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

by Danny Gardner

  “Have you looked at the McAlpin’s files? Beyond the probate issues, I mean? Have you seen how far their dirt goes? Where their influence lies? Why do you think McAlpin turned to you, a small-time rural attorney in the state capital? Why didn’t he let the meter run over at Winston and Strawn? It’s because he was buying you. He wanted things kept from the rest of them because they’re scary. He was paying us very well to remain in our lane. I’m tired of people expecting me to stay in my lane, Michael!”

  Elaine showed no signs of slowing down. Mike rubbed his eyes. Elaine walked around the desk, grabbed his hands and forced him to look at her. Elliot wanted to leave out of shame for tracking hell through the place, but something else had occurred in the space between the three: commonality of station. Each of them, in one way or the other, was sick and tired: Elliot of the bank and fellas like Creamer, Mike Robin of his father and the McAlpin trust board, and Elaine, who was angry at American men in general.

  “We’re not married for the same reason we haven’t expanded for the same reason we’re in Springfield for the same reason you don’t speak to your father. Fear.”

  “You think I’m a coward.”

  “No. You’re all man. It just seems you’re no longer certain of yourself. Not like you were before we started…you know.”

  “The race cases bring real danger, Elaine. It’s only going to get worse.”

  “I need you to tell me that?” Elaine said.

  “If we keep going—”

  “There are no ifs.” Elaine folded her arms. “Get that straight right now.”

  “We can’t take unnecessary risks.”

  “Unless your cousin Shapiro calls in a favor.”

  “You’re gonna give me shit over my family, too?”

  “Michael, you didn’t have to help the sheriff that day. You certainly didn’t have to take Elliot on afterward. As soon as he walked in here you got the color back in your cheeks.”

  Before he could reply, Elaine kissed Mike full on the lips.

  “I know the man your father is. I know why you’d want to play it safe, but that’s not you. Own up to being a Rabinowitz. Take back your balls.”

  She kissed him again. Mike seemed powerless to resist her loving logic. Elliot stared at the floor, embarrassed to witness their intimate moment. Elaine squeezed Mike’s hands tightly, forcing her way into his fears.

  “One day people will find out that I’m not just your paralegal. These race cases we work on are going to come to a head. It can’t just be you and me anymore.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Help Elliot,” Elaine said. “And you…”

  Elliot looked up at her.

  “You can’t do everything by yourself, fool.”

  Elliot frowned.

  “How bad?” Mike looked over at Elliot.

  “Dead body in my uncle’s barn bad. The driver did it. Or the estate maintenance man.”

  “So what if you find the driver. You think these people are going to allow that to come between them and their millions?”

  “Alistair Williams isn’t the point anymore.” Elliot held up the cargo documentation. “Jon II. Everything ties into his family’s shipping company somehow.”

  “So we’ll start there.”

  “All the files are already out,” Elaine said. “My notes are right here. I’ll order Chinese.”

  For the next two hours, Elliot and Mike pored over everything. They also called the state recorder’s office, the county clerk and anyone else with insight on the family empire. They hammered out theories, eliminating angles until discrepancies became clear.

  “Well I’ll be goddamned,” Mike said.

  “Got somethin’?”

  Elaine walked in holding the Chinese take-out.

  “Did you go over these manifests?”

  “Skimmed them once before I was arrested. In my barn.”

  “Looks like the driver gave us a little gift. See?”

  Mike pointed to line items on a ship’s register. Elliot and Elaine walked over to see.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Elaine said. Elliot was embarrassed. He ran his fingers through his hair.

  “You would’ve found it,” Mike said.

  “Not until it was too late. You’re right. I have been desperate. It almost cost us everything. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s like what I tell the great emancipators. Not everyone can be Thurgood Marshall. Someone has to sift through the shit.”

  The phone rang. Elaine answered.

  “One moment, please. Call for Elliot from a Frank Fuquay.”

  Elliot took the receiver.

  “What’s that’cha say there, Frank? I didn’t expect you’d be callin’ this soon.”

  “Hey there, Caprice. Me neither. So I’m in Gary, and my uncle hep’d me get on at this pressin’ ’n stampin’ place what make automobile parts. ’Cept just befo’ I was ta start work, union guys showed up. About a hunned or so. They lined up, holdin’ signs, callin’ us colored workers scabs. Sayin’ the man usin’ Negros as cheaper labor. One fella tried crossin’ the line and all hell broke loose. I know you tol’ me to stay outta trouble, but it’s ugly ’roun heah, man. I dunno what I should do.”

  “You got any of that cabbage I gave you left?”

  “Nearly all of it. Did jus’ what ya tol’ me ta do.”

  “Get yourself on the first thang smokin’ to Springfield.”

  Elliot looked around for a train schedule. Elaine was already holding one.

  “Gimme the phone,” Elaine said. “Frank? Hi, my name is Elaine. Where are you now?”

  “In Gary, Miss Elaine.”

  “Alright…there’s a four-forty-five, change in Chicago. You’ll have to wait, but there’s a six o’clock that’ll have you in Lincoln by eight-thirty.”

  “That’s no good,” Elliot said. “What’s the very next train to Union Station?”

  “Frank?” Elaine said.

  “Yes’m.”

  “I want you to get the four-forty-five from Gary to Union Station in Downtown Chicago. Elliot will be there to pick you up at five p.m.”

  “Tell him to wear fightin’ clothes,” Elliot said, already headed to the door.

  “You hear that, Frank?”

  “Yes’m. Heard him fine. I’ll be there, fo’ sho’. Nice talkin’ to ya, ma’am.”

  Frank hung up on his end. Elaine looked over at Elliot.

  “What?” he asked, knowing she was judging him.

  “What’s that they say about the life you save?”

  “May be your own?”

  “Is the one you take care of.”

  Elliot grabbed the doorknob.

  “Mike, if I don’t have to put a hot one into Alistair Williams, you’re gonna have to depose him right away. So many folks want to kill him, he almost makes me feel safe by comparison.”

  “Be careful,” Mike said.

  “Careful went out the window this mornin’.”

  Elliot walked out the office, out the building and hopped into Lucille. He pulled the .45 from the glovebox and loaded a fresh clip. This time, there’d be no more circuitous routes back into Chicago. This time, he’d drive straight through the heart of town. Alistair Williams was his, dead or alive.

  CHAPTER 17

  Elliot parked Lucille just outside the giant doors of Union Station, right on Canal Street. It was a brazen move, but he was riding a wave of fatigue, fear, and fascination. He’d never admit he was loving every minute of it. By all accounts, he should be avoiding the entire city, no less its enormous public transportation hub. Instead, he walked inside the headhouse and stepped briskly until he reached the station’s Great Hall. He listened to the arrival announcement came over the loudspeakers. Frank’s train was pulling in. He perched himself perpendicular to the doors, his shooting hand on the .45 down in his pocket for good measure. Within moments, countless commuters streamed past him in both directions, all bathed in the last light of the setting sun that shone through th
e gigantic skylight that covered half a city block. Soon the boyish brute emerged. It wasn’t lost on Elliot how much safer he felt.

  “Hey!” Frank smiled like a kid. He was dressed appropriately: dark blue dungarees, work boots, thick, black canvas jacket, black woven skull cap. He would’ve seemed like a tough longshoreman, were he not so darned giddy. He took Elliot up in his large arms.

  “Glad to see ya, boss.”

  “Easy there, Frank. Easy,” Elliot said, as he writhed out of Frank’s monster grip. “Let’s get the hell on.”

  They left as fast as he entered, hopped into Lucille, and burned rubber on Canal Street south to Harrison over to Blue Island Avenue. This triangle formed the capital of Greek life in Chicago: the Delta. While the city supported tens of thousands of hard working Mediterranean expats throughout its confines, their economic hub laid firmly within that triangle. Jon Costas owned more than his fair share of real estate in the area. The county recorder listed him as a deed holder for large portions of land that were needed for the University of Illinois’ Chicago campus. That made him a heavy in his own right. In the Delta, he’d have to be one steely son-of-a-bitch to hold his own.

  “Glad I could count on you again, boss,” Frank said. “Didn’t want to be bothered wit’ all dat mess in Gary. My cousins talkin’ ’bout standin’ up to dem union boys.”

  “Well, I could use someone watchin’ my back right now, so it worked out.”

  “I’m witcha, Caprice. What’s the deal?”

  “There’s a fat cat goes by the name Costas, lives here in the Greek part of town. Gotta see him about his family business.”

  “You figure it ain’t gonna go so well?”

  “It’s six in one hand, half-dozen in the other. I crossed his man, so either he likes what I say but don’t like what I did or he don’t care about either.”

  “Don’t soun’ good.”

  “I think I have an angle on what he needs more than anything. I’m gonna go inside. Wait here.”

  They parked outside Jane Addams’ Hull House on Halsted. Elliot left Lucille running. Ten minutes passed. Frank grew concerned, until Elliot returned to the car clutching a copy of the Greek Star newspaper.

  “There’s a banquet for the Greek Professional Men’s Club at the Congress.”

  Elliot made a U-turn at Arthington, which sent them southbound.

  “You figure he’s there?”

  “Sometimes I had guard duty at these per-plate shindigs. One fat cat usually foots the bill as a show of wealth.”

  “What you want me ta do?”

  “Know how to drive?”

  “A lil’, yeah.”

  Elliot pulled over to the curb, got out, and motioned for Frank to slide over to the driver’s seat. Frank felt a twinge of fear at Lucille’s power.

  She ain’t no pick-up truck, big man.” Elliot pulled Frank’s skull cap off his head. “Keep your eyes to yourself. Wait in the car.”

  “So I’m kinda like yo’ driver den.”

  “Sometimes ya gotta play the part.”

  “I ain’t complainin’. So you gonna catch dis boy when he’s at sum function, dressed all nice ’n whatnot. He ain’t gonna be wantin’ ta fight if’n he need ta be puttin’ on a smile ’n such.”

  “You avoid surprises by being the surprise.”

  “I like that,” Frank said, smiling.

  “If I’m too long, get on, call the office and explain what happened.”

  “Gotcha, boss.”

  Elliot hopped out, tipped the doorman and asked him where to find the banquet. Inside, he entered the Pullman Room, where the soiree was in full gear. This wasn’t a gala full of stuffed suits, all seated and putting on airs, but high festivity. Elliot walked around the room, watching an enormous group of Greeks dancing the hasapiko. Shouts of “Opa!” and the noise of shattering wine glasses cut through the music played from the bandstand. These Greeks were mercantile players. Their ranks controlled the markets for commodities of all types in Chicago. Glad-handing would come only after strong wine, good food, and fiery dance. This banquet was feting the members of one of the hundreds of mutual benefit societies in the city. Chambers of commerce were places to shoot dice. Exchanges were great for stag parties. The best bars in town were in union halls, behind doors marked Private. Sweet home Chicago.

  Elliot scanned the room for the sponsor’s table, where his man would most likely be present. He made his way forward to a long row of settings, which were underneath an arrangement of architectural models. A middle-aged man Elliot placed in his late-fifties was seated, passing out handshakes to well-wishers and chocolate coins to kids. He walked over, removed his hat and looked him square in the eye. No peacocking, no posturing. He learned long ago that cultural melting pots held dangers the arrogant never anticipate.

  “Mr. Costas,” he asked, holding his gaze firm.

  “How may I help you?”

  “I’m here to help you. I believe we may have mutual business.”

  “You Caprice?”

  He simply nodded.

  “Tom Molak figured you for a fool.”

  Elliot smirked.

  “You’re interrupting my community business, Mr. Caprice.”

  “Alistair Williams. Costas Cartage. The death of your father.”

  “I need more than innuendo.”

  “Members of his household staff were planted by the same men that control your grandfather’s shipping company.”

  “I know this,” Costas said.

  “A change of heart cost him his life and Costas Cartage. Williams was playing both sides to the middle, attesting for shipments himself.”

  Two toughs glared at Elliot from a banquet table across the room.

  “Next time you’ll need an invitation,” Costas said.

  “Once we compare notes, I’ll have enough to piece this thing together, find Williams, and help you stop your family’s downfall.”

  A pair of pretty, dark-haired twin girls wearing traditional Grecian dresses, floral wreaths in their hair, walked over. Jon Costas smiled, handed them chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil, and offered his cheek for kisses. The girls ran off to play. Elliot felt precious time tick away.

  “Mr. Costas, I’m in the thick of it.”

  “The body in your barn. At the family farm you’re about to lose.”

  Elliot played it cool.

  “It’s time you state your interest.”

  Costas gulped wine from its glass, afterward tossing it into the throng of dancers. “Opa!” he shouted, rising from his chair. He slapped Elliot on both his shoulders.

  “You’re an interesting man, Caprice. You have a slow hand. Not at all what I’ve heard. Meet me at my brownstone on Vernon Park Place in an hour. If I like what you have to say, I won’t have you killed.”

  On the way out, Elliot scanned the room, making note of all the threatening faces watching him. Opa, indeed.

  “This is my associate, Mr. Fuquay.”

  Frank nodded his head, partly to seem tough, partly because he didn’t quite know what to say to a man such as Costas. Elliot felt bad for bringing the kid to a throw-down.

  Jon Costas sat behind a large mahogany desk in his study. The prick just finished speaking real tough at the Congress, but now he was just like any other fat cat, perched behind symbols of power: leather writing pad, silver cigar box, velvet drapes over the large window that overlooked his horse stable—same ol’ shit. All the office needed was a bit of taxidermy and it would seem just like the recreation room where he met Margaret McAlpin. Perhaps Costas could fool the genuflecting immigrants in his presence, but Elliot knew better. This was the prodigal son left out in the cold by dear ol’ dad. Jon would have his show, and his supporting cast of Greek bruisers. The one standing behind Costas was Monk. He kept his one good eye on Elliot. He was every bit as big as Frank, but his stiff body movements gave away a lifetime of hard living. Elliot figured that Jon was loyal to Monk, which is the reason the cyclops’s deficit was covered b
y Leonidas, the younger, scar-faced tough. He wore a slick gray suit which Elliot found tacky. He also wore a gun. He sat in a chair next to the only door in or out. Jon II came off as tough, but his posture and demeanor were far too comfortable. He wasn’t a breaker but a fixer. Monk’s presence was the tell.

  He motioned to his cigar box. Elliot waved it off.

  “Drink?”

  “How about we get to it.”

  “Not accustomed to courtesy, huh?” Leonidas said.

  “You threatened to kill me less than a half-hour ago. If you wanted to dance, you could’ve stayed at your ball, McAlpin.”

  “No one calls me that here,” Jon II said.

  “Jon H. McAlpin the second. Son of Jon McAlpin and Diana Kostopolous. Only grandson of the great Stavros Kostopolous, Greek shipping magnate. At least, until your daddy’s family swindled him out of his company as some half-baked dowry.”

  “Measure your words, Caprice.”

  Monk seemed ready to strike at any moment. Frank held firm without flinching but his heart rate doubled.

  “I also do my homework, McAlpin. I’m a lot more on the ball than your boy Molak. Now, we jaw-jackin’ or talkin’ bidness?”

  Leonidas stood up, but Elliot pulled the 1911 and pointed it at him without glancing in his direction.

  “Siddown, tough guy,” he said. “You startin’ to make me nervous.”

  Monk stepped forward. Frank, not missing a beat, brandished a standing lamp within his reach.

  “That’s enough,” Costas said.

  Frank started to sweat, but he looked over to see Elliot ready for blood. The air turned electric; the fear in Frank’s body felt like purpose. Elliot swung the gun in Monk’s direction. Frank, on cue, turned to Leonidas, covering Elliot’s flank.

  “I could have you killed where you stand,” Costas said.

  “Now I regret not shooting you in the face when you threatened me earlier.”

  The two men stared one another down, until Elliot holstered his gun.

  “So, any interest in what I can do for you?”

  Elliot’s shift to cool disarmed Jon II. He felt exposed. It was something that didn’t occur often.