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

by Danny Gardner

  “Kids, prolly,” Frank said.

  “Folk been bustin’ out my windows since I dared buy this place long ago.”

  “Remember when you would wait until mornings when other folk were workin’ their farms to get the glass man to come out?” Elliot laughed. “He’d pay in cash so everyone could see we had the money.”

  “Remember the glass man’s name?”

  “Mr. Mimms. Nice fella.”

  “Yeah, Mimms was good people.”

  “One of the few white folk that didn’t mind a colored man ownin’ his own land.”

  Elliot searched the kitchen pantry for a broom. Frank followed.

  “Underneath the sink should be a pail,” Buster said, as he walked in. “There’s cleanin’ vinegar and rags in there too.”

  Elliot rummaged through the old cabinets, pausing several times to think, laugh, or frown. Sometimes he turned away from what he’d find and mumble to himself. Frank watched without intruding. He thought he may have seen Elliot wipe away a tear, but perhaps it was only dust.

  Hours blended together. They labored to bring some sense of order to their home, breaking only to go to Mamie’s for carry out. They swept, mopped, dusted, washed whatever windows were intact. They worked up such a fierce sweat, they had to open the windows to let in the cool fall air. Dusk had turned to night. Elliot lit a fire.

  Frank had performed the heavy lifting all by himself, moving all the furniture back in its proper place. The last thing he moved was the sofa, which he collapsed upon from exhaustion. His long legs hung off the edges. He wanted to continue working out of gratitude, figured he would only catch a breather, but in seconds, he snored softly. It was a quiet murmur of comfort, his dangling feet not cousin to hands draped across prison bars, but brother to young legs swaying off a porch swing.

  Elliot and Buster sat in front of the fireplace in their twin velvet easy chairs, one of their only bits of extravagance.

  “What’re we doin’ wit’ that big one over deah?” Buster took a nip of bourbon from his flask. He passed it to Elliot.

  “Figure he’d be comfortable in my old room.” Elliot took a swig.

  “Where you gon’ be?”

  “The covered porch out back. Probably finish it off so it doesn’t get so cold.”

  Elliot took another nip. The old man lit two cigarettes and handed Elliot his own. They both took drags, which soon had Elliot coughing.

  “Ya know, I never wanted to smoke until the war. They sent us GIs all the best cigarettes for free.”

  “Makin’ customers,” Buster said.

  “Sittin’ around, watchin’. Waitin’. Never know when it’s comin’.”

  Elliot took another deep drag. Frank caught himself from falling off the couch, turned over and quickly fell back to sleep.

  “We should giant-proof the house,” Elliot said. White smoke eased through his mouth as he chuckled.

  “We takin’ ’im in?”

  “Figure he’d be helpful as we get the land ready for the freeze. You think you got it in ya?”

  “To do what?”

  “Adopt another of the young and restless?”

  “Is that what I did?” Buster tossed the butt of his cigarette into the fire after the last drag. “Seems like I was your jailer.”

  “You were pretty rough on me, man.”

  Buster took back the flask. The final sip went down hard.

  “We were rough on each other.”

  Elliot rolled his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, staring at it.

  “I was a bad kid. I know it.”

  “You wuzn’t bad. You wuz just uneasy. Like yo’ daddy. You get your brains from yo mama.”

  “What’d I get from you?” Elliot smirked.

  “My worry.”

  Buster grabbed a poker. As he broke up the ash, the fire roared, its flames flickering in his old, knowing eyes.

  “Naw. You ain’t nuthin’ like me. Which is good, prolly.”

  Elliot looked up at Buster.

  “I was young and stupid.”

  “Young, maybe. Never stupid. You wuzn’t meant for me, is all. Not me, this house, this town.”

  “Must’ve been hell on you.”

  “At first, when I thought I wuz tha boss. Once I got wise, I let you run yase’f.”

  Buster stretched his legs out and massaged his old knees.

  “Seem like any word from me just made you run harder. It’s funny, but once you took up wit’ the loan shark, you finally learned sum’n ’bout consequence. So I turned a blind eye to you runnin’ wit’ tha Jews.”

  “You sent me to the Jews.”

  “I sent you to my friend Shapiro, who hep’d birth ya. You fell in wit’ his cousin the criminal. Still, you turned out alright.”

  “Did I?” Elliot sat forward on his haunches. He pressed his elbows into his knees as if prostrating. “Lord, Unk. I’ve made so many mistakes.”

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “I’ve killed men.”

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “You haven’t.”

  “You can think that,” Buster said. He folded his arms, partly as something to do them, partly to conceal himself. “A man is capable of anythin’, given the circumstances.”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “I don’t wanna tell ya.”

  Elliot stared into the fire. He wanted to ask Uncle Buster everything, while he still could. He eventually settled upon one question.

  “Why did she leave me?”

  “She left you here.”

  “Don’t make her sound noble, man.”

  “She didn’t haveta come here. She coulda stayed in Chicago. Did her bidness in a back alley someplace. She tried. You figure a gal like dat don’t have much try in her, but she gave it a shot.”

  Elliot looked to the mantle at an old decaying photo of the Caprice brothers in their younger days back in Yazoo. They were dressed in matching suits and hats, vaguely smiling. Jefferson had a wild look in his eye. Buster seemed spent, as if following his older brother around exhausted him. The fire had died down to the embers.

  “I’m glad I’m home,” Elliot said. He looked at Buster across the dying light. Buster stared back at his nephew and patted his hand.

  “This thing I did ain’t done, Unk.”

  “Naw?”

  Elliot shook his head. Buster looked at the floor. He made a deep sigh. His scratchy vocal chords sounded like distant thunder.

  “Well, just do what you gotta, then let that be that.” The old man rose from his seat and stood over him. “I can’t worry no’ mo’. I’m old.”

  Buster patted Elliot’s cheek. Elliot nodded. Buster walked slowly up the stairs to his own bed for the first time in more than a year. Elliot remained, watching the embers fight their last before dying out.

  The sound of the ringing phone woke Elliot. He leaped from the chair. It rang again. He stumbled into the kitchen. At the third ring, he answered.

  “Caprice residence?”

  “How’s the old place?” Izzy said.

  Elliot rubbed his face, partly to wake up. Partly in disbelief.

  “Needs work. How are we—?”

  “I had your phone turned on. Listen, kid. That thing we talked about a couple weeks ago?”

  “Yeah,” Elliot said.

  “They got in. Understand?”

  Elliot’s heart nearly jumped from his chest.

  “How?”

  “Rerouted through Canada. Must’ve bribed someone up there. Right now, he’s comin’ in through Great Lakes Naval Base. They dock tonight. Sorry, kid.”

  Izzy hung up. Elliot stood stiffly in one spot for so long, the busy signal screamed through the phone. He thought of his options before hanging up and placing a call himself.

  “Georgie. I need to talk somethin’ out. Meet you at the jail?”

  “You don’t know anyone on the cops you can call?” George Stingley poured coffee in two cups.

  “Chicago PD at the Cal
umet River will be in his pocket,” Elliot said. George handed him his coffee. Elliot sipped it without regard for its temperature. George sat atop his desk.

  “Go higher,” George said.

  “I got a guy in the feds that’s ready to move, but he needs a reason.”

  Elliot walked over to the counter to refill his coffee.

  “There was a bootleg liquor distributor in unincorporated county. They paid in to Sheriff Dowd so no one could touch them.” George sipped from his cup. “One day, we get a call from the county fire department. Three alarm. We arrested everyone that didn’t die in the blaze. The folks that started the fire were the next to pay off Dowd.”

  Elliot slowly turned toward George. He couldn’t believe the preacher’s suggestion.

  “You don’t just pay off the authorities,” George said. “The deal is that you keep everything on the level. If not, everything is fair game.”

  “I take back everything I said that day in the barn,” Elliot said. “You’re one corrupt son of a bitch, Georgie Boy.”

  “I’ve just seen a lot.”

  “I was a rat for the feds inside the Chicago Police Department. I ain’t never seen no shit like that.”

  “I go where the sin goes,” George said. “Only thing is, this gangster likely paid enough to have them look the other way.”

  “My man in the bureau will bring the act-right. They all get there at the same time, and—” Elliot clapped his hands together for emphasis. George handed him the phone receiver. Elliot dialed and waited.

  “Nathan White for John Creamer.” Elliot listened. “Yes. Please let him know it’s tonight. He should expect some guests to be wearing blue. There’ll likely be fireworks. My apologies for the late invitation. Yes, that’s the message.”

  Elliot hung up the phone.

  “You said you can’t trust Creamer.”

  “I can trust him to be an opportunist.”

  “When do we leave?”

  “What you mean, we?”

  “I had to explain to a young woman’s family why their daughter from Madison, Wisconsin, wound up a corpse in Southville, Illinois.” George’s voice was resolved. “This sin chain linked all the way to my little town. I’m going.”

  “I go where George goes.” Ned Reilly walked in through the back door.

  “Ned, I don’t think—”

  “Save it. If he’s goin’, make room for me.”

  Before Elliot could get another word in, the front door opened. In walked Frank Fuquay followed by none other than Amos Doyle.

  “What we talkin’ ’bout?” Frank asked. Elliot threw up his hands.

  “What’re you doin’ here?”

  “Izzy figured you wah gonna do sumthin’ stoopit. Tol’ me ta get ovah to ya house,” Amos said.

  “You wuzn’t there, so Mr. Doyle spoke to Uncle Buster.”

  “Christ on tha cross,” Elliot said. He sat down. “You’re not riding on this one, Frank. You need to look after the farm.”

  “Uncle Buster said don’t come back wit’out you.” Frank pushed his hands down in his pockets.

  “Fuckin’ old man,” Elliot said, under his breath.

  “Amos,” George said. “I can’t allow you to—”

  “Izzy says ta tell you ta remember which side youah bread is buttahd, Sheriff.”

  The room fell silent. There he was, in trouble again, but this time he would drag his friends into it. This time, his death would be the death of his Uncle who had waited so long for his nephew to finally come around to the idea that home isn’t a prison, but a place for respite and in between home and death was the space to maybe do some good. That’s how two and one-half Negroes and two and one-half ofays conspired to bring the FBI to the doorstep of a syndicate associate bearing a grudge. Elliot rose from his seat.

  “Well, shit. I guess I been told my own bidness.”

  CHAPTER 23

  They met nightfall at the edge of south Chicago—once four separate neighborhoods that U.S. Steel lashed together with chains forged of its economic might. Crossing Avenue O, they arrived at Park No. 523, which provided a stunning view of Lake Michigan and the paved-over inlet where Costas Cartage stood. The sky was a darkened canvas upon which the steel mill boilers loudly belched burnt orange. The glow was both beautiful and ominous. The Polish, Irish, and colored workers here may have cooked the nation’s refined steel, but the quintet from Southville made sure to bring their own.

  Amos was the first out the car. True to his conditioning, he surveyed the lay of the land.

  “I’m nawt likin’ deahs only one route in or out,” he said, as he raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes. “And I’m nawt likin’ dat deah.”

  Amos handed Elliot the spyglasses. He positioned him by his shoulders down the sight line.

  “Aw naw,” Elliot said. “Naw, naw.”

  George took the binoculars. He scanned the freight building until he saw a set of narrow barred windows. Inside were four women, maybe Chinese, dressed in brown laborer’s outfits. The two on their feet then cowered. The two on the metal bunk turned their gaze away. A large white man in pea coat entered, grabbed one of the women, and attempted dragging her out. The woman standing next to her pleaded, but he pushed her out of the way. She valiantly pulled the unfortunate woman’s arm, but the bruiser punched her in the gut, sending her to the floor. He pulled a gun from his jacket and waved it around, shouting. He dragged the poor woman he had chosen from the room by her hair. She screamed and reached for the other women, but they turned their backs, covering their faces in resignation. The brave woman on the receiving end of the punch didn’t get up. She could have been dead, she laid so still.

  George lowered the binoculars, staring off into the black distance over the waters of Lake Michigan. His hands shook.

  “You didn’t mention this,” George said.

  “I knew it was in his wheelhouse,” Elliot said, hands on hips, facing Costas Cartage as if he were across the River Styx awaiting Charon. “I didn’t know they’d keep them here.”

  “Staging,” Amos said. “Likely dey’re movin’ ’em someplace else soon.”

  “We gotta help,” Frank said.

  “This ain’t a rescue, Big Fella,” Amos said.

  “We set it in motion, they’re going to kill them first,” George said.

  “Boss?” Frank was mortified. Elliot stared off, but at nothing. He calculated his pound of flesh.

  “Look here,” Elliot said. “Anyone wants to sit it out, I probably won’t be alive to hold it against you later.”

  “Not everything is about you, Elliot,” George said. Amos reclaimed the binoculars to scan the perimeter.

  “Two ships. One cargo an’ a smalla skiff,” he said. “I’m countin’ one, two, chree…five guys. Just dock hands. Nuthin’ too tough.”

  “Kansas City shuffle,” Elliot said.

  “Gawda be enuff kindling on that dock for a wickit fiyah” Amos said. “I take da big fella deah, we make up da wreckin’ crew. You chree hold da dawk. We make it up da stairs and get ’em out.”

  “Then what? We set a bunch of kidnapped women loose in the wild?” Ned said.

  “Costas is placing a call to Creamer in…” Elliot said, checking his watch. “…seventeen minutes. I’d give him fifteen more to get here. It’s a chance.”

  “A fool’s chance,” Ned said.

  “You can stay here, Ned,” George said.

  “Shut up, Georgie. You already know what I’m gonna do. For once, goddamnit,” Ned said, turning to Elliot. “Please, for once, could you think things through ahead of time?” They locked eyes. Elliot, though he wouldn’t acknowledge it, didn’t deny it either.

  Ned stormed off to the car. The rest followed. Amos unlocked the trunk. Ned grabbed a Remington 11-18 and began loading. He chambered a round before he handed it to Frank.

  “Squeeze slow. Aim at what’s aiming for you. The spray will take care of the rest.”

  “Youah comin’ wit’ me, kid,” Amos s
aid. “Careful wit’ that thing.”

  “You ain’t gonna carry no gun, Mr. Doyle?”

  “Don’t need no gun,” Amos said. Da Wreckin’ Crew division marched over to the footbridge alongside the river locks that led across the Calumet.

  “He’s green, Amos,” Elliot said.

  “He’s a big boy.”

  Ned handed Elliot another Remington. He pumped a round into the chamber. The loud shik-chack echoed in their ears. He watched until Amos and Frank fell out of sight around the side of the building.

  “Let’s give it a bit,” Elliot said.

  “How will we know?”

  “We’ll know.”

  “You remember back when all we were risking was a whipping?” George said.

  “Elliot, always draggin’ us into his messes,” Ned said. George chuckled.

  “Best times of you jokers’ lives,” Elliot said.

  A flash from the waterfront side of the dock lit up the clear night. It was followed by the loud roar of flames. Elliot led the trio across the bridge. They double-timed toward the large doors at the front of the gigantic gray cinder block and wooden building. He put the first shell of the twelve-gauge into the lock. George kicked open the doors. The dock gate was wide open. Elliot could see Amos and Frank running away from the smaller transport boat, the deck of which was fully engulfed. Smoke rose from the lower hull of the larger cargo ship out its port windows. Wearing brass knuckles, Amos ran down the water side of the dock, his new student Frank Fuquay covering his flank. They ducked into a doorway and ran up a flight of stairs that led to the second level.

  Elliot stood on the platform walk. He pumped a shot toward the wooden trussed ceiling. It hit one of the large pendulum lanterns, which exploded, the raining sparks a welcome dramatic effect. George, without hesitation, entered behind him and shot down to a stack of pallets. The two colored dock hands hit the deck. The three whites faced down their intruders.

  “Anyone ain’t tryin’ to get dead best to fade on out the back!” Elliot said.

  A white dock hand opened his mouth to say something, but Ned Reilly put a shot right at his feet.