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

by Danny Gardner

  “Niggers don’t handle business here,” Murray said, now eyeing them both. “Chauncey keeps the pinsetters runnin’. That’s it.”

  “Our mistake,” Elliot said.

  “Thank ya anyhow,” Frank said. He grabbed Elliot by the arm and made toward the door. Elliot snatched away to turn back toward Murray.

  “Say—”

  He shoved the bowling shirt at him.

  “He left this in my car.”

  “Leave it on the counter. I’ll give it to him when he’s on his break.”

  Once Elliot and Frank were back on the street, Elliot started in on him.

  “What the hell…!”

  “Boss, I’m sorry,” Frank said. “But you lookin’ crazy.”

  “He’s here. I’m dragging him out.”

  Elliot turned toward the stairs. Frank quickly sidled in front of him. He stared meekly at his shoes but didn’t move.

  “Goddamnit, Frank.”

  Frank didn’t look up. He shrugged his massive shoulders. The contrast between Frank’s size and his deference gave Elliot pause.

  “I know you wanna make this fella pay,” Frank said, almost at a whisper. Elliot checked his flank to make sure the natives weren’t lining up.

  “We know he in there. He don’t know we out here,” Frank said. “They got a problem wit’ colo’d folk comin’ in through the front.”

  Elliot walked to the corner and Frank followed. When they made it to the alley, they both saw the fire escape.

  “Let’s get our man,” Elliot said. Big Frank yanked the ladder release. They climbed up and found the fire door propped open. Elliot closed it behind them.

  The noise of the automatic pinsetters was deafening—motors and gears, all working together to collect the hardwood pins, inserting them, one at a time, into the slots on their carriages.

  It was a busy night at Archer-35th. All eighteen lanes were in operation. The floor was slick with sooty dust and grease. The faint utility lights produced ominous shadows. Elliot stood facing the service aisle, which was only narrow enough for single-file travel. They saw a head peer out from an adjoining recess. They were spotted.

  Elliot proceeded down the tight corridor. He and Frank had to angle their bodies to move forward. Elliot pulled his gun, but only to affect, as they needed Chauncey alive. The metal monsters at his side churned. A retaining wall jutted out along the corridor. Elliot went first, creating a blind spot. When he emerged from the cubby, he felt a hard thud on his forearm, followed by dull pain. Chauncey, holed up in a tool cubby, had emerged brandishing a large Stillson wrench. Elliot sympathetically fired the 1911 on the way down to the floor. The bullet ricocheted off the machinery, decoupling a pinsetter’s arms from its gears. The mindless monster continued its function. Chauncey meant business. He turned to face Elliot, wrench in striking position, but before he could get another blow off, Frank Fuquay was upon him. He hooked one of his large arms through the space between Chauncey’s neck and shoulder, forming a half-nelson that must’ve felt like an iron yoke. His free hand had Chauncey’s left wrist. He yanked down, loosening the wrench from his grip. It fell to the floor, about two inches from Elliot’s head. Chauncey put up a fight, but Frank saw fit to break his neck.

  “No, Frank! We need him!”

  Elliot picked up the .45, rose to his feet, and raised the gun waist high. Chauncey continued to struggle against Frank until he took a face full of wall. He collapsed to his knees. Elliot shoved the business-end of the 1911 in his chin.

  “Nice or nasty. Either way.”

  Frank kicked Chauncey in his back for good measure. The concussed handyman nodded his resignation.

  Frank was now in front. Elliot marched Chauncey, gun in his back, forward through the tight space back to the fire door, only to find it was now stuck closed.

  “Lock’s broken,” Chauncey said. “That’s what the brick is for.”

  “Guess we’re goin’ out the front.”

  “Like hell we are.” Elliot rapped Chauncey in the back of the head.

  “When I wanna know somethin’ from you, I’ll put a bullet in you.”

  Frank pressed on. Elliot put the gun back in his holster.

  “Don’t make me show you how fast a draw I am,” he said, punctuated by another slap on the back of the head.

  As they entered the bowling room, all eyes were on the ragged trio. Elliot’s clothes were dirty from his fall. Frank was just big and black. The bloodied maintenance man was overkill. They stepped out of the bowling room and into the main lobby. Murray saw the three headed toward the doorway. He noticed the blood on Chauncey’s face, grabbed a baseball bat he kept behind the counter, walked over and stopped in front of the foyer, blocking their exit. Frank turned around to notice a large group of white men advancing from the other direction. The one at the center was a youngish beefcake. He walked like he wanted everyone to notice he lifted weights.

  “You alright, Murray?”

  “These guys came in here earlier looking for the handyman.”

  “Seems like they’re lookin’ for trouble,” said Beefcake.

  “Me and this fella got bidness,” Elliot said. He put a tight hold on Chauncey’s collar. Three more of Murray’s cohorts showed up, which brought the total to eight.

  “Yeah? What business is that?” said Beefcake, rolling his shoulders.

  “The kind I don’t need help mindin’,” Elliot said. He pulled the .45.

  Two men tried muscling Frank, but he broke away. Back to back, guard up, this was now the scrap that Elliot told Frank to suit up for. Encircled by bigots, one would think Chauncey would help, but it appeared he reserved his worst for his own kind, though he had enough sense to stay put. A younger man lunged toward Frank and swung a pool cue. Frank raised his left forearm to block the strike, which broke the cue in two. Frank cold-cocked him. Elliot had enough. He fired at Murray, splintering his baseball bat. Their attackers froze in their tracks.

  “You got enough bullets for all of us, halfie?!” said Beefcake. The easy answer was the hot one Elliot put right at the top of tough-guy’s man-breast. He went down hard. Elliot figured the muscle-head could take it.

  “The cops are on their way, nigger!” Murray was kneeling behind a bench.

  “I am a cop, ofay!” Elliot shouted it instinctually. Frank wasn’t sure what to think of it.

  “Bullshit,” yelled someone from the crowd.

  “Oh, I’m the law, which means I can kill about half of you ofays right now and get a fuckin’ medal for it. Now back the fuck up!”

  Elliot fired another shot in the wall behind the mob, the whistling heat from the large caliber slug rushing past the faces of two cocky goons. One bolted. The other threw his hands up and backed away. The rest followed suit, except for two. They helped Beefcake to his feet.

  “He needs a doctor.”

  “So get ’im one!”

  Elliot held his gun on them as they helped their buddy down the stairway. Frank dragged their quarry down the stairs. Elliot remained, covering their flank for a moment before he ran down the stairs himself. Frank and Chauncey stood by Lucille. Within moments, Elliot saw mortal terror in the handyman’s eyes. He turned to see three sets of Buick headlights headed toward them.

  “Nickelson?”

  “I’m a dead man,” Chauncey said.

  Elliot opened the trunk, threw Chauncey inside, and tossed Frank the keys after he slammed the hood over the handyman.

  “Get her goin’!”

  Elliot aimed the 1911 toward the first car. He squeezed off three shots. The left headlight of the lead sedan blew out. All three cars skidded. The sound of sirens grew louder. Bowling alley patrons found the nerve to run down the stairs to witness the action. Frank threw Lucille into reverse and got out of the way. Elliot jumped into the driver’s seat and floored it.

  He pulled a donut, ran atop the curb and destroyed a newspaper machine before he pushed Lucille, full throttle, eastbound on 35th Street. The first squad car began it
s pursuit at Ashland Avenue. They met the second at the intersection of Morgan and 35th when Elliot swerved to avoid the second car’s reckless attempt at blindsiding them. Frank held onto the sides of his seat.

  “They’re calling in our positions,” Elliot said, as he remembered his police training. If they didn’t change their course, they’d soon hit armed roadblocks. Wild evasive maneuvers weren’t possible, as they were hemmed in by throngs of jovial pedestrians strolling from nearby Comiskey Park. At Wallace Street, Elliot slammed both feet on the brakes to avoid plowing into a crowd of jaywalkers. The Chicago White Sox must have played that night. Neighborhood fans flooded the streets to head home or adjourn to nearby taverns. One of the men they nearly ran over slammed his hand atop the hood, shouting “niggers”-something or other. Elliot noticed the man wore a Minnie Miñoso jersey before Lucille’s back window blew out.

  “Head down, Frank!”

  “Who you tellin’!”

  If Lucille’s hull didn’t hold up, Chauncey would wind up dead before he could be of any use. If Elliot didn’t do something drastic, Frank Fuquay’s first trip to the big city could wind up his last. He jerked the wheel hard to the right, floored the gas, and Lucille leaped onto the sidewalk. He leaned on the horn, speeding down the pathway, screaming for everyone to clear out. The multitudes scattered for safety, rendering the intersection complete pandemonium, thus ending the chase. Once he passed Normal Avenue, he turned right back onto the road, hit a left, plowed through a wooden fence, and crossed over into the Illinois Central rail yard that served the freight lines south of downtown. Elliot cut off Lucille’s headlights. They drove slowly as they crossed tracks, avoiding stacks of pallets and railroad ties. Soon they could exit farther south, at Pershing Road, where they would have a straight shot into the relative safety of the Kenwood neighborhood. Frank chewed on the air. Elliot realized he had to give the Big Fella a break so he turned right onto Langley Avenue. A left onto Oakwood Boulevard led to a darkened unpaved alleyway across from the DuSable Hotel, the Waldorf-Astoria for colored folk in Chicago. It sat in a position of prestige in the Drexel Square area where the streets were lit like springtime in Paris. The fast-house hotel. The Mocambo Lounge at the corner. A Powers Cafeteria that stayed open all night up the block. It was one of the few places where colored folk could be left alone to play big shot. No police searches for them would make it that far south. Elliot shut off the engine.

  “You okay?”

  Frank nodded in the affirmative but soon went about as green in the face as someone so black could get. He exited the passenger side to vomit whatever he had for lunch onto the gravel. Elliot got out, walked over, and handed him back his bandana.

  “I washed it,” Elliot said. Frank shook his head in disbelief.

  “Shouldn’t we keep on movin’?”

  “Let’s find out where we’re goin’,” Elliot said. He knocked on Lucille’s back bumper. Frank stood at the ready in case Chauncey got squirrelly.

  “Let me the fuck out of here!”

  Elliot opened the trunk. Chauncey spilled out onto the gravel, coughing. Elliot said nothing, only staring death into him.

  Frank couldn’t help but look over at the DuSable, well-dressed colored folk streaming in and out, loud, wild, carefree. Expensive cars pulled up, driven by people the same race as the valets. Women were dressed loud and spoke loud. Everyone lived loud. He turned back to Elliot and Chauncey, two more colored men, one angry enough to kill the other. He was a long way from Yazoo.

  “Let’s get him in the car.”

  Frank pulled Chauncey off the ground, Elliot opened the rear passenger side door and Frank threw him in. He slid next to him and wedged him against the door. Elliot got in the driver’s seat, pulled the .45 and held it at Chauncey’s chest.

  “Which one of you killed her?”

  “Killed who?”

  Elliot smashed Chauncey atop his head.

  “Willow Ellison. Which one of you did it?”

  “I didn’t know she was dead!”

  Elliot shoved the barrel into Chauncey’s sternum. Frank feared Elliot would kill him right there so he threw a shot to Chauncey’s temple. The side of his head hit the window.

  “The man asked you a question.”

  “Alistair went back there to get his satchel,” Chauncey said. “Maybe something happened. I wasn’t there.”

  Elliot raised the barrel of his gun so that it hit Chauncey’s chin and pushed his head back.

  “That’s all I know.”

  “Williams.”

  “McAlpin has a boathouse in Jackson Park.”

  “That’s city property,” Elliot said.

  “Donated by the McAlpins. It’s the only house in the harbor. He’s there now.”

  Elliot handed the gun to Frank.

  “If he tries anything—”

  “Shoot ’im,” Frank said. He shoved the business-end of the .45 in Chauncey’s gut. Elliot pulled out of the alley. Off they sped, to find Alistair Williams, once and for all.

  CHAPTER 19

  Elliot’s mother was once a student here, walking Midway Plaisance, basking in the Beau-Arts architecture, its powerful statuary and gigantic limestone buildings which seemed more built for the gods than man. Perhaps that was the point. The fat cats of Chicago didn’t see themselves as the meat and potato, strong-arm politicians they were. They wanted to be more so they built more and acted as-if. When that didn’t work, they consumed. Food. Objects. Wealth. People. All in the name of girth. All in the desire to meet their gods at eye level.

  In the aftermath of the World’s Columbian Exposition, when Chicago put its most audaciously majestic idea of itself forward, these parkways, walks and monuments stood as reminders that it was yet a modern paradise. Crime seeped in over time. No matter the rules against miscegenation, the blurred lines between the neighborhoods produced strange bedfellows, of which Elliot was a product.

  As he piloted Lucille toward Jackson Park, he could see the University of Chicago to his left. He wondered what she must have looked like, carrying her books, perhaps walking alongside other students, discussing high-minded ideas about life, class, and race. He wondered if she knew she’d meet his big, black daddy. If she knew she’d have his child. If she knew she would leave him in Southville or first considered raising him herself. Leaving Elliot to a life in which, to compensate for his alienation, he minded other people’s business instead of having his own. Even now, as his new best friend held his gun on a dope-pushing charlatan he kidnapped in full view, he still wondered if it all was about some emotional response to being pulled from her teat too early. Perhaps Elliot’s troubles were formed of the self-doubt all young colored men experience when they exist in a world that births them to eat them. Perhaps it didn’t matter where his mama was or that she didn’t want him. He looked up at the sculptural details along the flattened roofs covered in polychrome tiles. He could’ve sworn the chimeras were laughing at him.

  “You’re gonna let me go, right? I’m risking a lot helping you,” Chauncey said.

  “You’re helpin’ yourself. Stupid to think you could steal the syndicate’s aitch and fatten up.”

  “It’s not about the drugs. Nickelson has three ships full of contraband he can’t bring into port because they won’t make it through customs.”

  “No more connections,” Elliot said.

  “Before he died, McAlpin made Alistair the agent of process. Called it a promotion.”

  “McAlpin wanted to get rid of his new wife’s old beau.”

  “Nickelson’s haul this time out is just too big. He can’t sink the boats because of his partners. His only chance is to get Alistair to attest to the manifests,” Chauncey said. “We figured we’d hold Nickelson up for money. Take advantage of his desperation.”

  “And get the entire Chicago Outfit up your ass. Smart, Chauncey.”

  “We collect on the score. Alistair signs. We fade.”

  “You don’t disappear from problems this big, Chau
ncey.”

  Frank nodded, knowing Elliot spoke from experience.

  They crossed Cornell Avenue into Jackson Park onto a plot of land likely unknown to most, situated between the lagoons and the Museum of Science and Industry where tall stalks of wetland vegetation hid a quarter acre from view.

  “Up here, past this marsh,” Chauncey said, as they came to a short arched bridge that passed over the small inlet between the East Lagoon and the reflecting pond adjacent the Japanese gardens. Once they reached the other side, Jackson Park Harbor in the distance, they saw the rundown wooden structure that was the McAlpin’s boathouse. It was decrepit, beaten down by the harsh Chicago weather. It could have tipped over on its side into the inlet. It sat two stories. It could have been lifted from the banks of Cape Cod. Another blue-blooded conceit by the less than worthy Midwestern elites.

  “You shol’ played the white man’s nigger, didn’t ya, Chauncey? Commandeered the boathouse ’n everything.”

  “Not me. Alistair. He was their boy. I’m just the help’s help. You’re gonna let me go, right?”

  Elliot drove onto the bird trail. Passing through an open gate, he noticed a red glint from his taillights coming off something on the road. He stepped out the car to see cut heavy gauge chain in front of the gate, same as at the family farm. He returned to the car, turned off the ignition, and cut out the headlights.

  “McAlpin is dead. So is his end,” Elliot said. “Nickelson loads up one last score—a big one—figuring it’s on Alistair Williams’s neck. He attests, it all comes into port, and Nickelson is in the clear. As long as you two are dead after.”

  Elliot reached in the back seat to yank Chauncey forward.

  “Which one of you had the bright idea to extort a fuckin’ mob boss?”

  Elliot socked Chauncey hard in the mouth.

  “Boss!”

  “Alistair.” Chauncey spat blood on himself.

  “Which one of you decided to hide the goods in Willow Ellison’s apartment?” Elliot punched Chauncey again.

  “Alistair.” Elliot pulled him forward, nose to nose.

  “Which one of you killed her when you found out she gave them to me?”