Read Ms. Etta's Fast House Online
Authors: Victor McGlothin
Ms. Etta's Fast House (29 page)
“Was that the same day he got pinched with the white girl?” Pudge asked, nearly apologizing for making her envision Baltimore with yet another woman. Again she nodded, sadly indicating it was. “Why'ont you tell us what you remember?” Pudge pressed, eager to get to the truth.
“I was getting to that,” Marla panted, not wanting to be rushed. “Well, then a white lady showed up, telling him to run the colored one off. That didn't go over like the white lady wanted, so she hung around. I missed some of what happened after that because my customer went to getting a little excited, you know, right about then.” Marla walked toward the kitchenette and poured herself a glass of water. “The colored girl must've left 'cause I didn't hear her no more. Baltimore was alone with the white one in there. They were arguing over money, it sounded to me. He tried to throw her out! Then all hell broke loose. She was knocking about and hollering but not the way you'd think. It was like she got madder over being told to leave than she was about whatever money stood between them. It's strange though, how that white woman didn't say two words in Baltimore's stead when the police crashed in on their disagreement. They the ones hollering rape, not her, then again she wasn't saying no different.”
Pudge took copious notes as he followed Marla's story line by line. “Anything else?” he asked, sensing she was reluctantly holding something back.
“Nah, that's all of it,” she concluded, as if a heavy burden had been lifted from her shoulders. “I wish I could do more.”
After being silent long enough, Dank cleared his throat. “You wouldn't mind telling your story to the judge at the trial, would you?”
“Mistah, that's too far to fall,” she answered. “I know Baltimore's in a jam, but they want me back in Mississippi for killing my no-good husband over an affair I had with his brother. If I get looked at too hard by the police, they liable to ship me off to pay the debt I owe. This ain't Park Avenue, but I get a little money from my ex brother-in-law who was around a lot. It ain't much but it helps me out some.” Her story was one of many colored women during that time. She craved to be something other than what she'd been. Born to sharecropping parents and married by age sixteen left lots of room to spread her wings. Adopting the name of her best friend back home, hustling tricks and slaving at the nearest five-and-dime store wasn't what she had in mind, but it was better than prison. Anything was better than that, even wearing another woman's name and never going home again.
Next on the men's list was a man called Pete Larson. He was rumored to sell underground skin magazines to sex degenerates who liked young boys. Larson wouldn't get the good cop routine awarded to Marla Speeks. He ranked at the very bottom of the criminal gene pool and was treated as such. Pete answered the door like a dangerous thug but the visitors saw something else deep inside of him at first glance, a scared little man acting tough to ward off bigger predators. He had to be convinced by Dank's rock-hard fists that he wasn't as tight-lipped and obstinate as he initially thought. A couple of stiff blows on the jaw had him singing like Lena Horne. Pete Larson agreed to offer the same tune in court if he had to, as long as Dank stayed away from his apartment.
Pudge waited another hour before Abigail Langtree decided to find her way home. She was an old prickly woman, fencing stolen department store goods out of a building two blocks away. The old woman said, “I don't care what y'all have on me, it ain't going to get me to doing nothing to help that triflin' niggah after dipping and doodling with that white gal. Anyways, he got what he deserved for bringing that white heffa in a colored-only lodging house where she didn't have no business. Those cops should've beat on his black ass like an army mule!” Abigail Langtree was still barking vehemently at Pudge, when Dank exited Marla's door fastening his belt. He'd felt sorry for her, enough to leave two months' rent on the dresser. He dropped twenty-four dollars in advance. It was one thing for a man to say he was sorry and another to prove it.
“Well, you heard that old biddy,” Pudge vented. “She wouldn't give a flying flip and it don't matter what we held against her.”
“Yeah, I got that. We have that dirty picture peddler, Larson, sewed up. Sad thing about Marla though.”
Pudge glanced over at Marla's door, “Yeah, she's had it harder than some,” he said in a weary voice.
“Nah, I meant it's sad to know Baltimore passed on that. She rides like a Cadillac and spins like a top. I done put a few bucks down on the cow and I'm coming back for the milk. Whew! I need a cigarette.”
Annoyed that Dank made the best of a bad situation and he couldn't, Pudge retaliated. “What you need is to wash the smell of that lady's tail off your face, twice.”
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hree days had passed since Pudge and Dank's investigative maneuvers. Pete Larson conveniently got the notion to leave town, trying to avoid working with Baltimore's defense team. Courtrooms made him antsy and he was already as jumpy as a pregnant toad due to the underground operation he ran. There was money in child pornography, and a lot of it. He'd decided to hoof it with all of the inventory stored in his luggage. When Dank snatched him up by the collar and dragged him back up to his apartment, Pete fell on his knees and begged for his life. Dank took his collection of photos instead then warned him that begging wouldn't save him if he tried to skip out again. Pete sat in the middle of his floor and cried like a baby when Dank left with his working inventory underneath his arms. He'd have been even more heartbroken after testifying because that suitcase and every photo in it were torched as soon as Pudge learned of their existence. Afterwards he spat on the ashes. Robbers, bandits and the like, those who made their money by taking from other men, were typically more tolerant than others who exploited people for profit. However, very few were willing to do business with kiddie flesh peddlers. If they didn't need Pete Larson's song and dance to help sway the jury, he'd have been dead and done away with already.
hree days had passed since Pudge and Dank's investigative maneuvers. Pete Larson conveniently got the notion to leave town, trying to avoid working with Baltimore's defense team. Courtrooms made him antsy and he was already as jumpy as a pregnant toad due to the underground operation he ran. There was money in child pornography, and a lot of it. He'd decided to hoof it with all of the inventory stored in his luggage. When Dank snatched him up by the collar and dragged him back up to his apartment, Pete fell on his knees and begged for his life. Dank took his collection of photos instead then warned him that begging wouldn't save him if he tried to skip out again. Pete sat in the middle of his floor and cried like a baby when Dank left with his working inventory underneath his arms. He'd have been even more heartbroken after testifying because that suitcase and every photo in it were torched as soon as Pudge learned of their existence. Afterwards he spat on the ashes. Robbers, bandits and the like, those who made their money by taking from other men, were typically more tolerant than others who exploited people for profit. However, very few were willing to do business with kiddie flesh peddlers. If they didn't need Pete Larson's song and dance to help sway the jury, he'd have been dead and done away with already.
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Henry kept his mouth shut while spending his first full week as a police officer. Tasman Gillespie was up to his old tricks, running drugs with Barker, shaking down nightclub owners and slapping around pushers when the mood struck them. Henry had no idea where Barker came up with an additional supply of heroin so fast. Since Baltimore admitted hijacking the cargo from under his nose and fencing it, Henry could only deduce that Barker was forced to purchase his own drugs back at a hefty markup or lose his business altogether. Unfortunately, being forced to do anything he'd rather not made him extremely coarse. Having to pay Schmitty Rosenberg top price to stay in the game made him mad. Henry observed silently, made mental notes about the addresses of drug houses, drop locations and the place Barker stashed the goods.
As soon as Baltimore's trial ended, Henry was going to ask for a transfer and a new partner. It was one thing to know what was going on but too much to stomach when seeing it up close. He drove home one day thinking how difficult it was being on the right side of the law when lawmen were doing most of the wrong. Henry had a lot of animosity building inside of him. He was beginning to tire and fray at the edges, something he hated to admit, even to himself.
With one week remaining before Baltimore learned his fate, Henry had constructed a hedge around his life and family. Rarely did he leave the house after returning from work and he didn't allow Roberta on the porch after nightfall. Henry felt the world around him was shrinking into a dangerously poisonous pill dancing on the tip of his tongue and he couldn't stand the taste of it. Fear seeped into his heart, fear that he'd likely one day take too deep a breath and swallow that pill. Roberta had begun to watch him carefully. She'd heard of white policemen who didn't take to the pressures of protecting the public successfully. Most were removed from the department because of long-term drunkenness, while others ended it all by splattering their brains on bathroom walls. Roberta prayed all the time, hoping that Henry would come back to her after he left for work. Her son Denny, all of five years old now, prayed as well. Unsure what brought on her panicked expressions and silent babblings, the boy prayed his mother wouldn't need to pray as often going forward.
Two days later, Henry sat on his bed with his head in his hands. Roberta called his name. He heard her clearly enough but didn't respond right away. The next time she summoned him from the bedroom doorway, he was caught off guard. Startled, Henry pulled a pistol from underneath a pillow and aimed it at her. “Wait, Henry!” she cried. “It's me, honey, Roberta.”
Acknowledging his wife finally, Henry blinked his eyes rapidly as if coming out of a trance. “Huh, oh ... oh,” he stuttered, now staring into the face of a woman terrified of what her husband had become, a rabbit among wolves. He was afraid, of what exactly she didn't know, but the man she married was overcome by something he was hiding.
“Uh ... I'm sorry, Henry,” she uttered stoically once he'd lowered the gun to his side. “I hollered for you but there wasn't an answer so I came to see what kept you.”
“I'm the one who needs to apologize. Things gots me so agitated I almost shot my own wife. Forgive me?” he asked, with pleading eyes.
“Sure, baby, I know you didn't mean to hurt me. It's just that I came to tell you there's a white man at the door,” Roberta said, as an afterthought.
“A white man?” Henry grumbled, with the weapon poised in his thick fingers.
“Yeah, it's your friend from the academy,” she answered, as if he only had one of them. “The fella who helped the colored men get a fair shake.”
“Clay,” he replied, almost chuckling. Due to his embattled soul, Henry had all but forgotten how much he had respected Clay Sinclair. His presence was welcome come hell or high water, but an unannounced visit after dark put him on the ropes.
With a loaded thirty-eight revolver stuffed in the waistband underneath his shirt, Henry peered out of the screen door before opening it. “You alone, Clay?” he asked, wisely looking for signs of a set-up.
“Yeah, Henry, and I didn't expect to show up here anymore than you did.” Clay affirmed slowly.
“Come on in, then,” Henry offered. “I'm glad to see you. Sorry Roberta had you standing out there like a stranger, but things being what they isâ”
“Save it, I understand,” Clay answered quickly. He followed Henry into the small living room area, quickly noticing the impressive furniture filling the room. “Nice digs, Henry. Maybe you've found a way to make a little extra on the day shift,” Clay said, questioning if he'd taken money for keeping quiet about Barker and Gillespie's drug distribution ring.
“Naw, all of this stuff is being paid off the old-fashioned way, slow, a few nickels at a time.”
“Glad to hear it,” the night caller responded, genuinely relieved. “I didn't risk my job and pension just so's you could hop the fence for some extra ... nickels.”
Henry eased back into a relaxed stance then. “You didn't go wrong with me,” he answered, although he was growing quite interested as to why Clay was paying him a visit. “I'm liable to be paying on these front room fixings when you start drawing on your pension, but that ain't why you're here.”
“No, it's not, and if Barker knew about this, he'd have my head. Truth be told, it's the soft spot I have in my heart for people getting dealt from the bottom of the deck. Guess I never could stand seeing any man being shafted, regardless of what his skin looks like.” He noticed Henry's wrinkled brow. There was a tough question in his head trying to tunnel out.
“Uh-huh,” was Henry's way of asking for more information without actually having to admit being lost in the conversation.
“Well, it's like this,” Clay began, after Henry nibbled on the bait, “I know my brother pretty well and I also know his wife. Now, Dixie ain't all bad, but she ain't no saint neither. For one, she's high strung and kinda greedy when you get right down to it.”
Henry was totally turned around then. Again he stalled, waiting for something he could sink his teeth into. “You don't say,” was his way of getting another taste.
“What I'm really trying to say is, that sister'n-law of mine is very likely to have been with Baltimore and for more reasons than you can shake a stick at. She sold him out, though, to save face. I'm sure of that. He should have seen it coming. A man like him should have known that a white woman and a colored man don't ever see eye to eye, once they got white men with guns staring down on them. I know you and him had always been close until you hooked up with us.” When Henry's mouth opened, Clay laughed. “If you think this town can hold in a secret, you'd be sadly mistaken. I heard about y'alls' falling out, it had to happen, you're on two different sides now. I also heard some other things. The prosecutor is going after Baltimore hard, soon as he can. That district attorney wants a conviction and a fast hanging so he can run for mayor in the next election. If your buddy loses, D.A. Winston wins in a landslide, guaranteed.” Clay had a lot more to say, but didn't. He wanted to see how Henry would react to the free meal he'd served up on a silver platter.
“O.K., that's an awful lot to chew on, Clay. But, I don't know what you intend on me doing about any of it.”
“Let's just put it like this, if it was my best friend facing a rigged jury and a known hanging judge, I'd sure as hell come up with something.” As Clay shook hands with Henry on the way out, he turned toward Henry and whispered. “Don't look now but the same car has been idling up the street for some time now. Watch yourself, Henry.”
“Yeah, I'm grateful to you, Clay. Thanks again.” Henry's chest heaved a heavy sigh after such an unusual encounter. He stepped out onto the porch as his friend drove away. The minute Henry remembered being told about the car idling suspiciously nearby, he turned in that direction, entertaining the idea of an investigation.
Roberta stood on the other side of the screen door. “Are you going to be all right?” she asked, having overheard every word.
“You tell me,” he said, as an attractive woman strolled up the walkway with a stylist black leather handbag dangling from her wrist.
Etta didn't have time to second guess her difficult decision to swallow every ounce of pride she had and go to Henry for help. She felt twice as small as a flea, standing there on the cement path leading to Henry's home, with his woman and family inside. It took all that she could muster to raise her head and face Henry and Roberta's stunned expressions. “Evening,” she said finally, forcing the word out like a ten pound newborn baby. “I wouldn't have come here if it wasn't the absolute last place ...” Etta started to say. When her head fell forward it appeared she'd sufficiently overstayed her welcome already. Something way down in her core stopped her from aborting her mission. She wouldn't leave unless being told by Henry to go. But surprising all of them was Roberta's voice telling Etta it was okay to stay.
After marching up four steps to reach the door, Etta's legs were burning like she'd hiked Mt. Everest. Henry hadn't said two words to her and he wondered if it was smart to offer any at all. She smelled pretty, he thought to himself, but Etta went through great lengths to dress down. Her skirt was uncharacteristically long and pleated. The sweater she had pulled over her cotton blouse was buttoned above her breasts. Etta didn't intend on competing for Henry's affections and she didn't want Roberta to think that she was.
Etta eased off her lacy black evening gloves and then crossed over an unfamiliar threshold and into a married ex-lover's home. She surveyed the furniture in the same way Clay had earlier and in the manner Baltimore did before him. “Nice taste your ... Roberta has. This is a lovely place.” Etta was disappointed in herself. She'd planned on paying homage to Henry's wife, but couldn't manage to execute it the way she'd practiced while sitting in the car waiting on the white cop to complete his business first. “Whew, believe me, Henry, I don't like being here any more than you do.”
“I believe you,” he answered in earnest, as he struggled feverishly to avoid eye contact. “It's better you go on ahead and get off your chest what it is that's got you standing there staring a hole in my floor.”
“Perhaps you're right,” she agreed wholeheartedly. “I know you been down to the jail to see about Baltimore,” Etta said nervously, her voice soft and unsteady.
“Soon as I stepped in, he went off on me like I was the one who put him away all broken up and bandaged. He didn't give me the respect you'd give a dog. Even fixed his mouth to call me a dog catcher and worse,” he confided scornfully.
Having had her share of bouts with Henry as of late, Etta gulped her remorse. “I'm sure you saw how Baltimore ain't at his best, so I'm asking you not to be sore at him. He's fighting back the only way a man in his position knows how. He's biting everything close to him. Especially those he loves and don't want to see getting hurt because of something he done.”
After hearing her speak about Baltimore, it was his turn to be honest. “Jo Etta, despite what kind of fool he thinks I am for wanting something better for myself than what I had traveling around on a lark, I ain't sore at him. I feel sorry for him.”
“Don't do that,” she objected passionately, as Penny had at the attorney's office when she made the same error in judgment. “He can't use no pity, not from any of us who know him better than to think he could ever be guilty of what they said. Your mind appears to be made. Maybe if I'd had more practice putting my thoughts together, I'd be able to change it. Butâ”
“Now don't you go doing that,” he reprimanded her sharply. “Baltimo' was like a brother. Him and me were two of a kind ... once. There was a time I would have followed him to the ends of the earth and back again, and all he had to do was ask. The scrapes we staggered up against and walked away clean from would have been the end of most men, white or colored,” he reminisced fondly. “It seems that you and him are picking up where you and me left off. Don't try to deny it,” Henry warned when Etta opened her mouth to refute his claims about falling for Baltimore. “You wasn't ever any good at it.”
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