by Mary Monroe
Baltimore knocked at the door, with his head down. He was already working on his next stop after getting what he needed from the bar and grill’s proprietor. “Come on now. Open up!” he shouted. “Pull your pants up and tend to the door. I know you’re in there, you fat bastard, ’cause I done busted out all the windows on that shiny Cadillac you so affectionate about parked across the street!” Pudge watched from the taxi while Baltimore looked at Henry and motioned with his head. “Henry, when he comes rambling out of there, you get to the right of his shooting hand.”
Suddenly, the large oak door flew open. Baltimore leapt to the left side of the door, reaching in his waistband for the dead man’s gun he’d taken off the train. Henry stood pensively, confused, quaking in his shoes, with a carpenter’s hammer raised above his head as an older dark-skinned man came waddling out onto the sidewalk. At several inches above six feet, he was just as wide as he was tall. The big man’s pants were zipped but unfastened at the waist, and his shirttail flapped in the breeze. The long-barreled pistol he stuck in Henry’s face was steady, and his aim locked on. “Who the hell are you to be busting up my car and…,” he said, interrogating Henry before Baltimore eased the steel revolver he’d brought along against the big man’s right temple.
Baltimore frowned at the man’s poor decision to dye his hair coal black to cover the gray beneath. “How many times I got to tell you to draw from the right and aim to the left, you old reprobate?” Baltimore warned him as he pulled back the hammer on his gun. The large man sighed slowly and lowered the pistol to his side. “Look at there, Henry. Have you ever in your life seen a head that big? It’s fatter than a fifty-dollar bag of pennies.”
“B-Baltimor Floyd?” the large man stammered, turning cautiously toward the man who’d gotten the drop on him. “If you ever play with me about my Caddy again, I’ma plug you and this handyman you brung with you,” he huffed, while tossing a nasty glare at Henry’s weapon of choice. “Now quit that acting out, and get on inside before John Law shows up, thinking you mean to do me harm. You know they’s on my payroll.” He shook his meaty head at Henry and sneered. “What you aiming to do with that hammer? Build a barn?”
As they followed Uncle Chunk into the spacious building, Baltimore rolled his eyes at Henry. “Man, put that thing down. Can’t you see we’s among friends?” Baffled over Baltimore’s idea of a practical joke, Henry was glad not to have ruined his day by peeing his new pants. Although Henry felt foolish, he felt better about breathing. “You look good, Unca Chunk,” Baltimore offered sincerely to the mountain of meat walking ahead of him. After he noted that he’d indeed interrupted the man’s early morning exercise, more than likely with the newest waitress, Baltimore quickly put his gun away. “I see you haven’t changed your ways.”
“Don’t plan to, neither,” Uncle Chunk answered slyly. “That’s why they’s my ways. They suit me just fine, and so did the piece of tail I was riding on my lap before you come breaking it up.”
Once they were inside, the smell of rank tobacco and spilt beer filled Baltimore’s nostrils. There was a stage to the right, seven or eight tables in the middle of the front room, and several tables along the far wall. Generally speaking, it was a relatively dazzling joint, with a grand jukebox stationed against the wall nearest the stage. As Baltimore surveyed what was referred to as the lounge, he stopped to take a closer gander at the owner, whose tolerance was a bit strained. “Go on back to it then. We’ll wait,” Baltimore suggested, on his own account. “Where is she at, anyway? In the office? Lemme see her.”
“Hell, naw, I don’t want her hugging on that snake of yours until I’m good and finished with her,” the older man argued. When he saw Henry listening in and smiling, he got his dander up. “What’s the matter with you? You see something funny.”
“No, suh, Mistuh…Unca Chunk,” Henry said, cowering. “I’m just trying to keep up with the strangest carrying on I ever did see, is all.”
“I know one thing. I’m still waiting on him to tell me why he’s beating down my door at this time of the morning,” the weary owner said, without actually asking.
“See, me and Unca go back a ways,” said Baltimore, looking around to see if anyone was in earshot before he brought up some mighty delicate information. “We’ve done business in the past, and it always turned out alright, huh, Unca?” The man kept an ear peeled to Baltimore as he leaned against the marble bar top, while tossing generous glances at the closed office door, behind which was where he’d rather be. “Unca, you still got that illegal phone line hooked to the back room?”
“Why you asking?” Uncle Chunk grumbled hastily. “It’s not like I’m fixing to let you do some wrong with it.”
“Come on, Unca. I need you to loan it out to me. Let’s not forget what we’ve been through.” Baltimore squinted and stared at the floor, trying to appear more disappointed than he actually was. “Wasn’t I the one to tell you how somebody had wrecked your sedan downtown?”
“Yeah, but you’re the one wrecked it!” Uncle Chunk grunted loudly.
“Okay, that was a bad example, but…but I was the one who tipped you to another mule kicking in your stall, and I wasn’t the one doing the kicking,” Baltimore fired back, reminding Chunk that he’d learned of the man’s wife’s infidelity with the insurance agent. Now, Baltimore watched his annoyed expression grow even dimmer. He could see right off how that might not have been a sterling example, either. “Alright, I got a good one. In case you forgot, I stepped in and played three sets with a damp fever when your piano player up and broke his back from slipping off the stool stone drunk. Seems like you ought to be itching to have me around.” Sufficiently secure with his argument, Baltimore let his eyes rest on Chunk’s, expecting an amiable response, but it didn’t turn out quite like he intended. Instead, the burly man wiped saliva from the corners of his mouth with a folded handkerchief.
“Uh-uh, it seems to me like my troubles only come calling when you do. I don’t want nobody getting themselves killed messing around with you in that back room, or else they won’t be the last one,” Chunk threatened. “Get my meaning, Baltimore?”
“Sure, Unca,” Baltimore answered, grinning and nodding his head eagerly. “You won’t have no trouble out of me. Uh-uh, not one speck. Besides, what could I do wrong in the few days I’ll need it?”
When the gruff old barkeeper stood away from the bar, it indicated that the time had arrived for his visitors to find some other place to be. “I’m trusting you this last time, and the number to the back line ain’t changed. But if you knew what was good for you, you’d get the sidekick of yours a rod or something he can really use. Don’t nobody scare too easy from no hardware tools.”
Although Henry didn’t care much for his hammer being slighted in the least, he was smart enough to hit the door before Uncle Chunk changed his mind about letting them use the back room to facilitate their new enterprise. As they hopped back into the car with Pudge, Henry wrinkled his forehead before speaking out. “Hey, Baltimo’?”
“Yeah, what it is?” Baltimore answered, looking at some notebook paper he’d unfolded.
“Was that Unca Chunk really gonna shoot me?”
“Probably not,” Baltimore replied honestly, before changing the subject, as if it didn’t matter one way or the other since Chunk didn’t actually pull the trigger. “Hey, Pudge, is that bellhop Ashy Corvine still at the Marquette Hotel?” he asked, settling into the backseat.
“Yeah, old Ash Can ain’t liable to go too far from the ’Quette. He’s been there ’round ten years now.”
“Good. Then he ought to know a few other hotel hawks who can help our situation,” asserted Baltimore, pulling his suit coat closed at the chest. “Let’s see what he’s up to this morning. The last time I was in Kaycee, I put a lot of money in his pocket but didn’t get the chance to benefit from it. There was this girl he hooked me to. She got herself killed dead as Moses when a beer truck ran her down. She was minding her own business, too, just crossin
g the street to my rooming house. I didn’t even have the pleasure to see what all of the fuss was about. I found my way to the funeral, though, looking to get a refund from old Ash Can or at least some of my money back.” Baltimore rubbed his chin as he thought back to that very day with regret. “Funny thing, he didn’t show up, though.”
“Don’t figure I would’ve, either,” Henry reasoned. “Seeing as how he was partly the cause of her meeting that truck of suds head-on.”
“I never considered that,” Baltimore replied sympathetically, his brow furrowed like he was really thinking it over for the first time. “Hmm, I guess I won’t hold that against Ashy then.”
Henry fiddled with a baseball in his right hand as the taxi idled against the curb outside of the Marquette Hotel. Seeing how he’d spent so much time with one in his palm, he didn’t realize it was there until an ashy soot-colored shrimp of a man exited the hotel in a mint green and black bell captain’s uniform. The man’s eyes widened when he came out to inform them the hotel was “white only” and found Baltimore, with what appeared to be an enforcer accompanying him. “Hey, Baltimore, glad to see you,” he said nervously, reluctant to move his gaze from Henry and that baseball he was massaging.
“If you’s so happy about it, why are you afraid that my friend here is gonna do something bad to you?” Baltimore asked him, after predicting correctly that was why the little man was so afraid. “Unless you give him a reason to shove that baseball up yo’ intestines, you won’t have to worry about it.” Henry looked at Baltimore and then turned his face away, as if he wasn’t willing to ruin his perfectly good baseball. “Now then, Ash, I missed you at that girl’s burial, but I know you had bad feelings about what happened to her. I’ll let it pass if I can count on you for something very important.” Baltimore took out a small notepad and a short pencil chewed on the end. Within ten minutes, he’d squeezed out vital information concerning other hotels’ guests, late-night parties, and the going rate for back-door female entertainment. He jotted the names of other black bellmen in the area and then moved on as quickly as he’d appeared, to grease their palms. Getting the word out that he had some clean dark meat for white men interested in jungle love was all he had to do before the money would come rolling in.
After Pudge had chauffeured him and Henry to the ritziest downtown lodging spots, Baltimore had the feeling that most of his business would come from Hotel Phillips, a twenty-floor establishment; the Marquette; and the Hereford House, which wasn’t too far from the predominately black entertainment district. Baltimore also mentioned to each of the bellmen, after promising a dollar per referral, that there was a hefty bonus for contacting him about big-stakes, after-hours poker games. He’d say, kind of smooth and sly, “If you was to hear something, we’d be much obliged and willing to pay for the privilege of knowing the time and location.” Of course, the baggage carriers understood he wanted a line on the big-money games. They also appreciated the risks and rewards associated with staying in his good graces for a shot at the big payoff. With a lot of planning and a little luck, everyone involved could hit the jackpot.
CHAPTER 7
GOT MY MOJO WORKIN’
Daisy hid her face when she overheard Baltimore explaining to Franchetta why he needed a room closer to the action. She fully understood how emotions sometimes got in the way when sex for profit was up for discussion. It was best for him and Henry to pick up and move south, nearer toward downtown, but that didn’t stop Daisy from missing Baltimore before he’d gathered up his things and hit the avenue. Franchetta noticed that she wasn’t the only one with a long face. Melvina wore a vacant expression, too, trying to shield the uncomfortable twinge in her stomach over a man she hardly even knew. “Buck up, girls,” Franchetta suggested sternly. “Baltimore says it’ll be hot and funky in the old town tonight, so get your heads on straight, and I mean that.” As Daisy sulked toward the staircase, Franchetta tossed her a bone. “Hey, baby girl, just because he’s not here doesn’t mean he don’t care. He’s figured out a way to deal down on this hustle, and it’ll all come up aces.” When Daisy hit the steps, Franchetta saw the broad smile piercing her lips. “I know how you feel, Daisy. I go through the same thing every time I see him grab his hat and coat.”
Back at Uncle Chunk’s, Henry dragged a card table into the back room. He took a seat, and then he took his time stacking a sandwich with several leaves of lettuce, cold cuts an inch thick, and half a dozen pickle slices from a gallon-sized jar he’d pilfered from the kitchen pantry. When he heard footsteps heading his way, he cleared his throat loud enough to get Baltimore’s attention and then laid his plate aside. “You ready for the introductions?” he asked, with a thorough amount of caution standing behind it.
“Yeah, I’m itching to get acquainted,” Baltimore answered softly, as if his mind was on something else. He sank deeper in his folding chair as Pudge entered into the small room ahead of the others.
“I told you I could round them up before dinnertime,” Pudge boasted. “These are some good men, every one of them committed,” Pudge asserted in a calm, deliberate manner, leaving no doubt that the spare parts he’d brought in were willing to see a real moneymaking heist to the end, despite potentially unfavorable circumstances. The largest of the usual suspects stepped forward first. Baltimore recognized his chiseled face, with knots and thin scars over both eyes. “This is Dank Battles, y’all,” Pudge said proudly, as he presented the man like a prized bull. Henry looked the bull over as if he knew what to look for. Dank’s deep-set, piercing eyes and dark leathery skin, black as a Virginia coal mine, caused Henry to nod his head agreeably. He rationalize that Dank was the kind of man he’d want backing his play, considering what might lie ahead.
“Dank here is an ex-boxer,” Pudge announced. “Maybe you heard of him. Once killed a man in the ring when he was a top contender.”
“Yeah, I seen Dank put that man down for good in Tulsa,” Baltimore admitted finally. “If I recall, it was on a Fourth of July. Dank sure did emancipate the hell out of him.” Baltimore signaled he was satisfied with this selection by shaking hands with the genuine article, as far as legitimate head thumpers were concerned. Another of the men looked familiar, but Baltimore was certain he didn’t know the third one. “Who’s this here?” he asked, referring to the obvious stranger.
“I’m Louis Strong, Mistah Floyd,” the man answered on his own behalf before Pudge had opened his mouth. Louis was in his early thirties, closer in age to Dank and Pudge, and medium brown with straight, slicked-back hair. His eyes were dark and narrow. The undertone in his skin was a peculiar shade of orange, and he was built like an old man, thin and wiry, but he had a reputation for having fast hands and an even quicker temper. His evil temperament more than accounted for what he lacked in size.
“Ole Louis is a real craftsman, a second-story man,” Pudge contended. He had to say something to help sell Louis better when it appeared that Baltimore wasn’t all that impressed. “We calls him “Slow Fuse” on account he’s so quick with his hands once the fuse burns down. You know, one of them there ironies.”
“First off, I go by Baltimore. There won’t be no need for titles among us. We’s all equal here,” said Baltimore. Eventually, he walked over to get a closer look at the other familiar face in the trio, circling the man and carefully apprising what he saw. This fellow was a nut-colored man, shorter than the other two, at about five-ten or so, with arms as thick as oilcans. From the back, he appeared to be cut from a pillar of stone. His broad shoulders and solid legs reminded Baltimore of a wild boar he had to kill many years ago. The scar raked across the back of his neck insinuated that somebody had jumped him from behind, but the mere fact that he was still walking around meant the other fellow got the worst end of the altercation. Baltimore smiled when it came to him that he’d met Rot Mayfield in a Joplin, Missouri, county jail cell. However, he doubted that the man remembered their brief stint sharing a worn-out cot and concrete floor overnight.
When Baltimo
re came face-to-face with him, Rot grinned as if he had remembered. Despite his foul-smelling breath, which reeked of chewing tobacco and cheap liquor, those were the two things that reminded Baltimore of his old pals from home. “Rot, it’s good seeing you again. How long did they keep you?”
“Two months, after you took off with the sheriff’s secretary,” Rot told him, cackling at the memory, which had returned for the first time since the event occurred long ago. Everyone in the room laughed heartily as the tension finally loosened its hold over the tiny room and everyone in it.
“Sit down, fellas, and take a load off,” Baltimore offered once the pleasantries were completed. “We’ve got a lot of things to talk about.” Around the wooden table, rectangular in shape and ragged from years of careless use, they listened attentively as Baltimore recited one honey of a plan, explaining in full detail how they would take down a major high-stakes card game. On the back of a napkin, he diagramed where every man would most likely be stationed and what duties they’d be responsible for. “We’ll need one man outside the exit door at street level, one at the base of the stairs, and one inside the room with me and Henry so the folks we’re party-crashing won’t get any fancy ideas. After we make the getaway, we’ll meet up at a safe place I decide on and split the take equally since every one of us is risking the same thing.”
Wisely, Baltimore never discussed the most important aspects involving where or when the robbery was to happen until it was time to strike. He didn’t want any of his cohorts to go get any fancy idea, either. As long as they were kept in the dark, none of them would be tempted to crawfish on the deal and pull the stickup with another crew, leaving him out in the cold.