by Mary Monroe
“Now, both of you can save a dollar apiece if you’re willing to trade ham for sausage,” she suggested, cocking her narrow hip in Baltimore’s direction. “That’s a good deal any way you cut it.”
“I’ll bet it is, Macy,” Baltimore agreed, as he read the name on her uniform before she dashed away to submit their breakfast requests. “Look at there, Henry. A woman who saves a man’s money instead of spending it all. She knows how to make a good impression.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet that’s the same thing her husband thought when he decided on marrying her,” Henry argued. “Her shirt said Macy, but her wedding band was screaming missus.” Concern colored his face. “Baltimo’, we came here to get a line on some real money. Getting involved with another man’s wife can’t do us nothing but harm. Supposing he catches you with her, and you have to kill him?”
“Relax, Henry. I just met the woman, and you’ve already put us together against a loaded gun. I’m not gonna get behind no trouble over this woman,” Baltimore assured him, not believing a word of it himself. He was certain that Macy’s situation stood some investigating, but he couldn’t share that with Henry until it was too late for him to do anything about it.
After Baltimore sopped up a puddle of molasses with a hot buttered biscuit, Macy pranced around to see if the fellows had had their fill. Henry surveyed the way she took her time collecting the dishes on Baltimore’s side of the table. Baltimore picked up on it as well, but it didn’t bother him at all. There was something soft about her, genteel, he noticed while making a play to keep her buzzing near just a little while longer. “So, Macy, seeing as how you’re situated with a man and all, tell me where a fella who was down on his luck might get his hands on some nice working clothes?”
The waitress giggled, rubbing her thumb underneath the gold wedding band, as if she was still getting used to the jewelry, as well as the idea altogether. “Working clothes, you say? Day clothes or the other kinds?” she asked in such a manner that left no doubt she wasn’t as genteel as Baltimore had previously imagined. That made him smile on the inside, deep down where it really counts.
“The other kind, secondhand if we can get ’em,” Henry threw in, trying to break up a collision with destiny sure to leave somebody in a deep dug hole before it was all said and done.
“Uhhh, yeah,” Macy stuttered. “There is this place over off Vine where a couple of men looking to put in some late hours could get outfitted on the cheap. Ask for Rascal. He’s my second cousin.”
Before Baltimore had the chance to thank Macy for the tip, she was off to see about another table. Henry hopped up, tossed some money down, and dragged his amorous companion out of the restaurant before the waitress became overwhelmed with the inclination to come back and linger some more. “Man, you’re getting to be a handful, pulling on me like that,” Baltimore huffed once they were out onto the sidewalk. “I didn’t come between you and your lustful eyes for Hattie’s buzzums, now did I? No, I didn’t. Know why? Because sometimes you got to let a man make his own mistakes so he can appreciate the wrong he did while making them.”
Henry was still trying to comprehend the reasoning in Baltimore’s logic by the time they came upon the slightly used clothing store. “Who was that we supposed to ask for?” Baltimore asked as they entered the establishment, overwrought with secondhand men’s clothes. Actually, the selection was better than either man had anticipated. Some of the suits were in such perfect condition that Baltimore spent all but six dollars on a new wardrobe and a descent suitcase to carry it in, once Rascal got to flouncing around all in a tizzy. Macy had purposely omitted the fact that her cousin, on her mother’s side, had a special flare for fashion and a fondness for helping men to look their best, especially the ones who stood out in a crowd. Baltimore fit the bill perfectly.
“Henry, I feel like a man of means,” Baltimore gushed, staring at his pin-striped threads in the store mirror, with Rascal standing not too far off.
“Yeah, but you smell like embalming fluid and mothballs,” Henry joked, insinuating that the suit had been lifted from a mortuary.
Baltimore sniffed at the lapels and nearly gagged. “Ohh, man. It smells like they just rolled the body out of it this morning. It’s alright, though. For the price, you can’t beat it. I’ll air it out. Tell Rascal I’m taking this one for a walk, a long walk.”
“Hell, naw. You tell him,” Henry refused. “Man with ways like that makes me nervous. I’ll be waiting outside.”
All dressed up and no place to go, Henry agreed to let Baltimore work on securing them a warm place to lay their heads while saving their remaining money to eat on. While they were busy deciding on a quick scam to get the ball rolling, a dark-colored taxicab roared past, then slammed on the brakes. Henry backed up on the curb when the tires screeched toward them in reverse. As if on cue, the cab driver climbed out of the four-door sedan like a paid chauffeur. “Baltimore Floyd, that is you!” the short, stumpy-built dust-colored man hailed.
“Well, I’ll be,” Baltimore replied happily. “As I live and breathe, Pudge Gillis. Ain’t nobody slapped you in the clink yet?” As Henry looked on curiously, Baltimore shook hands with the man half his size, dressed in a suit of clothes two sizes too big, as if he was still expecting to grow into them.
“Naw, but that don’t stop ’em from trying, though,” Pudge answered, peering up at Henry. “Who’s this you got with you?”
“Pudge Gillis is the man who knows everything going on south of Eighteenth Street. Pudge, say hello to my good friend Henry Taylor. He’s liable to be the next starting catcher for the Monarchs,” Baltimore boasted truthfully. Henry was an accomplished ballplayer with a St. Louis farm team waiting on a Negro League charter.
“Hi ya, Henry. That’s some mighty high praise coming from Baltimore,” Pudge said, nodding in admiration. “You know he’s not too quick to hand it out.”
“Boy, do I,” answered Henry. “But I’ll takes ’em where I can get ’em.”
“Fellas, what brings y’all to town so soon after the new year?” Pudge asked as his car idled near the curb.
“Let’s get in your Ford and talk about it,” suggested Baltimore. Once they were inside the taxi, Pudge began sniffing similar to the way Baltimore had in front of the store mirror.
“Smells like a funeral back there,” Pudge cackled. “Let your windows down a notch so’s that burial suit Rascal sold you airs out a bit.”
“Told you so,” grunted Henry, relieved to lower his window.
Baltimore smirked at Henry while doing likewise. “You can tell me all day long if you want. These are some mighty fine rags, and I don’t give a damn what…” he started out saying before pleading for Pudge to stop the car. “Pull it over! Right there!” he ranted hysterically when his eyes landed on a moneymaking opportunity of the sweetest kind. As soon as the car slowed enough to jump out, Baltimore did just that. The pointy-toed wing tips he’d just purchased were hardly worn, so the leather soles were as slick as ice when they landed on the hard concrete.
After Henry’s eyes discovered what Baltimore was chomping at the bit to involve himself with, he feared the worst. He saw a lady, a very beautiful white lady, being manhandled directly outside of a posh department store, where a neatly stenciled sign hung near the entrance. “No Blacks,” Henry read, with labored breath. “Ahh, naw, we’s going on the chain gang for sure.”
Pudge, sitting behind the wheel, threw the gearshift in park and craned his neck to watch. He didn’t know what to expect, but it would be something to talk about, no matter how it ended, he reasoned. “Shush now. Just check it out,” he whispered in Henry’s direction. “Yep, this ought to be good.”
The lady tossed her long honey blond–hued hair and wailed at the cleanly shaven middle-aged man dapped in a light checkered suit, with his mind set on holding on to her. A small crowd gathered when Baltimore flew right into the middle of it. “There you are, madame,” he greeted the woman, using his best English. Although shaken, the woman
maintained her stunning appearance, draped in a fine dark-colored faux sable coat and a chocolate, crescent-shaped cloth hat to set off the ensemble. “We’ve been searching for you throughout,” Baltimore huffed, merely inches from the woman’s face. “Mr. Woolworth will be so glad we’ve managed to stave off another embarrassing setback.” The woman continued wrestling with the white man over her large red handbag with polished wooden handles. “We’ve hired this taxi and looked for you endlessly,” Baltimore threw in to boost the swelling lie he’d spun.
“I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about, but I’m the store manager, and this shoplifter is going to jail as soon as the police get here,” the man asserted firmly. That’s when Baltimore kicked it up another level.
“Sir, I’m Elmer Crenshaw. Perhaps we should discuss this inside before you make a dreadful miscalculation and, most assuredly, cause one of the wealthiest men in this country a grave disservice.”
The store manager narrowed his eyes at the brash, well-spoken Negro offering to talk up on a proposition. He figured the least he could do was listen and maybe do a lot better for himself on the back end. “Okay, you have one minute, but she comes with us,” he demanded, as if he hadn’t just given her up by agreeing to hear the fast-talking con man out.
“Thank you, sir, and believe me you will not regret this,” Baltimore affirmed. “Mrs. Woolworth, the mister sent me after you, hoping you haven’t gotten yourself into another predicament like you did back in Chicago.” When the manager appeared stunned, Baltimore knew he had him. “Yes, sir, she’s done this sort of thing before, I’m afraid. She has a condition,” he whispered softly, so as not to add insult to injury.
“Did, you say Woolworth?” asked the white man, loosening his grip on the lady’s bag.
“None other, sir. I don’t have to tell you how word of this getting out would cause quite a stir. Now, the missus has medicine for her illness, but she doesn’t like the pills, as you can imagine. Believe me, we’ll return the things she took and pay you a small fee for the misunderstanding. Don’t think of refusing, because Mr. Woolworth wouldn’t like that. He’s good to those who look out for him and his, if you get my meaning?” Baltimore turned and stared into the woman’s wild expression. He spoke very calmly to maintain eye contact. “Madame Lilly, you pay the nice man a hundred dollars, and we’ll be able to straighten out the rest this afternoon. You can send one of the limousines back and have Harold pick up one of everything this store has in your size. Just like the mister arranged it in Chicago.”
“Uh-uh, I will not!” the woman spat defiantly.
“Every garment in-in her size?” stammered the store manager greedily.
“Yes, sir,” Baltimore answered casually as a police squad car parked behind the taxi on the street. “As I said, she has done this sort of thing before. Let her pay you for your troubles, and we’ll get her back to the Waldorf Hotel so the doctor can have a look at her. Her husband will be forever in your debt.” The woman caught a glimpse of the police car, and as quickly as you please, she whipped out five twenty-dollar bills. She pressed them into the hand of her captor, turned her nose in the air, and then proceeded to strut past the police officers. The store manager slid the money into his pocket and waved off the cops, just like Baltimore knew he would. “I don’t know how you put up with rich white people,” Baltimore sighed as the squad car drove away. “They gonna be the death of me.”
“Tell me about it,” the white man replied, with a pained expression, when he realized the well-spoken Negro’s diction had taken an immediate dive. By the time the store manager’s better judgment caught up to his bad decision, he knew he’d been had.
Baltimore was in the backseat, several blocks away, and frowning disapprovingly, with the pretty lady on his lap, laughing her head off. Henry gawked at the woman’s complexion, which was so white, she appeared to be carved from a bar of soap. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she threw her arms around Baltimore’s neck, kissed him passionately, and then, without notice, reared back and slapped his face so hard, it sounded off. Pudge had been taking it all in from the rearview mirror while keeping one eye on the road.
“Ouch!” shouted Baltimore, massaging his cheek. “What was that for?”
“That’s for the hundred you had me pay that man!” she answered him in a common manner befitting a very common girl. “A hundred dollars is a lot of money and hard to come by, too.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, Franchetta? Don’t go pushing your luck,” Baltimore reprimanded her. “There are two kinds of people who get pinched, them’s that’s greedy and them’s that’s stupid. Don’t be stupid.”
“Alright, Daddy,” she cooed. “I’ll be on my best behavior now that you’ve come stumbling back around.”
“Okay. Let’s see what a hundred bought you, other than your freedom papers,” Baltimore jested.
Franchetta slid off Baltimore’s lap and wedged herself between him and Henry. She unfastened her ritzy three-quarter fur coat and pulled one expensive necklace out of her lacy panties after the next as the men looked on. Henry was speechless, and Pudge nearly wrecked his taxi, twice. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Baltimore said knowingly.
“Shoot. I should have known you saw that, too,” the woman pouted. She fished around inside a hidden compartment in the lining of her coat and came out with the store manager’s wallet.” Baltimore let that woman kiss him again after she handed the wallet over as a gratuitous fee for saving her. While en route to her place, Henry was so confused that he started to mist up around the eyes. Baltimore shook his head as he recited what had gone on inside the department store with the manager and how he’d pitted the man’s greed against him. “Any con man worth his salt could have pulled it off if the pigeon was inspired properly,” Baltimore said solemnly. “Gentlemen, I’m proud to introduce you to Miss Franchetta St. Jean, my first love…among other things, and as you just seen, a first-rate pickpocket.” He’d neglected to include other pertinent vital information, which allowed her to bring the other men up to speed, if and when she saw fit.
“Baltimore, please tell this fool before he floods this cab with those crocodile tears,” she sniped, without regard for Henry’s feelings.
“Okay, okay,” Baltimore agreed. “Henry, Franchetta here ain’t what you think. She’s as black as you and me, on the inside, where it matters most.”
Franchetta went on to tell them how her mother was mulatto, and that although she didn’t know her father, it had always been assumed he was a white man, though this had not been confirmed or denied before she ran off from home at age sixteen. Since meeting Baltimore in lower Maryland as a young girl, she’d become quite the chameleon, learning how to wear her hair and pass for white during the day to survive, while kicking up dust and devilment with her own people as soon as the sun set on the city. Another of the things neither of them mentioned straightaway was Franchetta’s full-time occupation. They both agreed, with a sly wink, that it was better to save the best for last.
CHAPTER 4
FORGET ABOUT HEAVEN
After the taxi stopped in front of a small, two-story, wood-framed house painted a pale shade of yellow, Henry helped Baltimore with the luggage from the trunk, while Pudge stared at the backside of Franchetta’s swanky coat swaying all the way up to the worn screen door.
“Tomorrow morning, Pudge. All I need is ’til then!” Baltimore yelled over the rattling muffler before he slapped the rear fender to send Pudge on down the road. Baltimore figured it would take him that long to get in good with Franchetta all over again while catching up on old times. He had no idea what she’d begun cooking up inside that busy head of hers as soon as she saw him leap out of a moving car onto the pavement to rescue her from an imminent arrest.
As Baltimore headed up the walkway, Henry pulled on his new secondhand wool coat. “That Franchetta, she’s sweet on you, but how long do you think she’s gonna let me hang around? We done spent up just about the whol
e knot on these new digs.”
Baltimore shrugged off his question before seeing his way to answering it. “You’ll be welcome as long as I hang around, I guess. Don’t go worrying about a thing, though. Franchetta’s as good as gold, only twice the fun getting to hold. She’s got friends, you know,” he said, leaving a pregnant pause to hold Henry’s attention. “Nice ones,” he added, with a sly smile, as they marched up three cement steps to reach the elevated porch. Before Henry had time to process the loaded comment, he was faced with meeting Franchetta’s friends firsthand as they looked out of that charming pale yellow house.
A slight woman, the shade of hot tea, met Franchetta at the door after undoubtedly watching her climb out of a taxi with two strange men. There were only three rules that governed the house, which was occupied by four young, enterprising women. One of them was picking up after themselves, another was having their share of the utilities on time and without fail, and the third one was simply no men, not ever. That’s why the thinly built woman, in khaki slacks, brown loafers, and a blue long-sleeve pullover sweater, shot a questioning glare at Franchetta as she bounded happily through the door. “What’s with the strays you brung with you?” the woman asked Franchetta, simultaneously mean mugging her visitors.
“This here is Charlotte Bingham, but the girls call her Chick. Now move over a beat so we can get a good look at what the cat drug in,” Franchetta demanded playfully, with a smile parked on her face. She shrugged her coat off and tossed it on the arm of the sofa next to the door. Now, standing shoulder to shoulder with her apprehensive roommate, Franchetta winked at the men, relegated to standing on the dust mat. “Those fellas ain’t no strays at-tall, Chick. The big lug is the sensitive type, so go easy on him. Henry Taylor, say ‘good day’ to the lady,” Franchetta instructed him. After he nodded uncomfortably, without too much yakking, Franchetta nudged Chick from the side, as if to say “lighten up” while she had her fun. “Good boy, Henry,” Franchetta giggled seductively. Henry smiled awkwardly and then looked over at Baltimore for a clue, but his friend was enjoying this little game as much as he knew Franchetta did. “And that steamy dream standing there in one of Rascal’s redos is Baltimore Floyd. He sho’ is nice to look at, ain’t he?”