Borrow Trouble (28 page)

Franchetta went back inside to help deprogram Daisy, but it was no use. Baltimore had reminded Daisy that she was a twenty-one-year-old who had a lot to offer a man, although she wouldn't be able to keep a good one on a leash when it came down to it because of her profession. She knew that whores had everything and nothing a man wanted, both at the same time. And, for the first time in her life, Daisy believed she was good enough to fall in love and have that man love her back. It just so happened that the way Baltimore made Franchetta feel had rubbed off on her somehow, and she liked the way it felt. For Daisy, the world wasn't depriving her any longer. It was she who had neglected to strike out and see what it had to offer, as an adult. In essence, Baltimore's arrival had ripped off the veil she'd used to cover her shame from childhood. Now she felt liberated and couldn't wait to live on the other side of that veil. Daisy couldn't wait to be loved like a woman was supposed to be.

B
altimore had walked four blocks before an empty taxi rolled by to carry him from place to place. He didn't know where to search for Henry, so he leaned against the backseat and told the man to drive. The first place he checked was Abel's Diner. The cabbie waited outside while he stepped in to investigate. As soon as Baltimore hit the door, there stood Hattie on her meaty legs. She hosted a mean leer to stare him down. He hadn't insulted her, not to her face at least, so the crooked demeanor she put on was lost on him.

“Hey, Hattie, how you been?” Baltimore asked apprehensively, behind his best manufactured grin.

“Oomph, I was a whole lot better before that lech'rous friend of yo'n come creeping up my skirt,” she answered, too loud, in fact, to be on the job.

“Is that so?” Baltimore grunted, not caring one way or the nother if it was.

“Hell, yeah, it is,” she hissed. “He ain't been around since the day before yesterday, and the no account stood me up last night. Had me wash my hair and set out my new dress, and for what? Ooh, I can't stand that lying scoundrel.”

Baltimore nodded his head like an empathetic friend who felt her disappointment down to his toes. “Sorry to hear that, Hattie. If you happen to see him, tell him I'm out and about on his heels.”

“You know what you can tell him for me?” she quipped rudely.

“I know,” he answered quickly. “I have him to call you.”

“Would you please, Baltimo'? Tell him to ring my phone right away,” she begged, all pretenses aside. “I think we had a good thing going.”

“I know, Hattie,” Baltimore replied as he hit the door, “I know.” He was embarrassed for her, but it wasn't anything he hadn't seen before. A woman nursing a love jones for a man who was finished with her was as prevalent as the common cold and just as difficult to get over.

At 5:17, Baltimore paid his fare and tipped the man. Uncle Chunk's wasn't due to get busy for another two hours, and that made it a good time to settle up with the owner for his hospitality. The front door was unlocked, so Baltimore didn't bother to knock. In the time it took his eyes to adjust from the sunlight to a darkened den and low florescent bulbs, a chunky mountain of a man appeared out of nowhere, wearing three yards of fabric tailored into a giant pair of dress slacks. Baltimore lurched backward when the big man raised his hand to scratch at his vastly receded hairline.

“Man, look at you all jumpy. Musta got hold to some good reefer,” Uncle Chunk teased. He knew that Baltimore never drank or smoked, because he felt the vices he did surrender to kept him busy enough already.

“Unca, how's tricks?” Baltimore offered, rubbing his eyes. “You behind on your light bill?”

“Ha-ha, if I had a dollar for every time I heard that lame ass joke…I got a good one for you, though,” Chunk said, as if it were a proposal as opposed to a riddle. “What do you call a fool with three hands in his pockets?”

Baltimore's gaze drifted toward the floor, as if the answer might have been written down there. “That's a stopper, alright. Three hands, huh?”

“Yeah, two of his own and one of hers,” the older man added, assuming the sad truth would slap Baltimore across the head. When it didn't happen fast enough, the proprietor nudged him over the edge. “I'd call it a sucker named Henry.”

Baltimore's eyes met with Chunk's dingy peepers. He reared back, objecting to what he heard. “Don't tell me you mean Henry's gotten himself latched to a barracuda?”

“You ain't no genius, but I will give you credit for your timing. Daddy Warbucks is still back yonder, with a lady's arm shoved so far down his pants, you'd think it sprouted a root.” While Baltimore contemplated the most courteous approach to attack his best friend's desperate situation, Chunk's belly started jiggling up and down.

“This ain't no laughing matter,” Baltimore asserted.

“I'm laughing at you 'cause yours ain't no better. A fella who goes by the name of Tipton came flying through here with his face all twisted up. Said how he was gonna get even with you for dipping into his honeypot,” Chunk informed him, delighting greatly in doing so. “Oh yeah. He was foaming at the mouth and making a big deal about ripping your head off and pissing down your neck…or something like that,” the wily old troublemaker added, to fan the flame.

“I ain't had the pleasure of meeting him yet, but I sho' am dog tired of him running my name down in the street,” said Baltimore, seething with disgust. He was beginning to foam up as well. “This Tipton, what can you tell me about the man, other than his flavor for slapping his woman around?”

“Not much more than his rep for being a hothead at times, his weakness for gambling, and a burning in his gut to kick yo' ass.” Uncle Chunk was laughing and jiggling again, although this time it wasn't any funnier than the last time.

“Here. Take this before I up and change my mind,” Baltimore warned. He slapped three hundred dollars smack in the middle of Chunk's grubby palm.

“Whuuut? If I'da known you was willing to pay me for poking fun at you, I would've been insult'n you from scratch.” Chuck looked at the money suspiciously and then eased it into his deep front pocket. “I don't wanna know what you had cooking in that back room if this here amounts to some of the crumbs. Henry's been tossing around bread all day long, and now you come in with your own bakery, too.”

“I'm just saying thanks for the use of your phone line. You did right by helping me, and I appreciate that. Now I need to do the same for the three-handed man.”

“And, what if he ain't in the mood for accepting your idea of help?” the wise sage countered, with a raised brow.

“He don't have a choice,” was Baltimore's answer, set in stone.

Near the rear exit, Henry lay across a pool table, with his pants unfastened at the waist. Baltimore heard him giggling up a storm, but he wasn't in the least bit amused. The suit Henry sported was a shiny green, satin three piece, with matching spats over his newly acquired dark-colored alligator shoes. Baltimore watched a woman's behind wiggle back and forth, but he couldn't see her face, because it was pressed against Henry's bare chest. And though Baltimore couldn't say for sure, the vast assortment of department store boxes piled on the nearby table affirmed his concerns.

“Henry Taylor, get your thick head off of that billiard table so I can talk to you!” Baltimore shouted like a man who had thrown both courtesy and caution to the wind. When his voice bounced off the walls, Henry snapped his head up and guided the woman away from him.

“Move now!” Henry growled. “Go on. Git! That's the pal I been telling you about. Hi ya there, Baltimo'. I've been meaning to look you up. Got busy, though, picking up some extras,” he explained further, with a broad wave of his hand to show off his wares.

Apprising the number of boxes heaped on one another, Baltimore was getting beside himself with anger. “Henry, don't make me ask you twice. I need to know every place you been and who you been flashing your money to.”

“Ain't that a rip,” Henry's fine brown frame spoke out on his behalf. “He's a grown man and don't have to answer to you.”

Henry staggered off of the table and gathered his long-sleeve shirt from the lamp shade in an effort to make himself look presentable. “Shuddup, Estelle!” he barked loudly. “Can't you see my friend is calling hisself, seeing after me?”

“You can't tell me to shuuudup!” she spat back. “Just 'cause you bought me a fur coat don't mean you can lead me around by the nose.”

“Not a fur coat, too?” Baltimore thought aloud. “Henry, are you trying to get us pinched? I told everybody, including you, to lay low and go easy on wide-open spending.” After his speech about drawing undue attention, Baltimore had expected to be on a northbound train before one of the boys made such a potentially grave mistake. “Do you still have my gun?” he asked impatiently. “I'm thinking of shooting myself right here on the spot.”

“Uh-huh, I still got it,” Henry confirmed, staring blankly at Baltimore. “You want it now?”

“Hell, yeah, I want it now, before you do something really dumb and have me coming after you. Henry, what were you thinking? Okay, you couldn't have been thinking, or you wouldn't have done what I said not to do.” Suddenly, a crisp chill brushed against the nape of Baltimore's neck.

“Which one of you is Baltimore Floyd?” a gruff voice fired from Baltimore's left side.

“That depends on who's asking,” Henry said rather soberly.

“So you're the low-down snake who's been sneaking around with my wife,” Tipton griped in Henry's direction, assuming he was the culprit, after speaking up.

Uncle Chunk pulled up a chair, with a tall can of beer and a bowl of popcorn. Baltimore had watched the previews from the sidelines long enough. “Nah, that ain't the man you're looking for,” he corrected Tipton, guessing the visitor had a weapon with him. “I'm Baltimore, but me and Macy, see, we didn't do no sneakin'. We did our business out in the open.” He purposely goaded her husband, noting his immediate reaction.

Tipton reached under his jacket and came out with a long saw-toothed knife with a bone handle. He held it up and assumed a fighting posture. “Let's see how you feel with this blade stuck down that big mouth of yours,” he threatened.

“Probably about the same as Macy did when I had my peter stuffed down hers,” Baltimore growled to hurry the party along. “She couldn't say nothing, you know, but I could tell she liked it 'cause I had to make her climb off so's I could get a nap.”

Henry motioned for Estelle to head over to the other side out of danger, with Uncle Chunk. She complied but kept a close eye, without even blinking once. “Baltimo', remember I still got that rod you lent me,” Henry said calmly as Tipton began moving in on his prey.

Baltimore backed closer to the pool table. “No, I'll handle this like a gentleman,” he objected. “Hey, Tipton, I've done some asking around about you. People say you're quite the duke with a pool cue.” When the knife-toting menace hesitated over being complimented, Baltimore knew how to get what he wanted without shooting him. “Say you're a bad loser, too.”

Step for step, Tipton circled the pool table, behind Baltimore. They were two men involved in a life-sized chess game. “I don't know of any man who cottons to losing, but what's that got to do with me slicing off both of yo' ears?”

Tension mounted as Baltimore allowed Tipton to draw nearer. “Nothing really. It's just that I've got five thousand dollars, and I'm willing to play you a game of eight ball for Macy, but no bitchin' when you lose your woman to me.” Baltimore had previously baited another man into a game he couldn't win and ridiculed him afterwards, when his initial goal was killing him in self-defense.

Henry knew about it and didn't want to see this one played out the same way. “Why on't you go on ahead and kill him now, Baltimo'!” he urged riotously. “Ain't no sense in fleecing this fella out of his wife beforehand. Plus, I need to get me something to eat, and I can't do that while you's in here fooling around with him.”

Tipton took his eyes off Baltimore to glare at the drunk making outrageous comments. “Fleece who? I'll take this chump's money, then carve my name in that pretty face of his.”

A scream rang out when Baltimore came crashing down on Tipton's arm with the heavy end of a pool stick. Estelle covered her eyes and hid her face when a bone popped out of Tipton's wrist. “Told you she was skittish, Henry,” Baltimore grumbled as he kicked Tipton's knife to the far side of the room. “Get me that claw hammer you took from over at Franchetta's,” he demanded. “I've been waiting on you to find me Tipton so's I can teach you what oughta happen to men who likes to hurt women.”

Henry returned quickly and waved the business end of the hammer to Baltimore. Tipton groveled on his knees, groaning and trying to push the fractured bone back into place as blood poured from the open wound. Uncle Chunk looked on attentively, chugging on his cold beer.

“Help me. I need a doctor!” Tipton bawled hysterically.

“Nah, you're gonna need more than that,” Baltimore replied sullenly. “You need a lesson in keeping your paws off of women, and I'ma help you with that.” He cocked his leg and rammed his shoe into Tipton's stomach. When the man rolled over, clutching at his belly, Baltimore held his good hand against the cement floor with his knee. Tipton wet his pants after the hammer smashed his outstretched fingers. A long stream of saliva poured from his lips while he hollered frantically.

“Shuddup!” shouted Henry. “Shuddup. It hurts my empty stomach to hear a man scream like that. Hit him again, Baltimo'. Maybe that'll quiet 'im some.” The hammer found its mark a second time amid bloodcurdling shrieks.

“Make him stop!” Estelle panted, as if she was about to vomit.

“Why on't you waltz over there with your new fur coat and make him stop yourself?” Chunk answered, belching crassly after making his declaration.

Baltimore was face-to-face with Tipton. “You get outta here, and if I ever hear of you running my name down in the streets or learn that you've gone back to taking up slapping on Macy, I won't be so nice the next time.”

Tipton stumbled mightily to his feet just as a loud shotgun blast exploded. He grimaced, bugged his eyes, and fell on the floor. Baltimore wore the same expression on his face when he looked at the smoking barrel in Uncle Chunk's hand.

“What'd you go and do that for, Chunk?” Baltimore asked, still somewhat shocked.

“I couldn't let him get out and tell people what happened to him here,” the owner replied rather casually. “I run a respectable joint. Besides, you give me three hundred dollars. He didn't. Now I've got to call my nephew to run by and pick him up. Lock the front door, Henry, so we can clean up this mess. Estelle, you and me need to talk.” The room was spinning as Chunk laid out how important it was that she forget what she'd seen, or the same just might happen to her. She cried until her eyes darn near puffed shut, but she came to make peace with it all eventually. A second fur coat helped out tremendously.