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

by Danny Gardner

  Elliot checked his watch.

  “We better get on.”

  He put a tip down on the table. Frank followed Elliot to the men’s room. The big man tended to his bladder as Elliot washed his face, fixed his hair, and did what he could to address the soil on his clothing.

  “Gotta keep some duds in the car,” he said to himself. Frank marveled at his mentor’s sense of pride. Even when beat up and dog-tired, he wasn’t gonna allow himself to look like a bum.

  “Ready to do the dance…again?” Elliot asked.

  “How’s it gonna go?”

  “Either bad or real bad.”

  “Bad would be good,” Frank said.

  “Shit. Right now, bad would be perfect.”

  Taken in total, Alistair was a pawn in a much bigger, more dangerous game. McAlpin manipulated him, as did Margaret, Nickelson and finally, Chauncey. Costas was mistaken about Elliot. He would never deliver a fellow colored man for slaughter, especially not to some fat cat behind a big desk. It didn’t take the poor bastard’s head to resolve everyone’s situation. Better to let justice have her due.

  In Costas’ study was Mike, leather folder in hand, and Kenilworth Police Chief Tom Benefer. Flanked by Monk, Elliot and Frank brought in Alistair to collective befuddlement since he was barely recognizable. Elliot helped Alistair to a seat on a long leather couch along the east wall of Jon’s office before turning to address the hanging committee.

  “Gentlemen, I give you,”—he turned to Alistair—“what’s left of Alistair Williams. You must be Chief Benefer. I know this all seems—”

  “Insane?” The chief didn’t take Elliot up on a handshake. “Is this some kind of mistake or a con job?”

  “Oh, it’s no con. Attorney Robin,” Elliot said, “I can legally attest to the presence of Alistair Williams, currently employed by the McAlpin Family Trust as the personal driver to Mr. and Mrs. Jon McAlpin, Sr.”

  Mike approached Alistair, whose countenance was ghastly. He pulled Elliot to the side.

  “What in the shit—?”

  “Brief him so we can close out the damned probate,” Elliot said.

  “He’s a drug addict, Elliot.”

  “Just tell him what he has comin’ to him.”

  Mike began discussing Alistair’s end of McAlpin’s will as if he’d receive it. Alistair, a near zombie at that point, openly wept out of guilt.

  “How does this concern me?” Benefer asked. “And the Village.”

  “First things first, Chief. Attorney Robin, did you receive Mr. Williams’ attest?”

  “Barely,” Mike said, as he sealed the papers. “I honestly don’t know if it’ll hold up in court. Mental capacity.”

  “Don’t think it’s going to matter much. The estate is now closed?”

  “Closed.”

  “Chief, I’m Assigned Detective Elliot Caprice of the Chicago Police Department. The McAlpin family, of which you are in the presence of via Jon McAlpin II, have been some of your village’s longest residents.”

  “I thought you said your name was Costas,” the chief said. Jon ignored the statement.

  “It’s my duty to inform you that Alistair Williams here confessed to me the murder of Jon McAlpin, Sr. My associate, Mr. Fuquay, was a witness.”

  “I heard ’im,” Frank said.

  “Now hold on a moment!” Jon approached Elliot. Frank intercepted him. Monk intercepted Frank. At that moment, Margaret McAlpin was escorted in by Leonidas. She was dressed like the fair maiden: smart yellow dress, white gloves, clutch purse, flower in her hat, as if, afterward, she was hosting a tea for the Ladies’ Auxiliary.

  “Alistair!” The ghost of a man looked away from her.

  “I told you not to cross me,” Jon said, seconds from reaching for Elliot’s throat. Frank and Monk were in a bonafide toe-down. The chief and Mike Robin rose to quell the disturbance. Elliot raised his hands in surrender.

  “The man admitted to killing your father, for God’s sake.”

  “You’re no longer a cop.”

  “Technically, he is,” Mike said.

  “My resignation letter is being drafted.”

  “This is not what we agreed to, Caprice!”

  “I agreed to get you what you need to reclaim your family’s shipping business.”

  “I fail to see how you’ve done so!”

  “Give it a minute,” Elliot said.

  “I need to hear it from him,” Benefer said, pulling a note pad from his jacket pocket. Frank walked around Monk, took hold of Alistair by his forearms and gently propped him up.

  “Just tell ’im what you tol’ us.”

  “Is this true? Did you murder Jon McAlpin?”

  Alistair nodded while looking down at the floor. Margaret seemed stunned, but it could have been a con.

  “You need to say it, so I’m asking you again,” the chief said. “Did you murder Jon McAlpin?”

  Alistair looked up into Benefer’s eyes.

  “I killed him. I drowned him in his bathtub.”

  Margaret dropped her clutch purse, put her face in her hands, and sobbed. Elliot couldn’t help but notice the honesty in her grief. He almost felt guilty about what would come later. Chief Benefer cuffed Alistair and told him his rights.

  “By the way, his accomplice is in my car. The estate handyman helped Alistair cover it up. He also murdered Willow Ellison of 4802 N. Broadway Avenue in Chicago.”

  “I heard that, too,” Frank said.

  “Lord,” Margaret said. Thunderstruck, she ceased her crying. Turned off the waterworks, just like that.

  “And, if you twist his arm hard enough, you’re certain to find out more about the death of Esme McAlpin. But maybe that’s too much for one morning.” Elliot smirked.

  “You’re going to have to help me sort this out,” the chief said.

  “Guess I’m doin’ everyone’s job,” Elliot said to Mike, who gave him the side-eye.

  Elliot handed Frank the keys. He followed Benefer out the door.

  “If it’s any consolation to you, Mrs. McAlpin, the matter of your husband’s will has been closed,” Mike said. “You are now the inheritor of his estate.”

  “I don’t care about that.”

  “Sure you do, Margaret,” Elliot said. “Anyone would.”

  “I hired you to bring Alistair back to me.”

  “I did. Can’t help the rest.”

  Jon Costas slammed the palms of his hands atop the leather writing pad.

  “Perhaps now we can revisit the fucking reason,”—he kicked the chair behind him—“we’re all here in my house in the first place?”

  “Margaret, now that your inheritance has been released to you, one of the assets under your control rightfully belongs to your husband’s son, Jon,” Elliot said. “Have you met, by the way?”

  “Don’t be cheeky, Elliot Caprice.” Margaret took a seat on the couch. She finally took off her gloves. “What’s more, I know his deceitful intrusions into my life. Particularly the bugger he hired to weasel around.”

  “I knew my father was a fool, but how he wasn’t able to see through you is beyond me,” Jon said, now standing in front of his desk.

  “How ’bout we cut out the insults before you realize what you can do for one another,” Elliot said.

  “I agree. I’m waiting to know myself,” Mike said.

  “Jon here is going to make Margaret an offer to buy back Costas Cartage, Limited. Margaret is going to happily accept that offer. As they both now occupy seats on the board, that’ll be, what, Mike, two members from quorum?”

  Mike Robin smirked. “I’m sure at least two will follow suit.”

  “Not a bad way to start your ascension to power, Margaret,” Elliot said. “Fixing one of your husband’s most egregious wrongs.”

  “Why would I want do that?”

  “It’s the right thing to do,” Elliot said.

  “We disagree,” Margaret said, rising to leave.

  “Nineteen forty-one,” Elliot said.<
br />
  Margaret stopped, but didn’t turn around.

  “What about nineteen forty-one?”

  “Attorney,” Elliot said.

  “Don’t let me stop you?”

  Mike opened the leather file and handed Elliot a sheet from the ship’s manifests found in the satchel.

  “According to the work sponsorship papers on file, that was the year you came to the States, right?”

  “What are you implying, Caprice?”

  Margaret pulled a cigarette case from her clutch. Leonidas gave her a light.

  “I just want to establish that fact before we continue.”

  “Am I on trial?”

  “Not by me,” Jon said.

  “Thing about cargo ships, Margaret, is that when they’re on the open sea, they can do pretty much anything they want. If they want to land? Man, oh man, do they get their skirt looked up.”

  Elliot handed her the page. Margaret scanned it, not certain what to make of the scrawls.

  “Every entry on and off the ship, at all times, goes in a ship’s log. Every passenger, too.”

  When she realized what it read, she handed it back without looking at him.

  “M. Thorne, picked up from a drowned ferry off the coast of Brighton and Cove. Perhaps you boarded in Surrey, after seeing your dear mum one last time. Except, this says 1939. Over one year earlier than you told the McAlpins.”

  “That’s someone else’s simple mistake,” Margaret said, and she exhaled smoke, as if to cast a spell about herself. “It doesn’t prove anything.”

  “A lot of folks were leaving Britain during the war. So what you hitched a ride on one of your future dead husband’s cargo ships.” Elliot walked toward her. “So what your ex-boyfriend drowned him while he was enjoying his booze in the bathtub. The family board won’t care. They won’t use it as a reason to de-legitimate your claim. They won’t plot against you. They’ll just leave you alone.”

  Margaret coldly stared through Elliot.

  “Leave you to enjoy all their old money.”

  Margaret walked toward Jon, slowly realizing what was happening.

  “I had nothing to do with your father’s death, Jon.”

  “I have no reason to care whether you did or didn’t, Margaret. I just want what’s mine. He was supposed to return the family shipping company to my mother’s family long ago. Instead, he let foul men use it to do wretched things.”

  “Like cause Alistair’s heroin addiction,” Elliot said. “And Willow’s murder. It’s one big rotten mess, Margaret. Selling it to Jon puts everything back in its proper place, including little tidbits such as cargo manifests. Y’all family now. I’m sure he’ll be happy to use the fullest discretion.”

  “I would,” Jon said. “I could also use an ally on the family board.”

  “So, you gonna do yourself a favor? ’Cuz trust me, by the time I make my next move, you will not want to own that shipping company.” Elliot sat in one of the chairs in the office, his utter exhaustion finally showing. Frank walked back in.

  “Five hundred dollars,” Margaret said, her gaze steely. “That’s what passage on that rat-infested skiff cost me. I’ll write off the weeks your drunken sailors molested me, day after day, as if I were some Singaporean whore.” She took another drag from her cigarette and exhaled, slowly, deliberately, in Jon’s direction. “It’s the principle, you understand?”

  Jon extended his hand. Margaret took it in hers. Leonidas handed her an ashtray for her cigarette butt, where she extinguished it. After tucking her clutch purse under her arm, she put on her right glove.

  “May I assume you’ll be calling upon me for the balance of your fee, Mr. Caprice?” she asked, without looking at him.

  “At a date and time convenient for you, Mrs. McAlpin,” Elliot said. He rose to shake her hand. Margaret slapped him hard across the face, turned and sauntered out of the room. Leonidas showed her out.

  Elliot was finally attracted to her.

  “Well, if we have no other business, gents,” Mike Robin said, laughing. “I can make it to the county clerk to file these on the way home. Damned fine work, Elliot.” He shook Elliot’s hand, their mutual respect assured.

  “I need a favor from you,” Elliot said.

  “Sure.”

  “Look after Frank until I get back to Springfield.”

  “Where you g’on be?” asked Frank.

  “Doin’ something only I can do.”

  “It’d be my pleasure,” Mike said. “See you at the next board meeting, Mr. Costas?”

  “Attorney Robin,” Jon said. Mike and Frank walked toward the door led by Monk.

  “Frank,” Elliot said.

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “You’re hired.”

  Frank smiled.

  “Tough interview?” Mike laughed and slapped Frank on the back.

  “Mr. Robin, you don’t even know.”

  Jon and Elliot were alone, free to discuss the consequences.

  “Impressive gambit, Elliot.” Jon sat atop his desk. “Yet, what do I do about Nickelson? He still has possession of the company. Granted, without my father and Alistair, he’s finished.”

  “Men like Nickelson ain’t finished until they’ve spread the pain around.”

  “I imagine I can contact our friends in the government.”

  “That’ll help the family legacy a whole lot.”

  “Am I in crime school?”

  “You don’t know evil, Jon.”

  “My father was evil.”

  “Your daddy was a schnook. If he ever had to earn a nickel on his own, he’d had grown some gumption. Like you.”

  “You have a solution?”

  “Solution for you. Problem for me.” Elliot thought to himself. He paused before speaking. “Nickelson still has ships out to sea. They’re coming back in carrying real nasty cargo.”

  “Go on.”

  “If, when those ships returned, the FBI was at the docks—”

  “You’re insane.”

  “You’re statin’ the obvious.”

  “They’ll pick everything apart. I’ll be totally exposed, as will the McAlpin family.”

  “Sooner or later, through no fault of mine, someone is gonna discover your pap was a war profiteer. In these times, you’ll be lucky for exile.”

  “This doesn’t fall back on me?”

  “You walk away the unaware victim of a fraud, perpetrated by a gangster upon your kind, patriotic father.”

  “This will cost me more money, no doubt.”

  “No. I denied you Alistair. I feel obligated.”

  “It’s tempting.”

  “C’man, Jon. I’ve been up for days. I need the go-ahead.”

  “None of this is your business, really.”

  “It’s wrong. It’s happenin’ in front of me. That makes it my business.” Elliot extended his hand. Jon Costas shook on the decision.

  “Just be prepared to act bewildered when the press comes callin’. The guy I’m involving will likely make it big news.”

  “Seems as if I made a friend in all this.”

  “Shit. Now I’m in trouble.”

  “I’ll reach out to my contacts in the Police Department today.”

  “Let ’em know I’m retiring as of now. If anyone gives a shit. May I use your phone?”

  “I’ll give you some privacy.”

  “No need. We got enough dirt on each other to be cousins.”

  Jon Costas laughed. Elliot walked over to the phone box and opened it. He breathed deep before dialing the devil.

  “Nathan White calling for John Creamer.”

  CHAPTER 21

  The Palmer House was touted as “The World’s Only Fire Proof Hotel.” When your claim to fame is that the joint won’t burn down around you, it tells you what kind of city you’re in.

  Elliot looked like shit. May have smelled worse. He was in pain and exhausted, so he resolved to ignore the concerned stares from the employees as he darted through the luxurious
lobby. Must be lookin’ colored today, he thought as he attempted to distract himself from the pangs of nervousness in his gut. Of course, Creamer would pick this place: frescoed ceilings, gilded fixtures, Art Deco ambiance. He was too elegant for Bradley, too rich to be a state attorney, and far too privileged to be loyal to the mulatto farm boy that came to trust him. There he was, seated alone at a back table in the Lockwood Restaurant, making the same squint that suggested he was too important to be bothered. Yet John Creamer left Elliot out in the cold because he had no more use for him because kissing Estes Kefauver’s ass didn’t pan out. They were both desperate men, only different kinds of desperate. Creamer needed something. Elliot needed Creamer.

  Elliot marched up to his old friend’s table where he was headed off by a waiter suggesting better accommodations elsewhere. The guy was so polite Elliot almost didn’t mind the bigotry. He pulled out a sawbuck to get rid of him, but John Creamer flashed his badge. The waiter found someone else to serve.

  “Always sticking up for yourself,” John said.

  “Not always,” Elliot said, as John poured him a cup from a silver pot on the table. A small dark drop fell onto the perfectly white tablecloth.

  “I have to say, I was surprised.”

  “So surprised you put a man on me?” Elliot nodded toward an agent seated alone underneath one of the gilded angel statuettes that hung from the walls. “Brown suit, black tie, cheap shoes. What’d you think, Creamer? I was gonna shoot you?”

  “I didn’t know what to think.” John took a sip of his coffee as he stared into Elliot’s eyes. “Where’d you go? After St. Louis, I mean?”

  From they met, John made Elliot feel exposed, so it was no surprise he was aware of Elliot’s movements. Still, it was unnerving, like realizing one’s spouse knew all along they had a beau on the side but let them perpetrate their tiny deceptions anyway. There was no play. Creamer always came sideways; Elliot played it straight.

  “I went home.”

  “How is life in Southville? And your friend, the loan maker?” John placed his cup atop his saucer, then folded his hands across his lap. He’d seemed to finally accept his bearing.

  “Southville is Southville. I hear Izzy is having a tough go, but I wouldn’t know for sure.”