by Maxwell Cynn
“You still have that motor bike?”
“Yes sir.”
“Can you give me a ride across town about eight tonight?”
“Sure. Where we goin'?”
“I need a ride to the train station. Then maybe a ride back home.”
“You want me to pick you up at Missy Duke's?”
“Yeah, I'll meet you outside at eight.”
“I'll be there.”
Jack walked out of the diner and up Morehead Street back to the boarding house. The evening train pulled out at nine. He'd get there about eight-fifteen and call the police from the station. That would be late enough to scoop the Observer and still get the boxcar of booze before the gin left town. He could have most of the story written before he left for the station and finish it before going to bed. Perfect timing for a News exclusive.
Jack stepped into the foyer and hung his hat and overcoat on the coat rack. He heard voices from the kitchen, both female. Jack walked up the stairs without interrupting them. He wanted to get the article written before dinner and maybe some more pages on the novel. He made it to the top stair before being stopped by Catherine's voice.
“Jack?”
“Yes, Catherine,” he said and turned. “I heard you in the kitchen, but didn't want to disturb you.”
“Don't be silly, Jack. Come down here. I want you to meet our new tenant.”
Jack walked back down the stairs. Catherine was standing in the parlor with another woman. She was taller than Catherine, almost Jack's height, and younger. Her black high-heeled shoes added several inches to her height, he noticed, so barefoot she would be a few inches shorter than Jack. She was dressed in a conservative black skirt that brushed just above the ankles and a white blouse with a well tailored black bustier and jacket.
Her auburn hair appeared to be long, but was pulled up into a tight bun leaving gentle ringlets that framed her soft face. Large inviting brown eyes were perfectly nestled in high cheekbones and a thin smooth jaw line framed soft lips which seemed easily coaxed into a smile. Delicate wire rim glasses rested atop a perfectly formed nose just below the level of her eyes as if they were used only for reading. Her eyes peered at him above the glasses and a smile slowly lit her face.
“Jack Spaulding, this is Helen Jameson. She'll be moving in tomorrow.”
“It's a pleasure, Miss Jameson,” Jack said and offered his hand.
She put out her hand and he took her long slender fingers softly in his own. Their eyes met and he saw more in the deep pools of brown than he expected. There was a deep simmering fire, but not anger. Her eyes held a warmth that covered him like a blanket on a cool autumn night. He could have easily been lost in such eyes, searching the intelligence, the self-confidence, the mystery they seemed to promise.
“It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Spaulding. I enjoy your articles in the newspaper. Please, call me Helen.”
“Are you new to Charlotte, Helen?”
“Actually I was born here, Mr. Spaulding.”
“Call me Jack, please.”
“Very well, Jack. I have been away at college the past few years. The city has certainly changed.”
“Where did you attend college?”
“Women's College, in Greensboro.”
“A fine school. What did you major in?”
“Pre-law.”
“Helen is planning to take the Bar, Jack,” Catherine said, enthusiastically.
“A lawyer?” Jack was little surprised. “I don't think I have ever met a woman lawyer.”
“Women are entering any number of new fields, Mr. Spaulding.” She responded with a defensive air in her voice.
“Oh, I didn't mean to imply women wouldn't make excellent lawyers. I've just never met one. It's an honor.”
“Helen has a position with Nathaniel Black as a legal assistant, Jack.”
“I know Nathan. He's a fine lawyer. Are you finished with school then?”
“I still have a few classes to take which were not offered in Greensboro. I'm attending Queens College here in Charlotte.”
“Well Nathan should offer you a wide range of experience. His clients include mill owners and colored farmers. He's on retainer for The Charlotte News.”
“Then perhaps we will see each other at work as well, Jack.”
She lightly pulled her hand away. Jack hadn't realized he was still holding her delicate fingers. He smiled meekly and released her.
“It's been a pleasure, Helen. Will you be joining us for supper this evening?”
“Mrs. Duke invited me, but I need to get my things in order if I am to move in tomorrow.”
“If there is anything I can do to help...” Jack offered.
“Yes, we have four strong men here who would be glad to help you,” Catherine offered enthusiastically.
“I will be fine. I have very little, really. Only what would fit in my small room at college.”
“Well, I have an article to write. I look forward to becoming better acquainted.”
“It has been a pleasure,” Helen said.
Jack turned and walked back up the stairs and into his room. He poured a shot of gin into his jar and sat down at his typewriter. After a few moments he realized he was staring at the keys, his drink untouched, and no words written. His mind had wandered to the lovely Miss Jameson. He shook the thoughts of the young woman downstairs and started typing.
Chapter Four
The night was clear, the air brisk, and the city sat quietly to the north as the moon rose above the treetops down Morehead Street. Jeb's motorcycle cracked through the silence as he twisted the throttle turning off Tryon Street a block away. Jack dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk and crushed it with the sole of his shoe. Jeb roared up to the curb and grinned out of the darkness. Jack looked at his watch.
“Right on time.” He threw his leg across the seat and settled in behind Jeb.
Jeb looked back over his shoulder. “Train station?”
“Train station.”
“Hang on.” Jeb turned the throttle and slowly released the clutch. The motorcycle jerked forward with a thrust of power. Jack gripped tight around Jeb's waist, while his toes were trying to grip through his shoes to the slick pegs his feet rested on. Jeb leaned forward a little and Jack's body followed, pressed tight against the man's back. They moved quickly up the hill to Tryon then leaned precariously to the right, more power surged from the engine beneath them, and they rounded the turn. The motor roared, the motorcycle picked up speed, and they careened down the hill into town.
The streets were empty and most of the lights were out in the buildings they flew past. Jeb's motorcycle was much faster than the trolley and before long they were powering up the hill toward the train station at the other end of town. Jeb leaned into the parking lot throwing gravel into the air. He fishtailed and drove right up to the station door. Jack stepped off the back and tried to straighten his hair then put on his hat. It was a little crumpled after gripping it in his hand through the wild ride across town.
“Wait here, Jeb. I may need a ride back.”
“Sho' thing, Missa Spaulding.”
Jeb cut the engine and leaned the motorcycle over on its stand. He threw his long leg over the seat and stood. A colored man in a blue uniform and a cap stood confused and looked at them. He would normally take someone's bags and lead them into the station, but he was at a loss with what to do with the two men. Jack tipped his hat and strode past. The older man walked over to Jeb and Jack could hear them speaking in muffled tones as he walked through the door.
Jack walked through the almost empty station and out onto the platform. No passenger train sat waiting for boarders. Across the yard he saw a large locomotive backing into a line of cars, coupling up for the evening run to Atlanta. He scanned the line of cars and spotted the boxcar with the bright KLH on the side. He jumped down off the platform and ran across the yard.
There was much less activity in the darkness than there had been earlier in the day. Th
e screeching of steel grinding into steel pierced the night air and threw bright red sparks into the darkness. He reached the boxcar as the engine bumped into the line of cars and caused them to lurch to his left five or six feet. He grabbed the handle and slid the door open. The car was filled with large wooden casks, all marked as whale oil.
“Hey!” An angry voice shouted from the shadows along the tracks. “What are you doing?”
Jack turned to see a man running toward him from the back of the train holding a long barreled pistol. The man was in the uniform of railway security. The gun was a Colt forty-five, government issue. The man ran with it in his hand like it was a black-jack. He looked more likely to hit someone over the head with the gun than shoot them. He slowed up as he neared Jack and lowered the weapon.
“Good evening,” Jack said, tipping his hat.
“Sorry, sir,” the man said. He holstered his gun. “I thought you were one of them hobos.”
“Honest mistake.”
“Can I ask what you are doing out here. You could get yourself killed out on the tracks in the dark.”
“Jack Spaulding.” He said it in his usual tone that inferred some importance to the name. He offered his hand. “The Charlotte News.”
The man took his hand.
“You still haven't answered the question.”
“I believe these barrels are filled with illegal gin from Canada.”
“You do?”
The man looked at the barrels. Each had a large maple leaf branded into the wood and a stenciled label that said, Hall Imports.
“Label says whale oil,” the man said. “Whatever the hell that is.”
“Let's open one up and see,” Jack suggested.
“You can't just go and open other people's property.”
Jack put his hand on top of one of the barrels near the door as if trying to get a better look at the label. The floor of the boxcar sat about chest high and he had to stretch to reach the top of the cask.
“What if one just fell open on its own?”
“That ain't likely to happen, now is it?”
Jack pulled hard on the cask toppling it out of the door. It almost came down on top of them and Jack staggered in the loose gravel trying to dodge the falling barrel. It landed hard on the ground and burst open.
“What the hell'd you do that for,” the man said, drawing his sidearm. “I'm calling the police.”
“That might be a good idea.” Jack pointed at the broken cask. Sawdust was spilled all over the ground and a bottle of Canadian gin lay partly out of the barrel.
“Well I'll be damned,” the man said.
“And your name, sir?” Jack pulled out his notepad and pencil. “For the story.”
“Bill,” he said, staring at the broken cask. “Ah, William J. Tanner,” he corrected, looking at Jack.
“I think you should call the local police now, Officer Tanner. You just made an amazing discovery.”
“Yeah,” he said, a little dazed. He holstered his gun and the two men walked back toward the station.
Jack put his hand on Mr. Tanner's shoulder. “I think the headline should read, Train Security Officer discovers illegal liquor shipment in route to Atlanta.”
Soon the station was filled with police. They questioned Jack, and he returned the favor by taking notes for his article. Office Scarborough waited until the detectives had their turn with Jack before he approached.
“Evening, Jack,” he said casually.
“Hey, Steve, how ya doing.”
“Nice scoop on the Observer. The timing couldn't be better.”
“I'm lucky that way I guess.”
“I'm sure you didn't know anything about the boxcar this morning when I saw you.” Steve's tone was laced with unspoken accusation.
“Now Officer Scarborough,” Jack said. “We reported the contraband to the authorities as soon as Officer Tanner discovered it.”
“But you knew it was there before you came here tonight. Why else would you be wandering the train yard after dark?”
“You bucking for detective?” Jack said, coolly.
“You know me better,” Steve bit back. “But you could have called me for back-up. That was dangerous as hell, Jack.”
“I was fine.”
“That's what Daniel thought.”
The two men stood silent, looking out over the dark train yard, both avoiding the others eyes.
“I know you and Daniel have been keeping me out of it, Jack.”
Jack didn't answer. He could feel Steve's eyes burning into him, but he kept his gaze straight ahead.
“I know you guys were after some powerful people.”
Still no response. Jack really didn't want his friend involved. It could cost Steve his job, maybe more.
“What? You don't trust me? You think I'm on the wrong side now?” He grabbed Jack's shoulder and spun him around.
“It's got nothing to do with trust,” Jack said, looking into his friend's fiery blue eyes.
“So what the hell is it?”
“You've got a promising career, a wife, a baby. We didn't want to drag you under if we went down. You saw what happened to Daniel.”
“Maybe it wouldn't have if he had back-up. We used to be inseparable, the three of us. What happened Jack?”
“We grew up, Steve, and you got married.”
“I'm a cop, Jack. Chasing the bad guys is my job, not yours. Darla knew I had a dangerous job when she married me. She knew I had two crazy friends when she married me, too. She's okay with that.”
“You've got too much to lose now.”
“So you were just going to go Lone Ranger now that Daniel's gone?”
No answer. Jack didn't have a good one. He hadn't thought much past finishing what they had started. Daniel had found serious dirt in high places and it got him killed, but even Jack didn't know all the connections. Some of it Daniel had taken to the grave with him. They had worked the story together, but Daniel was in a lot deeper than Jack. The last few days before he died, Daniel had been following a lead while Jack followed another. Jack had come up empty, Daniel came up dead.
“You don't need to be involved in this.”
“Neither do you. These people are killers, Jack. Turn over what you've got to the G-men and let them handle it.”
“Spoken like a true flat-foot.”
“You're a writer, Jack, not a detective. You are obviously in over your head and you won't even let me help. Let the G-men do their job. You can write about it when they're done.”
“What time do you get off?” Jack changed the subject. “You want to go get a drink?”
Steve laughed at the irony.
“I should already be off, but I'll have to hang around here until the Federal Agents show up. They're taking jurisdiction.”
“Life of a cop,” Jack said, punching his friend on the shoulder. “I'm going to get out of here. Jeb's waiting on me. He gave me a ride over.”
“Come by the house sometime. Darla would love to see you.”
“Tell her I said hello.”
“I will.”
"And give the kid a hug."
Jack walked out of the station and spotted Jeb leaning against his motorcycle.
“Let's go, Jeb.”
“None too soon for me, Missa Spaulding. All these police keep looking at me like they wants to arrest somebody.”
Jack laughed and climbed on behind Jeb. Jeb kicked the crank on the motorcycle and it roared to life.
“You thirsty?” he asked Jeb over the engine's roar.
“Sho', Missa Spaulding. Did you steal a bottle?”
“No. Let's ride over to The Gold Club. Bobby told me he's got some of Mammy Jenkin's pecan pie tonight.”
“I can't go in no Gold Club. You know that's whites only.”
“I'll get Bobby to let you in the kitchen. I'm buying the pie.”
“You're on.” Jeb flashed his big smile. He turned the throttle and threw gravel across the parking lot. Jack
hung on as they flew out onto Tryon Street.
The Gold Club was a little ways out of town on East Trade Street. There was no sign outside, but everyone knew where it was. Jeb parked his motorcycle around back and Jack walked around to the main door. It was an unassuming wooden door that opened into a short dark hallway. At the other end was a stronger door with iron bands and a small window about five feet off the floor covered by a smaller wooden door. The larger door looked like it had been recently repaired. Jack knocked and the small door opened.
“Yeah,” a deep voice said from the opening. All Jack could see was a pair of eyes and part of a nose filling the opening.
“Open up, Kenny,” Jack said.
“Hey, Jack,” the voice replied. Jack heard a bolt slide and the door open.
“I see you got bailed out.” Jack offered his hand to the imposing man. Kenny stood six-feet-four and weighed close to three-hundred pounds, all farm labor muscle.
“Yeah.” He grinned. His short cut sandy blond hair, and his bright blue eyes, combined with his boyishly handsome face to make Kenny seem like a big teddy bear to those who knew him. To someone who didn't know him, he was likely intimidating as hell.
“Did Butch get out?”
“He didn't want out. He thought he was safer in jail until Deputy Collins cools off.”
“He might be.” Jack laughed.
Jack looked around the room. The place wasn't very crowded and there was plenty of room at the bar. Nothing like a raid to scare off the customers. Jenny Conner was on the stage singing, and still wearing most of her clothes. Her act had just started. She didn't have the best voice, but her body made up for it. She stood five-feet-nine, with all the curves in all the right places. She had long black hair, straight and smooth as an expensive silk tie, and legs that seemed to go on forever. She was wearing red open-toe shoes with four-inch heals which made them look even longer. Her white skirt draped down below the knee, but it would be the first thing she peeled off to expose another, much shorter skirt underneath. Her white lace blouse would go second to reveal a tight body suit and white gloves that ended above her elbows.
Jack had seen the act enough times to memorize it. It would take Jenny three or four songs to get down to her unmentionables. By then nobody cared if she sang off key. He walked back to the kitchen and leaned in the door.