by Mary Monroe
On cue, the middle-aged white man, wearing a scowl and a cheap brown suit, raised his hands reluctantly. “He-he’s serious!” Horace said, his voice rattling noticeably. “Just do it. Whatever he says, do it!”
“I can’t believe this,” remarked the other man with enough gall to speak up. With three guns aimed in his direction, he stood up and raised his stubby arms in the air. “Horace, you’re fired. We’ve paid you for three days to protect us, and now that we actually need your sorry ass, you’re as useless as tits on a bull.”
“Now that’s funny,” Baltimore said, moving all of the men to the far side of the room by fanning the pistol at them. “Let’s get what we come for and leave peaceful, if these gentlemen wanna cooperate.” Baltimore shook his gun in Dank’s direction for him to gather up the money covering the circular wooden table decorated in green felt.
“Horace, you a house detective?” Baltimore asked while Henry stood just inside the doorway. “Do me a favor and put your gun on the table with all of those greenbacks.”
The chubby man in the roach brown suit pulled a weapon from his side holster in a slow, careful, and deliberate manner. “Uh-uh…a Kansas City detective!” he barked angrily. “That’s why you’d best forget about busting in here and taking what doesn’t belong to you.”
“Ain’t that just like a cracker?” Louis quipped, entering the room from Henry’s flank. “Man’s gotta rod pointed at his snoot, and he’s still tryin’ a call the shots.”
“Uh-uh,” Baltimore grunted in order to shut Louis up, when he was supposed to be covering their exit from the staircase. “Get back to your post,” Baltimore demanded.
“Not before I get even for all the hell ol’ Horace Spivey over there put my baby brother through some years ago,” Louis debated. “I was standing out there on the stairs, wondering what was taking y’all so long. Then I come up to see for myself. And I’ll be damned if you didn’t get the drop on the crookedest cop in Kaycee. I always said if I ever got the chance, I would bust all the teeth out of his mouth.” When the other white men heard Louis’s vicious declaration, they moved decidedly away from Horace. “See, this pecker would come around every time somebody said, ‘A nigga did it,’ but he couldn’t find nobody to answer for the crime. Yeah, he’d blame all kinds of muck on me and my kid brother, until he got a murder rap to stick.”
“That may be so, but we didn’t come for that,” Baltimore argued insistently. Dank raised two mailbags stuffed with bills to signify it was time to depart. “Let it go. We’re done here.”
“I on’t think so,” Louis refused. “Teddy was killed in the pen because of that rat bastard getting an eyewitness to lie on him.”
“That’s it!” Baltimore yelled to everyone involved. “Y’all take the bags and wait outside in the car!” Dank and Henry didn’t waste another minute taking the money and exiting the same way they came in, hurriedly. Dank was glad to be out of there, but Henry knew that it wasn’t over. If he had to bet on it, Horace wasn’t the only one who was going to die that night if Louis kept after it.
“Horace likes to keep a throwaway in his ankle holster so he can plant the spare on a dead body he shoots in self-defense,” Louis educated the room. “Ain’t that right, Dee-tective Spivey?” Suddenly, the detective’s eyes grew broad with terror. He was genuinely scared now, and it showed on his face. “Something wrong, you fat, lazy stiff?”
“I thought I recognized your voice,” Horace Spivey confessed, to his own detriment. “You’re Louis Strong. I put your punk of a little brother, Teddy, away,” he spat, trading venom for fear.
Baltimore took a calculated step to the right when he heard the detective’s revelation, knowing what the next move would be. “Damn you, Louis!” Baltimore hollered, preparing to do what had to be done.
“What!” Louis fussed, before the hot lead from Baltimore’s gun ripped through the detective’s skull. Several of the men bolted for cover, hoping they wouldn’t be next. “Dammit, man,” Louis complained, turning toward the shooter. “You’re crazy for croaking a cop. They’ll hunt you down like a mad dog.”
“Not if my trail ends with you,” Baltimore enlightened him, a split second before blowing two giant holes in Louis’s chest. Baltimore made sure he took a steady aim so Louis’s mother would still have the option of an open-casket funeral for her son. However, he didn’t hold the same respect for the detective’s family. “Everybody on the floor, and count to a hundred before you move,” he ordered to a completely compliant room.
As Baltimore lit out of the hospitality suite, other hotel guests poked their heads out of their rooms after hearing the thunderous blasts. The only thing on Baltimore’s mind was getting to Pudge’s taxi before something else went awry. He knew the car would be right where it was when he had climbed out of it, unless one of his misfits went left and put a hole in Henry. Baltimore’s breathing labored increasingly when he neared the side door leading out into the street. He wasn’t into the backseat a full second when he screamed at Pudge. “Move, man! They’s coming. Let’s get outta here!”
Pudge stared out of the fogged-up window, waiting on Louis to come pouring out of the same door Baltimore had. “Hey, where’s Lou?” he shouted, mashing on the gas pedal.
The other men braced themselves for a barrage of gunfire. Baltimore surveyed the car for his two hefty bags of newly acquired currency. It was only after he’d located the mailbags that he thought it necessary to explain about Louis. “That detective he was needling recognized him and called out his name. That old boy had a snub-nose strapped to his leg. I tried to get Lou outta there, but that cop shot him while he was mouthing off. He didn’t make it,” Baltimore told them, as if he was torn up about it. “But then, neither did that cop.”
Henry was correct, after all. Louis was as good as dead the minute he deviated from Baltimore’s instructions, allowing personal issues to creep in and corrupt his plot. The mere thought of police catching up with Louis and forcing him to spill the beans on his cronies had compelled Baltimore to ice the trail at the feet of a dead loudmouth, who didn’t know when to shut up. Looking back over his shoulder for the next ten years was not a viable option. Unfortunately for Louis “Slow Fuse” Strong, there were no two ways about it, there just weren’t.
There wasn’t another word uttered between the remaining thieves inside Pudge’s taxi as they sloshed through streets of rising water. Just as he’d done previously, Henry hopped from the old Ford in order to open the huge metal garage door at the cottonmill. “Pull it all the way in, Pudge!” he yelled, taking a moment to scan their immediate surroundings. Riddled with mixed emotions, Henry yanked on the looping link chain to lower the garage door afterwards, thinking how close they were to pulling off the perfect crime without a hitch.
Dank rocked back and forth as he stood over the fire he was told to start in the deserted cottonmill’s smokestack. “All of a sudden, I caught a chill,” he said, to no one in particular.
“Hurrup y’all and get out of those wet clothes before we all catch our death o’ cold,” Henry ordered harshly.
Baltimore situated himself in front of an elevated concrete slab once used for stacking pallets of cotton headed for northbound freight cars. He nodded his head while dividing the bills into various denominations. “Henry’s right. There’s nothing like a man getting himself killed and having to deal with a heavy storm to stir your insides. Get off everything tying you to this stickup and toss it into the fire. Oh yeah, and I’ma need those guns back. Henry, Pudge,” Baltimore said in a serious manner, “round ’em up so’s we can shell out what the fellows are owed.” Rot, sunken down to his knees, dry heaved continually after he vomited a second time. Dank, there’s a jigger of booze in the glove box. See to it that Rot gets a taste.” Dank, assuming Baltimore knew best, trotted to the opposite side of the taxi and retrieved the bottle. Rot stumbled to his feet, used his sleeve to wipe at his mouth, and then bent his elbow until the last drop of hooch was gone.
“That Balti
mo’ is a good man,” Rot swore to everyone as he started to feel better immediately. “Yeah, I’ll be right as rain in a tick, right as rain.”
With Henry posted behind Dank, Rot, and Pudge, Baltimore felt comfortable about doling out the money as he saw fit. If any of the men objected, there’d soon be one less to figure in and more cash to divvy up among the survivors. “Fellas, Louis didn’t come out of this on the right end because he brought it on his self,” said Baltimore, as a reminder in case they developed other ideas later on. “The total grab was just about thirty-seven thousand dollars,” he said, to a chorus of oohs and ahhs in return.
He took out a small notepad and a pencil chewed down to a nub. “Now, there’s four hundred for the use of the uniforms and the guns. The bellman, what clued me in, has three grand coming to him.” When Dank opened his mouth to protest, he remembered what happened to Louis for opening his trap at the wrong time. “He deserves it!” Baltimore asserted passionately. “Without him, someone else would have taken down the game. Now that leaves thirty-three grand parted six ways,” he said, while computing the long division on the small pad.
“Shouldn’t that be parted five ways, considering that ‘Slow Fuse’ done burn out?” Dank inquired. “On his own behalf, mind you.” He threw in that last comment so that he wouldn’t come across as heartless.
“Yeah, I’m splitting up his share now,” answered Baltimore. “Unless you boys have a problem with me getting half of his take for putting a hole in that fat cop, I’ll see to it that y’all share the other half equally.” Of course, no one made a sound, despite what they might have been thinking. “Good, then we all agree. Here’s $5,590.00 for each of you.” None of the men had the slightest problem getting handed enough money to change their lives if they made decent investments. Dank had recently spoken of allocating a portion of his money to open his own barbershop and shoe-shine stand inside of Union Station. The others kept their plans to themselves while marveling at their newly found wealth. Baltimore handed Pudge an additional five hundred for chauffeuring him around town. “Listen up and listen well,” said Baltimore, as the dirty deed was officially done, and compensation for it had been paid in full. “The po-lice gon’ be on the lookout for Negros out on a shopping holiday. Lay low for a while, until these automobilers blow town in a few days. If you get snatched, you don’t know me or anything about this heist. I’d be willing to give up every thin dime to have you put to sleep before I’d let you turn on me.” As the others examined themselves, mentally, Baltimore threw his arm around Rot’s shoulder. “Rot, get yourself somewhere and lay down. Have a woman you can trust look after you.” The confessed alcoholic promised that he would and then climbed into the taxi along with Dank and Pudge. The longhand watch on Baltimore’s wrist read ten minutes until midnight.
Henry was relieved as the meeting came to an end without anyone else doing the sort of thing to bring about their untimely demise. He waved at the taxi as it backed out of the garage for the last time. Afterwards, he took a moment to congratulate his best friend on a job well done, although he held his reservations closely to his vest. “At my best estimation, you came away with over eight grand for yourself. The minute we stepped off that train, you said it would be a lot of money, and you got your share,” Henry congratulated, fighting the urge to push Baltimore on discussing what actually went on after he was ordered out of the room. “I guess Louis had to die?”
“Had to,” was Baltimore’s solemn answer. “I’m not the kind to spend my life on the run from the law. That man dug his own grave when alls he had to do was keep quiet.” Baltimore let the end of his sentence dangle in the air for Henry to chew on, since he seemed to take issue with doing what had to be done. “Let’s get on out of here. It’s round about midnight, and we best get back to our alibis at Unca Chunk’s.”
CHAPTER 12
DON’T EXPLAIN
The deadpan expression Franchetta had worn over the past hour disappeared the moment Baltimore followed Henry into that poorly lit back room at Uncle Chunk’s. She leapt into his arms with such fervor that he almost toppled over. “Damn, girl,” he said, chuckling heartily. “You act like I’ve been away to war.”
“Ooh, I don’t care where you been, Daddy,” Franchetta replied. “I’m just glad you made it back to me.”
Henry watched the two of them put on quite the spectacle. He suddenly felt out of place. Although he was 100 percent certain that Baltimore hadn’t shared where they had been with Franchetta, there was no mistaking it; she knew exactly what he’d been mixed up in. “Don’t mind me,” Henry joked while they continued carrying on like honeymooners. “My head may be round, but I ain’t got to put up with being no third wheel.” He opened the door and looked out, expecting to see something that wasn’t there. Jazz played loudly from a loaded jukebox, and it was standing room only. Hoards of hipsters drank and danced as if Chunk’s hosted the last party on earth. Henry couldn’t have imaged the joint any hotter than it was that night, but something was amiss, and that bothered him. “Uh, excuse me, lovebirds,” Henry said, clearing his throat as if it was necessary.
Baltimore pulled his lips away from Franchetta’s without taking his eyes off hers. “Oh, you still wearing that third wheel around your neck?”
“It appears that way,” Henry answered irritably and somewhat out of sorts. “Franchetta, has a fine brown thang come back here asking about me?”
“Uh-uh,” she muttered, her mouth pressed against Baltimore’s.
“Do you even care that I done misplaced the woman I intend on lying to about settling down?”
“Uhhh-uh,” Franchetta moaned sensually.
“Yeah, I figured as much,” Henry huffed, setting out with hopes of finding her in the midst of the crowd.
Baltimore held Franchetta tightly around the waist. “Oh, that’s one hell of a welcome,” he whispered in her ear. “Now that Henry’s gone, I want to tell you something. It’s about tonight.”
“Shhh, hush your mouth, Baltimore. I’m not interested in your dealings that don’t factor me in.” Franchetta was falling in love all over again, just as she had each time Baltimore fell back into her life. “On the other hand, there’s something I should tell you. A man came beating at that door a half hour ago. He was an ugly cuss, clean-headed and mad as hell, too.”
Baltimore stood back on his heels, flashing a surprised expression. He didn’t want Franchetta to see how concerned he was, but it took some doing to conceal it. “A man, huh? He say who he was?”
“Yeah, and that wasn’t all he said, either,” she offered, with a long pause, thinking how adorable Baltimore looked stewing in his own juices. “The man left his name and a message. Said to tell that no-account Baltimore Floyd that he was gunning for him, and he’d stop at nothing to defend his wife Macy’s honor.”
“Macy? Who the hell…?” he started to ask before remembering exactly who that happened to be. “Oh,” was the only thing that came out of his mouth before he ended up with egg all over his face. “Franchetta, see now. I could get into that, but I’d have to—”
“Quiet, Daddy. Don’t explain,” she cut him off, planting another soft peck on his lips. “We been a part of one another since the day I met you. That’s all that matters to me, only thing that ever did. Of course, you know what kind of girl I am, ’cause you’re the one who helped me to be this way. I have no regrets about that. There’s not much could hurt me concerning you and another woman, except if she can get you to say, ‘I do’.” That must have been what Baltimore wanted to hear, because he couldn’t stop grinning. He ushered Franchetta to the doorway, then stopped as a random thought entered his mind. The phone hadn’t rung once since he had returned.
“Did the storm knock the line down?”
“Nah, it didn’t, but me worrying over you did,” she answered him plain and simply as they departed from that funky little room for the very last time.
Throughout the night, Baltimore’s gleeful smile was plastered on his handsome f
ace. To cinch his alibi, if he needed one, he made sure that everyone saw him dancing cheek to cheek with the high-yellow woman, who some knew to be a fancy-free working girl, but that didn’t make him no never mind, considering he was the one who helped her to be that way.
When the sun came up, Baltimore slipped on the pair of striped boxers lying on the floor next to the bed in Franchetta’s room. He stretched and yawned his way into the bathroom. Despite cutting the rug for several hours and having to be escorted out at closing time, he was actually well rested. There appeared to be nothing short of sunshine in his future as he washed up in the sink. He caught himself staring back at a man who seemed to have shaken his bad luck shadow once and for all. His pockets were inflated, and so was his ego. Kansas City had been kind to him over the past four days, and the time had come to say farewell and move on. Baltimore’s philosophy had him itching to hit the road again. “Never sit too long in one place,” he’d told Henry on more than a few occasions after a pretty girl caught his eye and begged him to stick around. “There’s a lot of living to do that won’t get done if you’re stud’n on planting your feet. Next thing you know, somebody will come along and try to cut you down and use your ass for firewood,” he kidded. “Now tell me, is that your idea of living, ’cause it sho’ ain’t mine.”
Speaking of Henry, he hadn’t shown up at Franchetta’s house, nor had he left word at Baltimore’s hotel, where a room key was left in his name. It was assumed that he had tied on a good one, found that fine brown thing he was so in a hurry to locate, and spent the night breaking in the new year on his own schedule.
The thought of sitting down long enough to enjoy their good bit of fortune did have its appeal, so Baltimore’s mind started working on sharing some of it. Lena Horne was starring in a double feature with Harry Belafonte at the Landmark Theater. Since Lena was Henry’s idea of the end all, be all in black womanhood, Baltimore would take in a picture show with the girls. Unfortunately for Henry, he’d have to hear about it secondhand later on.
