Catching Water in a Net
Page 26
Elliot took back his cot. Frank Fuquay claimed the cot across from him. Elliot watched the bars, hoping for an opening as Molak checked for a white man of the description.
“How you know so much?” asked Frank.
“I’ve been through this before.”
“You don’t seem like a crook.”
“That’s ’cuz I’m not.”
Elliot noticed Molak’s disappointment.
“That scrape we had earlier? You coulda mussed me up good,” Frank said. “I couldn’t peg you fo’ a bad guy after that.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
The white detainees filed out, openly complaining about the accommodations. The difference in temperament was striking. The stratums of society functioned in white folks’ favor, even during incarceration. Any colored fella with the sense God gave him knew to count his blessings. The indifferent jaws of the machine could care less which colored man’s blood lubricated its gears.
Elliot left Frank Fuquay behind as he hustled for the bars.
“See here, constable!”
“Yeah?”
“How’s about that phone call now, boss?” Elliot faked deference of the white man’s nigger.
“Later,” Skinny said.
“Promise to make it quick.”
Skinny paused to watch Fatty and Molak walk up the stairs.
“Gimme your hands.”
Elliot threaded his hands through. Once cuffed, Skinny opened the cell door. Elliot walked out. Skinny grabbed him by his collar.
“Try anything, I split your head.”
“Head’s already split, boss. I’ll be no trouble a’tall.”
As Skinny kept watch near the stairs, Elliot picked up the receiver of the payphone. His request for a collect call made him shudder. To evade hell, he’d return to perdition in the land of string bean farming where organized crime was regularly done in the light of day.
“Southville County Sheriff,” went the deep baritone.
“George?”
The other line made no sound. Only breathing.
“Georgie…it’s me…Elliot…you there…”
“I’m here,” George said, his voice trailing off.
“Listen, Georgie. I can’t give it all to you on this call, but I’m in a tight spot. I’m locked up in St. Louis.”
“St. Louis?”
“In the Meat Locker.”
“Good Lord.”
“I didn’t have any ID on me. I’m in the docket as Nathan White.”
More silence from George.
“No one here has seen or heard from you in ages. Now you just call out of the blue—”
“You gotta help me out, Georgie Boy.”
George had to be the straightest man ever born of Southville, but no one could make him sin like Elliot Caprice.
“What do you need me to do?”
“Get me moved up on the docket. I’ll take my chances with the judge.”
“Elliot, I’m the Southville County Sheriff. You’re in St. Louis.”
“You’re the sheriff now?”
“Long story. Which you would know, if—”
“Look, fat boy. I’m sorry I whited on you,” Elliot said. “On everybody, but I’m gonna have to make it up to y’all later. Right now, I’m in the mother of all jams?”
“All these crazy stories on the wire,” George said. “Some folk said you were dead.”
“Well, Sheriff, I stay in here any longer, they weren’t lyin’.”
Elliot never exaggerated his predicaments. His life was so wild, he lacked the necessary creativity for embellishment.
“I’ll figure out something,” George said. “Stay dormy ’til I get there.”
“Hey, Georgie.”
“Yeah?”
“Maybe bring a lawyer?”
“You’re a trouble magnet, you know that?”
“Ain’t neva been any different, Georgie.”
Elliot replaced the receiver on the payphone carriage. The bars opened. He reclaimed his cot, where his new best friend Frank Fuquay still waited.
“How’d it go, boss?”
“How’d what go?”
“Ya phone call? I figure you got an angle.”
“I’m all out of angles, big man. That’s how I’m here.”
He prayed for the throbbing in his head to cease. He also prayed for his new shadow to leave him be. Both prayers went unanswered.
“I on’t know whether to ask you how you got yose’f in heah or how you gon get out.”
“The same, both ways,” Elliot said.
“I don’t get it.”
“Big Frank, you best to keep it that way.”
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