“You Negroes best to get on!” George said. “This is white folks’ problem!”
The two colored hands rose slowly, looking to George for confirmation.
“Get on! Next time don’t take work from criminals.”
They took off running but the white men remained, defiant.
“You know who we work for?” said a shorter, stockier white man, hook in hand. A low rumble out the door behind them got Ned’s attention. Two sets of approaching headlights came up the gravel road from Ewing Street.
“Shit,” Ned said. George and Elliot turned to see for themselves. The air horn of a cargo ship rang out. One of the other ships was making it in from Great Lakes.
“You assholes picked the wrong man on the wrong night!”
More dock hands emerged. Both boats were now ablaze. George was halfway down the stairs on the right. Ned advanced down the left, covering him from the side as the odds tipped further into the impossible. Elliot was left alone on the walk, dead center. The Sheriff’s Department stood paralyzed. The cars were almost to the building. His friends were going to die.
Elliot closed his eyes. He listened to his own breath above the taunts from the now army of dock workers. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly and, when he opened his eyes, time stood still. That’s when he gave George and Ned the plan, communicated with a shotgun blast to the face of the loudmouth holding the hook. Every other second-string gangster on the warehouse floor either froze or scattered.
“Take cover!”
Elliot walked out the door, firing the shotgun over and over at the first Buick in line, spraying his malice through the air. As the rear cars hit the skidded, the first car’s windshield exploded. It careened forward, hopped atop the two shallow stairs, flew off the platform walk, and down onto the warehouse floor. It nearly crushed George and Ned, but the odds were improved as it took out more than a few goons.
Outside, the clicks of the trigger of the impotent shotgun came at the absolute worst time. The other two cars were now upon him. He yanked the 1911 from his coat and fired slow, deliberate shots at discreet targets. The first enemy bullet grazed him across his right shoulder. He held his position. The next bullet he fired caught a well-dressed goon in the throat. Goons fired back. Elliot took one in his left shoulder in nearly the same spot as that fateful night in Bill Drury’s garage long ago. He hit the gravel, but continued firing blindly from his back. He heard a man shout in pain. As he got up on his feet to run back into the warehouse, angry voices promised death.
The entire dock was now an inferno. George and Ned took cover behind the overturned luxury car, firing their shotguns at the portion of the horde that was now armed. Elliot discharged a clip and reloaded. The dark, acrid smoke of diesel fire filled the air. The familiar sound of a Thompson machine gun rang out in the smoke. The roof timbers groaned and crackled. More shouting, but from fewer soldiers.
“If we don’t get off this dock, we’re dead,” Ned said. The Thompson blared out another short burst. Elliot shot in the direction of the sound. He looked around until he could see a strain of light through the small window of an access door on the far side. He returned to cover. His shoulder throbbed. He figured he wouldn’t bleed out if he could calm himself so he breathed shallow.
“We gotta get around this car,” Elliot said. “I took care of a few, but more are coming behind us. They’ll have the higher ground.”
“Tommy gun is really pissing me off,” Ned said. His shotgun was spent so he brandished his revolver.
“There’s too much smoke. He can’t see us,” George said.
“Three points after the next burst,” Elliot said.
More machine gun fire rang out. Lead filled the car door, giving away the shooter’s position. George rose first, firing dead center. Elliot and Ned covered the angles. They took three shots each in tandem, forming a triangle of death. From behind cover, after ten seconds, George peeked out. A stiff lakefront breeze blew away enough smoke for them to witness the dead. George grabbed the machine gun off the dying shooter, now lying prone. He covered the main door.
“Outside, I counted four. Got one.” Elliot held his wound. “They can’t all be brave.”
Gunfire entered from the outside where he left the Buick toughs.
“You’re dead!”
“Make me a hole. I’ll find Frank and Amos,” Elliot said. “You two, get lost. This thing is tits-up.”
More gunfire. George shot the Thompson. One of the proper gangsters fell hard. Elliot took off for the door. George rose from his perch and sprayed fire at both sides of the doorway above. The two stepped backward, through the smoke, over the dead as they went toward the dock. Nickelson’s men ran in. George and Ned escaped out the rear.
As soon as Ned’s face met fresh air, the insides of the cargo ship exploded. It rocked the dock. Ned flew forward on his face, collapsing into a heap on the wooden walk. The bruiser in the pea coat ran through the dock gate. George recognized him from the spyglasses. As Pea Coat drew down on them, George raised the Thompson. Another explosion sent Pea Coat into the water. George turned to see Ned struggle to stand. Before he could help him, Pea Coat had pulled himself back up on the dock, but then caught a few in his chest. He had fallen back in the water before George realized he had pulled the trigger. He dropped the Thompson into the water in disgust. Southville County Sheriff George M. Stingley, Jr., Associate Pastor of Greater Grace Pentecostal Church, a man who lived his life right all his days, notched his first kills in an unsanctioned sting operation.
“Ned, are you hit?”
“Naw. Ribs are broken, though.”
George felt no guilt whatsoever.
“C’mon.”
Ned groaned aloud as George helped him to his feet. He supported his body as they ran as fast as they could, down the dock, across the bridge, back to the car. Ned sat on the grass, propped against the driver’s side door while George reloaded his shotgun.
“I’m going back in.”
Ned nodded, pulled himself up, and climbed into the driver’s seat.
“It was him or us, George.”
George looked away.
“You saved my life.”
“You saved mine in Sugartown.”
“What are we doin’ here, Sheriff?” Ned chuckled through his pain.
“Give me ten minutes before you get out of here.”
Ned nodded.
Everything turned to shit. George prayed as he ran back to the bridge, asking for better luck for Elliot. As a man of faith, he’d never admit he didn’t believe those prayers would be answered.
CHAPTER 24
Elliot crawled up the two narrow flights on all fours. The fire door had yet to trigger, giving him a clear view of the far end of the warehouse where Amos and Frank tried to fight off a throng of Nickelson’s men. Amos, wearing his brass knuckles, moved ferociously through the crowd. He grabbed the back of the head of one of the greasy goons and tattooed his forehead. His face exploded. He went down, screaming into his bloody hands. Amos turned to aid Frank as he had been set upon by two; one behind him holding a pipe around Frank’s neck, one in front throwing whopping hooks to the body. Before Amos could reach Frank’s puncher, two others grabbed him and forced him down to the floor. They beat down upon him with wooden planks. Elliot, from his distance, squared the .45 to get a shot off, but they were far too enmeshed for him to pick a clear target. He grabbed a wood slat of his own and ran in their direction, only to be cut off by machine gun fire. Elliot barrel-rolled to his left, coming down hard on his wounded shoulder. He crashed into a stack of wooden shipping crates that were far too thin to offer true cover. Another burst of machine gun fire splintered the crates spewing glass and packing hay everywhere. He felt wetness under him. Some of it was wine. Some was his blood. Splinters were stuck in his back.
The two younger, faster thugs were too much for Amos. They stomped him on the ground. They used the wooden slats on him when he was down. The goon behind Frank pulled the
pipe harder into his throat, cutting off his wind. He watched Amos struggle less and less as he himself began to black out. Amos’ attackers taunted him after each kick.
That was when Frank Fuquay, all the way from Yazoo, Mis-sip, lost his shit.
The mope holding him from behind wore alligator shoes. Frank wore steel toe boots. The oily asshole screamed as he felt three of his five toes shatter. The pain was enough for him to let go of the pipe. Frank head-butted the puncher square in the center of his face. His nose bloomed like a cherry blossom. Frank reached down, picked up the pipe, and went to town, beating his man until he was unconscious. He turned back upon broken foot guy to stomp him at the knee. Delirious, but determined, he stumbled into the crowd over Amos and swung away.
“Get off ’im! Get off, goddamnit!”
He went wild, moving back and forth, the whop and ping of hollow steel meeting flesh, over and over again.
“Kid! Frankie!”
Frank looked down to see Amos, still alive.
“I think you gawd’em all, Big Fella.”
Frank looked around to see all four men, either moaning or unconscious. He dropped the pipe in contempt. Amos raised his arm.
“Gimme a hand, willya.”
Frank helped Amos to his feet.
“You gonna be alright?” asked Frank. Before he could answer, they both heard a long burst of machine gun fire.
“Keep on, goddamned greaseballs!” they heard Elliot shout. “Y’all ain’t hittin’ shit!”
Frank looked to Amos.
“We all gawd’ah pahts ta play, kid.”
Frank looked back as he followed Amos, hoping that somehow Elliot had a chance.
Elliot took cover behind a desk in a small observation office with large windows. The fire spread to the upper floors. Through the skylights, he could see the roof burning. It would give way soon. On the catwalk across the warehouse were two men, one in a wool coat and pageboy cap. The other was in a powder blue suit and matching fedora. He had a long scar that reached from his mouth to where his ear met his jaw. They peered into the office from the edges, where the walk met the wall.
“You got a really low kill count for all dem bullets, man!” Elliot said, firing twice at the catwalk. “I’m thinkin’ ol’ Alfonse made a mistake!”
“You keep talkin’, nigger!”
“You’re Nickelson, right?”
“What’s it to ya?”
“I just want to know the name of the man I royally fucked!”
More Tommy gun fire entered the office, ricocheting off a metal filing cabinet.
“You think I don’t know you? You’re the half-nigger Caprice!”
Nickelson and his man descended from the catwalk down to the warehouse floor. Elliot changed position behind a group of stacked pallets. Pap-pap-pap-pap-pap went the Tommy. Hot lead hit the wood of the desk.
“Try again, mutherfuckers!”
Elliot looked up through the skylight, noticing the glass giving way to the flames. The ceiling beams started cracking.
“See you brought your pallys!” Nickelson fired again. “Figured you make a play?”
“Sorry about your boats, Bill!”
Elliot fired in their direction, but the glass in the skylight gave way and plummeted toward the floor. Elliot rolled out of cover, exposing himself in a clear line of sight. Nickelson’s gun perforated the office with bullets. Elliot blindly returned fire, hitting nothing. He jumped through the window of an adjoining office, landing in broken glass. His face was cut. His shoulder was now bleeding steadily. He crawled across the floor, remaining underneath the dividing wall, uncertain what to do next.
“When this is over, maybe I’ll take a drive to Southville. Visit that uncle of yours,” shouted Nickelson, firing shots into the crude plywood that made up the wall frame. “Or maybe the kike in Springfield!” He fired more shots. “Heard that nigger bitch of his is a fine piece!”
Elliot stepped out the doorway, sized up the gunsel and fired once. Nickelson didn’t expect to get a face full of his man’s brain matter. He fell backward into an adjacent stack of wooden crates.
“What were you gonna do?”
Elliot ejected the clip and put in his last.
“Who were you gonna pay a visit to?”
He snatched back the hammer. Leaving a trail of blood behind him, he stalked forward in Nickelson’s direction. About ten paces in, he found Nickelson’s foot sticking out from cover. Elliot put a slug into it. Nickelson’s scream was music to his ears.
“What about my folks up in Springfield?”
Nickelson hobbled away toward more crates. Elliot followed.
“I got all night to blow your brains out, Dutchie!”
The ceiling disintegrated from the intense heat of the spreading fire. Its large truss beams plummeted down like the flaming bolts of an angered god. It was also seconds before the arrival of the feds. One way or the other, the whole thing was ending soon. Elliot turned a corner and made it to a large waste area. Nickelson fired upon him, but he only managed to give his position away. Elliot returned fire and hit Nickelson in the right thigh. Nickelson fell down on his ass. Elliot walked over to him and pointed the gun at his forehead.
“You’re lucky I need you alive.”
He grabbed Nickelson by the collar and dragged him over to a metal waste chute that was bolted in a large window.
“One way or the other, you’re dead, Caprice!”
Elliot yanked him to his feet.
“Hope there’s nothing sharp down there.”
Elliot pushed Nickelson into the mouth of the tube. Down he went, screaming epithets followed by a loud metallic clang that reverberated up the chute. Elliot ran as best he could to the upper main hall where he found George.
“What are you doin’ here?”
“Looking for you,” George said. “Where are the others?”
Elliot and George jogged to the corridor where he last saw Frank and Amos. The three Chinese captives ran into them. George stopped them from running down the stairs, toward the fiery dock. Amos and Frank ran in.
“We need to get on,” Elliot said.
“I came back in through a stairwell that leads away from the fire.”
George showed the women his sheriff’s badge, smiled, gestured for them to follow him past the main stairs. After a few steps forward, Elliot could hear high pitched screams like that of a child.
“Get on with George, Frank.”
“I go where you go.”
“This is the job,” Elliot said, pointing in Frank’s face. “You said you wanted to do this work, so do it!”
“Kid! C’man already!” Amos was standing at the far end where the warehouse met the side stairs. Frank walked backward as he watched Elliot run down the hall. He turned and hauled ass to his own safety.
Elliot found a windowless room at the end of the hall. Inside was a young Chinese girl, maybe five or six. She pulled at the lifeless arm of the woman dragged off by Nickelson’s goon, her naked body sprawled atop a dirty mattress on a steel bedframe.
“Xǐng lái, āyí! Xǐng lái!”
“Hey, darlin’,” Elliot said. He approached slowly, but the girl bolted underneath the bed.
“Shit on a stick.”
He got on his knees to reach for her, but she scooted away, kicking his hand. More timbers crashed to the floor. The roof above the room was ablaze. Elliot finally got her by the ankle, yanked her from under the bed and gathered her up in his arms.
He ran out the room. At the point they crossed the threshold, the roof caved in. The blast threw them forward. The fall reminded Elliot that he was already injured. He picked the kid back up in his arms and ran toward George’s exit only to be met by a wall of fire. Elliot ran for the only other escape—the same waste chute he dumped Nickelson. He pushed the girl in. She screamed all the way down. He put the hand of his good arm at the top of the mouth of the tube.
“Schadenfreude,” he said to himself before jumping in, fee
t first.
Once he reached the bottom, he noticed Nickelson wasn’t inside and hoped Creamer made it in time to catch him. As he climbed out of the dumpster, he could see the girl running toward firefighters. No one noticed as he made his way toward the bridge. He had almost gotten there when he was stopped by an officer of the Chicago Police Department.
“You alright, fella?” said the dick. Elliot tried to keep walking, but the cop put his hand out to stop him.
“That a gunshot wound?”
The cop waved over another. Elliot figured it was all over. He considered pulling the 1911 and giving it a go. After all, his work was done. He had found Alistair Williams. Bill Nickelson was out of Jon Costas’ hair. He even got back the family farm. All accounts were settled. He earned his blaze of glory.
“That’ll do,” John Creamer said.
“Back up, pally,” said the second cop.
John Creamer flashed his badge and FBI identification. He was flanked by the agent he brought to the sit-down at the Palmer House. The one dressed like the hotel detective.
“You’re FBI. So what?” said the first cop.
“So maybe I ask how you got here so soon. How you’re connected to Bill Nickelson.”
The second cop just walked off.
“What’s your name and unit?” asked Creamer’s man.
“Hold on, hold on,” said the first cop.
“I’ll need an account of all your activities on the scene.”
“Hey, you want him?” said the first cop. “G’head.”
The cop walked away.
“Check on Nickelson.”
Creamer’s man dangled while Elliot and John walked toward the bridge.
“You did tell me to expect fireworks.”
“That I did,” Elliot said.
“You need medical attention.”
“I’ll see my doctor back in Southville.”
“Nonsense, man.” Creamer stopped, but Elliot kept walking. “I’ll put the siren on and get you over to Northwestern.”
Elliot stopped, but didn’t turn around.
“Goodbye, John.”
“Elliot,” Creamer said. He searched for something to say. “We were friends.”
A Negro and an Ofay (The Tales of Elliot Caprice Book 1) Page 24