by Maxwell Cynn
“That sounds like a threat, Mr. Spaulding.”
“I don't make threats.” Jack rose to his feet. “I'm writing a story, and it will make front page, it's your choice how you come out in it.”
Kellum's shoulders relaxed and slumped a little. He pulled at his collar and the button snapped and his tie loosened.
“What do you want from me?”
“Information. I'm betting Hall doesn't really work for you. Someone sent him here to establish a market and your shipping business gave him a perfect cover.”
Kellum stayed silent, but Jack could see in his eyes that he was on the right track. Kellum slowly descended back into his chair. Jack remained standing.
“If the police bust that train car it comes straight back to you. They might arrest Hall, but he'll never see jail time. What would that do to your legitimate business, Mr. Kellum?”
“I'd be out of business. Most of the mill owners are very strict prohibitionists.”
Jack could imagine the ramifications. If the mill owners found out who was supplying their workers with hooch they would run Kellum out of town. He'd never work in the textile business again. A little jail time was the least of his worries.
“I'm not interested in ruining your business. I'm not even against a drink once in awhile, but these mobsters...”
“If they find out I told you anything, I'm dead.”
“I won't use your name.”
“You won't need to. Patty knows who you are.”
“Who's Patty?”
“The Bronx ball-buster at the front desk. She came with Hall.”
“Well if the cops raid the train now, your friends will still think you told me about it. It's your choice how you want to play it.”
“I don't know who Hall's boss is. He operates on his own.”
“I'm not that gullible. He's moving trainloads of hooch through your warehouses and large amounts of money through your books. You know a lot more than you're saying.”
“Look, pal. My choices here are going to jail and losing my business, or waking up dead. These guys don't play around. If you're not careful, you might end up with dirt in your face. It would be healthier for both of us if you found another story.”
“I guess I'll have to settle for the local interest angle then.” Jack put up his hands framing an imaginary headline, “Local textile supplier importing gin.”
“Do what you have to, Mr. Spaulding. If I were you, I'd buy some life insurance.”
Jack walked out of Kellum's office and back down the short hall. Patty was at her small desk, leaning back in the chair, filing her nails. She smiled at Jack. He picked his hat and coat up off the sofa where he had left them and turned to the door.
“Have a nice day, Mr. Spaulding,” Patty said in her nasally voice.
He touched the brim of his hat.
“You too, Miss...” He paused for her last name.
“Burkeheimer,” she said. She stood and offered her hand. “Patty Burkeheimer.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Burkeheimer.” He took her manicured fingers gently in his.
“Call me Patty.” She smiled. Her eyes said a lot more.
She looked him over like a piece of meat hanging in the butcher shop window, then wet her lips with a slow, sultry drag of her tongue before her eyes returned to his.
“If you call me Jack.” He was still holding her hand.
She stepped closer, almost brushing against him. He could feel her blouse against his knuckles.
“Pleasure, Jack.” She gazed up into his eyes. He felt her pinky scratch against his tie. “I get off work at five, and I still haven't found a decent restaurant in town.”
“The Gold Club has excellent food. I'm friends with the cook there. He told me he was fixing bar-b-cue tonight.”
“I just love southern bar-b-cue,” she purred and pressed closer.
“You should try it.” He smiled, but it wasn't a nice smile.
Disappointment and anger crept into her brown eyes. She wasn't accustomed to resistance.
“It wouldn't be right for a girl to walk in a place like that, alone.”
“I'm sure you wouldn't be alone for long.”
Jack kissed her knuckles and turned to walk out the door. He could feel her icy stare on his back. He smiled again, amused.
* * *
Helen quickly changed clothes after arriving in her room at the Dunhill. She had a scheduled lunch meeting with her new employer and an afternoon appointment at the boarding house where she hoped to rent a room. Lunch, at the disreputable Gold Club, a well known speakeasy, was not her idea, but she did look forward to seeing Nathan Black again. He was an old friend of her father, whom she had looked up to her entire life. He was her chief inspiration when she decided to pursue the legal profession.
She walked out of the lobby and onto the sidewalk. The city hadn't changed much in the past few years since she'd gone off to school. Downtown was still just as it had been when she was a child and her mother brought her to Belk each year to buy clothes. Charlotte had grown a lot since then, of course. The sidewalks and roadways were much more crowded than she remembered, even from a couple of years past when she'd visited. But much of that growth had moved outward with the lengthening trolley lines.
Helen walked the few blocks to The Gold Club, taking her time and enjoying the cool fall air and bright sunshine. She wore a long black skirt with a lacy cotton blouse and simple black bodice with a finely tailored coat. Her long auburn hair was put up tightly in a bun making her appear as stern as a spinster school teacher. Wire rim spectacles, perched on the end of her delicate nose, added to the effect.
She walked down the dark hallway leading to the speakeasy's inner door, then straightened her coat before knocking. A small door opened and part of a man's face leered out at her.
“Yea, what ya want?”
“I am meeting a Mr. Nathaniel Black for luncheon,” she said in her most dignified tone.
“Yea, Nathan's already here. He said you was comin'.”
The door opened with a clank and a whine. Helen was assaulted first by the stale cigar smoke and then the noise of men talking and a tin sounding piano playing in the background.
“Come on in.” A rather large gentleman stood before her. She pressed her way through the partially open door. It clanged shut behind her. “Nathan is over by the bar.”
“Thanks.” She looked around the dark room.
She'd never visited such a place, though some friends in college had. There was a long bar at the far end of the room and to her left were doors that seemed to lead into a kitchen. Someone came out holding a tray of food and drinks and hurried across the room to a table. To her right was an empty stage and the upright piano she'd heard being played by a colored man wearing black pants and a white dress shirt without coat or tie. Nathan stood at a table near the bar and waved to her.
“You really Helen Jameson?” the man at the door asked.
She turned and looked at him questioningly. “Yes, I'm Helen Jameson. Why?”
“You probably don't remember me.” The man's face blushed and he looked down at his worn boots. “We were in some classes together at Central, when I went to class.” He smiled and looked up boyishly. “Kenny Williams.” He offered his hand.
“Kenny Williams,” she repeated, giving her hand. “Yes, you played football.”
“Corner-back. I was all state senior year. It's the only reason I graduated. I heard you went to Greensboro.”
“I just moved back. Mr. Black offered me a position as his assistant.”
“That's great. Maybe I'll be seeing you around then.”
Helen left Kenny at the door and walked across the room to where Nathan still stood waiting. He pulled out a chair for her and she sat down.
“You know Kenny?”
“Yes, we went to school together.”
Nathan sat down and handed her a menu.
“He's a nice kid. So how are your folks?”
&
nbsp; “They are doing well. I've been staying with them since graduation. I'm sure they were ready to be rid of me.”
“I doubt that. Your father seemed a little put out with me for offering you a position here. I think he wanted you to stay in Raleigh.”
“One of his friends in the House offered me a position as his aid.”
“That would have been a good move, if you're interested in politics.”
Helen looked over the menu. Her father's plans to marry her off to some middle-aged politician had not interested her in the least. And the likelihood the politician already had a wife was even less appealing. Helen had one goal in mind and that was to be the first woman in the state to pass the Bar. She'd accepted Nathan's offer, and came to Charlotte, for that reason. Well, that was part of the reason. There was one other thing that interested her in Charlotte.
“The steaks are quite good,” Nathan offered, “as is the roasted chicken. I know your stance on drinking, but The Gold Club does have the best food in town.”
The waitress took their order and they both enjoyed a very fine meal with light conversation mostly centered around what Helen's duties would be as Nathan's assistant. After the plates had been cleared away, Nathan lit a cigar, leaned back in his chair, and sent smoke rings toward the ceiling. He reminded her so much of her father. The two men had been inseparable when she was growing up. She still had to catch herself before she called him “Uncle Nate.”
“I'll be down in Monroe for a few days. It'll give you a chance to settle in. You can go with me on the next trip. Have you found a place yet?”
“I'm going to look at a rooming house this afternoon.”
“You know you are more than welcome to stay at my place. Since Millie passed away it's only me now.”
“That is sweet, but...”
“But it would be like living with your folks.” He laughed. “Just a thought until you find a place. It's better than paying for a hotel room.”
“It's important for me to do things on my own.”
“I know. We had this discussion before you accepted the position as my assistant. I just want you to know it's an option. And your mother wanted me to ask.”
Helen smiled and put her hand on his. “Thank you.”
Helen left the club and walked back to the Square. The streets and sidewalk were bustling with the midday crowds. She spent some time window shopping at Belk and Ivey then took the trolley out Tryon Street to Morehead. She knew where she was going. She remembered the house from when she was a teenager. The old neighborhood hadn't changed much since her parents had lived there. Only a few blocks further out was where her best friend had lived and where she had spent most of her time back then. It felt like coming home.
Chapter Three
Jack stepped into the bustle of the midday crowd moving through the streets. He walked down Tryon Street toward the Square and thought over his options. He knew Kellum would almost surely be in Hall's office at that very moment warning him. Hall would pick up the phone and the gin would be moved. But, then again, it would be dangerous to move the casks in broad daylight, so they might store them nearby and move them again overnight. And if the police hadn't shown up by dark they might think they'd scared him off. Jack stepped onto the trolley headed north out Tryon Street toward the train yard.
The yard stretched out ahead on the east side of Tryon. The sidings and rail spurs were filled with boxcars and tankers. Billows of steam wafted up into the clear fall sky. Most of the mills had their own private spur where cotton or other materials were left stored in boxcars until they were needed. That saved warehouse space. The cars in the main yard were all waiting transfer from one train to the next before proceeding to their final destination.
Charlotte was a main switching station on the railways great routes north and south. Some of the spurs in the switching yard were controlled by local shipping companies such as Kellum, Lieberman, and Hall, who offloaded the contents of rail cars onto trucks for local delivery or arranged for transport of cars to and from the private spurs. Jack knew one of those cars contained kegs of gin marked as whale oil. Some of those kegs would be loaded onto trucks and delivered to local businesses or nearby cities, but the majority were destined for points further south, all the way down into Florida.
Jack stepped off the trolley near the passenger station. The end of the line wasn't much further down North Tryon Street. He strode across the tracks in front of a waiting passenger train and walked briskly out across the yard. The far side of the yard was lined with raised wooden docks where cargo could be transferred from rail cars to trucks. Boxcars, flatcars, and tankers were in constant motion, pulled and pushed about by small steam-engine tugs, off and on to spurs and sidings. Long lines of cars were assembled or taken apart like giant string puzzles before being attached to the massive locomotives for trips across country.
Jack saw one of the long spurs near the docks that was lined with cars bearing the distinctive logo KLH. The three block letters were in black on a circle of gold. One of the older cars bore a similar logo with only the letters K&L as a testament to the short time Mr. Hall had been a partner. Jack saw activity among the cars. Men had decoupled a boxcar and pulled it toward the main yard. It would likely be out of Charlotte by nightfall, or, at the least, lost among the sea of cars moving about in the great ballet of steam and steel.
Jack continued to the dock and grabbed the ladder on a boxcar parked there. He swung himself up onto the wooden planks. Some of the cars were open, others were closed. Some were empty and others almost full. But none had kegs of whale oil inside. One of the men working there noticed him and strode down the dock.
“Hey, buddy!” The man was stout and wore rough tan pants covered in coal dust and soot, a dingy shirt that may have once been white, leather suspenders, and a soft brown cap. He appeared to be around thirty with a body hardened by years of heavy labor on the docks.
“Ah,” Jack said, with a smile that appeared he had been looking for someone to talk to all along. “Maybe you can help me, sir. I'm Jack Spaulding of The Charlotte News.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Spaulding?”
The man didn't seem impressed, but recognition did flash in his eyes. He seemed to know who Jack was at least.
“I'm writing a story about the import of whale oil from Canada and the impact on local oil production. Were you aware that various types of oils are produced locally?”
“No,” the man said, with a puzzled expression on his face.
“Well that's not important. Kellum and Lieberman are one of the chief importers of whale oil locally and I was informed that a shipment was currently sitting on the dock. I spoke to Russell, ah, Mr. Kellum, earlier today about it. What's your name? Maybe I can use it in the article. It's a series on new industries in the Carolinas.”
The man stood up a little straighter and hooked his thumbs in his braces. “Carl Baucom,” he said. Jack pulled out his notepad and scribbled the name down.
“Are you the foreman here, Mr. Baucom?”
“Naw, but I've been working this yard for over ten years.”
Jack feigned interest and scribbled more notes on his pad.
“Could you tell me which car K and L's whale oil is in?”
“You just missed it, mister. That's her headin' across the yard.”
Jack wrote down the number on the boxcar as it passed in the distance.
“Where is it bound to?”
“It'll be leaving out for Atlanta on the evening run. We had an invoice to unload ten barrels and put the car on the morning run to Atlanta, but Mr. Hall called and canceled. He was real insistent that we made the evening train. Guess nobody needed more whale oil in Charlotte.”
“Or someone really needed it quick in Atlanta.”
Jack said it with a conspiratorial smile and wink. Carl laughed and poked Jack in the ribs with his stubby finger.
“Thanks for your help, Mr. Baucom.” Jack offered his hand. The man took it and shook vig
orously.
“Anytime, Mr. Spaulding.” The man smiled broadly.
Jack jumped back down off the dock and made his way across the maze of tracks back to Tryon Street. He jumped the trolley and rode south across town to Morehead, then walked west down Morehead to the Coffee Cup diner for a late lunch. He looked at his watch and it was one-thirty. The diner was still crowded when he walked in and took a seat at the counter. The Coffee Cup was the only lunch counter in town where whites and coloreds ate together. The workers from the new Ford assembly plant and the Coca-cola bottling plant were the main lunchtime customers. They came in waves from twelve until one. Jack was a regular.
The building was a small wooden structure just large enough for an open grill and a counter that sat a dozen men. The Turner brothers started their business selling sandwiches outside the plant before building their small kitchen to provide hot food for local workers. Jack was the only man at the counter wearing a suit and tie.
“What can I get you today, Missa Spaulding?” Jeb Turner asked, wiping his hands on a clean white towel. The Turner brothers were both tall, handsome colored men with skin darker than the soot covering the chimney at the nearby iron works, counterpoised by bright inviting smiles.
“What's the special today, Jeb.”
“We've got pot roast with carrots, tatters, and onions, and mama's fresh loaf bread and butter.”
“Sounds good.”
Jeb set a bowl and a torn piece of bread on a plate in front of Jack. The workmen cleared out and headed back to their jobs. Jack sat alone and ate as the brothers cleaned up from the lunch crowd.
“Sorry to hear about your friend, Missa Spaulding,” Jeb said as he wiped down the counter.
“Thanks.”
Jack finished his roast and sopped the bowl clean with the last bit of bread. He dropped a dollar bill on the counter and stood up.
“Le' me get you some change,” Jeb said.
“Keep it,” Jack said, though his bowl was only thirty-five cents.
“Thank ya, Missa Spaulding.”