by Maxwell Cynn
“It is neither safe nor prudent for a young lady to live alone in a large city like Charlotte,” her father had lectured her. “You can finish your studies in Raleigh and pass the Bar here.”
There was some sense in what he said. It would have been easier to finish her studies if she were living in her parent's home and not having to work and support herself. She would also need to travel to Raleigh in order to take the examination for the State Bar. But Charlotte had been home for almost her entire life. Who did she know in Raleigh? She was sure many of her old friends and acquaintances still lived and worked in Charlotte. She knew for a fact one did. She had checked.
Helen took the taxi into town and another colored man lugged her trunks up to her room in the Dunhill Hotel. She had one week to find somewhere more permanent before the money she had budgeted for the hotel ran out. She had one place in particular to check on. It was her first choice, if there was a vacancy. It was a rooming house on the south side of town, an easy distance from both Queen's College and her new employer's law office. There were several older homes in the area that offered room and board, but she had reason to choose that particular one.
Chapter Two
Jack walked down the busy street toward the courthouse. Sitting in court was sometimes good for a lead, and he needed to get back to work. The court didn't open until nine, so by his deadline at ten the drama was just beginning to unfold, but he often met interesting people there and sometimes a good idea for a feature would emerge. He'd been offered a place at the Observer, even freelance if he wanted to stay on staff with the News, but the pace on the morning paper was too hectic. He preferred to take his time with more in-depth articles.
The usual crowd was milling about the courthouse when he walked in. The District Attorney, Tony Shackleford, was at his table sorting through court papers. His tailored suit was just a little too expensive for his salary. Jack knew he was a pretty good guy, not really dirty, just easily influenced. He wouldn't let your average criminal walk, but a little money under the table kept the gin flowing in the clubs, and gave the suppliers immunity.
The defendants sat in the first few rows, overseen by a burly deputy who appeared as wide as he was tall. His short cropped hair and lack of a neck hadn't changed since he'd played safety on their high school football team a decade before. Jack had gone to school with most of the people in the room. The same old crowd, doing the same old things. Some had become cops, lawyers, or politicians, and others were still driving their cars too fast and acting a little too wild.
Most were defended by the county's only Public Defender, Nathaniel Black. Nathan wasn't new to the City, or to defending its dregs. His slow country charm, his disarming eyes, and his measured and melodic delivery, had been winning over judges and juries for more than twenty years. He had once been the city's DA, putting the bad guys behind bars, then a private attorney representing half the large businesses in the county, and all the social elite. He still kept a hand in that, which paid the bills and allowed him to spend time defending those who couldn't afford to pay decent counsel.
Other deputies stood at the various doors to the chamber, freelance and Observer-staff reporters hung about, a few witnesses and victims filled the chairs on the DA's side of the room, and of course the usual throng of spectators talked quietly about trials they'd seen and trials yet to come. The spectators were mostly old men with nothing better to do. They would all congregate outside on the steps, after the day's proceedings, to debate each case again, all afternoon while they played checkers. Jack got a lot of good stories from them, as well.
Jack recognized most of the defendants. Some were regulars, petty criminals who drifted in and out of the county jail. Several were from a local joint called The Gold Club, which had obviously gotten busted the night before. The Gold Club was a local speakeasy, a liquor house. He saw the bartender, a bouncer, and a couple of the girls. The club owner wasn't present, nor the supplier of the club's bootleg alcohol. That was typical as well. It looked to be a normal day, nothing new. He'd read about it all tomorrow in the Observer.
Jack walked back out and down the long steps to the sidewalk. It had turned out to be a warm fall day without a cloud in the sky. He should have left the overcoat at home, but Charlotte's weather could be tricky. In the fall it may be seventy degrees and sunny one day, then forty degrees and misting rain the next. He'd seen beautiful sunny days turn cold and rainy by afternoon. The weather in Charlotte was rarely severe, but it was also rarely predictable.
He hopped on the trolley car outside the courthouse and rode back to Tryon Street. He stepped off and walked toward the Square. Along the way he saw Bobby Naughton walking toward him. Bobby worked as a cook at The Gold Club. He was a tall, light-skinned colored man in his mid fifties, and was dressed for work in his white cook's uniform. He had a paper sack cradled in his left arm that Jack presumed was filled with produce because it had leafy greens sticking out the top.
“Morning, Bobby,” Jack called out.
“Mornin' Missa Spaulding.”
“I saw some of the gang down at the courthouse. Did the Sheriff raid the club last night?”
“Right afta you left, sir. They come in an' 'rested e'rybody.”
“They didn't get you.” Jack said it with a slight chuckle in his voice.
“Hell no. I got my black ass outa there, real quick.” Bobby laughed.
“Good for you, Bobby.”
“We'll be back open tonight. You comin' by?”
“They didn't take the supplies?”
“Not a thing. I think Butch made 'em mad. They was after him. They jus' took Kenny 'cause he wouldn't open the door. They had to kick it down.”
Butch was the bartender at The Gold Club and was rumored to have been scandalously involved with a deputy's wife. Kenny was the doorman and bouncer Jack had seen earlier at the courthouse. He was a few years younger than Jack and had been a star on the high school football team. He had a chance at college, but his grades were too low, even for a football star.
“Why did they take the girls in?”
“Ginger smacked one of the deputies after he grabbed her rear-end, and you know Miss Jenny's mouth. She was calling them things that made me blush. They busted in right in the middle of her act.”
“I can imagine.” Jack laughed thinking of Jenny coming down off the stage, half dressed, to harangue the deputies.
Some of the men and women walking by looked askance at Jack, talking and laughing with a colored man in the middle of the sidewalk. Charlotte was a progressive southern city, but still very much a southern city. Segregation was alive and prospering. It was quite fine for colored men to cook meals or cut hair, but they were not allowed to eat or have their hair cut in the same establishments. Bobby could work at The Gold Club, but he couldn't go there on his night off for a drink. He could walk the streets of Downtown Charlotte, but he was expected to keep his eyes down and his mouth shut.
Jack had never kept to such restrictions. He was born and raised in the South, Charlotte in fact, but he believed a man was a man. There were good men and bad men, but you could never tell which from their skin or even the cut of their expensive clothes. He knew poor colored sharecroppers he could trust his life with and rich powerful men he wouldn't show his back to. There were few white men in town he would allow to draw a straight razor across his throat most mornings.
“What are you fixing for supper at the club tonight, Bobby?” Jack ignored the indignant stares.
“Hand pulled bar-b-cue, with rice, brown beans, and mammy Jenkin's homemade slaw.”
“Sounds good, but Mrs. Duke is frying-up chicken tonight. I can't miss that. Maybe I'll make it by for dessert.”
“Mammy Jenkin's done made some pecan pies for dessert. You better get there early though or they'll be gone.”
“I'll try and come by. You better not let the Sheriff hear about them pies. He'll be raiding the place again.”
“He jus' might, Missa Spaulding.”
>
Bobby walked on down the street laughing and shaking his head. Jack walked on to the Square. He had an afternoon appointment with Russell Kellum, a local businessman who Jack thought had information for a story he'd been working on. He was hoping Mr. Kellum would see him early so he could spend the afternoon writing instead.
He looked at his watch. It was quarter past eleven. It was still two hours early, but was worth asking as long as he was downtown anyway. He walked into the three story office building and took the stairs to the second floor. The building was fairly new and filled with offices for lawyers, accountants, and investment brokers. The offices of Kellum, Lieberman, and Hall took up most of the second floor. They ran a small shipping company, ostensibly transporting cotton and textiles into Canada, but Jack had a suspicion the return trips from Canada were much more profitable. They brought barrels marked as whale oil. But he didn't think whale oil was a big commodity in the South.
He walked in the door and found a small, richly decorated reception area. It was staffed by a richly decorated receptionist who sat at a small desk against the side wall.
“Can I help you?” She had a harsh nasally voice and a northern accent. Jack thought Brooklyn, maybe. She turned her chair to face him.
Northern accents were not very common in Charlotte, not common enough to know New York from New Jersey, much less Brooklyn from the Bronx. Most southern people would just say, “a Yankee's a Yankee.” When it came to southern dialects Jack could tell what part of the state someone was from by their accent, but northern accents all sounded the same, harsh and brutish. Daniel could tell not only where someone was from, but what Ivy League school they attended. But he couldn't tell North Carolina from Georgia.
Her voice had caught him a little off guard, and her looks kept him on the ropes. She was wearing a short, tight, black skirt. It was too short and too tight to be sitting at a desk and her low cut red blouse was too low to be sitting at all in mixed company. She was dressed more for the Lindy than for the office. He looked down at her and saw far more than he thought he should. He forgot completely why he was, wherever he was.
“Ah, look at the eyes, buddy-boy.” She said it in a tone that sounded like bored irritation. But when he looked up she was smiling.
“Sorry, Miss.”
Jack looked into her eyes. They were soft, chocolate brown bordered by long thick eyelashes. The lashes were too long and thick to be real. She had the distinct look of a silent movie actress, but in full color with peach blossom cheeks and shiny crimson lips. He struggled to remember why he had come.
“I have an appointment with Mr. Kellum.”
She pulled a ledger from a small drawer and laid it in her lap. He struggled to keep his eyes on the top of her head.
“Mr. Kellum has an appointment at one, with a Jack Spaulding.” She looked up. “You him?”
“That would be me.” Jack attempted to regain some composure.
“You're a little early, Mr. Spaulding.”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“Have a seat and I'll see if he's available.”
Jack sat on the overstuffed leather couch against the far wall and the receptionist walked through a door set in the wall beside her desk. There was a low table in front of the couch with a few books and magazines. Most looked like textile trade journals. One had a race car on the cover. Jack picked it up and flipped through the pages. There were pictures of cars racing on dirt tracks and articles on automobile repair and engine performance. Jack thought of his neighbor, Carby, then laid the magazine down.
Jack knew there were two distinct and rival groups supplying hooch to the speakeasies in town. The hometown boys, with their fast cars and white liquor, had been flowing moonshine down from the mountains for generations. He'd paid for some of his education driving one of those cars. Jack had gotten to know many of them well. It wasn't hard, they were just folks, mostly good people. Hell, he'd grown up with many of them. Daniel had taken on the other group, mobsters from Chicago.
The receptionist leaned back in the doorway. “Mr. Kellum said to come on back.”
Jack followed her down a short hallway with doors on both sides. The name Charles Lieberman was on one of the doors in gold letters, another had Jefferson Hall, and the open door had Russell Kellum. She motioned for Jack to go in. He tapped on the open door and walked into the small office.
“Mr. Kellum?”
The man behind the desk stood. He was a stout gent, a good six feet tall and around two hundred and fifty pounds, but he appeared to be muscular, the kind of muscle a man gains from hard work and heavy lifting. The suit he wore was rumpled and he seemed uncomfortable in it. His balding head showed slight gray at the edges, but appeared once to have been the rich brown of well tilled earth.
“Good morning, Mr. Spaulding. Please, come in.”
The man offered a large meaty hand and Jack took it. His grip was strong and sure and his shoulders strained the fabric of the cheaply made suit. He motioned for Jack to sit in a heavy wooden chair near the desk, and he did. The office was simple. It would have fit well as a foreman's office in a mill. There was an old metal bookcase against the wall with various spools of rough thread, a bottle of dye, and several books filled with what appeared to be sample pieces of cloth.
“Thank you for seeing me early, Mr. Kellum.”
“I'm always happy to speak to the press, though I'm not sure how I can help you, Mr. Spaulding. The textile business is not the most glamorous industry in Charlotte.”
Kellum sat back behind his desk with his hands lying on the heavy oak top. He had an easy smile on his round face, and his stubby fingers were loosely interlocked. Jack noticed slight dye stains around the man's short fingernails and in the creases of his knuckles. Mr. Kellum was obviously still willing to roll up his sleeves and get his hands dirty. Jack imagined he would look more comfortable in stained pants and a leather apron than the business suit and tie he was wearing.
“Actually, I'm more interested in your company's imports.”
Kellum shifted nervously in his chair, the smile faded, his hands clenched tighter. Jack flipped open a notepad and retrieved a pencil from his breast pocket. It was time to earn his reputation.
“I understand,” Jack said, his pencil hovering over the paper, “that you import a large quantity of whale oil from Canada.”
Jack looked up and met the man's eyes. There was a slight apprehension in them. Jack kept a hard gamblers stare locked on Kellum.
“Yes, we import oil.”
“I was under the impression your business was textiles, Mr. Kellum.”
Jack had a way of not asking questions, but making statements when he interviewed. It confused his subject and often put them on the defensive, if they were trying to hide something. When he finally hit them with a hard question, he was going for the knockout.
“Yes, we export textiles and raw cotton to plants in Canada. It makes sense to fill those train cars with something on the return trip. We have an arrangement with a Canadian firm to distribute their products in the southeast.”
“I was not aware there was a great demand for whale oil in the South, Mr. Kellum.”
“It is a new commodity for us. Perhaps you would like to speak with Mr. Hall. He is in charge of distribution. My expertise is more focused on our export of textiles.”
“Mr. Hall is new to the firm, I believe.”
“He joined us about a year ago, yes.”
There were small beads of sweat forming on Kellum's brow. He reached up and pulled at his stiff collar.
“About the time you started importing whale oil.”
“Yes.”
“What exactly is whale oil used for, Mr. Kellum?”
“Machinery, Mr. Spaulding. Textile machines require lubrication.”
“You imported twenty-thousand gallons of whale oil in the last year. That's a lot of oil. I talked to a foreman at Nebel and he told me he'd never heard of using whale oil as a lubricant on textile m
achines. Atherton Mill doesn't use it either. Where do you sell your oil, Mr. Kellum?”
“I'm not sure why you are interested.”
The look in Kellum's pale blue eyes had turned to fear and anger. He fidgeted with his tie and pulled on his lapel.
“Mr. Hall is originally from Chicago, I believe.”
“Yes.”
“Do they use a lot of whale oil in Illinois?”
“I don't know, Mr. Spaulding. Maybe you should talk to Mr. Hall.”
Jack knew he'd picked the right man to talk to. He wouldn't get anywhere with the other two partners. He'd done his homework. Russell Kellum had started the business selling yarn and thread to local textile companies. He'd brought Lieberman in, as the business grew, to handle the books. They had established a very lucrative business as textiles became a major industry in the Piedmont. Hall was a new addition, and Jack wasn't sure if he was a welcome one. He was one of the new generation of carpetbaggers who came South with prohibition.
“You still call on mills personally.”
“Yes.”
“You help them with everything from dyes to new types of fabrics. I was told you helped Atherton Mill solve a recent problem with their spinner.”
“Customer service, Mr. Spaulding. That's why they buy from me.” The man said it with pride lighting in his eyes. He was loosening up again.
“Have you told them about the benefits of whale oil, Mr. Kellum?”
Kellum's face turned red, then darkened toward violet. His meaty hands clinched into fists.
“I think we are done, Mr. Spaulding.”
“Gin lubricates men, not machines, Mr. Kellum.”
Kellum stood and loomed over the heavy desk. Jack got the impression that if the man wanted to come at him the heavy desk would not be an obstruction. Jack stayed seated and calmly slid his notepad back into his breast pocket.
“I'm here for a story,” he said calmly. “I'd like to write a story about Chicago mobs moving into the South, but my editor will settle for a story about the City Police searching a train car purportedly filled with whale oil. There's one in the yard right now, I believe.”