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

by Danny Gardner

  Yet Bradley Polytechnic Institute was his choice. He applied. Passed the entrance exam. Made the grade for an entire year. At an advisor’s suggestion, he allowed himself to join the forensics team. He even made a friend: John Creamer of the Lincoln Park, Chicago Creamers. It was a funhouse mirror pairing, as John was far too much of everything that Elliot lacked altogether—money, charm, good social standing. At least they shared some whiteness. They studied together. Ran together. Allowed each other into their respective worlds. Their friendship almost made Elliot forget how much he hated college.

  In the south, it was Jim Crow. In the north, an understanding. Upward past the Mississippi, outside of farm country, it was hard to find anything as explicit as a hung sign or body. A Negro needed to know his place. Though Elliot knew, he really didn’t give a shit.

  The night of Elliot’s first speech competition he won his debate. John pulled him away to celebrate. That meant they’d both be white that night. The two found a union hall speakeasy in Champaign where they could drink and dance with white girls from the University of Illinois. At the height of the party, they found themselves surrounded by angry white boys.

  “Lookin’ colored tonight, I guess,” Elliot said, with a cackle.

  Creamer was plucky when drunk, so he took off his tie and put up his dukes. Elliot pulled a snubbed-nose .32 from his ankle, concealed just how Izzy taught him. Saved them both a lot of trouble. Once the mob dispersed, Elliot ordered another bourbon from the bar. John Creamer pleaded to dangle, but Elliot paid him no mind. The snowflakes were dazzled by their show of joie de vivre.

  Officers of the Urbana Police Department arrived.

  “Give me the gun,” Creamer said.

  Something in the way Creamer took it upon himself bothered Elliot. The insistence. The eagerness.

  “They won’t search me. Give it to me, now.”

  The pistol was out of Elliot’s hands for three seconds before John Law was upon him. He was dragged out to the squad car. Behind the police station, he tasted paving gravel.

  “The colored part of me tries to follow the rules,” Elliot said. “Only the white boy in me figures they don’t apply to him.”

  He was sober by the third boot heel to the ribs. Silent by the fourth blow of the nightstick. Creamer finally arrived when he was unconscious.

  They were halfway back to Bradley when Elliot told John Creamer to take him back to Southville. Once the car pulled in front of the Caprice family farm, they exchanged handshakes. John returned Elliot’s gun. The moment was somber, yet hollow. Whatever commonality the two shared was trumped by the reminder from the college town dicks. The most they’d ever be able to do was stick up for one another. Moreover, Elliot knew stashing the gun for his colored friend made John Creamer feel good.

  That made Elliot feel as if he owed the wrong white boy a favor.

  It was late, five hours until morning. Elliot didn’t have his key. There was no waking Uncle Buster once he was asleep, so Elliot let himself into the barn, the place where he once took his beatings. The discomfort of hay on hardpan was buffered by the return of his most dependable friend.

  Resentment. It never left him. Not for a second.

  The only clue that morning had come in that windowless cube of misery was the sound of wood on iron. Fat and Skinny had returned.

  “When do we get grub?!” one voice said.

  “I wanna talk to a lawyer!” went another.

  This triggered a cacophony of pleas, all of which would be ignored. Elliot saw his jailers had been joined by a third man dressed in a suit. This was what cops referred to as a barrel check—once suspects in a crime are identified, the investigating detectives first search the lock-ups for faces matching descriptions. Depending upon the detective, near matches worked as well as exact.

  “Shaddup, you mooks!” No one complied, so Fatty attacked the bars once more.

  “Shut up! Or Christ on tha cross, I’ll turn the boiler on!”

  “This is Detective Sergeant Molak from the Chicago Police Department,” Skinny said. “He’s looking for two suspects wanted for narcotics trafficking.”

  Tom. Molak. The Polak.

  Elliot remembered him from the Chicago Police Academy. Spoke fluent Polish. Politically connected uncle in the Hegewisch community. Too weak to pass the fitness test. The sort everyone figured would quit. Or wind up superintendent. He was slight of build, had hunched shoulders, smallish eyes, and a Sephardic nose that he stuck everywhere it had no business. No way he was in St. Louis for the department. Not by himself. Elliot hoped he wouldn’t be spotted. His number might be up.

  “I’m looking for two men—one colored, one white—both known narcotics traffickers. They were last seen Thursday evening in the Clifton Heights neighborhood,” Molak said. “Anyone sharing information leading to their arrest will be looked upon favorably.”

  “We have a bunch of new shines as of Friday,” Fatty said.

  “That’d be a good start, Andy.”

  “My name isn’t—”

  “The Negroes, yeah, pally?”

  Fear crossed the minds of even the recidivists. Frank Fuquay, only just prior so cocksure, now sweated bullets.

  “Say, Big Black,” Elliot said, in a hushed tone. “You one of the fellas they lookin’ for?”

  “Naw. We got picked up fo’ burglary.”

  In the strained light, Elliot could see youthful ignorance behind his eyes. His current predicament afforded him no opportunity to shepherd a young fool, but he couldn’t just let the kid twist.

  “We stole sum stuff from an ol’ lady after she paid us to haul rubbish out her cellar.”

  “Every colored, line up along the bars here! Don’t make me tell you twice!”

  The colored inmates lined up face front along the bars, enough for two rows. Elliot sidled next to Frank.

  “Listen here. You so big, you’d have been pegged before he came down here. It’s gonna be alright,” Elliot said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Line up, look straight ahead at the wall. Answer every question in an even tone of voice.”

  “What that mean?”

  “Just. Like. This,” Elliot said. “Yes. No. Name. Age. Whereabouts you were when. You wait until they ask. If they don’t ask, you don’t say. They’ll pass you by. Got it?”

  Frank Fuquay nodded.

  “How you know this stuff?”

  “Let’s go.”

  Frank Fuquay followed Elliot to the bars, where they took spots at the very end, Frank second to last. Elliot last. His ploy was to use the dichotomy to throw off identification. To the lazy of mind—Elliot remembered Molak as particularly lazy—all faces blur into black. Hues diffuse. Even the mélange is lost. Had he considered it, Elliot could have relaxed, as he completely let himself go. His clean cut, tip-top exterior on the force was now overgrown. Mass of ungreased curly hair. Dark farmer’s tan. Drunken red eyes. Shit, he could barely recognize himself.

  Unfortunately, Molak was uncharacteristically aggressive, demanding names, hometowns, whereabouts. The rat kept coming. Elliot’s ribcage felt like the floorboards in a Poe tale. Molak stopped, gave a slender, dark-skinned man the once over before he questioned him. Elliot was two places from being exposed. Frank Fuquay emulated Elliot’s body posture. Next, Molak gave Frank the up and down.

  “Name.”

  “Frank Fuquay, suh.”

  “What’s he in for?”

  “Burglary,” Skinny said. “You’re not lookin’ for a guy this big, are ya?”

  “Maybe,” Molak said. “Relax. You ain’t makin’ detective tonight, Andy. Where you from, country?”

  “Mis-sippi,” Frank said, using the tone Elliot suggested.

  “What’re ya doin’ up here in Saint Louis?”

  “Nuttin’ much, lately.”

  The other detainees snickered.

  “Shaddup!” shouted Fat. Molak looked up at Frank once more before he flipped the page on the clipboard.

  “Show me t
he whites.”

  “Alright, file out,” Skinny said. “Every white man up here, right now!”

  Frank hung close to Elliot as they returned to the crowd of blacker faces.

  “How was that, boss?”

  Elliot took back his cot. Frank Fuquay claimed the cot across from him. Elliot watched the bars, hoping for an opening as Molak checked for a white man of the description.

  “How you know so much?” asked Frank.

  “I’ve been through this before.”

  “You don’t seem like a crook.”

  “That’s ’cuz I’m not.”

  Elliot noticed Molak’s disappointment.

  “That scrape we had earlier? You coulda mussed me up good,” Frank said. “I couldn’t peg you fo’ a bad guy after that.”

  “Don’t be so sure.”

  The white detainees filed out, openly complaining about the accommodations. The difference in temperament was striking. The stratums of society functioned in white folks’ favor, even during incarceration. Any colored fella with the sense God gave him knew to count his blessings. The indifferent jaws of the machine could care less which colored man’s blood lubricated its gears.

  Elliot left Frank Fuquay behind as he hustled for the bars.

  “See here, constable!”

  “Yeah?”

  “How’s about that phone call now, boss?” Elliot faked deference of the white man’s nigger.

  “Later,” Skinny said.

  “Promise to make it quick.”

  Skinny paused to watch Fatty and Molak walk up the stairs.

  “Gimme your hands.”

  Elliot threaded his hands through. Once cuffed, Skinny opened the cell door. Elliot walked out. Skinny grabbed him by his collar.

  “Try anything, I split your head.”

  “Head’s already split, boss. I’ll be no trouble a’tall.”

  As Skinny kept watch near the stairs, Elliot picked up the receiver of the payphone. His request for a collect call made him shudder. To evade hell, he’d return to perdition in the land of string bean farming where organized crime was regularly done in the light of day.

  “Southville County Sheriff,” went the deep baritone.

  “George?”

  The other line made no sound. Only breathing.

  “Georgie…it’s me…Elliot…you there…”

  “I’m here,” George said, his voice trailing off.

  “Listen, Georgie. I can’t give it all to you on this call, but I’m in a tight spot. I’m locked up in St. Louis.”

  “St. Louis?”

  “In the Meat Locker.”

  “Good Lord.”

  “I didn’t have any ID on me. I’m in the docket as Nathan White.”

  More silence from George.

  “No one here has seen or heard from you in ages. Now you just call out of the blue—”

  “You gotta help me out, Georgie Boy.”

  George had to be the straightest man ever born of Southville, but no one could make him sin like Elliot Caprice.

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “Get me moved up on the docket. I’ll take my chances with the judge.”

  “Elliot, I’m the Southville County Sheriff. You’re in St. Louis.”

  “You’re the sheriff now?”

  “Long story. Which you would know, if—”

  “Look, fat boy. I’m sorry I whited on you,” Elliot said. “On everybody, but I’m gonna have to make it up to y’all later. Right now, I’m in the mother of all jams?”

  “All these crazy stories on the wire,” George said. “Some folk said you were dead.”

  “Well, Sheriff, I stay in here any longer, they weren’t lyin’.”

  Elliot never exaggerated his predicaments. His life was so wild, he lacked the necessary creativity for embellishment.

  “I’ll figure out something,” George said. “Stay dormy ’til I get there.”

  “Hey, Georgie.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Maybe bring a lawyer?”

  “You’re a trouble magnet, you know that?”

  “Ain’t neva been any different, Georgie.”

  Elliot replaced the receiver on the payphone carriage. The bars opened. He reclaimed his cot, where his new best friend Frank Fuquay still waited.

  “How’d it go, boss?”

  “How’d what go?”

  “Ya phone call? I figure you got an angle.”

  “I’m all out of angles, big man. That’s how I’m here.”

  He prayed for the throbbing in his head to cease. He also prayed for his new shadow to leave him be. Both prayers went unanswered.

  “I on’t know whether to ask you how you got yose’f in heah or how you gon get out.”

  “The same, both ways,” Elliot said.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Big Frank, you best to keep it that way.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Sheriff George M. Stingley, Jr. hung up the phone slowly, as if he knew as soon as the receiver hit the carriage he’d be involved in his dear friend’s dirt. Before Elliot’s call, the holiest man in Southville was in the county jail gathering the personal effects left behind by, quite possibly, the unholiest: the late Sheriff Willis Dowd. Seventy-two hours earlier, when Dowd suffered a heart attack in a Sugartown sin den, Special Deputy George was called in to keep everything quiet. The county bosses remembered his late father, the Right Reverend George M. Sr. of Greater Grace Pentecostal, in particular, his willingness to go along to get along. It was expected that George Jr. would be a chip off the old block, thus, by fate or circumstance, he was appointed the first Negro county sheriff in the Midwest. As it happened in Southville County, it served as no occasion to update the history books.

  George catalogued his options, which were few, as he possessed little faculty for corruption. He may have inherited his father’s heavyset frame and rich baritone, but morally he took after his mother. In her house, it was personal discipline. Strive for that greater grace. First act saved so, by God’s mercy, you may be saved. In George Sr.’s church, it was redemption, forgiveness, tithe, washed in the blood, tithe, calendar of events, women’s auxiliary announcements, tithe and see you at Bible Study, where you may tithe again. As the son of a preacher, George was raised to be politically savvy, enough so he knew his backroom promotion put a target on his back. Handling things himself would be politically suicidal. Better to field support from Elliot’s adopted community, the Southville Jews, of which Izzy Rabinowitz was their most influential constituent.

  Deputy Ned Reilly hauled in Pete Simms, who was ripe for the drunk tank. George was so troubled he almost didn’t notice them enter.

  “You alright, George?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You sure? You have that look on your face,” Ned said, twirling his finger in front of his nose.

  “Elliot Caprice just called.”

  “He’s still alive?” Ned struggled to keep Pete on his feet.

  “He’s in the Meat Locker,” George said. “Make sure you process Pete.”

  Ned finally got Pete on the bunk in the cell. The booze-hound was snoring so soundly he didn’t bother to close him up inside.

  “Pete’s just off the wagon again. He’s been no actual trouble.”

  “Drunk and disorderly. When he sobers up, his wife can bail him out.”

  “That’s a bit harsh, doncha think?”

  George looked across his glasses into Ned’s eyes. His jowls squeezed against his shirt collar. Behind George’s back, Ned referred to it as his preacher’s stare.

  “Ned, I’m the new Negro sheriff, fresh on the heels of the white sheriff that died between the legs of a prostitute. Let him dry out. Treat him real nice. Bake him a cake, but make sure some file somewhere shows he was booked. I should be back tomorrow.”

  Ned Reilly was the son of poor farmers left wrecked by the Dust Bowl. They fled to the fields of Southville when Ned was too young to remember. His was the sort of white man who
se beginnings hadn’t afforded him the status of race. Black or white was never an issue. Ned kept score on haves and have-nots. He chided fat cats. Big shots irked his ire. Taking orders from his old friend George was easy, so long as no one tried to make a fool out of him.

  It was Elliot Caprice’s favorite pastime.

  “You headed to St. Louis to bail your buddy out?”

  “Are you giving me grief about it?”

  “Not at all, Sheriff. What you want me to say should anyone important come callin’?”

  “Say I’m out paying a professional courtesy.”

  “Fair enough.”

  George had the door halfway closed behind him when he stuck his head back in.

  “Ned.”

  “Yeah, George?”

  “We’ll give Pete a break this one time. I’m guest preaching for my mother on Sunday. I expect him to be at church.”

  “I’m sure ol’ Pete will be there, George.”

  Most around Southville liked to say that were it not for the power to arrest folks, George wouldn’t have anyone in church at all.

  The Sheriff sat in his personal car outside Doc Shapiro’s storefront office for at least fifteen minutes before he ventured inside to appeal to one of the heavies of a community he had been raised to distrust. George hadn’t developed the affinity for Jewish folk the way Elliot had. He was raised in a Pentecostal church steeped in a tradition of blame naming. Jews took more than enough blame for imagined crimes. Yet George Stingley was no bigot. His appreciation for the Old Testament more than New afforded the two men at least some commonality, other than love for Elliot.