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

by Danny Gardner

  “Or collecting vigorish for my father,” Mike said. “I could see that making you angry enough to make a play for yourself.”

  “I did what most colored guys did, Mikey. I went to the big city and got a good government job. I got ahead because my skin is lighter than a paper bag.”

  “I imagine your time at Bradley didn’t hurt you, either.”

  “You know what CPD calls a half-nigger who went to college?”

  “What?”

  “A half-nigger who went to college.”

  “The word is you were dirty.”

  “That’s the word, huh?”

  “I’ve also heard you were an informant on other cops.”

  “Well, you didn’t ask me.”

  “I got the feeling you wouldn’t come clean on your work history.”

  “I wasn’t dirty.”

  “So you were a mole.”

  “Depends upon how you look at it.”

  “Look, Caprice. We got enough trouble around here because of —”

  “The race cases. Yeah, yeah. We of the colored masses thank you for your sacrifice.”

  “I can’t have anything from your past coming back on us.”

  “Mikey, you offered me a job, not the third degree.” Elliot shifted in his seat as he fought through his obvious exasperation. “I wasn’t a dirty cop. I haven’t broken the law. Mostly.”

  Elliot stood.

  “You don’t want to take my word for it? I’ll leave now. If you hurry up, maybe you can catch Smitty.”

  “Got me by the shorthairs, hmm?”

  “Call it what you wanna.”

  “Just…be professional, please,” Mike said.

  “You’re askin’ a lot of a fella on the first day.”

  It was late afternoon. Most would-be shoppers were picking up their children from school or home making dinner. Elliot walked up to a checker sporting reddish hair. He was pockmarked with acne.

  “Roger Cullen?”

  “That’s the manager. You here to serve him some court papers?”

  Acne smirked. Elliot grabbed him by the collar.

  “Call him.”

  The kid picked up the intercom.

  “Manager to the counter.” His pubescent voice cracked.

  Roger emerged from the rear. He had a burly frame packed of the fat that comes when a man makes too much money for work that is beneath him.

  “What the heck is it now, Chip?”

  Elliot glanced at Chip. The kid nodded confirmation. Elliot made out the globe and anchor of the U.S. Marine Corps tattooed on Roger’s left forearm.

  “A devil dog, huh?”

  “The first. Guadalcanal. What do you know about it?”

  Elliot side-stepped the ex-marine. Roger reached for him, but only grabbed air. Elliot threw a chop to his throat, followed by a knee to the minerals. Roger doubled over onto the floor.

  “I know you assholes thought you were fightin’ a different war than the rest of us.”

  Elliot shoved the papers in his apron.

  “You’ve been served, tough guy.”

  Roger lay writhing in pain. Elliot walked over to Chip, who ducked under the counter. He snatched a stack of S&H Green Stamps off the counter for good measure before he briskly walked out.

  The next several weeks were like returning to college. Elliot spirited Lucille all through the rural counties of Illinois, the Quad Cities, and even Missouri. Everyone was properly served. Only a scant few avoided appearing in court, if only because the crazy mulatto would come back.

  Elliot learned about the ins and outs of case law from Mike and Elaine. What made a person a good witness; why a respondent would want to avoid trial; how estates were challenged. He could see where laymen were at a disadvantage to attorneys, how they could be lost forever in court processes that would bankrupt them if the meter was left running. He thought of the mountain of debt he still had to climb. Perhaps there was a loophole he could exploit. He felt smart again. He started early and worked late, sometimes crashing the Castro couch in Mikey’s apartment.

  He loved their dynamic. Elaine ran hot. She was possessed of the primal anger that burned in the hearts of freedom fighters. Angry as a woman in a man’s profession. Angry at her own people’s refusal to take a colored legal professional seriously.

  Mike, on the other hand, ran cold. His calculating demeanor made him appear indifferent. His mouth said he cared, but his eyes said he had a plan. He had as adept an understanding of the angles as Izzy, yet used those abilities to thwart the rich, not join them. Elliot wondered if Mike wanted to spite Izzy, or just become a more legitimate version of him.

  At night, when work could be deferred, they loved as powerfully as they worked. It was dazzling how quickly Elaine shifted from earnest professional to woman in love. Mike Robin was cold-blooded in his profession, yet in the arms of his lady, he melted. In a world of hate, love made them vulnerable to each other. To witness it made Elliot feel lonely.

  One afternoon, Elliot asked Mike about the unlikelihood of their union.

  “Ever had a woman have your number, Elliot?”

  “Maybe once, but that funny business back in Chicago made it all go to shit.”

  “Well, you got off easy. You can have it all figured out for yourself. Maybe you’re not the same race or one of you is already married. You’re poor. She’s rich. You’re a Jew. She’s Catholic. None of that matters if she’s got your number. There’s nothing you can do about it but give in. If you’re lucky, she won’t eat you alive. I see it all the time.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Take this bit of probate business.”

  Mike took a file from a stack.

  “Here you have a maid working for some rich joe less than a year. Everyone loves her. The wife. The adult kids. His mother they keep locked up in the attic.”

  “Typical.”

  “Except the rich joe’s wife dies in some stupid boating accident up in Waukegan. A few months later, he’s calling me over to their estate to change his will because he’s getting married. He’s running around like he’s in his twenties again.”

  “Not the maid.”

  “Of course the maid. Claims he hadn’t had eyes on her until after she responded to his grief. I’m supposed to believe he wasn’t giving it to this betty the entire time. Money bagged, blue-blood like that, tossing it all in on the maid? She had his number.”

  Mike pulled a bottle of bourbon from his drawer, plus two glasses.

  “I’m tryin’ to stay straight,” Elliot said. “Let’s hear the rest of the story. I’m intrigued.”

  “You know what happens next.” Mike tipped up his pour.

  “The old man dies?”

  “The old man dies!”

  Mike slapped the table. He had his father’s laugh. It made him seem a bit sinister. “Drowns in the goddamn bathtub! The driver finds him after they were late heading out. You can’t make this up!”

  “Was the will changed?” Elliot’s cop mind had taken over.

  “About six months prior. They got married real fast the month after. He’s dead five months after that. I met the gal. A Brit. Real polished. Gorgeous. Refined. If she was colored, I might have been tempted.”

  They howled in laughter. Elaine shouted for them to keep it down.

  “Was she present on the boat during the accident that took the wife?”

  “No,” Mike said. “What are you getting at?”

  “She wasn’t around when the wife bought it. She wasn’t around when the old man bought it. Now she gets everything. It’s too pretty.”

  “Right now, she’s getting nothing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The estate is going into receivership at the end of the month. All parties named in the will aren’t accounted for.”

  “Wouldn’t their cuts just go to a trust?”

  “When one plans their estate, they can make sure that everyone gets what’s coming to them or the whole thing gets tied up in probate
. Keeps relatives from killing each other.”

  “And the maid-wife isn’t seeing her money fast enough.”

  “It’s been a year.”

  “Damn.”

  “He named a multitude in the will. Friends, business associates, caddies at the country club. The help. Everyone got something. The old man felt guilty he was born into great wealth.”

  “Pity the rich.”

  “Even bequeathed money to the Urban League to help Negroes. I don’t think he even knew any Negroes. Anyhow, everyone was good about responding when contacted. Except one.”

  Elliot’s stare went blank as he calculated.

  “The driver.”

  “Same one what found the coot dead in the bathtub.”

  Mike finished his bourbon.

  “Christ on tha cross. How does someone take that?”

  “You can ask her.”

  Elliot noticed that Mike handed out assignments in the same manner as Izzy: after providing some unsolicited tutelage in the ways of the world. It wasn’t the first time he displayed a provincial attitude.

  “Get up there when you’re able. Have her sign the receivership documents. No sign, no allowance. The entire estate is going into trust. His obligations will get taken care of. She’ll get a pension every month, get to stay in the house. Her lifestyle won’t change at all. But until someone either finds that driver or confirms he’s dead, the control over the estate lies within the power of a board comprised mainly of his adult children.”

  “I’m betting they don’t like their new stepmother,” Elliot said.

  “Well, you think you can see right through her.” Mike shrugged. “It’s a shame. Now it’s just more work for us for less money. We get a cut when the estate is satisfied. Now I’ll be stuck recording meeting minutes and hearing complaints from the Duchess’ every month when her check is late. Ah well, can’t have everything.”

  “Apparently not! I’m going home,” Elaine said.

  “Coming,” Mike said. He grabbed his jacket and hat.

  “So take that file with you. Try to get up there before the week is out. You in tomorrow?”

  “Gotta take care of Caprice business. Unk has an appointment with Doc. After, it’s to the bank.”

  “Well, a sign painter is coming. Your name is going on the door.”

  “No kiddin’?”

  “It was Elaine’s idea.”

  “Oh.”

  “I told her you would rather be the invisible man, but she insisted.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say you won’t find another job, so I don’t have to change the fuckin’ door again.”

  Mike laughed. After he walked out, Elliot sat alone in the office. He was utterly transfixed on the file. All those zeros. So much wealth handed down from generations prior. Were it not for the missing chauffeur, the bulk of it would have gone to a savvy broad that managed to run the right game, at the right time, on the right old fool. Her proposed monthly maintenance payment was nearly three times what Elliot needed to reclaim the farm. He wished he could blow off the meeting. He hated Margaret McAlpin’s guts already.

  In the hall, he touched the space where his name would go on the door. He didn’t want it, partly because he didn’t feel totally comfortable for carrying water for the son of his old boss. Mostly it was because he didn’t want the responsibility, even if it was for show. Mike was funny actin’, perhaps not on the same level as John Creamer, but Elliot wasn’t quite sure if Mike didn’t have that same white savior’s mentality. He didn’t need someone else in his life imbuing purpose. He already had one, and he didn’t feel any closer to achieving it. Here he was again, serving. Helping others instead of helping himself. His uncle was right. Other people’s business would one day be the death of him.

  CHAPTER 8

  Uncle Buster and Percy were in the lobby having a game of dominoes. A few other tenants were huddled around the television. There was no sign of Miss Betty so Elliot felt safe to watch the action. Percy was only a casual player, as he was mainly attracted to pastimes that involved losing modest amounts of his sister’s money. Buster, however, never sat down to do anything where he was willing to watch it go wrong. He hated losing, a trait passed down to his nephew. Elliot remembered when Buster and Shapiro would enjoy a card game. Doc was calm and affable, yet he plotted. Buster was coarse and deliberate. It wasn’t a real game without smack talk. Opposites attract.

  Buster threw stitches and gleefully recorded his score. He was slaughtering Percy, no matter if the desk hound didn’t give a shit.

  “You ain’t doin’ nuthin’,” Elliot said. “Lemme g’on whoop this old man for you.” Uncle Buster cracked his aching knuckles. Percy retreated to the booth. Elliot turned over the dominoes. Buster scrubbed the pot. Elliot noticed his old uncle wince, but didn’t say anything. As they pulled bones from the yard, their coded banter started.

  “How’s work goin’?”

  “Are you still employed?”

  “It’s goin’. These race cases are really heating up.”

  “Yes. It’s stable.”

  “Cain’t be good for bidness.”

  “Are you getting involved in other folks’ affairs?”

  “Mike and his ol’ lady make it work alright.”

  “No.”

  “Figure that’s good work.”

  “How are we faring on the debt for the farm?”

  “It’s six in one hand, half-dozen in the other.”

  “Not close.”

  This was their dance. It could take an hour of tenuous verbal maneuvering to produce consensus on something as basic as what to have for dinner.

  “They put me on a thang up in Kenilworth. Got me takin’ meetings now.”

  “Kenil-wha?” Buster put out a 5/5 as the center bone.

  “North Shore, Lake Michigan. Where the snots live. Rich folks’ squabbling over a dead fella’s money.” Elliot started a new line: 5/3.

  “That’s a little close to Chitown for you, ain’t it?”

  “Na. Up there is like a whole ’nother world. I’ll be alright,” Elliot said. Buster dropped a double-three for a score.

  “That was quick.”

  “You want a lesson?”

  “Play on,” Elliot said. He played a 5/1 off the center tile 5/5.

  “Some chippie that married well got a lot of money comin’ to her, but the family don’t wanna give it up. I gotta get her to sign off on some allowance agreement.”

  “Must be nice,” Buster said, as he pondered what to play.

  “I dunno. She wanna fight for all of it. Them fat cats ain’t g’on give it up.”

  Elliot watched as Buster played a 5/4. Elliot quickly played a 4/4 as a branch. Buster was forced to draw another tile from the boneyard.

  “Good play.”

  “How much is enough, ya know? What we owe the bank for the farm, it may as well be a million dollars. I might be able to find that in this woman’s couch cushions. She’s rich. I’m poor. But we’re both needy.”

  “Everybody has a hole in ’em need fillin’,” Buster said. He played an ace/deuce, leaving the ace dangling. Elliot dropped snake-eyes. Back to the boneyard Buster went.

  “Want me to slow down on ya?”

  “Sassin’ ya elders. I raised a peach.”

  “Figured we’d go to the bank tomorrow. Try to set up some terms.”

  “Dem people want dey money, not no song and dance,” Buster said.

  “I want to keep my face in the place, so they remember you ain’t by yourself. Folks like to do you wrong when they think you’re by yourself.”

  Buster played a 4/6. Elliot had boxcars, the shutdown of all shutdowns. Just before he could play, the last voice he wanted to hear called out from behind his back.

  “See here, Elliot Caprice.”

  “What thatcha say there, Miss Betty?” Elliot kept his face in his dominoes to avoid eye contact.

  “I remember you tellin’ me this was a temporary arra
ngement.”

  Betty Bridges herself, all five feet one inch of her, was dressed smartly. Her mannered green skirt set lent her the impression of a PTA president, rather than a reformed working girl turned hotelier. She used a straightening comb and enough Aqua Net to push her considerable mane back into a bouffant as wide as it was high. Elliot used to tease her that it looked like a skunk.

  “Ain’t nuthin’ changed.”

  “Two months ain’t temporary.”

  “You gettin’ your rent on time?”

  “That ain’t the point!”

  “What is the point, you old bat?! I’m sitting here playin’ dominoes wit’ my uncle, not grab-ass with you!”

  Elliot and Betty were like bulldogs and hounds. That she was one of Buster’s longer acquaintances made no difference to either of them.

  “I finally got all the trouble out of this place. I plan on keepin’ it that way. Your uncle is tops in my book, but you the devil’s own.”

  “Stop talkin’ at me as if you’ve seen the inside of a church this century.”

  Betty took a swipe at him. Elliot jumped out of his chair. Buster stood up.

  “I’m sorry, Betty,” he said. “He’s been havin’ it rough at work is all.”

  “Only reason he still here is we go back, Nathan.” Betty pointed at Elliot. “I’m countin’ the minutes ’til yo’ red ass is outta my road house!”

  She kicked the card table. The dominoes fell to the floor. Uncle Buster exhaled.

  “How’s about somethin’ ta eat?”

  “I’m starvin’.”

  In Sugartown, every day was Fat Tuesday. Each night was Mardi Gras. None of the buildings was more than three stories tall. There was Pitt’s Place, a juke joint with a sawdust floor. On weekends, they the most popular blues artists. One day, the Chicago Outfit’s coin-op man brought in a jukebox that played 45s of popular music. He was run out of town on a rail.

  Games of pool could be found at Murray’s, where you still had to check your weapons at the cashier’s booth or you wouldn’t get a table. Dice was played out in the open, but the bets on the ponies were taken in the back by Murray’s son, Miles. Betty told Percy if she caught him there she’d kill him, so a runner retrieved his bets at the road house.