from the state police figure this out? Maybe the true killer comes forward before I get the electric chair up at Stateville?!”

  “What do you expect me to do?”

  “Get out of the way while I find this fuck!”

  “What happens to the sheriff that found a dead white girl in his friend’s barn but let him go?”

  “Seal the barn off, declare it a crime scene. Leave me out of it.”

  “No chance.”

  “If I wasn’t hot on his trail, the dead body of my only lead wouldn’t be lying right there!”

  “Or you make a run for it like you did from Chicago,” George said.

  “Keep your mouth off that until you know something about it.”

  “You’re too good at disappearing.”

  “That what this is about?”

  “It’s about all of it, including this poor woman.”

  Ned could see it was getting personal.

  “I’m this close to getting at least some part of my life back,” Elliot said.

  “I don’t see it that way.”

  “Goddamnit, George, where am I gonna go?!”

  “If that’s how you truly feel, you’ll do the right thing. Ned.”

  Ned pulled the cuffs, but Elliot had already given up on loyalty. He rushed Ned, planted his foot inside his left heel and threw the deputy off balance. Elliot yanked Ned’s service revolver out of its holster. He grabbed Ned around the shoulder and jabbed the business-end of the revolver into Ned’s side.

  “Oh, Christ on tha frickin’ cross.”

  “I’m sorry about this, Ned.”

  “Can you see now why you’re not my favorite person?!”

  “Put it away, George.”

  “What do you think you’re doing, Elliot?” George wasn’t intimidated but confused. “You think this is a game?”

  “No, but we’re gonna play one called motive, means, and opportunity. So you found a dead white woman in my barn, yeah?”

  “Dammit, Elliot!”

  “Dead woman, in my barn. Tragic, but how’s that make it my crime?”

  “It’s your barn,” Ned said.

  “It’s the bank’s barn now. Wanna be the law. Know the law. Dead girl. I knew her, so that’s opportunity. My barn, in theory, so that’s means. She’s the last person to see the guy I’m looking for, but I just up and kill her? Where’s the motive?”

  “She didn’t have the information you were looking for. Or didn’t want to talk to you,” George said.

  “Oh, we talked, alright. Supposition. My only connection to the girl is through the woman that hired me to find Alistair Williams. Willow Ellison is a jilted paramour.”

  “Paramour?” Ned tired of Elliot’s grip.

  “Means lover.”

  “Why couldn’t you just say that?”

  “So, my only contact got me so mad, I’d blow the entire case by killing her in a fit of frustration, ruining any chance to profit from our association. When I’m desperate for money. I stashed her in my own barn, which fifty other people have the keys to?”

  “He’s got a point, George. Can you let me go now?”

  “Soon as George puts his gun away and agrees to talk.”

  “No one in a panic thinks things all the way through, Elliot,” George said. “She’s here to buy you some time.”

  “The Illinois River would buy me all the time in the world. Bringing her here is stupid. You ever know me to be stupid?”

  Silence filled the room as George considered the possibility he was once again being manipulated.

  “No. Cold and calculating, but not stupid,” George said. Elliot let Ned go and returned his gun.

  “Now, unless you’d shoot me in the back, I’m leaving.”

  “C’mon already, George. It’s gettin’ old. I told you how you have a hard-on for Elliot when that whole Pettingill mess went down.”

  “What Pettingill mess?”

  “Dead,” Ned said.

  “Pettengill’s dead?”

  “Dead as he wanna be.”

  Elliot heard the familiar sound of the long neglected wooden pasture fence creaking. He stepped out from the tack room.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Elliot shushed George. He walked toward the Dutch doors. The creaking continued until the sound of wood falling atop itself filled the barn.

  “He never got the fence fixed,” Elliot said, as he took off running. Ned followed. George’s shouts to stop were ignored. As the burly sheriff was no athlete, he walked briskly to the front of the barn and held post at the doorway, hand on holster. Elliot picked up speed on the decline of the access road. After a few seconds, when they were out of sight, George could hear a scuffle.

  “Ned! What’s going on?”

  George trotted out from the barn but, a few moments later, they walked back up the hill. Elliot held a panicked Tom Molak by the arm. He was no match for either man, much less both, so he complied. He looked disheveled. There was a long rip down the back of his tan suit jacket. Ned held his gun on him while Elliot pushed him forward. Each time Molak tried to turn around, Elliot pushed him again.

  “This is?” asked George, as the men went back inside the barn.

  “Someone that can make life hard for you bumpkins if you don’t let me go.”

  Elliot shoved him again.

  “Easy, you prick!”

  “Good to see ya, Tom. It’s been a long time.”

  Elliot shoved Molak into the Farmall C. He kicked the man’s legs apart and frisked him.

  “You frickin’ spooks can’t spend a little time mending the fence?”

  “Where you think you are, polak? The stockyards?”

  “This is
an expensive suit, Caprice.”

  “You look dashing in all five feet of it, half-pint.”

  Elliot pulled a .22 caliber semi-automatic from Molak’s ankle.

  “This belong to your sister?”

  “I’m so frickin’ gonna kill you when this is over.”

  “Maybe you’re dead when this is over.”

  “Again, who is this?” George was exasperated.

  “This here is Detective Sergeant Thomas P. Molak from the Chicago Police Department. My guess is ol’ Tom here was the one what ran me off the road outside Springfield the afternoon I picked up the case I’ve been tellin’ you about.”

  “I was just tailing you. You ran yourself off the road.”

  Elliot punched Molak in his right kidney. He went down hard on the barn floor. Elliot sat into a duck squat.

  “What you know about Alistair Williams? And don’t act like you aren’t lookin’ for him, too.”

  “Been lookin’ longer than you.”

  “You were checkin’ the Meat Locker in St. Louis for him.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  Elliot pushed on Molak’s forehead. The back of his head hit the Farmall.

  “That’s enough.” George put his hand on Elliot’s shoulder.

  “Yeah, you’re roughin’ him up pretty bad there, Elliot.”

  “Oh, Tom here is from Chicago, like me. He knows how we do it. So this Negro and ofay you were lookin’ for in St. Louis—”

  “The white guy is Williams. Word is he’s in bad with some nasty characters. That’s why he’s on the run.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know. The colored fella runnin’ wit’ him is probably named Chauncey.”

  “The handyman from the McAlpins. Turns out he’s missin’ too. The two have been makin’ enemies all over. They roughed up a guy in St. Louis pretty bad over a heroin buy. We heard about it from some underworld connects.”

  “This ‘we’ you’re speakin’ of. That someone from the trust board for McAlpin’s estate?”

  “Fuck you, Caprice. You’re not gettin’ me to spill.”

  “I figure you owe me some professional courtesy.”

  “I figure you’re green and should get work as a security guard.”