Ms. Etta's Fast House (34 page)

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Authors: Victor McGlothin

BOOK: Ms. Etta's Fast House
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Henry marched up to the house, thinking how much bigger it looked up close, a lot bigger than it had when he sat in the patrol car with Gillespie. Now it was his turn to call on the fat man, instead of playing security guard on Barker's dirty money pickups. Henry banged on the door harder when he felt ridiculous for having to wait longer than the white detective. As the colored butler opened up, Henry pushed past him yelling the home owner's name. “Shookie! Shookie Bush, get yo' big ass out here!” he wailed. “It's the goddamned law.” Henry was prepared to use his gun when hearing what sounded like a herd of elephants stampeding across the marble floors.
“Who told you to be stupid enough to run up in my house like you paying the mortgage?” Shookie ranted. “I usually have niggahs come through the back.” The tan and white striped suit was immaculately tailored for a man of his girth. The frown he shoved in Henry's face was cheap and off the rack. Shookie had plenty of those and saw to it that Henry got plenty of them before he left. “And another thang, Baltimo' ain't at your back no more, so I'd tread lightly if I was you.”
“Funny you mentioned him right off, Shookie, 'cause he's why I'm here.”
“Humph, riding around with those white boys must've warped your brain. Me and Baltimo' settled up and done parted ways once and for all. Wasn't long ago, I heard the same about y'all.” Shookie puffed from a long cigar and flicked the ashes in a crystal jar held by his manservant.
“Don't pay that no mind, Shook,” argued Henry, as he began to show signs of a thin skin. There was yet a third person telling him about Baltimore's business. “There's something more important I need from you. I understand that don't nothing go down in the neighborhood without you either knowing about it or being in on it.”
“And, why should I offer crumbs off my table to you? That is what you after, ain't it, a piece of Barker Sinclair's pie?”
“Naw, I came to pitch for Baltimo',” Henry admitted.
“Ah, I see. You don't know when to stop running behind that fool. He's a done deal. They's gonna lynch him all right. I hate to see that happen to any colored man but the Klan done sent up some out of town talent to bump him off.” Shookie was in better spirits just talking about a threat on Baltimore's life. He offered Henry a seat in his extravagant sitting area, also decorated in white. After they spent five minutes reacquainting, Henry threw his best ball at the oversized gangster to hit. With any luck, Shookie would take a wild swat at it.
“Let me tell you why you should do everything in your power to keep Baltimo' outta harm's way, Shookie.”
“Yeah, you's a bigger fool than you look. Everybody knows I can't stand Baltimo's ass. Goodbye and good luck. Hell, I let him haunt me for two years before I paid my dues and got him outta my head.”
Henry saw his pitch rip past Shookie's face. It was so fast the fat man didn't even see it coming. “Well, now we're talking. How'd you feel about living in his head for a while?” Shookie tooted on the stogie, while holding out for the count. “Now, think about it for a minute. If you help pull him out the lion's mouth, he owes you. Wouldn't you want him to know what it's like having to look over his shoulder and every time somebody rings his bell unexpected, he gets the shakes hoping it ain't you coming to collect on the marker?”
“Ooh, shit!” howled Shookie. “Yeah, man, I like the sound of that. That's the best proposition I heard all year. Just make sure Baltimo' knows it was me who helped spring him. If he ain't buzzard bait by the weekend, I'll own his narrow yellow behind.”
Henry decided having a drink wasn't such a bad idea after all. He wouldn't be the first or last officer to take a nip while in uniform and on the clock. The shot of bourbon loosened the wheels just enough to ease the tension. It was hard concentrating on the information Shookie provided without kicking himself for being so far removed. And if it were divine intervention, subsequent to the fat man making good on his word, Henry was reminded of a debt he'd promise never to forget. Baltimore owned the marker on his life as well.
36
B
EFORE
D
AYBREAK
R
oberta hung damp clothes on the line in the backyard. When Henry came through the basement door, she was surprised to see him two hours earlier than he usually signed off his shift. “Hey, honey,” she greeted apprehensively. “I hadn't too long made it in from the school myself. Dinner's not ready yet, but you can find some cold cuts in the icebox if you can't wait.”
“That's all right, 'Berta,” Henry answered, fastening the last button on a dark colored short-sleeved shirt. “I'm a have to grab a bite on the run.” Roberta hadn't paid close attention to him up until then. There was a hitch in his voice, one she hadn't heard before and it scared her.
“Henry, you didn't lose your job, did you?” she asked, noting his relaxed attire during working hours.
“Naw, don't worry about that. I took sick time today.”
“Sick?” said Roberta, scanning her husband for visible ailments. “Honey, what's bothering you?”
“My conscience,” Henry replied quietly. “It's got me down, way down.”
“Smells like bourbon played a hand in it,” she huffed smartly, before returning to her laundry. “I guess now is when you'll tell me what you're doing home in the middle of the afternoon.”
“They's gone try to kill him, Roberta, Baltimo',” Henry informed her. “Some Klansmen done rolled in, from out of town I suspect, to help Barker Sinclair and Tasman Gillespie grab him up.” He watched a petrified expression wash over her face and thanked his stars she didn't try to stop him. “I'm rounding up some old partners to gum up the works, if we can. Please don't fret. I love you and I love Denny. And as God is my witness, I'm coming back to spend the rest of my life with y'all.” Roberta's lips trembled. There were so many things she wanted to say but couldn't come up with a single word. Instead, she nodded lightly and then threw her arms around his waist. Roberta's heart skipped a beat when he walked through the fence and into the place cowards dare not go, along the road paved with good intentions.
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 the 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.

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