Ms. Etta's Fast House (33 page)

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Authors: Victor McGlothin

BOOK: Ms. Etta's Fast House
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The moment Albert realized what that meant for his defendant, he grabbed his things and shot down the hallway in the direction of the small prisoner holding room. When he pushed past the guard and opened the door, Baltimore had his head down on the table. Albert stopped in his tracks, thinking the judge's prophecy had come to pass. “Baltimore, tell me you didn't finish that sandwich?”
“Nah, I tossed it in the can,” he answered, peering up curiously. “Too much white spread on it for my taste.” Baltimore's lawyer didn't have to inform him that was the very reason he was presently chained to the floor. Conversely, he did discuss what he'd learned about the trial postponement and at least five violently ill jurors. Albert had rather not alarm his client but there was no getting around it, Baltimore had to be told.
“There is no easy way to say this,” he whispered across the rectangular shaped table. “That food poisoning incident wasn't likely an accident. It's obvious they think we're winning this case, Baltimore. Your life is in jeopardy.”
“Considering how that's the first time you used my common name, you really believe it is.”
“Yes, I do, unfortunately. If you're a praying man, I'd devote some time in that regard,” the attorney recommended.
“Shoot. That ain't gonna work,” answered Baltimore as he rose from the chair. “It's been so long since I said something to Him, the Man probably won't even recognize my voice.”
Albert got up and walked over to Baltimore then placed his hand on his client's shoulder. “But then again, He just might.”
35
G
OT A
H
OLD ON
M
E
T
hat afternoon, Henry sat at the restaurant counter with his mouth wrapped around a half order of ribs and coleslaw. The diner was humming over the news that the big trial had been shut down because of bad chicken served to the jurors at lunchtime. Henry's first response was one of relief. He didn't have the chicken. Soon after he dismissed it as bad luck for the jurors, he smiled in Baltimore's honor. In a desperate fight for his freedom, the man was still drawing aces. Some men were lucky that way, he thought, too fortunate for their own good. That's when something tugged at him to look up from the plate of bones he'd picked clean.
A burly white man, whom he had not laid eyes on before, was placing an old duffle bag in the trunk of the patrol car he shared with Gillespie. Henry was halfway out the door before his partner came into view. Like two casual friends meeting on the street, the two men shook hands and parted ways. Another stranger drove up in a beat-up Plymouth that Gillespie's acquaintance climbed in. Henry reasoned it was an old friend saying hello, until he mulled over the cold stare he got for asking.
“Hey, what was that about?” Henry inquired as they pulled away from the curb.
“Nothing that concerns you,” Gillespie replied. “Just some fellas I used to know visiting for a few days.” Henry carefully debated needling him about the man's bag in the trunk but he didn't want to get into a hassle over an unfamiliar white man he didn't plan on seeing again. Their frigid discussion blew over as quickly as it began, Henry thought. His partner could have let the afternoon slide by without racial politics creeping in but it simply wasn't to be.
Gillespie rolled a toothpick into the corner of his mouth, flicking at it with the tip of his tongue. His mind was speeding a mile a minute by the way he worked that thin sliver of wood in and out of his mouth. His mind must have slammed into a wall and disintegrated because he said the dumbest thing possible. “Hey, Henry, you think they're gonna hang that friend of yours by the end of the month? I mean, ain't no sense in the state feeding him, if all's they're gonna do is snap his neck on the gallows.” Henry's blood boiled, not in the way he was accustomed to. This time, it was slowly percolating. He peered out of the passenger side window with the best intentions of focusing on something else but Gillespie wouldn't let up. “Come on now, and tell me when you think they'll do it? Henry, I got twenty dollars that says he don't make it to the end of the week.”
Henry immediately became suspicious and knew he had to divert Gillespie's attention so he could examine what was in the trunk. “Oh, I don't know when the sentencing is, but they ain't likely to pin this one on him. Sho', they'll try but it won't stick worth a damn,” Henry asserted, with the same dry tone that baited him.
The moist toothpick dangled from Gillespie's bottom lip now. The die had been cast and he was put out with Henry for being so uppity. “You can put some money where your fat mouth is. I got twenty bucks says that friend of yours is the one who won't be worth a damn come tomorrow. There're some mean folks around here that don't like what he did to Barker's wife and they hate the way other white folks are kissing his butt afterwards.”
“I don't have nothing to do with none of that,” said Henry. “I'm on the right side of the law. Which side you reckon you fall on?”
“I
am
the law,” Gillespie gloated. “If you don't have some dough to put on the barrelhead, then you should learn to keep your mouth shut when a grown man starts talking.”
Suddenly Henry yelled for his partner to pull off the city street so he could make a restroom pit stop. “What the hell has got into you?” Gillespie questioned. Once before, when evading Kansas City police detectives, Henry got away clean by faking a severe stomach virus. Since it worked to perfection then, he didn't see any reason to forego pulling the same routine.
“Ah, man, I think I got the piles,” hollered Henry, pretending to writhe uncomfortably. “Pull over to that service station on the corner and let me out around to the side. If you don't hurry, I'm a go right here in this car and soil the seats.”
“Oh no, hold on, Henry! In this heat, that'll stink something awful.”
Laughing to himself, Henry wrinkled his face and howled as if his insides were coming unglued. “Oooh, you got to hurry up then. I think it's about to gush out!” Gillespie guided the patrol car into the service station and slammed on its brakes. “Sorry about this, have a soda pop on me. It might be a while.” Henry tossed a quarter on the front seat then pushed the door open. He sprinted toward the rear of the building with one hand on his stomach and the other pressed against the back of his pants. “Y o w w w w l !” he shouted for good measure, as he disappeared out of sight. Leaning on the wall near the restroom door, he crossed his fingers, wanting Gillespie to leave the car exactly where it was. The trunk was not in the line of vision for the station clerk. If Gillespie went inside, his visibility would be cut off too. Henry was willing to wait as long as it took to flush him out. He didn't have to be a genius to suspect the stranger and the faded green bag in the trunk had a lot to do with Gillespie's overconfidence. He needed to get a peek inside. He needed to.
After the longest minute of Henry's life, he heard a car door close. He inched along the dingy white wall. Gillespie was nowhere to be seen. Henry decided it was time to move, regardless of the outcome. If the crooked cop caught him rummaging through the duffel bag, he'd come up with some lame excuse. A mental midget could fool Gillespie.
Squatting down to keep out of sight, Henry duck-walked to the rear of the car and felt the trunk latch. He reached inside then yanked out the canvas sack. As soon as he opened it he saw an embroidered patch sewn to a white cotton garment and it rattled him. The black cross circled by red stitching was undeniably Ku Klux Klan insignia. Henry's heart raced when he shoved the bag back in and pulled the trunk lid down. A few seconds passed before he heard footsteps coming his way. In that fraction of time, Henry cooked up a scheme to get off the hook.
“What you doing back here?” asked Gillespie. “I thought you were sickly.”
“I am, help me up.” Henry leaned on him, forcing all of his weight onto his suspicious partner.
“Damn, you're heavy. Open the door and slide in,” said Gillespie, completely buying into Henry's ruse. “I'll take you to the station house and let the sergeant get a look at you.”
“Uh-uh, ain't no time for that. Take me by the hospital first.”
“Henry, I know you don't feel good but I've got too much to do today to be get stuck at the nig—uh, the colored hospital waiting on you to come around.”
“Then don't hang on,” Henry whined. “Just get me there, then you can tell the desk sergeant where I am. I'll take it up with him later.”
“O.K., just relax,” Gillespie ordered, in a panicked high pitched tone. “Don't crap in this car. They just washed it.” Henry smiled beneath his phony grimace and fake stomach pains. He had to find out what Gillespie was planning to do with that hood and robe.
Gillespie didn't lift a finger to help as Henry faked convulsions and extremely painful dry heaves. As Henry stumbled inside the emergency room door, the patrol car blew out of the ambulance delivery dock. He watched it zoom in the opposite direction of the station house. Henry could always count on his partner to do what suited him and nothing more. At least he was consistent.
When Henry saw the coast was clear, he started out of the same door he'd used to ditch Gillespie, then thought better of it. So many potentially perilous scenarios raced through his head, he couldn't think what to do first. “O.K., Henry,” he said, pacing in circles. “What would Baltimo' do if it was me in trouble? Think. Think. One thing, he wouldn't be here thinking, he'd be out there doing it.”
The emergency room duty nurse sneered at the colored officer peculiarly. For starters he was the only one she'd ever seen and for two, he was blubbering to himself like an escaped mental patient. “Excuse me, sir, but can I help you with something?”
“What?” Henry answered, oblivious that he wasn't alone or that he'd been stared at by several people waiting in the reception area.
“I said can I help you, because you've made it clear that you do need some,” she replied, slightly more tickled than annoyed at his strange behavior.
Henry gave his immediate surroundings a thorough once-over. Several pairs of eyes glared at him. He glanced down at his uniform, forgetting just that quickly he still had it on. “Uh-uh, listen here. I'm with the Metro Police,” he muttered hurriedly.
“Humph, I can see that,” she scoffed playfully.
“Well, yeah, and I'm on a special case. I need to know where the head man is. He'll know where to locate the doctor who's been working on the colored fella standing trial for being with that white girl.”
Cautiously, the nurse stood up, while continuing to sneer at Henry. “Come here, officer.” Henry approached her desk, uncertain whether she'd call for him to be thrown out on his ear, uniformed cop or not. “Let me tell you something,” she whispered. “Since you're here to help Baltimore Floyd beat this bad wrap, I'll help you. That man has done a lot of good to some friends of mine around here. I don't know what business he had with that woman, but he's been an angel to Dr. M.K. Phipps's family and that nursing student carrying his unborn child, an angel, I tell you. Now, Dr. Hiram Knight, he's the hospital superintendent but he ain't available. Go see a good buddy of Baltimore's, Dr. Delbert Gales. He's the one been going down to the jailhouse seeing about him. You can find Dr. Gales in the south wing. I'll call ahead and let 'em know you're coming.”
Henry remained motionless for a brief moment, digesting all that she'd told him. The hardest part was listening to a perfect stranger going on about Baltimore like he'd hung the moon. Henry felt silly for being jealous because it wasn't that long ago he thought the same thing.
“Thank you, Ms.?” he said, reading the name tag on her uniform.
“Friends call me Belle and believe me, it's the least I could do.”
“All right, Belle, I'm beholden to you. Oh, how will they know it's me when I make it to the south wing?”
“Unless there's two colored police wandering around over there, they'll figure it out,” she said.
Henry smiled politely as he went in the direction she pointed him. He wasn't intending on wasting any precious time by visiting with Baltimore's personal physician. Dr. Gales may not have known a single thing going on behind the scenes but it was a good place to start, just in case. Besides, Henry didn't believe he had any allies in the matter and he wasn't in any hurry to face Etta.
After one nurse passed him off to the next, Henry was in the presence of a young man who appeared too young to be a doctor of any kind. Delbert had been pulled out of an examination room to speak candidly with a colored officer everyone seemed to be fairly impressed with so he obliged. Once the two men had a viable degree of privacy, Henry realized he was inept and downright clueless as to the first order of investigation.
Delbert looked up at the towering peace keeper, puzzled at his presence when nothing came out of his mouth. “What exactly do you want with me?” he asked eventually.
“Uh ... you're the Dr. Gales who's been working on Baltimore Floyd?”
“Yeah, I've treated him, but he's doing fine now,” Delbert said, growing leery.
“I know this might sound kinda screwy, but I think some white boys are putting together a scheme to lynch him before the trial is over.” Henry quickly explained what he had seen and heard.
Delbert agreed it was better to err on the side of caution, then he suggested Henry inform the police. That's when reality struck. A lone colored cop couldn't take unfounded accusations to the establishment, especially when they wanted to see Baltimore burn. “I know what you can do. Call Baltimore's lawyer, tell him what you told me and then contact Etta Adams, the club owner. She knows where to get a line on two of Baltimore's closest friends. They'll stand up for him.” Henry was getting sick and tired of people telling him who Baltimore's associates were.
He should have known better than anyone where to get help and it hurt him down to his soul that he didn't. It was apparent after visiting with Dr. Gales that Baltimore had nestled in a place in those people's hearts and he was on the outside looking in. Unless Henry wanted to be pegged at every step, he had to get out of that slave catcher suit and into civilian clothes. But, there was one stop he had to make beforehand where the uniform would come in handy.
The taxi driver who drove Henry up to the lavish mansion atop an elevated parcel of land had another fare waiting on him about a mile up the road. He didn't dare pull off for fear of having a colored lawman mad at him. Car services were often used by the department when beat-walking cops needed extra wheels. He was likely to see Henry a lot and he'd rather they be on good terms. “Don't you run off,” Henry warned with a nasty expression. “I won't be long and if you're not here when I get back, you won't have to worry about another pick up, ever.” Frozen by the threatening words of a pistol-packing Negro, the white driver killed the motor. “That's more like it. Be back in a tick.”

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