The same cab driver acting as Henry’s personal chauffeur for the time being was told to take him to his vehicle at the police precinct. He laid a sizable tip in the man’s palm, then climbed into his car and double-timed it to the Fast House. At four-thirty on the nose, Henry wrapped on the door while reading the posted sign which read: Closed until further notice. Prepared to beat on it again, he inched back when someone opened it slightly from the inside. “It’s me, Henry,” he announced, when seeing a pair of eyes peeking through the thin crease between the door and frame.
“Come on in, we’ve been nesting on pins and needles,” answered Dank.
Henry was wearing a worrisome grin but was delighted to see the man who’d gone up against Kansas City’s finest with Baltimore to protect him. “Hi ya, Dank. It’s good to see you. I heard you and Pudge came up to shake some limbs.”
“It’s better to shake them than dangle from them, I always say,” Dank jested. He hadn’t been fully informed of how they decided to get close to Baltimore, let alone do anything to assist in his escape. Henry’s half-baked plan was almost feasible, if Delbert got Albert Hummel to bite like he anticipated. He wouldn’t have long to ponder before learning the outcome.
Dank barred the door, then lead Henry to a little room near the back. It was off the kitchen and served as a catering hutch for preparing finger foods and the like. Henry didn’t let on that he knew every inch of that building, including the safe he helped install beneath the office desk. Until meeting and falling for Roberta, he’d owned a third of the business. Selling it back to Etta put money in his pocket but drove a wedge between them.
“Henry Taylor!” yelled Pudge as he entered the room. “I heard you caught on at the department. They ain’t made you captain yet?”
“Hey, Pudge,” he responded, shaking hands with the wheel man from his getaway. Looking at him ambivalently, Etta forced a smile. “Jo Etta,” Henry said, as if paying respect to the woman’s home. “Miss Penny,” he hailed, to complete the salutations. “All right then. I don’t know what Dr. Gales told y’all, but I’ve been thinking on something. Did he happen to get my message to Baltimo’s lawyer?”
Etta explained that she’d received a call from Albert after he’d petitioned for a temporary transfer. Judge Sumner agreed that death threats supposedly emanating from inside the jail system warranted that Baltimore’s request be granted. Albert also discussed why notifying his client of the dangers associated with being transported was the prudent thing to do. Albert and Etta shared several ideas to further discredit Dixie Sinclair on the stand, if it came to that. Unfortunately, none of them seemed viable after having been sufficiently fleshed out, so Henry and the boys put a game plan together with duct tape and wire, just enough ingenuity to keep their faith running.
Baltimore paid close attention when he received a call from his lawyer after the seven o’clock hour that evening. Albert had been right about everything so far and he didn’t want to stall progress by changing seats at the table. Baltimore was handed a convict’s shiv, a knife made by scraping the rounded sides of a spoon down to a sharp point, when the news of his relocation circulated around his cell block. If the state troopers were in on some diabolical plot to hand him over to a local hate group, he was prepared to take out a few of them before going down. That much he’d promised to Albert before hanging up the phone.
Albert’s next call was a direct ring to D.A. Winston’s home, advising him of the numerous harassments received, leading to the judge’s immediate ruling and concern for the defendant’s safety. The district attorney slammed the telephone down at breakneck speed, then he contacted Barker at the Red Lantern tavern to fill him in on the judge’s orders. It was difficult to believe Baltimore’s attorney and his buddy, the judge, could have both been so stupid. Overjoyed, Barker shared the enormous mistake made in their favor with his cronies. They cancelled the late night wake-up call scheduled for Baltimore in his cell. Having him out in the open presented them a much more exciting opportunity. Three state employees were no match for an incensed detective, a truckload of drunken Klansmen, and a blood thirsty henchman with a license to kill.
It was half past midnight at the county jail. None of the prisoners on the colored wing slept as the steel door leading to the quiet cell block slammed shut. Baltimore stirred on his bunk when he heard it. Hushed whispers were passed along until they reached him. “They’re coming, two of them,” the murmurers advised, giving him a hand in deciding his own fate. Baltimore approached the cell bars, sliding the home-made knife on the inside of his county-issued ankle boot and remained poised. When their steps grew louder, he remembered his lawyer’s recommendation that being moved was far better than being found dead in his cell with no witnesses to come forward. Baltimore sized up both state-employed police officials in brown and khaki colored uniforms. Neither of them was as large as him but they made up for it with menacing revolvers strapped on their hips. Disturbed thoughts of destruction and damnation did loops in his head as the jailer recited instructions before turning him over.
“All right now, this is the notoriously famous Baltimore Floyd. He’s what you might call a celebrity around here. He’s been a good boy, though. You won’t have no troubles out of him. I’ll open it up, cuff him and walk him out. At that time, we’ll sign him over to you.” Baltimore felt like a slave at auction when listening to the jailer, who spoke as if he was transporting livestock instead of a human being. An urge to strike out rose inside of him, beckoning to be unleashed. Then, the jailer made another extremely dubious move. While frisking his prisoner, he felt the knife, paused to glance up at Baltimore then went on as if nothing concerned him. “Like I’s saying, as a man walks, so shall he be lead,” the jailer stated, in a way that suggested it was of vital importance. “Their shoes,” he mouthed, standing in front of Baltimore to cuff him; which was another deviation from procedure. All prisoners were cuffed from behind unless shackled by leg irons collectively. The jailer brought no leg irons. “All right, that’s nice and tight fellas,” he announced sternly. “Why don’t y’all head out and we’ll follow?”
Baltimore exited the cell, surrounded by guards and gloomy faces offering muted goodbyes. Eventually, he noted the trooper’s shoes, one brown pair and the other black but neither was standard issue. While contemplating what to do about it, Baltimore asked the other inmates to look after Husky and keep his belly full of sweetcakes. They chuckled over his requests but agreed wholeheartedly to abide by them. “So long, boys,” Baltimore said in passing. “See you on the front page.” Even though he couldn’t predict what awaited him on the outside of that massive door, leading to the rear end of the building, he was sure it would make headline news.
“Goodbye, Mr. Floyd and good luck,” said the jailer, as both of the other men forged signatures on the release document. He’d given his word to Judge Sumner to look after the high-profile inmate while in the county’s custody and he kept that promise. The jailer’s protection ended when the sliding gate closed.
Baltimore offered his thanks, and kept an eye on the men now in control of his well being. A third man, too chubby to meet the rigid requirement of the state police, settled in behind the steering wheel of the transportation vehicle. Baltimore thought he looked familiar but then so did a lot of white men in the state of Missouri. The driver was Officer Brandish, the wickedly obtrusive Metro officer from the academy, who ushered him into the backseat. Brandish would be the first to die.
Through the main avenues of St. Louis, they traveled at a moderate speed due west. In the meanwhile, Baltimore sat quietly with his hands between his knees, where the knife was easily accessible. An eerie feeling kept him company in the minutes which passed before any of the men uttered a word. The sounds of tires rumbling over uneven road, metal shocks creaking and the annoying scent of cheap aftershave blending with perspiration kept him fully vigilant. Baltimore’s desire to stay alive kept his eager fingers mere inches away from the blade.
“This is t
he turn,” the driver announced northwest of Kings Highway, the outer reaches of city living. He flashed the headlights when maneuvering the vehicle onto a narrow, dusty rural route. Immediately, a severely battered pale blue pickup truck scooted in behind them. “That ought to be the boys,” Brandish chuckled. “We’re really cooking with grease now.” Baltimore’s chest filled with anxiety as the car swerved down the darkened unpaved surface. “Sit still, nigger, we’ll be there before you know it.”
The men posing as troopers were the same two Henry had seen earlier in the day passing a Klan outfit to Gillespie. Barker invited members of the area redneck chapter to join in on the fun, vowing not only to get even with Baltimore for hijacking his drugs but also for screwing with his wife. Barker was dead set on getting downright evil.
The truck followed for more than a mile. Another set of headlights swung in line behind it. Brandish laughed in a sinister manner while glancing in the rearview mirror. “Ha-ha, looks like Gillespie finally decided to get his ass in gear. I see a patrol car closing in.” Baltimore struggled to catch a glimpse out of the back window.
“I thought I told you to sit still,” the man to his left grumbled, before landing a mean right uppercut to his chin. Baltimore’s head jerked against the backseat. He didn’t see it coming.
“Okay, man,” Baltimore exclaimed woozily. “All right, I ain’t moving. I’m still. I’m still.” Hazy and disoriented, he shook his head to snap out of it. He regained focus when the driver fussed about a missing pickup.
“Hell, they must’ve fell in a ditch but there’s enough of them to rock it out just fine,” Brandish assumed. He couldn’t have guessed the truck had been flipped over purposefully by the police patrol car tailing them. “Hold on, here they come. No, that’s Gillespie. He knows he should have stopped to help them out. Probably didn’t want to miss out on any of the fun.”
“That’s mighty white of him,” Baltimore cracked. Sensing another jaw-snapping blow was headed his way, he dodged it. The man who’d thrown the punch doubled up with another one. Baltimore swayed back and forth banging shoulders with his captives. Brandish skidded along the road yelling for the commotion to cease.
“Don’t kill him yet! Wait ’til Barker’s had a poke at him. We’re coming up on the farmhouse now.”
The headlights shone on a two story wood-framed house just down the road. Two cars were parked in front, behind was a big red barn which reminded Baltimore of a Norman Rockwall painting he was fond of.
“What the hell!” Brandish questioned, pulling alongside a police vehicle. “If Gillespie’s already here, who’s that behind us?”
“You ain’t never gone find out!” shouted Baltimore as he jammed the knife into the base of Brandish’s skull. Blood squirted from the gash in his neck like a busted water main. The car surged forward as each of the men in the backseat screamed shamelessly. One of the captors worked feverishly to get the door opened but couldn’t. The car roared off the road, crashing headlong into a large oak tree. The radiator hissed and spewed steam into the light of a crescent moon. There was no initial movement inside the ravaged automobile.
The barn door flew open. Barker emerged hastily, wearing a white sheet. Gillespie and two other men accompanied him with their racist uniformed ensembles intact. As they moved toward the wrecked vehicle, the city cruiser which had bumped off the pickup screeched to a halt just yards from the farm house. Simultaneously, both passengers wrestled Baltimore out from the car wrapped around the tree. Barker was awed by the absurdity of the event.
“Brandish!” he yelled. “Where’s Brandish?”
“This jig killed him,” the stiff slugger said apologetically. “Had a knife hid in his boot, I guess.”
“You guess? Didn’t anybody think to search him and who in the hell is that?” Barker shouted angrily, when four men in Klan paraphernalia stepped out of the police car idled in the road. “How many boys did y’all bring up here from Joplin?”
“They must be local Klan,” answered the other man guarding Baltimore. “They sure ain’t with us.”
“Hey, there. We got him,” Barker hollered in the stranger’s direction. “It was supposed to be a private affair but I won’t be selfish. There’s enough for everybody to take a slice or two.” Barker was confused when they approached with guns drawn. “Loosen up, guys. Let’s boil this monkey then peel the skin off like—like—” He froze, gathering that none of the four gunmen had their weapons trained on the colored prisoner, but rather at his men.
Baltimore’s head throbbed violently until he recognized the way one of the hooded men wielded the shot gun. “Blast them, Dank!” Baltimore hollered, wisely hitting the deck before shots rang out toward him. Dank followed orders, reloaded and then popped off two more rounds. He splattered one of the night riders, then mowed down another. The men in Dank’s posse fired at will. Their targets hustled inside the barn for cover. Baltimore heard Smiley Tennyson’s goofy laugh as he sprinted past in hot pursuit. The barn door closed after Barker and two others scurried frantically. The men who took Baltimore from the county jail bolted toward the open pasture. Pudge ripped off his hood and gave chase. Considering all that transpired up to that point, Baltimore was equally surprised by the fourth rescuer’s identity.
Henry dived underneath the police car when multiple shots sounded from inside the barn. He rolled in the dirt, cursing and spitting.
“Henry?” Baltimore bellowed. “Where’d they get you?”
“I ain’t hit. I stubbed my damned toe getting outta the way,” answered Henry, while Baltimore climbed to his knees laughing and pointing. Barker eased out from behind the barn with a pistol steadied at his head. “Watch out, Baltimo’!” cried Henry. Then, from out of nowhere, something went thud as it ricocheted off the policeman’s chest. Barker coughed and gagged during his slow descent to the ground. He clutched at his chest with both hands. Baltimore stood over him, eyeing the baseball lying in the dirt near his feet.
“What happened to him?” asked Henry, with bright unsuspecting eyes.
“Ain’t but one man in this county who can hurl a perfect pitch hard enough to stop a man’s heart,” answered Baltimore.
“Jinx?”
“Yeah, he ought to be standing on the other side of that car y’all rolled up in.”
As Barker took his dying breath, Henry turned to see someone strolling in from the shadows of darkness like an apparition. It was Jinx, as Baltimore predicted. Earlier, he heard Barker and his cronies discussing where they were taking Baltimore, so he set out early and hid.
“Hi ya, Jinx,” Baltimore said, waving to him casually as if passing him on a street corner.
“It’s good to see you, Baltimore,” he replied warmly.
“It’s also good to see you’ve been practicing. That ball sailed in with some steam on it. Uh-huh, you’ll do fine up there in Canada.”
“I guess it’s true, you can’t keep a secret in St. Louis,” he replied, while studying the damage his right arm caused. “Ain’t nobody gonna miss him, not even that wife of his.”
“I won’t forget him, though.” Baltimore said, as he walked toward Henry with his hands cuffed.
“Naw, and I didn’t forget you either,” Henry confessed, removing his hood and robe. “I couldn’t forget any of it. But, what I can’t figure out is why a grown man wants to wear this hot ass dress in this Missouri heat.”
“You wouldn’t have a key to these bracelets in your purse, now would you?” Baltimore joked.
“Naw, I keep it in my brassiere,” Henry answered, with a smile full of teeth. He handed Baltimore a small key to remove the shackles. “‘Should have seen your face when we hopped out from that car. I thought you’s gonna piss your pants.”
“I thought I did,” Baltimore admitted, shaking the cuffs from his wrist. “Let’s get to it and give the ones in the barn what they was saving for me.”
“No, suh, you stay put out here,” Henry objected. “Dank’s got them penned in. Besides, they’s h
iding in the haystack and it’d be a shame to get you killed after all the scheming it took finding where they’s bringing you.”
Smiley returned from the pasture huffing mad and out of breath. “Man, I hate this country bullshit. Let’s push on back to the city.” He’d ruined a pair of good shoes by stepping in a pile of moist cow manure.
“What happened to the boys you chased off?” Henry inquired apprehensively.
“I can’t say for sho’. All I do know is they’s two of the fastest white boys I’ve seen, who wasn’t streaking down the first base line.” That’s when a rifle blast echoed in the distance. All of a sudden, Baltimore collapsed on the ground in agony. Blood trickled from his side like water from a cracked flower vase.
“Dank, Pudge, forget about them!” shouted Henry. “Jinx, get out of here! Smiley, help me get Baltimore in the back of the car.”
“We can’t take him to Homer Gee,” Smiley contended sadly. “That’s the first place they’ll come looking when he turns up missing.”
“Well, he’s gonna die if we don’t get him somewhere quick so’s they can stop the bleeding.”
“Take me to Etta’s Fast House,” Baltimore groaned before losing consciousness.
“I’ll go and get help from the hospital,” Jinx said loudly, then he sprinted to his car.
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