3
OLD DOGS, NEW FLEAS
The following morning rolled in nice and easy. As the community came alive, Penny was there to witness it. Watkins Emporium had closed by the time she made it back to town the evening before, so she sat on the curb outside of the dry goods store all night, with her knees tucked against her chest, waiting and watching. She watched a large woman in the gray house across the street open the front door and kiss a fellow good night. Then, Penny’s eyes were glued to the milkman as he parked in the driveway, stepped inside, and made a fifteen minute in-home delivery before returning to the dairy truck while zipping up his pants. She also witnessed another man arrive in a work uniform, with a meal pail in one hand and the St. Louis Comet News in the other. Penny scratched her nappy hair wondering how the poor woman in that gray house managed to get any sleep between the second and third shifts. By the end of the week, Penny would come to learn that the woman wasn’t all that interested in sleeping.
While the revolving door across the street kept on spinning, an attractive woman, satin-brown skinned and jazzy, strolled along humming a pleasant tune. She sashayed in her tangerine colored cotton dress and matching pumps as she surveyed the young girl curiously. “Penny King, that you?” she asked, surprised to find her there.
Penny glanced up, smiled cordially then went back to spying at the gray house where all the activity had taken place. “Yeah, it’s me. Morning, Ms. Etta.” Jo Etta Adams was the closest thing there was to a society woman without actually being one. She owned the most popular nightclub in “The Ville,” St. Louis’s upper-crust colored neighborhood. Negroes from all over the country visited Ms. Etta’s Fast House, the rhythm and blues haven of the Midwest, where national celebrities made frequent appearances to shake up the local scene. Dizzy Gillespie played a nearby theater to a packed white-only audience the month before. After the theater owner paid him, Dizzy loaded up the tour bus and drove it thirteen blocks to the front door of Ms. Etta’s so his band could cut up with the colored folk all night long. The famous musician wouldn’t accept money from Etta but he didn’t pass up on the free beer and all the home cooking his band members could eat.
“What are you doing, sitting there on the sidewalk this early in the day?” Etta inquired with her brow furrowed, as if this was one of the strangest things she’d ever seen.
“I was waiting for Watkins to open up while watching how these city folk start off their day,” Penny answered nonchalantly. “Now I’m just waiting.”
“I don’t understand. You waiting for Halstead?”
“Nah, he’ dead,” Penny told her, as if he’d merely skinned his knee. “I’m waiting to see what happens now since that man showed up after working all night and finds the milkman’s hat in his bedroom. See, he had it on going in but not when he come out.”
Etta was even more confused than before. “What’s this about some dead milkman?”
“Uh-uh, Halstead is the one who died.” Before Penny continued her ragged explanation, they heard a loud commotion coming from across the street. There was shouting, screaming and things getting smashed inside that gray house. Penny’s eyes sparkled when the man in the work uniform came barreling through the screen door with the milkman’s hat clutched in his hand. “Ooh, she sure is strong,” Penny marveled, thrilled that a woman had the strength to body slam a grown man.
“I’ll say,” Etta agreed.
“And stay out!” the woman’s voice shrieked from the front porch, as she lumbered back inside. “I don’t take to getting roughed up by no man, for no reason!”
“Looks like he found the hat,” Penny assessed. “But he’s gonna have to find another place to lay his head now.” As the man crawled to his car, Penny cheered the woman’s decision to fight back, even if she had been in the wrong for shuttling men in and out under his nose. “Wow! This is even better than the picture show. You think she’ll let him come back, Ms. Etta?”
“She’ll have to,” Etta answered, keeping an eye peeled on the action. “That’s his house. She’s just renting a room.” After the man of the house cranked up his sedan and sped away, something dawned on Etta. “Did you say Halstead passed on?” Penny quickly explained how Halstead caught on fire, how she’d burned down the house and a few other secrets Etta made her promise never to share again. “Don’t tell anyone else you were there when the still blew up and never mention anything about setting fire to the house,” Etta warned. “People go to prison for stuff like that. If there’s something to be said, let me handle it.” Since Penny couldn’t imagine trading one prison for another, she shook her head ferociously.
“Yes, ma’am. I mean, no, ma’am,” Penny stammered. “I ain’t gon’ say nothing else about it, to nobody. I’m free and aim’n’ to stay that way.”
“Good. You look hungry. I was on my way over to Clarisse’s Beauty Parlor but we can stop and grab a bite along the way.”
“We, Ms. Etta? I can come and wait with you at Madame Clarisse’s?” Penny had seen women coming and going from the neighborhood hair salon since she could remember, but Halstead only slowed down long enough to ogle at the customers through the storefront window.
“Seems to me all you’ve been doing is waiting,” Etta said, trying to imagine how Penny would look if she had the chance to spread her wings. “It’s high time you started living.”
Penny’s mouth watered when that familiar cream-colored convertible came to a stop in the street behind Etta. It was him again, the stranger who said nice things, threatened Halstead and helped her off the ground. He’d even winked. He winked! With him showing up again unannounced, Penny was really living now and each moment appeared to get topped by the next. “ ’Morning, Jo Etta,” he hailed, after killing the engine.
“Baltimo’ Floyd,” Etta announced. She was genuinely happy to see him, not ecstatic but happy enough to hug him around his neck. “When’d you get into town? Billy Eckstine fell in last night and bunched ’em in from wall to wall. He mentioned how you’d relieved him of his new automobile while he was up in Philly.”
“Well, some people ought to stick to what they’re good at. Billy happens to sing a lot better than he plays poker.”
“He might be catching on, ’cause that’s pretty close to what he was cackling about last night,” Etta informed him. “Now that I get a look at that fine coach, I can see why he was putting up such a fuss.”
When Etta noticed Baltimore’s eyes drifting past hers, she turned to see what had drawn them away. She sighed when his expression hardened. It appeared that Penny was hiding something from him, by purposely concealing the left side of her face from view. “Penny, I think I need to have that talk with your papa,” Baltimore declared solemnly.
“Naw, suh, ain’t no need for that now,” she assured him, like he had to ease her troubled mind the day before. “He beat on me for the last time. God made sure of that. You might say He fixed it.” Suddenly, Penny raised her head, stuck out her chin and nodded to both Etta and Baltimore.
“There’s nobody better for setting things straight,” Baltimore said, sincerely. “Let’s get some grub, then see if there’re any loose ends The Man Upstairs might have overlooked.” He opened the car door to help Etta into the front seat, while Penny gladly jumped in the back.
“So, how do you know Penny?” Etta asked Baltimore, while admiring his classy automobile.
“We met yesterday on that very spot, right, Penny?” She nodded again, as he placed the sack in the seat next to her. “Yeah, she put me in the mind of the first girl I fell hard for,” he reminisced, climbing in behind the wheel. “Uh-huh, I was stuck on her for some time too.”
“Whuu—whut happened to her?” Penny asked anxiously.
“We had nine children together before I came to realize we had nothing in common,” Baltimore replied, displaying his best poker face.
Penny was astonished. Her eyes were about to pop clean out of her head until Etta howled with laughter. When Penny caught on that it was a friendl
y joke at her expense, she doubled over in unbridled giggles. “Ooh, Mistah Baltimo’,” she squealed with delight like a kid on an amusement park ride. “Ms. Etta, how you keep up with him?”
“Lucky for me, I ain’t crazy enough to try,” Etta snickered, as the car pulled away.
Madame Clarisse’s shop was a few blocks south, over on Papin Avenue. By the time they had eaten breakfast, Etta filled Baltimore in on what needed to be done with Halstead’s remains and the possible methods of facilitating it. The threesome was as thick as thieves. Penny had no doubts that Baltimore was the kind of man who made things go down easy and she couldn’t wait to see what lay in store next.
Baltimore glanced through the beauty parlor window and then eyed his wristwatch. “Jo Etta, I’m ’a take care of that Halstead matter, but I need to run by Henry Taylor’s to let him know I’m back.” When she pursed her lips instead of saying what she thought about it, he suspected something was wrong. “Etta? What you holding out on?” His stern expression demanded an answer.
“Go on inside, Penny,” Etta directed firmly, so she could discuss grown folks’ business, including her own. She held her tongue until the girl was out of earshot. “Not that it’s any of my affair, but you won’t find Henry in that cramped apartment over by the train yard. He went and talked himself into getting hitched. He,” she sighed before the rest came out slowly, “... married a country girl, who moved up here from Tennessee. They got a little place on Tenth.” It was obvious that Etta still carried a torch for Baltimore’s oldest living friend. Most of his other friends had long since perished. Some of them received their send-off by Baltimore’s own hands. Etta was very much in love with Henry, but hadn’t fooled herself into thinking she was the marrying kind.
Caught by surprise, Baltimore started to comfort Etta but thought better of beating a dead horse. He offered a warm smile in place of empty words as Etta tapped his hand, signifying her thanks for leaving well enough alone. Then, as if she didn’t have a care in the world, Etta eagerly strolled inside to direct Madame Clarisse in orchestrating a miracle, converting years of shameful neglect into a vibrant young lady. That transformation would take some time, providing Etta with the opportunity to figure out what to do with Penny after that. When the owner of the ritzy salon took one look at Penny’s bruises and matted hair, she winced.
“Etta,” Madame Clarisse groaned wearily, “I’ll do it ’cause you’re my best customer and ’cause I like you.” She shook her head at Penny’s faded overalls and run over shoes. “But I’ma need me a cigarette first.”
“I know, Clarisse, I know,” Etta agreed, smirking alongside her girlfriend. “Light up two and hand me one.” Both of the women sat there, smoking and staring at Penny’s long twisted pigtails while she gawked at the expensive leather chairs, polished furnishings and spotless red and white checkerboard linoleum floor. Madame’s shop was a lot classier than Penny had envisioned when passing by in Halstead’s old truck all those years. Beginning to feel like she was something special, Penny laughed to herself on the inside because all of the anticipation kind of tickled. If she didn’t know better, she would have sworn she was dreaming.
A few miles away, Baltimore set out to find Henry using the information he’d received from Etta. When he’d located the house matching her description, he parked along the street instead of pulling into the driveway, considering the outside chance he’d stumbled on the wrong address. The small red brick house had a cozy feel to it from the outside. The smell of fresh cut grass reminded Baltimore of spring baseball and all the great times he’d experienced barnstorming with colored teams while touring the country’s back roads and Negro ballparks from coast to coast.
When he climbed the steps and knocked at the door of the red brick house, Baltimore saw a pair of bright eyes staring up at him from the other side of the small paned window. He assumed he’d chosen the wrong house for sure then and started to walk away until he heard a woman’s voice yell out, “Henry, it’s that man again!” Baltimore’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. He wore a wide smile when the door flew open and his old pal Henry Taylor appeared in navy Dickies’ work pants and a white undershirt. Henry was more than six feet, two inches, two hundred thirty pounds of sheer brawn, and waving a bat. Most men would have bolted for safety or at least flinched in close proximity to someone that menacing, tight-faced and huffing mad. But all Baltimore did was call the man’s name.
“Henry Taylor!” he grunted. The oversized field hand blinked rapidly. “Thangs so bad you got to come to your front door like this?” Henry’s hard scowl faded slightly when Baltimore stood up to him. “Get to swinging that lumber or invite me inside.”
“Sure, Baltimo’, come on in,” Henry offered halfheartedly. “Excuse my manners.” He leaned the bat against the door frame and shoved his thick hands into the front pockets of his pants. Suddenly, a woman in her late twenties wandered into the room with a small boy on her heels. “This is my wife Roberta and Denny, her ... uh, our son,” Henry explained. His wife was considered more handsome than pretty, light brown in complexion with full thighs and large breasts. The child’s face was the mirror image of his mother’s and Baltimore couldn’t see his daddy’s presence stamped anywhere yet.
“My goodness, Henry, you’ve got yourself a beautiful family,” Baltimore marveled while smiling cordially at Roberta. “Congratulations. Me and Henry go way back and ...”
“And I’m sure not interested in hearing about it,” the dutiful wife snapped rudely. “Yes, I’ve heard your name, Mr. Floyd, since the day Henry and I met and every day in between. He’s not the same kind of man he used to be and I like it just that way.”
“Nice meeting you, too,” Baltimore said when nothing else seemed appropriate. He was interested to know what kind of man she had turned Henry into. Baltimore later learned that Roberta was a war widow. Her husband did-n’t make it back and her son longed for a father. She moved to St. Louis and found a teaching job about the same time Henry had picked up some casual money on a painting job, through a friend of his in the school superintendent’s office. By the time that schoolhouse had received a second coat, Henry had the bright idea his time had come to settle down. Oddly enough, the thought of saddling an educated woman appealed to him and they were married before the paint dried.
“Honey, let me and Baltimo’ talk,” Henry proposed. “Go on now, it’ll be all right.” The minute she left the two of them alone, Henry’s eyes fell to the floor.
Baltimore bent over to get a better look at him then he began to pace back and forth. “Man, I gotta get you outta here. She’s got you asking if you can have a private conversation with your best friend, not to mention coming to the door ready to hurt somebody.” Baltimore frowned as he stopped on a dime. “Well, what you waiting for? Get your coat.”
Henry looked up at him, peculiarly, as if he was out of his mind. “Fool, sit your ass down. I ain’t leaving here. This is my home. The first one I ever owned.”
“Henry, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way but playing house don’t suit you.”
The overgrown man popped to his feet. “This suits me just fine. I got a good woman and don’t have to go ’round looking over my shoulder like I used to. Yeah, this suits me down to my shoes and the only reason I carried that lumber to the door was ’cause I figured you was that sneaky outfitter. He got us all this front room furniture and we’s paying him back, on time, with interest.” Henry grimaced while thinking about the hole he’d dug for himself. “Roberta warned me it was a bad move. Now we’s behind, so they sends this man ’round to collect.”
Baltimore shook his head slowly. “I don’t believe this. You let a outfitter get his hooks in you?”
Avoiding eye contact, Henry reluctantly admitted the real reason behind getting the trendy furniture. “The minister lives next door and Roberta and them always over there having teas, garden parties and such. I guess I was trying to make a good impression.”
“And you call me a fool.”
Disgusted, Baltimore took a seat next to Henry on the rented sofa. “I’ve been gone nine months and you’ve managed to get hitched to a dictator, father a four-year-old boy and let some fella soak you in a interest scam. Henry, what’s gotten into you?” Baltimore waved broadly at the man’s den full of high priced department store trappings, still trying to understand his friend’s new lifestyle. After a few moments of silence trampled by, he looked at Henry from the corner of his eye. “And what about Jo Etta?”
Henry raised a finger to his lips. “Man, it ain’t smart bringing up that name around here.” He craned his thick neck as best he could, with hopes that Roberta wasn’t listening in. “What about Jo Etta?” he replied eventually, in a hushed tone.
“Forget it. You’re too far gone to understand.” Baltimore reached into his pocket and came out with a thick roll of assorted bills. “How much you need to get that collector’s boot off your neck?”
“Don’t you mind what I owe,” Henry objected. “This is something I’ve got to figure a way out on my own. Mr. Bellows, he’ll be in today. Chances of getting that Negro League charter are looking good. That means more than enough money to settle thangs.” Scarcely believing his own rhetoric, Henry sat down on the chair and stroked his chin.
“Come on, Henry, you need to wise up,” Baltimore advised. “Mr. Randolph Bellows and the other owners are running scared. The white teams are talking about raping the Negro League and it won’t be long before Satchel Paige or “Cool Papa” Bell gets invited in to play with Jackie Robinson. The time for colored baseball in St. Louis has all but dried up and blown away. Sure you can go on barnstorming in exhibition games but every year the crowds are getting smaller. Let me help you out with this before that man comes back to get his merchandise and leaves you and that dictator wife of yours sitting on the floor.”
Ms. Etta's Fast House Page 3
