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

by Danny Gardner

“Could we perhaps speak in private?” Jon said. Elliot knew Jon had folded.

  “Yeah? What about?”

  “About how perhaps Tom Molak wasn’t the right man for the job,” Costas said.

  “Easy to see he would…come up short.”

  Both men erupted in nervous laughter. Frank finally exhaled.

  “I’m sure your associate would be comfortable in the anteroom. Leonidas, get Mr. Caprice’s man a drink.”

  “I don’t drink,” Frank said. “Not liquor, anyhow.”

  “I’ll get ya a pop,” Leonidas said. He winked, in reassurance they were square. Frank looked to Elliot for permission which unsettled Elliot a bit.

  “It’s alright, Frank. We’ll be done here real soon,” Elliot said. Frank followed Leonidas out the door. Monk followed Frank. It seemed choreographed.

  Jon II presented Elliot his hand.

  “I apologize.”

  “Forget it,” Elliot said. Jon’s grip was strong.

  “I see my sources were wrong.”

  “I won’t ask about what. Or whom.”

  Jon II loosened his tie. He exhaled in a long, pained release.

  “It’s all smoke and mirrors, isn’t it?”

  “Folk think they know you well enough, they’ll screw you. Show ’em too little, they won’t trust you. Then they screw you anyhow. It’s all a game.”

  “How close are you to locating Williams?”

  “He hasn’t fled.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The dead body in my barn.”

  “A message, no doubt.”

  “Stop seeking.”

  “But you’re not going to stop.”

  Elliot paused as he thought of Willow’s sweet face, dead. It made him want to kill something.

  “That girl didn’t deserve to die,” he said. “Also, I made a commitment.”

  “To my father’s wife?”

  “To my friend and employer.”

  “Attorney Robin,” Jon said.

  “Your family’s affairs have taken enough of their time. They want to lessen your influence.”

  “Yes,” Jon said. “It is rather hard to surmount our…beneficence.”

  “You got it bad for your family.”

  Jon walked toward the window. He stared outside at his two horses in the stable.

  “What I’ve seen of Negros, Caprice, is they love their own.”

  “We only appear that way in relation to white folks. We also do each other dirty. Sometimes worse.”

  “But you stop short of genocide.”

  “Go on.”

  “My father never loved my mother. He didn’t care about her in the least. How they managed to sire me is a mystery.”

  “It was all about your family’s shipping business.”

  “It was more than a business. My grandfather was the pride of Greece. Our roots are in the Aegean Peninsula.”

  “The Sea People.”

  “He assembled that company by convincing men to captain and crew for him on a promise. Just his word. No deals beyond the extension of his character. Within ten years, they controlled shipping throughout the Mediterranean.”

  “Gravitas,” Elliot said, remembering Margaret’s observations.

  “The McAlpins wanted that. To claim that pride, that strength, for themselves.”

  “So why sell your company to folks like that?”

  “He wanted to expand beyond the Mediterranean. Carry the promise of Greece to all places where Greeks emigrated.”

  “Rich man’s ego,” Elliot said, shaking his head.

  “I never said my grandfather was perfect. Just that he had character. What started as contracts for the McAlpins became friendship, resulting in an offer to unify around a marriage. I’m embarrassed to admit that this conformed to my grandfather’s old world sensibilities. He sacrificed my mother to the wolves.”

  “You as well.”

  “Yes,” Jon said.

  “I know a little something about that.” Elliot resisted the urge to empathize. Seeing himself within a wealthy white man was just too much for one day.

  “My family sees everything through a prism of lack. It drives them—us—insane. We only want what we don’t possess. When we’re no longer lacking, the desire runs out.”

  “Which is how Costas Cartage sat on bricks until it was co-opted by this fella Molak mentioned. Bill Nickelson.”

  “A former lieutenant of Al Capone.”

  “Capone had a lot of lieutenants. The guy that fetched his morning paper got to be a fuckin’ lieutenant.”

  “Nickelson was the real thing. A Dutchman. A Viking.”

  “I still don’t get how a gangster can squat on an entire fleet of cargo ships, owned by one of the richest families in America.”

  “The War Department turned to many private citizens during the conflict.”

  “Like those Murder, Incorporated guys gettin’ paid to rough up Brown Shirts?”

  “An apt comparison.”

  “What would they need y’all for? They have the Navy.”

  “Navies are used in combat, Caprice. Governments were at war, not corporations. Ford continued operations in Germany until 1942. Victrola maintained its partners in Japan, even while we were bombing them.”

  “Bill Nickelson used your grandfather’s boats to run a goddamned charter service for captains of industry.” Elliot shook his head in disgust. “Christ on tha cross.”

  “Patriotism over business gave us the Depression. That’s the only reason Congress was prepared to keep us out of number two, Pearl Harbor be damned. Allowances had to be made.”

  “Good men died over there.”

  “Good men die everywhere,” Jon II said. “Nickelson knew the seas. He also had the smuggling connections so the government put him and our family together. My father vetted the deal and took oversight. It made him feel patriotic.”

  “After the war, why didn’t your family take the business back?”

  “For some reason, my father turned his attention from it. Once my stepmother died, he fell into a malaise.”

  “In comes Alistair Williams.”

  “Then my grandfather’s life’s work sits at the mouth of the Calumet River, a whore for evil men. Drug smuggling. Human trafficking.”

  “Evidence suggests he’s in too deep. Wants to get out.”

  “What evidence?”

  “Shipping manifests. Customs forms. He figured he had leverage, but Nickelson don’t care. He’ll kill him out of spite.”

  “What’s next, Caprice?”

  “Get a line on either Williams or the handyman. Beat the truth out of ’em. Drag ’em back to justice. If I don’t have to kill ’em.”

  “I don’t see how that solves my problem.”

  “You didn’t hire me to solve your problem.”

  “I’ll triple what my father’s wife is paying you.”

  “Seems like a bargain.”

  “Name your price,” Jon said.

  “Twenty-five thousand, plus you use your connections to have the cops’ bounty taken off my head. For that, I’ll get you the driver plus what you need to stick it to your family.”

  “Your agreement with Margaret?”

  “I don’t see any conflict.”

  “She wants Williams.”

  “When you’re done with him, she can have him. If you’re inclined to make sure there’s a piece of him left.”

  “All that’s on your agenda is money.”

  “I have my own motivations, and they ain’t ya bidness. You keep your goons out my hair. If I see your man Tom Molak again, I’m gonna shoot ’im.”

  “I have reports from him that may prove useful.”

  “No thanks. His work is sloppy. I’ll manage.”

  Elliot rose to extend his hand in Jon’s direction.

  “So, what’re we doin’?”

  Jon and Elliot shook on the deal.

  “I’ve experienced my fill of betrayal, Mr. Caprice.”

 
“You’re not gonna threaten me again, are you?”

  “No. I just want you to know I am far different than the rest of my family.”

  “Costas, that much is obvious.”

  Double-dipping was taboo. Elliot would have preferred to make no commitments at all. Now he had promised to track down Alistair Williams for opposing sides of the McAlpin family. That was sloppy. Still, he needed Jon’s insight. If he didn’t work for Costas, Elliot would be working against him. That would be stupid. Bill Nickelson made the number of parties searching for Williams and Chauncey three. Elliot controlled the interests of two, thus the odds were on his side. Bottom line: Alistair Williams would, at best, face the law. At worst, he’d catch a hot one. Disappointment was inevitable. Better for it to be experienced by Nickelson.

  Elliot hung a left onto Lake Shore Drive off Congress Parkway. Frank finally spoke up.

  “See here, boss,” he said. “We got a plan?”

  “The gal that wound up dead,” Elliot said, keeping his eyes on the road that was barely visible in the downtown fog. “We’re going back to her place.”

  “Cops ain’t gonna be there?”

  “Not as long as Costas keeps his promise,” Elliot said. His grief was palpable. Frank feared it colored his judgment.

  “These fellas what killed her,” Frank said. “They wuzn’t honest folk, but she ran wit’ ’em jus’ tha same.”

  “What are you getting at, Frank?”

  “My mama got a sayin’. ‘Jes ’cuz you tha last one to touch it don’t make it yo’ mess.’”

  “When’s the last time you spoke to her?”

  “We ain’t got no telephone back home, and I ain’t good wit’ writin’.”

  “You’re wrong to leave her worryin’. When we finish this, we’ll sit down and write her a letter.”

  “Soun’ good to me. She shol’ be interested ta heah that I was locked up fo’ two months an now I run tha streets playin’ cops ’n robbers wit’ tha fella what beat me up in jail.”

  Frank laughed aloud. It reminded Elliot to stay out of that dark place inside himself. It was time to cast everything into the light, whatever the outcome.

  Frank Fuquay covered the hallway for prying eyes as Elliot felt around the door frame for Willow’s key. It was gone. There was no sign of forced entry, it was obvious the key’s placement was common knowledge. Another bit of betrayal from Alistair.

  “She got a back do’, maybe?”

  Elliot put a swift kick above the doorknob, cracking the frame. The door flew open. Frank down the hallway.

  “Building is full of junkies,” Elliot said. “Get inside.”

  They entered, shut the door. Elliot found the light switch on the wall. Nearly everything Willow cared about was destroyed. LPs were out of their sleeves and broken in pieces. Her cameras were dismantled and tossed out onto the floor. The speakers of her hi-fi were kicked in. Furniture was overturned, the backs of which were sliced open. Even her albums of photographs she took of her beloved Jazz greats were ripped apart.

  “Somebody beat us to it,” Frank said.

  “This is Nickelson’s shit.” Elliot waded through the mess, carefully moving debris. “Alistair knew her hiding places. Hate gets in the way of the job.”

  “What are we supposed to make outta all dis?” Frank shook his head.

  “You wanna find a person’s secrets? Find the person.”

  “Huh?” asked Frank.

  “She was an artist, Frank. All that mattered to her was music and musicians. When it came to what she loved, she couldn’t be bothered to eat. She didn’t clean up after herself. Most gals use their washroom as a beauty salon. I don’t think she even took a piss in there.”

  Elliot knelt and picked up a postcard on the floor. On the front was a painted image of a farmland Christmas scene. He turned it over to see a postmark from Madison, Wisconsin. In elegant penmanship read a polite yet revealing message:

  Willow,

  Ma and Dad didn’t want to worry you, but he’s been sick. I think you should come home, partly because I miss you and because Ma needs you. Dad does too, but he won’t admit it. He’s stubborn like you. Please try for Xmas, ’kay?

  —Love, Sissy

  “Nickelson is lookin’ for a man,” Elliot said. “Williams is lookin’ for a satchel that’s back at my office.”

  “So what’re we lookin’ fo’?”

  Elliot put the postcard in his pocket. He surveyed everything, turning to take it in, all at once.

  “A hint.”

  “Come a’gin?”

  “Willow was bold, Frank. I saw her risk her life just to get a photograph. She was upfront. Women like that don’t hide things.”

  “Twuzn’t no reason ta tear up her flat, den.”

  “Nope. Willow cared about music. Colored fellas. And drugs, in that order. Anything other than that is an answer. Don’t go diggin’ tho’. Just look. Let it reveal itself to you.”

  Elliot began his search by gently moving things around.

  “Rule things out. What doesn’t fit? What doesn’t belong?”

  Frank watched him, partially mesmerized, partially inspired. He wondered if all detectives seemed this crazy. Minutes turned into over an hour. Both men were exhausted from sifting through the shattered remains of Willow’s short life. Elliot found nothing in the rubble nor in any of the cabinets. He was in the bathroom searching in vain when Frank called out to him.

  “Caprice!”

  Elliot headed to the bedroom, but Frank met him in the hallway. He was holding a piece of clothing.

  “Whaddya got?”

  “You said she wuzn’t big on housework, so I went through her laundry.”

  Frank tossed a garment at him. Elliot unfurled it. It was a tacky men’s bowling shirt: black, tan plackets.

  “Maybe it’s nuthin’, but it seemed out of place, seein’ she was a girl ’n it’s a fella’s shirt ’n all.”

  Elliot was transfixed on its details, including the bit of embroidery on the pocket: Archer-35 Recreation. He also couldn’t help but notice grease stains on the shirttail.

  “Don’t think Willow was a bowler,” Elliot said.

  “So we head over to that bowlin’ alley ’n maybe find our man?”

  “That bowling alley is in the worst part of town for a colored fella, Frank. Know what I mean?”

  “But you goin’, aintcha?”

  “Yeah,” Elliot said. “Doesn’t mean you have to. Might be better for you to take off.”

  Truth told, the manner in which Elliot cautioned Frank frightened the Big Fella, but Elliot had been looking out for him since the Meat Locker. The fight that could’ve gone worse. The barrel check. The cash to get himself straight. There was no way Frank would white on him.

  “Well, you did tell me to put on my fightin’ clothes,” Frank said.

  They were stopped at a red light on Cermak when Frank couldn’t take the quiet anymore. He’d rather flap his gums than shake in his boots.

  “So, you figure we gonna die tonight?”

  Elliot didn’t respond and instead thought of the bank and their chains on his land. Thought of all the thumbs he had broken for Izzy, just for him to turn away from him at his own time of need. He pictured Drury’s kids finding their daddy in the garage, head blown off. He thought of every white person, from his mother on down to John Creamer, who cared for their own agenda more than him. He thought of Willow Ellison. She was a sweet girl that hadn’t hurt anyone. She didn’t deserve to die the way she had.

  The light changed. Elliot pulled forward. He gripped the wheel so tight his knuckles were alabaster. He spoke as if he was chewing glass.

  “Not tonight, Frank. Not us.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Occasionally Elliot worked patrols in Bronzeville, across the neighborhood border from Bridgeport. One night, when called to a domestic disturbance outside a tenement, he quelled a severe beating carried out on a Negro teen by his father. It had spilled out onto the street for all to
see, so Elliot was obligated to cuff the man until he was calm. He asked him what the boy had done. The father said he caught his son returning from Bridgeport.

  “You know they’ll kill a nigga all the way dead,” he said. “I figure, if I only beat ’im half-dead, I’m still savin’ his life.”

  Elliot uncuffed the man, then told the boy to listen to his father, or else he’d arrest him.

  They parked Lucille directly outside the stairway that led up to the second-floor home of Archer-35th Recreation, home of the Petersen Classic, the biggest, most crooked bowling tournament in America. Twenty-two steps into hell. Twenty-two steps Elliot and Frank took, side-by-side, until they reached the threshold where they were greeted by the stench of stale cigar smoke and spilled beer. The stares were immediate as patrons interrupted their precession into the bowling room to turn to each other and ask the obvious question, “Did you see those two niggers?”

  “You weren’t lyin’, were ya, boss?”

  “Let ’em stare.”

  As they passed the saloon, Elliot recognized it as one of the speakeasy locations on Bill Drury’s list. It was a Capone-era outpost for distributing booze. Elliot finally hated Al Capone, much in the same way a long-suffering wife could finally have enough of her husband’s bullshit.

  He held the bowling shirt in his hand as they walked over to the counter where Murray, the night man, was sorting scoring sheets. When they saw the team board, Elliot realized it was public employee league night making them as safe as ice cubes on hot asphalt.

  “You the manager?”

  “You’re causin’ a scene,” Murray said. He likely thought himself decent for delivering the warning.

  “A scene, huh?”

  Elliot stepped toward the counter, but Frank stepped in front of him. He leaned forward, sticking out his butt, which moved Elliot back.

  “Say, boss,” Frank said, laying on the poor country boy act extra thick. “We’z lookin’ fo’ a few friends of ourn, said we wuz s’posedta have a meetin’.”

  “You’re in the wrong bowling alley, fella,” Murray said. Elliot followed Frank’s play after he decided to chew him out about it later.

  “Our friend Chauncey said he had it all arranged,” Elliot said.