Ms. Etta's Fast House (6 page)

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Authors: Victor McGlothin

BOOK: Ms. Etta's Fast House
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The pool player bit into his bottom lip then eased up when he recognized what Baltimore was up to. Had he paid attention, he would have noticed someone spying his game from the upstairs deck. “I don't get riled up so easily but nice try,” he said with a light-hearted chuckle.
“How much you want me to take off your hands?” Baltimore asked rudely, to provoke the gambler. “I ain't got all night.”
The fellow accepted Baltimore's challenge and slithered his thin frame down off the shoeshine stand. He studied Baltimore, the tall good looking man with a big mouth and even more imposing confidence. “Let's say we shoot twenty bucks a rack—or is that too steep for you?”
“Actually I was thinking more like a hundred per rack?” After chalking one of the pool sticks delivered with the table, Baltimore pursed his lips then blew lightly at the tip of it. A tiny puff of blue chalk dust scattered into the air. Blinky, the teenaged shoeshine boy swallowed hard, because he'd witnessed Seersucker run every other competitor off the table and he wasn't easily impressed by Baltimore's swagger.
6
O
LD
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ABITS
D
IE
H
ARD
“
A
hundred it is then,” the gambler hissed, slipping off his summer suit coat. “Mind if I break 'em?” “That'd be all right with me, ‘long as I get to do the honors next time around.”
“So you's counting on contributing two hundred of yo' greenbacks? If that's the way you want it, that's the way it ought to be.” I'll be proud to knock some of that polish off your high-glossed self.”
Baltimore had promised himself to resign from pool hustling after having to kill a man, one night in Kansas City, after a fast game took a wrong turn. Baltimore had kept his vow to steer clear of pool tables until this one called out to him like a sultry siren's song. His hands trembled slightly as he unbuttoned his blazer, succumbing to his addiction of pool hustling, yet again.
Seersucker had taken chunks out of several hardworking men's take home pay and he'd heckled them harshly while doing it. The way Baltimore figured it, the time had come to even out a few things, so he pushed his hand into his front trouser pocket and came out with two quarters. “Blinky, you know my car?” The boy nodded his head then excitedly awaited instructions. “Go on and get what ever you find out of the trunk. Bring it to me and I'll have four bits for your trouble.”
Blinky had a speech impediment that caused him to speak in rapid, short, choppy sentences, sort of blinking his words instead of saying them. “Yeah-yeah. I'll-fetch-it. For-you. I'll-fetch-it.”
“Run along now and hurry back,” Baltimore prompted him. “Me and this man's got business to 'tend to.”
While his slick opponent fired the cue ball into the pack, Baltimore sat quietly and observed. Seersucker sank three balls and heckled at Baltimore's stupidity for raising the stakes. After making two more shots, he faltered. “I decided to let you play so you wouldn't feel left out, but don't go getting too comfortable.”
“Oh, you gon'
let
me play?” Baltimore studied the remaining setup on the table then quickly dropped four out of five balls in the same corner pocket. When he peered out the window, he saw that Blinky was crossing the street with what he'd been sent away to retrieve. Baltimore went out of his way to pass on an easy shot in order to set the table for his own defeat.
As planned, the slick stranger put the eight ball away to beat him solidly. In no time flat he was back to flapping his gums. “Sonny, it occurs you got in way over yo' head,” the man teased. He folded Baltimore's money in half then added it to the substantial wad he'd amassed from his other victims. “Now, I'ma hafta drown you.”
Baltimore unfastened his blazer and slipped it off his broad shoulders. He did likewise with his empty gun holster. The missing forty-five was harnessed to his shin. While reaching to hang his belongings on the coat rack, those same chilling memories he wanted to forget were staring him in the face again.
Baltimore couldn't help recalling how sorry he was for murdering a man after he'd fallen in love with his young wife. Baltimore had spent a whole afternoon talking him into a pool match, then goading him until he went and did something he couldn't apologize for. After losing his rent money, he'd taken two slugs in the chest before swinging his rusty ice pick once. The dead man's wife was a widow before his body hit the floor. Despite all the wrong Baltimore had committed in his lifetime, that was his only regret. He was the only man Baltimore had killed who he didn't believe deserved it or at least had it coming to him.
Moments later, Blinky brought in a thin alligator case to the back. “For. Another-two-bits. I-can get-all-this ... rrred-paint off'n this-here-fffine-case ... Mistah-Floyd.”
The expensive case, including its contents, were willed to Baltimore in a poker game outside of Cleveland, when the previous owner met his untimely demise after going up against a gun with a hair trigger. “That ain't no paint, boy, but never you mind. Go on and see Ms. Etta about a bite to eat,” Baltimore said. Blinky and Seersucker realized simultaneously what the large red stain was: blood.
With his jaw quaking, Blinky pocketed the two quarters and scampered out of sight. Seersucker lined up behind Baltimore. Grinning cautiously, he chalked his stick. “Floyd?” he said, with a stiff pause. “That wouldn't be the same Baltimo' Floyd what shot a man over a pretty little thing in Kansas City?”
“That man's pride killed him, I only officiated,” Baltimore replied calmly. “He died over a wager he couldn't pay and a lack of common sense.”
“Common sense, huh? Is that what they calling being full of piss and vinegar?”
“When a man's wife slips up and hollers out another fella's name, he ought to have the common sense to let it go and get himself another woman,” Baltimore rationalized evenly. Sweat began beading up on the southerner's forehead. He loosened his collar and then inched toward his coat but Baltimore stopped him. “Something wrong, Seersucker?”
“Naw, just remembering how I thought it was a shame when I heard about the killing is all.” He stared out of the window while a single thought ran laps in his head. “What about you, Mistah Floyd? Ever make a wager you couldn't satisfy?”
“You thinking of trying me?” was Baltimore's answer.
“I'd rather leave you alone and broke like you did that dead fella's wife.” The southerner stuffed all of his money into the side pocket directly in front of him. “If you can't match it, I'll play you for that prized coach of yours sitting out yonder.” He glanced out of the window again. “But you understand this. One of us is gon' leave this place tonight.” Without questioning which place the man was referring to, Baltimore pitched in both his car keys and the stack of bills he'd won off Barker Sinclair.
Seersucker studied Baltimore's every move now that twelve hundred dollars and a new car lay in the balance. He watched as Baltimore opened the fancy alligator box, whistled a slow melody, slapped his hands together and then stroked at his wavy black hair. Then Baltimore doused his hands with talcum powder he'd taken from the case. Those pretty-boy antics ruffled Seersucker. “You ready yet or you gonna prance around all night?”
With that said, Baltimore knew which place one of them would be leaving. “Naw, I'm done,” he said coarsely, taking two pieces of African ebony wood from the case. He glared at the man while screwing the top of one into the bottom of the other. He was not only prepared to rain harm down on Seersucker, he'd already decided it was justified. “Eight ball, corner pocket,” Baltimore called before the break.
“You crazy as a shit house rat for even thinking about trying that shot.”
“Well, you're half right,” Baltimore corrected him. He steadied his left hand on the table, cocked his right arm at the elbow then snapped his wrist forward. The cue ball crashed into the pack, scattering the other balls across the table. Blinky reappeared from underneath it. Seersucker's condescending smirk faded as the black eight ball rolled toward the corner pocket. Just like that, the eight ball fell, the game was over and the man's seven hundred dollars were gone.
Baltimore huffed. “Now, I'd appreciate it if you got the hell away from my money.”
“But, that's an impossible shot. Impossible!” the loser whined. “I don't know how but you cheated me, you rotten bastard!”
Infuriated, Baltimore marched toward him. Seersucker pulled a six-inch blade from his waistband. He jabbed at Baltimore twice before feeling the brunt of ebony wood smacking against his head just over the left eye. “I should end this right now but I'd hate to ruin all these good folks' evenings,” Baltimore barked. He told Blinky to keep watch over his cash and then he grabbed a handful of Seersucker by the collar. Tossing him out in the back alley with his skull cracked opened was doing him a favor. “If I see you again, I'ma shoot you on sight. Understand that!” As the man writhed on the ground in pain, Baltimore gathered himself and headed back inside.
After collecting his things, Baltimore dropped sixty dollars on the table where M.K. and Delbert were teetering on public intoxication. Ruth Anne and Belle were not far behind them. M.K. peered up with his eyes glazed over, a perplexed expression hung on his face. “Hey, y'all, it's Baltimo'. Boy, where you been? Keeping Dinah company is a lot of work and the kinda job I don't want.”
“Fellas, that ought to be enough wind to sail your ships right on into the dock, but I've gotta make some waves.” Baltimore extended his hand to Dinah, who frowned as if he'd held a dead fish in her face. “Dinah, we both know your mind ought to be good and changed by now.”
Slovenly Belle slapped her hand down on the table in protest. “And what's wrong with fine upstanding ladies like us?” she solicited, followed by a jolting hiccup.
“No disrespect. I have a great affection for fine, upstanding ladies such as yourselves, but I'm in the market for a woman who can keep up.”
“Dinah isn't going anywhere with you,” Ruth Anne cackled. “She already said she's opposed to joining up with harems. And another thing—”
“Don't you mind her,” Dinah protested in her own stead. “I was starting to think you'd gone and changed your mind about me.” She stood up to leave as Baltimore covered her shoulders with her mink stole.
“Meet me by the door, would you? I've got an itch I feel compelled to scratch,” he whispered, against the back of Dinah's neck. She cooed agreeably as Baltimore slipped out the back door. He glanced up the alley then down to the other end. When he saw Seersucker crawling around on his hands and knees, he reached for his palm-sized twenty-two caliber pistol from inside the alligator-skin case. Pop! Pop! Seersucker's body fell over against the cruddy pavement.
“I told you how it'd be if I saw you again and I told Lucinda's people I was sorry but they sent you anyway. Well, I'm all out of apologies now.” He had too many irons in the fire to be peeping over his shoulder due to some girl's family seeking retribution. That night at Ms. Etta's Fast House, Baltimore was fortunate. Next time around, it would walk right up and grab him by his throat.
7
A
LL
T
HAT
G
LITTERS
M
onday morning, while waiting on the streetcar, Delbert shook off the stale memories of his Sunday lunch date with Belle. She'd fallen asleep on him the night he walked her home from Etta's. She ate twice as much as he expected and almost more than he could afford. Delbert was actually looking forward to moving into the residence quarters at the hospital, considering that his pockets were as flat as day old beer.
M.K. read the sports page in the
St. Louis Comet
, the city's black newspaper and the only source that documented the existence of colored people's society events and other noteworthy stories. The white-owned dailies neglected to include events involving blacks unless they were disparaging or riddled with details stemming from crimes.
“Hey, M.K., why surgery?” Delbert asked, as if there was another part of the question he'd purposely left out.
Without taking his eyes off the morning paper, M.K. smiled softly. “You mean why subject myself to three years of blood and guts when I could take up another discipline and start a private practice in one?” He knew what Delbert was driving at because he'd asked himself the same question many times before. “I'm in it for the rush I get, same as you.” He glanced at Delbert to note his reaction. When Delbert frowned, M.K. folded the newspaper over his knee. “That is why you've come all this way, to train at Homer Gee, I mean?”
“Sometimes I don't really know,” Delbert admitted. “Seemed like the right thing to do. Book learning always came easy to me. I was too small for sports and my daddy had all of this mapped out by the time I was twelve years old.” Traces of a smile played around Delbert's lips. “‘You gon' be a doctor,' he'd say. ‘Not only that, a surgeon. That's the smartest kind of doctor. They got this hospital up there in Saint Louey where they train colored mens on surgery.'”
M.K. slapped Delbert on the back. “Well, looks like you made it, 'cause there's lots of surgery to be done around here. Once you've heard ole Hiram Knight's speech, you'll be glad you listened to your daddy.” “How's that?” Delbert questioned.
“You mean to tell me you haven't heard about the first day grilling Knight gives to every class of interns before he let's 'em see to the patients?” Delbert's expression was blank, not sure what to make of this supposed “talking to” from the chief administrator. “Bill, Ollie, Claude,” M.K. beckoned as three of the other residents walked out of the hotel with their luggage in hand. “Delbert here hasn't caught wind of Hiram Knight's fire and
tombstone
first day speech.”
“Sure, I've heard surgical grads mention it back home, but you're the only one who's actually faced it head on,” Bill replied. What he said was true. M.K. had been accepted in the program three years earlier but his number came up for the draft. He could have fought with the war department over his exempt status as a medical resident and been awarded a deferment, but going to war meant seeing surgical action up close and a lot of it. The eighteen months he spent operating alongside white doctors proved invaluable. M.K. assisted with several procedures that most non-military surgeons only read about in national journals months after the fact.
Ollie sat his bags down on the stoop. “What is this first day business, a stiff-necked orientation?”
M.K. threw the paper aside and hopped up from the bench. He clasped his hands behind his back then struck a pious pose before pacing back and forth on the sidewalk. The two remaining residents arrived just in time to catch the sideshow. “
You all sit down and learn something about the man's legacy you'll be honoring, as well as the inspiration behind his dream,
” M.K. instructed them, in a voice two octaves lower than his own. The fellas were amused by his antics as they listened attentively. “Now, I feel it's my humble responsibility to share a story with you, so that you might come to understand the magnitude of your calling. Young men, this is the first of the best days of your lives. What you will learn here, see here, and hear here ... take with you and abound vigilantly, blah ... blah ... blah ... so on and so forth. Homer G. Phillips, the man for whom this great institution was erected, was a determined individual and likewise you too shall become . . . as determined. And remember most importantly, that I am king!”
Delbert held back a chuckle out of respect for the famous surgeon M.K. was imitating while the others joined together in a band of unabated hooting. “You'll see,” he warned them, “that little man's got a way with words and he don't mind spending some of 'em on shaping us into finely-tuned surgical machines.” The streetcar arrived before M.K. enlightened his companions on Knight's passion for the institution in which he'd dedicated his life's work and the events that led up to building the colored hospital nine years before. Perhaps M.K. had forgotten the details surrounding the overwhelming need for an adequate medical facility to serve the Negro populace in a segregated city, where the infant mortality rate for colored babies more than doubled that of white ones. Perhaps he'd forgotten how colored infants were delivered in basements of white hospitals then placed in dresser drawers, shoeboxes, and egg crates as a standard practice while white ones had access to cribs, bassinettes and heated rooms merely two floors above. And perhaps, it had somehow slipped M.K.'s mind that countless men and women died without proper medical care when hospitals stopped accepting black patients once their basements reached full capacity. Whether he had forgotten or merely neglected to grasp its importance, the famed ‘first day grilling' he heard later that morning stayed with him for the rest of his life.
Residing on forty acres of prime real estate, Homer G. Phillips Hospital opened with 685 beds, performing 1200 births a year and 1500 surgeries, 700 of which were major. Homer Gee, as it was commonly called, was the pride of “The Ville” but not all of the blacks in St. Louis shared the same adoration. Patients often refused treatment from colored physicians in hopes of receiving attention from one of the white doctors visiting on behalf of the local university hospital, contributing their services a few hours a week. The situation was so incredibly skewed that a colored patient, who had survived a devastating automobile accident nearly went to his grave screaming, “Where all the white doctors at? I ain't gon' let one of these niggas kill me!” Fortunately, he collapsed in the emergency room and was subsequently saved by one of those Negro doctors he was so adamant against receiving treatment from.
As the streetcar slowed to a stop on North Whittier Street, butterflies danced a two-step in the pit of Delbert's stomach. After walking less than a block, he stopped dead in his tracks. No one had informed him that the hospital was a six-story magnificent buff-colored complex flaunting its art deco architecture, sprawled across an impressive emerald green lawn. Built in 1937, the jewel of black St. Louis cost over $1,000,000 and it was worth every penny.
When Ollie noticed Delbert's feet were glued to the pavement and his mouth hung open, he understood fully. “She sure is something, isn't she?” Ollie said as Delbert eyed the massive building with its measure of boldness and majesty rivaling a royal castle.
“My daddy won't believe this,” he whispered.
“If you make me late for the meet and greet with Hiram Knight, you gonna need your daddy to help get me off your ass,” Ollie jested, tugging on Delbert's sleeve. “Come on now, we've got a date with the Li'l General.”
Delbert brought up the rear as the group of new interns jaunted through the front entrance, turning the heads of patients, utility staff and nurses alike. The fine indigo marble beneath Delbert's feet shined brilliantly as he glided along the path made by the others, although he'd soon grow to despise the unyielding stone after treading miles over it each day.
“M.K., hold that elevator!” yelled Ollie, as the golden hued doors begun to close.
“Hurry up then,” M.K. hollered back. He stuck his bulky arm between them. “We're pushing it as it is.” Ollie shoved Delbert inside the elevator car, pressing his face against Bill's chest. “You may as well get used to close quarters, Tex. The resident's dorm isn't much bigger than this.”
When the doors opened on the sixth floor the herd stepped off, swinging luggage and anxiety to and fro, except for Delbert, who examined every inch of the white hallway like a New York tourist. Bill didn't have the heart to tell Delbert he'd left his travel bag on the elevator that descended toward the first floor. For the time being, Delbert was in the promised land and couldn't see any further than his bright future.
“Doctors, please store your luggage in this nurses' lounge, then fall in down the hall. Take the last room on the right,” a stern, petite, senior nurse with her uniform starched to the utmost perfection instructed. The blue and white striped dress, white hat, white short-sleeved shirt and stiff white collar under a white apron and matching bib were every bit as striking as any military-issue ensemble.
M.K. chuckled aloud. “Fall in, Nurse Robinson? I thought I'd quit the army?”
“Nice to see you again too, Dr. Phipps,” the nursing director sneered sarcastically. “You haven't been gone that long to forget how the line is toed around here.” Her assessment was correct, as always. Geraldine Robinson was responsible for running the nursing academy and seeing to it that interns respected the nurses' sharpness and professionalism. “The Director will be along shortly so don't get any ideas of wandering off,” Nurse Robinson warned. It wasn't any secret that young doctors spent a major part of their training plotting opportunities to wrinkle the nurses' uniforms, with the nurses still in them.
Twenty minutes later, a fair-skinned man with thinning black hair hastened into the room where the interns were twiddling their thumbs. He carried a clipboard in one hand and a rubber ball in the other, which he squeezed continually until he'd worked out what ever had him trapped in a pensive mood. The diminutive white-on-white starched cotton uniform he wore, buttoned up to his Adam's apple, could have doubled for a child's Halloween costume but that fact was lost on the other men who jumped to attention when they recognized him as the great Hiram Knight, in the flesh. “Right on schedule,” he stated boldly. “Gentlemen, if you wouldn't mind lining up so I can get a look at the finest class of promising interns on God's green earth.” The men quickly assembled shoulder to shoulder. “Dr. Marion Kennesaw Phipps,” Dr. Knight read aloud, from his clipboard. Although Ollie wanted to bust a gut over M.K.'s given name, he dared not make a sound. “I'm glad the good Lord saw fit to bring you back to us in one piece.”
“I am as well, sir,” M.K. answered, while holding in a scowl over his given name having being openly shared.
“Because you've seen more than your fair share of acute war injuries, the previous time you spent here has been reinstated. You'll work an abbreviated rotation for three months and then join the resident's program already in progress.”
“Thank you, sir,” beamed M.K.
“Don't thank me so fast. Remember, of whom much is given, also much is expected, sayeth the good book, which means I plan on working your ass like a Hebrew slave.” Noting the burly intern withheld his gratitude, the director glared up at him. “You're welcome.”
“Dr. William Browning?” he called next.
“Here, sir,” Bill answered sharply.
“Hell, I can see that. You're standing right in front of me,” Dr. Knight commented irritably. He was noticeably annoyed as he went back to his clipboard, bothered that Bill had stated the obvious; the one thing that the seasoned surgeon despised most. He couldn't stand having his valuable time wasted. After he'd called everyone's name but Delbert's, Dr. Knight searched the floors from wall to wall. On cue, Nurse Robinson sauntered through the doorway carrying a brown leather bag. She placed it at the administrator's feet then exited as suddenly as she had appeared. “Ah, yes, Dr. Delbert Gales,” Knight sighed as if he was severely displeased.
A lump about the size of Texas formed in Delbert's narrow throat. “Sir?” he managed to say, eventually.
“How do you plan on dazzling us with your talents when you can't remember to hold on to your drawers?”
At a loss for words, Delbert expressed his confusion. “Sir?” was the only thing that came out of his mouth.
Knight looked Delbert up and down in a curiously manner. “You do wear drawers, don't you, Dr. Gales?”
“Well, yes, sir?”
“And we're all the better for it, son. I'll chalk this up to your exuberance to get started, although forgetfulness will not be tolerated from any of you. Nor will my patience suffer your incompetence, lack of sleep, stubbornness, thickheadedness, lewdness, drunkenness or whiny half-baked excuses. Technical errors are inevitable but only acceptable in minimal quantities. However, failure to acknowledge those errors is immoral.” Dr. Knight had the complete attention of each man standing in that room and the one woman listening closely just outside the door. Nurse Robinson hadn't missed out on one “first day” grilling in over eight years and she wasn't about to miss this one either. “Furthermore, Knight continued, “you have all taken the Hippocratic Oath and you will live up to it. ‘First, do no harm,' gentlemen. Do no harm. There are six hundred and eighty-five beds generally filled with six hundred and eighty-five patients under my care. Those are my patients, entrusted to me. I'm only allowing you to administer your knowledge and efforts to heal them.” Dr. Knight laid his clipboard on a small brown table behind him then he wiped his brow with a crisp handkerchief. His countenance was more deliberate than before.

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