Ms. Etta's Fast House

by McGlothin, Victor

  “What you saying I ought to do, give up playing baseball?”

  “I’m just saying you might oughta consider another line of work?”

  Henry leaned away from Baltimore in direct opposition to his suggestion. “Uh-uh, the kinda of work you do always seem to put the police on my trail.”

  “Naw, man, I’m through with all that. I’m what they call an entrepreneur now.”

  “A which?” Henry asked, scratching at his thick head.

  “A self-made business man.”

  “Oh, no! I’ve seen how you do business and the way you operate scares the hell out of me.”

  “I’m not asking you to throw in with me, Henry. I just thought I’d stop by and see how you were getting along and tell you personally that I’m done with baseball. So don’t be looking for me to lace up today against them Metro white boys. I’ve got something big cooking and it’s gonna take all the time I got to see it play out. I’m staying at the Ambrose Arms if you change your mind.”

  Henry extended his hand to Baltimore as he stepped off the front porch. “You know I can’t take your money without a way to pay it back, but thanks just the same.”

  “Shoot, you should have thought about that before you went and filled your house with that crooked salesman’s window dressing.”

  “You think I feel better with you showing up in a fine car rubbing it in?”

  “No, I didn’t figure on anything but looking in on you and wishing you well against those boys aiming to put one over on you today.” The St. Louis Blacksmiths were a bunch of talented young players who worked the spring and summers providing exhibition games in black communities but started each campaign by opening with a grudge match for bragging rights against the St. Louis Metropolitan Police Department, an all-white team representing an all-white force. The game offered the city a chance to come together collectively to celebrate the birth of spring. This time, however, there’d be more to play for after the game ended and far more to mourn than celebrate by the time spring had come and gone. “You watch yourself out there this afternoon,” Baltimore warned, remembering games in the past ending in all-out brawls. “Besides, I hear they got a third baseman who played some college ball. Say he’s supposed to be something to see.”

  “Well then, you’d better hurry over to the gate and get yourself a ticket,” Henry retorted playfully. His eyes followed Baltimore as he started off in the direction of his car. “Baltimo’!” Henry called out to him, with a pinch of sadness. “I ain’t forgot.”

  “Me neither, Henry,” Baltimore shouted back with the same tenor in his voice. “Me neither.” Baltimore had rescued his friend from more scrapes than either of them could remember and over the years, they shared everything from the last can of soup to bunking on the same sofa. But more importantly, they shared a solemn promise to back each other’s play until death, although there was always something standing between them. Henry wanted to pretend he wasn’t cut out for murder. With Baltimore, there was no need for pretending.

  4

  GOOD LUCK AIN’T BAD

  Madame Clarisse’s was packed by noon. Several society women, nurses and working girls observed Penny’s extreme makeover. The posh parlor was one of the few places where a black woman didn’t have to be concerned about status, because at Madame’s, cash money was the only thing that meant anything. Neither pretentiousness nor credit was allowed, under any circumstances, especially not on the third Saturday in March. This Saturday was special. It featured a baseball game between the ’Smiths and Metro Police, the first major event of spring for colored St. Lucians, which meant scrounging up something new to be seen in at the ball park and then chasing the blues away at Ms. Etta’s Fast House later that evening. Penny hadn’t previously imagined attending either of those majestic events but that was before she’d started living like Etta suggested.

  Penny’s head was still spinning while Madame’s clients hollered suggestions to the team of stylists engaged for the young girl’s coming out party. Etta spent most of the first hour shaking her head and grimacing as they wrestled with Penny’s thick, coarse, untamed mane, which seemed to grow each time a comb was raked through it. Etta covered her mouth to keep a litany of dirty words from spilling out when the spectacle began, but she laughed hysterically at the sight of Madame Clarisse working so hard that she actually broke a sweat between cigarette breaks. Soon enough, there were rays of hope after Clarisse thoroughly administered a maximum strength hair relaxer treatment, which left a huge black ring inside the rinsing sink. Once Penny’s tresses had been washed, pinned and set to go under the dryer, Etta realized that Penny never got a shot at being a young lady. What she lacked were a befitting wardrobe and the right kind of training. Suddenly, Etta had an idea. She informed the shop keeper of an emergency that she needed to attend to then headed out of the salon and up the boulevard.

  When Etta returned nearly an hour later, strutting through the door with three store clerks following closely behind her with bags under each arm, Penny awakened beneath the hairdryer. She didn’t know what to think. The clerks were paid well for their trouble and then hastily ushered out. As soon as Madame Clarisse locked the door and drew the shades, a hoard of chattering women who hadn’t laid eyes on Penny before that morning began fussing over her and the array of new outfits. Subsequently, Penny was pulled, prodded, poked and perused. It felt more like an examination than anything else, but she loved the overwhelming attention. Before she knew what was happening, she had been disrobed and whisked into the backroom.

  Penny put up a good fight but proved no match for three determined groomers as they submerged her up to the neck in a gigantic washtub filled with satiny bubbles. Even though it required considerably more scrubbing than previously predicted, Penny was finally squeaky clean, powdered and perfumed. All of the clothes she’d brought from home were thrown away in the alley trashcan. She pleaded with Etta to keep a small embroidered cloth hatbox, the only personal item her estranged mother left behind. Etta agreed, selected a suitable outfit for the occasion, assisted the make-up girls with lip rouge and skin cream, then presented Penny to the impatiently awaiting clientele.

  As the tall, anxious seventeen-year-old emerged timidly out of the backroom, a hush fell over the salon. Penny touched her face nervously with wandering fingertips, as if something went terribly wrong. Not sure how to read the women’s startled expressions she hurried in front a full length mirror and took a look at her new and improved appearance. The poor girl fainted right on the spot. After being revived, she explained how it appeared that someone had replaced her with the person she’d always dreamed of becoming. The grown-up hairstyle, beautiful clothes and frilly undergarments were beyond anything she could have conceived. Her fantasy was made complete when there was a rap on the salon door. When Madame Clarisee saw who it was, she smiled and primped her hair.

  “Oh, yes, come on in,” she said, escorting the man inside her shop as if she wouldn’t mind doing the same if he happened to knock on the front door of her home. “Etta’s still here,” Clarisse sang. Her clients began straightening their clothes and eyeing one another while looking over the visitor in the meantime.

  When Clarisse cleared her throat to get Etta’s attention, she turned to find a memorable scene she’d viewed before, an entire room full of women shamelessly ogling the outrageously handsome Baltimore Floyd. “Baltimore, did you forget something?” Etta asked curtly, as if her teenaged brother had barged in on an all-girl slumber party.

  “No, ma’am,” he replied, all cool and smooth. “But I do believe that you may have.” He gestured to someone at the window. One of the clerks from the department store strolled in with a collection of women’s footwear. “Penny appears to be a nine-and-a-half narrow but I’ve been wrong before.”

  Penny nodded appreciatively. “Uh-huh, nine-and-one-half... narrow,” she said, mostly guessing because she’d worn oversized men’s hand-me-down work boots for years. Several of the ladies held their breaths as Bal
timore whipped a silk handkerchief with a paisley print from his breast pocket. He snapped it in the air and placed it on the floor and the collection of onlookers was thoroughly impressed. He gestured for the young clerk to remove every lid from the assortment of shoe boxes. When Penny pointed tentatively to the pair she liked most, Baltimore kneeled down on one knee over the handkerchief and fastened the light green sling backs onto Penny’s skinny feet. She grinned affectionately while standing from the chair. Baltimore held her hand tightly, as if she were a small child trying her mother’s heels on for size for the first time.

  Applause rang out in Madame Clarisse’s while Penny paraded in circles. She giggled and blushed at Baltimore, then at Ms. Etta, who was quite accustomed to Baltimore sweeping women off their feet with such generous displays. She’d seen him at his best and worst, kindhearted and cold-blooded. There was no getting around it, Baltimore had taken a liking to Penny and he was prone to protect things he’d grown fond of, people included. Unfortunately, it was his association which often put them in harm’s way. Etta had witnessed that first hand, too.

  When the hoorays were well spent, Etta made an attempt to compensate Clarisse for Penny’s new look but the shop owner declined it initially. “Hell, Etta, what would that make me, taking money from you when I enjoyed seeing that child blossom more than anybody?” It wasn’t until Baltimore threw her one of those winks of his, that she understood the payment was from him. With a thankful nod, she gladly tucked the money away in her brassiere for safe keeping. “That’s my kind of man, up and down,” she said, watching Baltimore load Penny’s things in the trunk of a taxi.

  “Yours and mine both,” one of her oldest customers agreed cheerfully, to the delightful roar of everyone listening in. “Huh, I can still get it going every now and then but he’d have to be packing something just as long as nine-and-a-half narrows!”

  The parking lot at Medsker’s Field was full to the gills. Baltimore circled it but didn’t catch a break. He slipped the attendant a few bucks to park his convertible near the player’s clubhouse, since the game had progressed farther along than he anticipated. By the time he purchased a ticket and scaled the stairs to the colored section, it was almost over.

  Bottom of the ninth, with one out, the ’Smiths were up on the police department by a run. The crowd cheered, each section rooting for the team which represented them. Growing concerned, Baltimore reached inside his pleated pockets and came out with only forty-two dollars. He’d made a bet for two-fifty at two-to-one odds, which meant he stood to win five hundred if the ‘Smiths pulled it off. He didn’t want to think about the alternatives if they didn’t. To ward off troubling thoughts he cheered and whistled like every other Negro in the upper balcony, although pride wasn’t fueling his motivation. Facing the police officers he’d bet against without the money to pay them off was.

  Henry Taylor was poised in the outfield, waiting for Jinx to throw the batter something wicked to take a slice at. On the next pitch, the batter took the bait and popped a fly ball directly into Henry’s glove. He tipped his hat, took a bow and relayed the baseball to Willie B. Bernard, an undertaker’s son and one heck of a mean-spirited shortstop. Jinx received the toss on the mound and took a deep breath. One more out and Baltimore’s pockets would be bulging again, but another Metro run would tie the game with a runner in scoring position. As Jinx rolled into his wind-up and hoisted his knee into the air, Baltimore wondered if the pitcher had given any thought to helping him bury Halstead behind his own barn earlier that day.

  As the batter whiffed at a smoking hot fast ball, there was no reason to wonder any longer. Baltimore took the back stairs down to the field assuming the game was in the bag. Suddenly he heard an all too familiar sound, a bat smashing against an errant pitch. He hustled to the fence as the runner flew down the first base path. At the same time, another one headed for home. Willie B. fumbled the ball in the dirt, a puff of red clay dust rose from the ground. The shortstop gritted his teeth as he gathered the ball into his right hand. The runner galloped. The ball sailed toward home plate. The umpire positioned himself for an impending collision. Then, the runner ducked into his slide just as the ball arrived. The ‘Smiths catcher caught the ball in his mitt. He squatted along the base path to block the plate. After the runner slammed into the catcher six inches from home plate, the umpire waded through the cloud of dust to make an educated guess. He looked at the runner’s cleats trapped beneath the catcher’s knee. “Where’s the ball?” the umpire yelled while the entire stadium watched attentively. Time stood still as the catcher raised his glove with the ball stuck firmly inside it. “He’s out!” the umpire shouted. “He’s out! That’s the ball game!”

  Baltimore sighed with relief, white fans flopped into their seats, the colored congregation cheered on their feet. The ’Smiths formed a congratulatory pile on top of Willie B. Bernard and the Metro Police team argued with the umpire like angry dogs. It was baseball in all its glory, with winners, losers and fans, who paid their hard earned money to see grown men play a child’s game. Eventually, the on-field celebration concluded. Both teams lined up and shook hands like always, but neither of them knew it would be the ending of their rivalry and the hallowed spring classic.

  The ’Smiths locker room bubbled over with joyful elation and red cream soda. Baltimore congratulated the boys, patted Henry on the back then hugged Willie B. like a long lost brother.

  “It feels mighty good to be on top. Even if it’s only once a year, I’ll take it,” Henry hailed loudly.

  “Y’all almost gave it away out there,” Baltimore said, wrapping his hands around the neck of a wooden bat.

  “Could’ve used you on first,” Henry replied, noting Baltimore’s snazzy street clothes. “What you doing here anyway? This is the players’ clubhouse. Last I heard you gave up baseball.”

  “Yep, but I didn’t give up winning,” Baltimore chuckled.

  Within minutes he was sitting in the back seat of his sporty roadster, parked directly outside the opposing team’s locker room. The Metros spilled out one by one until the man Baltimore had business with emerged from the shadows. When it appeared as if a certain police sergeant planned on ignoring his participation in a certain gaming arrangement, Baltimore perked up. “Barker, now don’t act like we’re not old friends,” he teased. “I’d hate to tell everybody you crawfished on me and welched on a bet.”

  The tough officer growled. He was so agitated that his red hair seemed to stand up on end. He dug into the ball bag hanging off his shoulder and spit a hunk of brown tobacco extremely close to Baltimore’s car. “You know gambling is illegal in this state,” he threatened.

  “It didn’t appear to be illegal yesterday when you thought you’d come out on the other end of this thing,” Baltimore smarted back.

  Barker’s jaw clenched tightly as he made a violent stride toward the smart-mouthed colored man. He couldn’t stand to listen to him any longer. Baltimore observed him as he approached, fuming mad, but he held firm and didn’t flinch. Barker’s younger brother Clay grabbed him by the arm. The strapping police corporal, who not only mixed it up with Barker on a regular basis, was opposed to nearly everything he stood for. Clay was just as tall as Barker and gave up about thirty pounds or so, but he more than made up for it with sinewy muscle. “You want to start a riot, big brother?” he commented coolly, asking him to be mindful of the sea of colored fans spilling out of the ballpark. “Well then, give the man what you owe him, let’s grab a couple of beers and call it a day. Better luck next time. It was one helluva game today. Let it go at that.” After Barker wiped venom from his mouth, Clay tipped his hat to Baltimore and tugged on his brother’s arm to move him along.

  “Yeah, next time,” Barker hissed as he shot another stream of brown saliva in Baltimore’s direction. Finally, he pitched the bulky envelope into the front seat of Baltimore’s car in passing. “You might want to consider making tracks back to Maryland before wearing out your welcome.”

  Once t
he standoff ended, Baltimore settled in behind the steering wheel. “Huh, next time,” he mused, glaring at the envelope. “You set the time, I’ll name the place. Throwing my money around like that.” As he thumbed through his winnings, a pretty brunette, riding in the passenger seat of Barker Sinclair’s automobile caught his eye. Baltimore didn’t think of looking away once their eyes met but then neither did Mrs. Sinclair. Colored men had been hanged from tall trees for less, although that didn’t seem to bother Baltimore and his fistful of money. It was then he knew he’d see that brunette again. If he had anything to say about it, he’d see all of her.

  The thought of giving it to Barker’s wife stayed with Baltimore as he drove to the other end of town to meet with a very powerful mobster. Schmitty Rosenberg, a dangerous man if not handled correctly, had his hands in every illegal industry in St. Louis. Baltimore had asked for a meeting with the aging mobster to pitch a partnership. Rosenberg wasn’t likely to refuse, although he was known as a ruthless greedy gangster, who avoided doing business in “The Ville” despite extending his reach into every other black community in the city. It was rumored that shady enterprises within the neighborhood ran smoothly and unmolested as long as the police received their cut on the back end. Shakedowns were common place for protection from outside racketeers. Baltimore was tired of living on crumbs, so he set out to carve up his own piece of the pie.

  As soon as he reached the main gate, fashioned with wrought iron and barbed wire, his car was thoroughly searched. When he received the go ahead to pull forward, he was searched from head to toe at the front door, then physically detained by two of Schmitty’s thugs until another brutish looking man, wearing an expensive dark blue all-weather wool suit, stepped into the small room off the kitchen.