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

by Danny Gardner

  “In everything you uncovered for us, you never linked Rabinowitz to the Chicago Outfit?”

  “Nothing definitive.”

  “Biggest loan broker in the Midwest, but nothing definitive.”

  “Strange things sometimes happen, John. Like how a fella puts his life on the line but his calls don’t get returned. Strange.”

  John Creamer leaned back in his chair, discomfited by the turd Elliot laid atop his toast plate. The waiter returned, but he waved him off.

  “I’m not proud of what happened, Elliot.”

  “You don’t seem ashamed of it, either.”

  “Kefauver’s committee was handed some nasty defeats. The press gave him a beating. His prospects for keeping his seat, much less going on to greater things, were dwindling.”

  “So you cut me loose. Help him primp himself for election. You knew the whole thing was a hiding to nothing.”

  “I believed in him, same as you. We all got burned.”

  “Yeah, but I’m colored and I don’t get any second prizes. Do I, Special Assistant Creamer?”

  “Special Assistant in charge of press relations,” John said. “A nasty bit of schadenfreude courtesy of the Deputy Director.”

  “My uncle is dying in a flophouse. Everyone thinks I was a dirty cop.” Elliot slammed his fist atop the table. “Fuck you and schadenfreude.”

  “None of that makes me happy, Elliot. We’re friends.”

  “Friends, huh? I’d still be in jail were it not for my true friends. The ones I shitted off, for my fake one.”

  “I never asked you to do that.”

  “You never asked me to do anything. You just held the American way over my head.”

  “I knew you had your own reasons to reach for it.”

  “Doesn’t mean that you didn’t have a responsibility to see me through.”

  “Maybe I would have. You could’ve come in. Debriefed. Served the effort.”

  “After that, what? I get to be your driver?”

  “No one asked you to sell evidence to Bill Drury so he could write more of his articles. The crusading former Chicago police lieutenant fired for getting too close to the mob. Oh, brother.”

  “Anything I gave to Drury, I did so at my own risk, for nothin’.”

  “Well, he sure sold you out. Especially on that last one. The mob lawyer, Sidney Korshak. That’s what got him killed, you know. You gave it to him. As soon as you turned your back, he gave it to us, and—”

  “I know what happened,” Elliot said, the anguish in his heart searing the rest of his insides. “Drury was a fuck up, but he was a friend. He didn’t deserve to die.”

  “You should’ve let it go.”

  “You should’ve finished what we started!”

  Behind him, Creamer’s man rose from his seat to approach the table. Elliot shoved his hand in his jacket.

  “Get ya man.”

  John saw the rage in his eyes. He signaled to his shadow to stand down.

  “Get rid of him. I’m not lookin’ over my shoulder for you anymore.”

  “You’re crazy,” John said.

  “He takes a walk or I do. Believe me, you want what I’m holdin’.”

  John knew Elliot wasn’t one to bluff. He sent his guard away. For a moment, the two sat in silence. Finally, John Creamer threw a jab.

  “What can I do for you, Elliot?”

  “I’m here to do you a favor. What you know about Bill Nickelson?”

  “I know he’s nigh untouchable right now.”

  “That’s because he is yet aware of his current predicament.”

  “Go on.”

  “Up until about an hour ago, he was sittin’ on Costas Cartage, Limited out by the mouth of the Calumet. He made some contraband runs for your government during the war. As if no one knew he wouldn’t stop there.”

  “Nickelson has friends in high places.”

  “You mean, other than the McAlpin Family who no longer care to be associated?”

  “You know this how?”

  “I caught Jon McAlpin’s killer. We’re like this now.” Elliot crossed his fingers.

  “Good Lord.”

  “So what’s Nickelson served on a platter worth to you?”

  “You have evidence?”

  “When I know I’m delivering it to someone willing to prosecute, I do.”

  John scratched his chin.

  “I just can’t open an investigation for something this big. I don’t have that authority.”

  “You must know the McAlpins personally. The late master wasn’t up at your Prairie mansion? Dining on caviar or squab or whatever you fat cats eat?”

  “My family knows them.”

  Elliot reached in his jacket. Creamer reared his head back.

  “Relax, ya bozo.”

  Elliot produced a stack of manifest documents. He slapped them on the table.

  “Three ships coming in carrying cargo for the Chicago Outfit. There’s no one to attest to the shipments. They’re sitting ducks. I have more evidence when you’re ready to put Nickelson away for good.”

  Elliot stood up.

  “Leave your phone open. I’ll call you with the play. You fuck me on this, you only fuck yourself.”

  Elliot turned to leave.

  “And go fuck yourself.”

  Elaine found work for Frank to do at the office. Although he was dog tired, he dove into it without hesitation. There was something about her that made Frank’s back straighten. The way she spoke to him, as if he was just the right person for the job—whatever job it was—inspired him. It challenged his notion of himself as a big, dumb coon. Mike Robin asked Frank about his ideas of his future as a Negro in a rapidly changing America. Frank was amazed he had answers. He spoke of how he could never understand what white folk thought they could do to keep things just the way they want them, all the time, forever. That control costs money, time, blood. If they were smart, they’d see there was more to be had by sharing than dolling out the crumbs. Only weeks ago, he was a big, dumb nigger stuck on a chain gang. Now he was living adventurously, involved in the travails of powerful people. Attorneys, businessmen, smart and mighty Negro women who stared them down. He watched Elaine at work and thought of his mother and sister. How he hoped they’d meet her one day. His head spun. He didn’t know life could be lived on such levels. When Elliot arrived to pick him up, he was all talked out, which for Frank Fuquay was saying something.

  They arrived at Miss Betty’s. She and Percy were in the lobby. She was berating him again.

  “What’s that ya say there, Miss Betty?”

  “What you want, Elliot Caprice? This ain’t you bringin’ me another body for a single room, is it?”

  “You got an extra room for a week?”

  “I might,” she said. “If’n you got cash.”

  Elliot pulled out a money clip and squeezed off fifty dollars. The old hustler in Betty suppressed her excitement.

  “Two rooms, for a little while longer. The remainder is for looking after my uncle when I was away,” Elliot said, as he handed her the money. Miss Betty gave him the once over.

  “G’on take it before I change my mind.”

  Betty slid it into her brassiere, likely out of habit but essentially to keep it out of Percy’s mitts.

  “What yo’ name is, boy?”

  “I’m Frank Fuquay, ma’am.”

  “Percy. Move Frank here into 207 across from Buster’s room.”

  “Bob Collins is already in 207,” Percy said.

  “Mister two weeks late on the rent Bob Collins?”

  Percy scuttled over to the booth, found the key for 207 and ran up the stairs. Buster Caprice passed him on the way down to the lobby.

  “What ya know good?”

  “Unk, I’d like you to meet Frank Fuquay. He’s,”—Elliot realized he hadn’t given him a title—“my…associate investigator. Yeah.”

  Frank frantically shook Uncle Buster’s hand.

  “Pleasure, Mr. Capric
e,” Frank said, eyes wide.

  “Frank here is joining us from Yazoo?”

  “No foolin’? City or county?” asked Buster, side-eyeing Elliot, not sure what to make of it all just yet.

  “County, suh.”

  “I knew some Fuquays back in Yazoo County. A Ruby Fuquay.”

  “That’s my auntie! It’s Ruby Gibson, now. They live up in Gary.”

  “How she doin’ up that way?” Elliot could feel their Yazoo connection.

  “Fine, suh. She and my Uncle Paul, dey got a nice house. They rent rooms to colored folk workin’ in steel ’n auto parts ’n such.”

  A loud argument broke out atop the stairwell.

  “Guess your room is ready, young Frank,” Betty said. “C’mon. I’ll show it to you. It ain’t much, but we ain’t got no vermin runnin’ around. Folk here know to keep their nose clean.”

  “I ain’t particular, ma’am,” Frank said. He looked back at Elliot. Elliot smiled and nodded his approval that he go on.

  “He needs to stop doin’ that.”

  “Big fella,” Buster said. “Kind o’ young to be followin’ you around, ain’t he?”

  “I was young.”

  “No, you wuzn’t.”

  “I have the money, Unk.” Elliot put his hands on his old uncle’s shoulders. They met eyes as pounds of pressure lifted off them both.

  “There’s still dem bastards at the bank.”

  “It’s enough to either take care of them or start over someplace else. It’s a lot of money, Unk,” Elliot said, nodding as he counted the stacks in his mind. Buster forced a smile. Frank returned from atop the stairs.

  “Not much, huh?” asked Elliot.

  “Don’t need much,” Frank said. “So, Mister Caprice? When did you leave Yazoo?”

  “Back in the top of the century. And it’s Buster. All that mister talk soun’ like I’m stuck at the bank.”

  “I gotta make a call,” Elliot said. That would allow Buster and Frank to get acquainted. He dropped a dime into the payphone.

  “What’s to it, Sheriff?” he started. “Yeah, I’m back. Took care of that thing.”

  Elliot pulled the postcard from Willow’s apartment from his pocket. He stared at it until he could smell her. He could taste her beautiful young skin upon his lips. He looked over at Buster and Frank, jawing over the card table. Again, joy and remorse, side by side.

  “Want to meet up at Mamie’s? I haven’t eaten since forever. I’m on my way over there now.”

  The trio spirited over to the lunch counter. When they arrived, the Southville Sheriff’s Department was already seated at a table. When Mamie saw Elliot, she brought over another. Elliot grabbed an extra chair for Frank. Just hours before, they were accusing one another and pulling guns. Months prior, they were fist-fighting in holding cells. Years before, Elliot dreamed of escaping the clutches of his old, ornery uncle. Now, they sat, ate smothered chicken, greens, white rice, drank sweet tea, laughed, sighed. Even Elliot and Ned. After all that strife, over all that time, they easily fell back upon how regular folk do.

  As the meal wound down, Elliot slid the Willow’s postcard across to George. He tapped on the return address. George nodded. Frank knew, but didn’t say a word.

  “You mind I come along, Sheriff,” Elliot said. “I think I should be there.”

  “That’d be just fine.”

  “On one condition, though. You gotta do the drivin’. I’m so doggone tired of bein’ trapped in a car, you don’t even know.”

  Frank tried to suppress his laughter to no avail. “Good Lawd, you do a lotta drivin’!”

  “Figure you live in a car, myself,” Ned said, sipping his tea.

  “How about when he stole my tractor and figured he’d drive away,” offered Buster, as Mamie brought over cups of her famous banana pudding.

  “My mama looked out the window to see this scrawny, high yella, curly-haired ghost in his nightshirt, driving five miles per hour, thinking he’s getting somewhere,” George said, in his gleeful baritone.

  Elliot just shook his head. Soon he laughed with them. He could take it. In fact, it was the best he’d felt in years.

  CHAPTER 22

  George was nice enough to give Elliot’s roommates a ride back to Miss Betty’s.

  As he pulled into Roseland, Elliot tried to ignore the pit in his stomach. His sit-down was vitally important, so he tucked ’em in.

  It was Friday night. An old Shabbos goy like Elliot knew to take the alley walkway up through the rear of the house so no one would see him. There was Izzy seated at the large wooden picnic table across from where Elliot once carved his initials in the wood.

  “I remember when you docked me for that.”

  “Rebecca told me to fire you,” Izzy said. “Said your life was hard enough without you takin’ to the street to make a dollar. I told her, ‘That kid is a born killer. He just don’t know it yet.’”

  “Well, I know it now,” Elliot said.

  He sat down and looked around the backyard. The fountain that never worked. The wooden swing set Izzy made Elliot and Amos assemble that took forever.

  “It’s a hard thing you do to yourself when you think you’re a better man than you are,” Izzy said. He folded his hands atop each other.

  “I need information,” Elliot said.

  “Gettin’ right to it, huh? We had this conversation, kid.”

  “I have a feelin’ you’ll want to discuss this. Bill Nickelson.”

  “Foreign shit he has covered by his lonely. Narcotics especially, though he occasionally deals in really dirty trade.”

  “People?”

  Izzy nodded. “Used to be. He could get someone in the country without papers. Even carried a few displaced diplomats. Now it’s just unwashed masses. Broads mostly.” Izzy adjusted his sweater. It was Indian summer, but he was cold. It was a tell. “So now you got me talkin’.”

  “Black market guys are usually pariahs.”

  “It’s a racket for shitheels.”

  “So,” Elliot eased the words out, not fully believing them himself. “No one would miss him?”

  “No, he’d be missed. Everyone needs someone that’ll do the dirty work.”

  Elliot took off his hat and placed it on the picnic table. He ran his hand through his hair and exhaled long and slow.

  “What are you figurin’ on?”

  “I just ruined his shipping operation.”

  “Ruined?”

  “Farkakt.” Elliot drew his hand across his neck for emphasis. Izzy rolled his head back.

  “Whoa, kid. That’s gonna get ugly.”

  “That’s why I got to put a lid on it,” Elliot said.

  “Your kind of lid or mine?”

  “I was hoping my kind.”

  “CPD ain’t goin’ anywhere near Nickelson.”

  “I’m thinkin’ feds.”

  Izzy stared a hole through Elliot’s forehead.

  “You went barrelin’ into this, didn’t ya?” Elliot nodded. “Mikey?”

  “Just me.”

  “You mention feds,” Izzy said. “How’d I get so lucky?”

  Elliot shifted in his seat.

  “I get ahold of a thing. Something that implicates you. I scrub it out. The fat meat goes to Kefauver. He titillates the press.”

  “Always figured it was a racket.”

  “One of the biggest,” Elliot said. “And I got fucked in it.”

  “Guess I owe you a favor.”

  “Oh, you owe me more than one.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Skokie.” Elliot smirked. Izzy’s eyes went so wide the wrinkles smoothed out. “Don’t worry. He had a hard on for the dagos. And your buddy Lansky.”

  “The money is boring. The muscle is what makes headlines,” Izzy said. “So what do you want, kid?”

  “I have the money for the farm, but the bank won’t give it back to me unless they can’t sell it. We need that easement revoked. I’m not tryin’ to trade talents. I’m askin�
�. Respectfully. Please help me.”

  Izzy had never seen Elliot like this. Absent was his defiance. No piss. No vinegar. No haughtiness.

  “You cherry-picked evidence for me,” Izzy said. He almost sounded grateful.

  “I would have done that for you, regardless.”

  Elliot averted his gaze. Izzy stood up from the table, walked around to Elliot’s side and patted him on the shoulder.

  “Tell your uncle I’m glad he has his land back.” Izzy walked toward his back door. “I’ll look into your Bill Nickelson problem.”

  “I’ll keep Mikey out of it.”

  “Don’t bother. You two need each other.”

  Izzy walked back into his house. Elliot rose from his seat, looked at the swings that sat still and empty, and went out the way he came.

  No children played here anymore.

  They approached the farmhouse. In the daylight, it looked terrible. Peeling paint. Bulging porch floorboards that, when stepped on, sounded like the cries of someone dying. Buster thumbed through the key ring and searched for a match to the large padlock the bank bolted on the door. He had the shakes in his left arm. Elliot’s ache of guilt was a reminder to cease leaving the things he loved, to go off to fight battles he could never truly win. He reached for his Buster’s hand, smiling.

  “Here, Unk. Let me do that.”

  In the past, Buster Caprice would have slapped his nephew’s hand away or made some crack about him minding his elder. It was the colored man’s providence to be the lord of his own tiny manor. Now he put up no fight. His boy was home.

  Elliot opened the door. Their second-hand hat rack still stood. Unopened mail from months of deliveries was piled up on the floor. Buster walked in first followed by Elliot. He depressed a light switch. No results.

  “Yep. No service,” Buster said.

  “I’ll get ’em out,” Elliot said.

  He raised the window shades in the living room. Dust particles passed through rays of sunshine. It gave the room an elemental shimmer. The Caprices took pride in how they kept their house and it pained them to see the thick layer of dust everywhere. Workboot footprints were tracked throughout, a sign that either a disposal company or Goodwill had been called by the bank. At the top of the walls, where they met the ceiling, were water spots from the untended gutters. Several windows were cracked. A few were broken. Stones laid on the floor in broken glass.