by Pascal Marco
“Timbo. Uh. Maxine’s husband—my best friend, Stan—is black.”
“Jeez, kid. That’s too bad.” Timbo shook his head, slamming the trunk closed and looking through the back window at his female passenger. He tried to lower his voice but his whisper was still a roar. “Why is it that these great looking white broads marry these colored guys. Never could figure that one out.”
Brian narrowed his eyes and shot Timbo a disapproving look.
Timbo caught Brian’s glare and replied, holding up three fingers scrunched together. “Okay, kid. Scout’s honor. I won’t say the N word no more.”
Brian opened his door and slid in next to Maxine. “Just take us to Senator Thomas’s office. Okay, Timbo?” He looked at Maxine and shrugged his shoulders at the ex-detective’s insensitive comments.
“Don’t worry,” she whispered to him.
Brian smiled at her reply. Maxine Kobe’s dedication to her husband was unshakeable, hence her insistence on coming to Chicago.
“I deserve to go to Chicago. After being married to you all this time and all you’ve put me through I think I’m as much a part of this as you are,” she had insisted back in Arizona when the three of them hatched their plan and the ensuing trip. Brian watched as Stan stood his ground, forbidding his wife to go. It was the only time he had seen his friend lose his temper with her.
She had argued that, at the very least, she could be of value when they met with the Oak Woods Cemetery people, identifying the details of the monument, and verifying its location on federal land. Brian had agreed with Stan that Maxine should not go with them but knew Maxine would not be held back. Now that she knew all the details about Stan’s past, she’d want to do everything in her power to help her husband right this wrong. A wrong that not only affected him but her and their children, too.
When Maxine had showed up at the airline gate with her ticket and overnight bag in hand, she confirmed Brian’s suspicions and he knew nothing he could say would possibly convince her not to go.
“Senator Thomas’s office is over on East Forty-Third Street. I’ll have you there in a jiff.” Timbo stuffed himself behind the steering wheel as he got in the car. “Cops know all the shortcuts. Me and your old man, God rest his soul, worked these streets for a long time, kiddo. Know ‘em like the back of my hand.” Timbo accelerated his Lincoln and merged into the heavy late afternoon airport traffic and headed toward the expressway.
“Is there anyone else who has offices in the senator’s building?” Brian asked as he poked numbers into his cell phone then held it up to his ear.
“Nope. Just the senator. It’s a tiny place. There’s a small front lobby. I think it’s his niece who’s the receptionist.”
“Entrances?” Brian asked, jotting some notes while checking his voice mail.
“Front and back. Jeez, kiddo, you sound like a cop ready to make a bust.”
Brian didn’t reply, putting his finger in his other ear. His eyes widened as he listened to the message.
Fifteen minutes later, Timbo exited the Dan Ryan Expressway at 43rd Street and turned east, heading toward the small, one-story brick building that housed Thomas’s office at the corner of 43rd Street and Martin Luther King, Jr. Drive.
“Hey, if I ain’t mistaken, that’s Senator Clayton’s limo right in front of us,” Timbo called out to his two backseat passengers. “Matter of fact, I’m sure of it.”
The limo, a few car lengths ahead of them, made a quick right turn on Prairie Avenue.
“Are you sure?” Off the phone now, Brian’s voice turned urgent. “Is there anyone in it?”
“Can’t tell with those smoked windows,” Timbo replied.
“I think we should follow it,” Brian suggested.
“Really?” Timbo replied. “Okay. Whatever you say, kiddo.”
Timbo made his own sharp right-hand turn south down Prairie, driving several car lengths behind the stretch limo. He followed the black-windowed government-plated vehicle as it turned left on 44th Street, then left again when it reached the alley that paralleled the Chicago Transit Authority’s commuter train tracks.
“Pull over here,” Brian said to Timbo. “I wonder why he’s going down the alley? Let’s see where he stops.”
They waited until they saw the limo come to a stop at the end of the alley. Then Brian asked Timbo to take the same route. Timbo drove down the narrow, gravel passageway lined with rusted out garbage cans and strewn with litter. A train rumbled above them on tracks supported by ancient-looking steel girders, a trademark of the city’s elevated commuter system. The chauffeur driven sedan sat with its emergency flashers blinking. Timbo brought the gold Lincoln right up behind the idling limo and stopped.
“Senator’s office is about a block east o’ here. You want I should find out if the senator and the husband are in the car?” Timbo asked, turning back to his two passengers.
Brian and Maxine nodded in unison.
Timbo lumbered out of the car and waddled his huge frame up to the senator’s limo. When he reached the driver’s side of the black sedan, the window motored-down. Wearing aviator sunglasses that looked like two, shiny mirrors, the driver looked like he should be in the cockpit of an F-16.
“Yes?” the driver asked.
“Whatchew doin’ parked back here, Tubbs?”
“Dunno. Just got the call to come over and wait out back. They don’t tell me much. You know how that is.”
Brian wondered what Timbo and the driver could be talking about. After listening to his voice mail, his cop’s instinct grabbed his gut. He turned to Maxine and pressed a single index finger up to his lips for a moment, then opened the Lincoln’s back door. “Let’s get out of here,” he whispered.
They slid out and crept away from the vehicle, sneaking into a yard two doors away. Once out of sight, Maxine tugged at Brian’s shirt, stopping him.
“Where are we going?”
“To find Stan.”
Rushing up the gangway between twin, three-story brownstone buildings whose fronts faced Prairie Avenue, they reached the city sidewalk that paralleled the street. Once there, they turned right and walked back north toward 43rd Street. When they reached the intersection, a metal sign on a steel pole hung from one of the corner buildings. It read: the negro league café.
“This is it,” Brian said, turning toward Maxine.
“This is what?” she asked.
Brian paused for a moment, then chose his next words. “According to Sal Abbatti, this is where Senator Thomas is supposed to hold his town hall meeting later tonight.”
Brian opened the front door and a small bell announced their entry. He scanned the room and at the same time reached for Maxine’s hand. A few patrons seated throughout the joint looked up at them as they glided past several tables where people sat eating dinner. The couple grabbed two empty stools at the end of the café’s lacquer-finished bar.
“Good evening,” the bartender said, greeting them with a warm smile. “Welcome to The Negro League Café. Can I seat you folks at a table?”
“No, thanks,” Brian said. “These two seats are fine right here.”
Brian noticed the bartender’s smile turn to a concerned look. “Well, okay then. So, what can I get you two?”
“Two coffees, please,” Maxine replied. “Two javas. Comin’ right up. Would you like to see a menu? We serve the best soul food in Chicago.”
“No thanks,” Brian said.
Brian turned his head back toward the front door and scanned the room once again. As he did, he felt a tap on his shoulder and spun around on his stool. A tall, gangly, black man, dressed in a fine, brown leather jacket, stood next to him.
“That’s the chair, man, for the chairman.”
“I beg your pardon.” Brian’s reply was more a question than an apology.
“I said, That’s the chair, man, for the chairman.”
“Oh, I’m awfully sorry. Am I in your seat? I didn’t realize—”
“Oh, it’s no problem,” the black man
said. “You and your pretty friend here just go ahead and stay right there. I can sit with my friends at their table over there.” He pointed to a booth in the corner where two men sat drinking coffee and smoking cigars. “So, what brings you to our wonderful café and our beautiful Bronzeville neighborhood?” the black man continued.
“I’m a big baseball fan,” Brian said. “My lady and I are in town on business and I read about this café on the Internet, so I wanted to see it.”
“Mixin’ a little business with pleasure, huh? Nuttin’ wrong with that, my man. What kind of business you in, might I ask?”
“Importing and exporting.”
“Really. Isn’t that a coincidence? I’m in that same business myself. Of course, you know what Oprah says, ‘There’s no such thing as coincidence.’” He chortled at his quip.
“Here you go. Two javas.” Interrupting their conversation, the bartender set down two steaming cups of coffee on the bar. Then he slid over a bowl of sugar and a creamer for them.
“Rayford,” the stranger said to the bartender, “I’ll have my usual.”
“One double-shot almond latte, coming right up.”
“And put this nice couple’s two coffees on my tab. You folks enjoy your coffee. And again, welcome to Bronzeville.”
“Thank you, but you don’t need to do that,” said Brian.
“Oh. But I insist,” said the man. “And we should talk more. ‘Specially about baseball.”
Brian watched the lanky fellow as he walked away toward the booth where his two friends sat, each staring over at Brian through puffs of creamy cigar smoke.
Once the black stranger was out of earshot, Maxine leaned over to Brian and murmured to him as she sipped on her coffee. “What was all that bull about importing and exporting?”
“Don’t look now but I’m positive that’s our man, Pick,” Brian whispered back. “Sal Abbatti e-mailed me some recent jpegs of him.”
“That’s him?” Maxine said, looking tempted to turn around and eyeball him again. “But he’s got such a sweet smile. Such a soft voice. He didn’t look mean. Are you sure?”
“Looks can be deceiving, Max, especially with stone-cold killers—like Pick.”
“Brian. I’m worried about Stan. My woman’s intuition is off the meter.”
“I’m sure he’s fine.” He patted her hand, trying to cover up his lie. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” Brian caught the bartender’s eye. “Men’s room?”
Rayford pointed just beyond the bar. “Back through there, last door on your left.”
Brian nodded. He turned to push away from the bar and off the stool, but Maxine tugged at his forearm, pulling him back. “Make it snappy. Okay?”
He squeezed her hand. “I’ll be right back. Promise.”
CHAPTER 42
Maxine prayed Brian wouldn’t be long. I hope he’s working on some kind of plan.
“Are you enjoying your caffe at the café?” asked the same black man who had approached her and Brian earlier.
Maxine turned and looked behind her. “Why, yes. Thank you for asking.” She tried to hide how startled she felt by the man’s unexpected reappearance.
“Mind if I—”
“No, of course not,” she said, gesturing with a small nod for him to sit down.
He slid onto the stool next to her, placing his drink on the bar next to hers. “So you and your husband are big baseball fans, huh?”
“Yes … well … we are. But he’s not my husband.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon then. He introduced you as his ‘lady’ and ol’ Monroe here just figured—”
“Monroe?”
“Monroe Clarke. At your service.” He tapped a single index finger to his forehead, offering a quaint salute.
It is him! She took a sip from her coffee cup, trying to keep her hand from shaking.
“I’m a descendant of one of the slaves—I prefer to call them ‘black explorers’—who traveled with Lewis and Clark. That’s how I got my slave surname. I have an e in my Clarke, though. I always like to think that stands for ‘eloquent.’ “He produced a queer smile. “My daddy named me Monroe after James Monroe. Our fifth president. Eighteen seventeen to eighteen twenty-five. He’s the fellow who really put together the Louisiana Purchase, ya know. Not that cracker slave owner Thomas Jefferson like all the history books say.”
“So you’re a history buff?” She hoped her voice hadn’t quavered.
He grabbed his tall cup and took a slow sip of the steaming drink. “I’m a seeker of truth, ma’am. Monroe was the first president who believed slaves should be freed. But, most importantly, he believed they should be able to return to Africa, back to their rightful home.”
As an undergrad history major, Maxine had thoroughly studied James Monroe and was well aware of his unpopular stance on the repatriation of slaves to Africa. She didn’t take Clarke’s bait, though, changing the subject.
“That’s fascinating, Mr. Clarke. So you are a student of history then. Where did you receive your degree?”
He laughed, raising his eyebrows. “‘Receive my degree,’ you ask? Well, I obtained my education right out there, ma’am.” He pointed out the café’s front windows. “I got my degree out in the streets. Got me a P-H-D. Only here on the South Side of Chicago that stands for Pushin’ Hard Drugs. But that’s all in my past. Now I study all types of history—American, African. I’m particularly interested in Civil War history, especially the period when my people achieved their emancipation from slavery.”
Not sure what to make of this last statement, she smiled. “That’s quite remarkable, Mr. Clarke.”
“Please. Call me Monroe. I insist.”
“Okay—Monroe.”
“And what, may I ask, is your name?”
“Maxine. Maxine Kobe. My husband’s is Stan Kobe. He’s a county attorney in Arizona.” She saw the look on his face change. Not quite sure what the look meant, nonetheless, it rattled her nerves. Her senses told her that she was sure this charming man knew the whereabouts of her husband whose phone call was now very conspicuously overdue. She decided to find out if her intuition was right. “Perhaps you remember him, though, as James Overstreet.” Her protective instincts took hold of her. She paused for a moment before continuing. “If you’ve done anything to hurt my husband, Mister Clarke, I’ll—”
The smile on his face transformed to a scowl. He leaned in toward her while at the same time putting a hand inside his leather jacket, reaching down toward his belt buckle. Then he whispered close to her ear. “You think you’re playin’ some kinda game here, bitch?”
His warm, almond-scented words washed over the side of her suddenly chilled face. He placed his other hand on one of her knees. His touch was ice cold, sending a shiver down her back. Repulsed, Maxine struggled to maintain her composure. Undaunted, though, she challenged him further, asking, “Where’s my husband, Pick?”
He inched closer. As an involuntary defensive reaction, she shut her eyes, fearing his thin lips would at any moment press upon her now cold earlobe. As she imagined his next move she squirmed, but his small but strong hand, placed firmly above her knee, squeezed harder. She wondered if anyone in the café saw what he was doing, but she was too afraid to open her eyes to find out.
He whispered, “So you wanna see your squealer husband? Okay, just take it nice and easy and come with me and you won’t get hurt.”
He pulled his hand off her knee and jerked it under her elbow, urging her up from the stool. They walked together through the doorway to the back room, toward the restrooms where Brian had gone minutes before.
Please be coming out right now, Brian! Please!
Clarke walked behind Maxine, his hand grasping her under the bend of her arm, gripping her tightly. “Right through here. Nice ‘n’ easy now,” he said softly. “Scream and you’ll never see that nigger husband of yours again.”
CHAPTER 43
“Who’s there?”
Stan’s voice cracked the silence
of the basement room as the door opened to the dimly lit, clammy room. Seated back again in the wooden chair from which Clayton Thomas had freed him, Stan still felt groggy from the hit on the head. Still with him, Clayton crouched down behind him.
A male figure stood in the doorway, not answering. Bright daylight from the windows one floor above washed down the stairway, backlighting the form, putting the person’s face in total shadow.
“Who is it?” Stan asked again, his voice rising.
The stark, human outline brandished a weapon, pointing it ahead of him as he walked into the room.
“What the—” Clayton said, standing up. “Nobody moves and nobody gets hurt,” the deep voice interrupted the senator.
“Brian!” Stan cried.
“You okay, pardner?” Brian asked, holstering his service revolver.
“Yes, I’m fine. But I don’t know about him.” Stan nodded over toward the lifeless man slumped in the chair across from him.
“Who’s he?” Brian asked.
“He’s my cab driver. He tried to save my life.”
Brian looked at Clayton, standing behind Stan’s chair. “Then I’m guessing you must be Senator Thomas.”
“Yes I am. But who are you?”
“Just the best cop west of the Mississippi!” Stan stood up and bear hugged Brian.
“How’d you know I was here?” Stan asked, releasing his clutch on him.
“Clever of you to hit send on your cell phone. When it went to my voice mail I heard everything that happened to you in the park. It was still on when they made the plans to bring you over here in the Senator’s limo. I know every bar in Chicago stores their liquor in the basement so I figured I’d check here for you first.”
“Make that the best cop west and east of the Mississippi.” Stan patted Brian on the shoulder.
Brian moved over to the unconscious cabbie and put two fingers to man’s neck. “His pulse is weak, but he’s alive. We need to get you both out of here right away.”
“There’s no way you’ll get them out without my help,” Clayton said. “I need to get back upstairs, before Pick and his men get suspicious. Once I’m up there, I’ll distract them. Create a diversion. It should give the three of you time to get out. My limo should be here by now, waiting in the alley behind the café.”
