Ms. Etta's Fast House Read online

  “I dont know, Shook, you gave that up kinda easy. If he’s the one with the Chi-town connects, why’d you sell him out?”

  “‘Cause I don’t like him and I’m tired of staying up nights waiting on you to show yo’ ugly face. In two years, I haven’t slept one decent wink during all those nights put together. You got what you came for now you can leave. I’m going to bed,” Shookie declared, marching off. “That white man’s gone kill you, Baltimo’, and I don’t even care, ’cause we’s even,” he yelled from the staircase. “See him to the door somebody and scrape that dead man off of my floor. I’ma sleep for three days.”

  Baltimore didn’t have to get Barker’s address from Shookie, he’d already seen the man’s house and his wife strutting around in the backyard starving for attention. After a brief stop by the Red Lantern, an exclusively whites-only bar and grill, Baltimore decided to head over and give her some. Barker was wrist-deep in some blonde’s cleavage and looked to have a good chance at striking gold when Baltimore peeked in through the restaurant window. Soon after, someone was tapping on Barker’s back door.

  Dixie Sinclair was sipping from a martini glass in the den when she heard a noise coming from the kitchen. When she went to investigate, Baltimore knocked again. As he stood on the back porch, she recognized him right off through the paned glass. A moment after deciding what to do, she unlocked the door and stepped away slowly. The white woman with shoulder length brunette hair, a slim face and pleasant features never took her eyes from his when he casually strolled in. Dixie pulled down the kitchen window shades so the neighbors couldn’t see inside. “How’d you find me?” she asked, as nervous as a sixteen-year-old alone with her first boyfriend. “That day, you came by to speak with our yard boy. How’d you find me?”

  “Jinx isn’t a boy,” he corrected her, “and stumbling over you was an accident,” Baltimore added softly, to calm her worries. “I didn’t know until I saw you out back that you lived here.”

  Dixie’s eyes sparkled, the slight apprehensions she had all but evaporated. It was hard to dismiss, she liked what she saw, a man unafraid of her husband and his ruthless friends. She could have lied about it but she’d have only been fooling herself. Baltimore was exactly what she needed, a welcome diversion from her unexciting life. “You coming here tonight, this isn’t an accident, is it?” she asked lightly.

  “No, no, it isn’t. And it won’t be an accident tomorrow when you stop on by my place to see me.” Baltimore told Dixie where to find him and to call before she came. The married woman listened to him, as she did in the beginning, while agreeing to keep their affair under wraps. In turn Baltimore spent many lustful nights listening to her divulge specifics about her husband’s shady business dealings. He could easily envision carving out a huge payday using the information she relinquished during sweaty pillow talk episodes. What he couldn’t see coming but should have were the troublesome things destined to get out of hand and spin sideways in a hurry.

  17

  BARBEQUE AND BEER

  Each of the colored cadets promised to ride the training program until the wheels came off. During the week, Henry and the boys sat for one arduous test after another. All of the OIT (Officers In Training) were tired and worn from late night studying and the grueling combat exercises on the following morning. It was a vicious cycle, one that provided men like that overstuffed scoundrel Brandish an open range to sabotage the system. One Thursday, he met with his cronies who couldn’t stand seeing the colored trainees compete successfully with the white ones, so they rigged the exam. When Trace Wiggins was asked to hand out the testing folders, he noticed there were two different types pre-assigned. It seemed peculiar that the set with white cadets’ names penciled on them were taken from standard department issued booklets, while the others were done on an office typewriter and not professionally at that.

  “Uh, Officer Sinclair,” he summoned, in the middle of passing them out. “It seems we have a problem with this examination.” Clay folded his newspaper in half and laid it on his desk at the head of the classroom.

  “Well, let’s have a look at those,” he suggested, knowingly. At a glance he could see what someone was up to. “You are correct once again cadet Wiggins. First of all, they sent up the wrong tests. These all have pages missing,” Clay joked, while tearing several pages from each folder. “I’ll have to administer it orally. Please have a seat and get your pencils ready.” He winked at Trace, placed the shredded pieces of paper on his desk and then cast a grin toward the window cutout in the door where he knew Brandish would be spying. Sure enough the bigot was present, accounted for, and foiled again. It stung Brandish even more when the oral test scores turned out to be the highest thus far. He should have given up then, but he had one more trick up his sleeve.

  Two days later, the men were scheduled for marksmanship trials at the shooting range. Each of them had to qualify by scoring well enough on stationary silhouettes in order to carry a weapon. It didn’t take long to discover four revolvers had the sites offset with a filing tool. None of the colored men hit a single target within the first round. Clay couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong until he tried to score with one of the guns which had been tampered with. “From now on, we will use only the weapons I select randomly at the beginning of target practice,” Clay announced during a lunch break, and loud enough to be overheard by other veteran policemen. “This program will graduate colored officers or the chief will be forced to fire those responsible,” he added, to deter any further strategies aimed at sabotaging the colored men.

  Brandish and his goons smirked when they heard his rants, dismissing them as idle warnings from a man they still thought of as Barker’s kid brother. Clay was on the wrong side of the fence as far as they were concerned, and they wanted to knock him down a peg by damaging his credibility. What they didn’t know was the police chief had employed a mole gathering information to ruin theirs. It was time for an historic change in the St. Louis Metropolitan Police Department and the chief wanted it to be on his watch right alongside the deputy mayor. No backwoods paper-pushing cops were going to stand in the way of those men getting their names into history books, no matter what he personally thought of the colored and what they were entitled to.

  Later that weekend, West Coast blues singer Aaron “T-Bone” Walker crooned smoothly through an amplified speaker placed in the window facing Henry’s backyard. Barbeque and Beer, is what the foursome called their weekly Friday evening cop-n-squat where they’d settle down around a card table to eat, drink and share experiences from the prior week’s training detail. P.J., with motor oil underneath his fingernails, stopped by for a rib plate, as Roberta served potato salad and baked beans to the boys out back. Barbeque and Beer provided a casual avenue to blow off steam while they learned to trust and appreciate one another during their internal struggles and the city’s growing pains.

  With less than two weeks left on their training schedule, everyone was getting antsy. Trace Wiggins had the highest IQ of anyone at the academy in the past ten years, but he was starting to rethink this potentially dangerous vocation involving hand cuffs and nightsticks. His heart was no longer in it but he was determined to see it through to the end.

  Smiley Tennyson was so tired of being called boy; he hated that word above all others, including nigger. Around the training facility it was “Hey, boy, what you think you’re gonna do when the bad guys start shooting back” or ‘Hey, boy, you ain’t got no business in that uniform so you might as well go on back to your mammy.” So many officers made special trips to the academy to heckle the colored cadets, the chief submitted an edict barring all non-training personnel from entering the campus until further notice.

  Willie B. Bernard didn’t have a problem handling the political pressures or spending his days playing the game they instituted. His concerns went much deeper. Roll call always seemed to offer a new challenge and surprise. The week before, someone stole his navy police-issued dress shirt, then his wooden bato
n came up missing, earning him another demerit, and lastly someone went a great distance to get him tossed out by stealing the Smith & Wesson revolver he was responsible for. It wasn’t until Clay Barker threatened to expose all of the thefts plaguing the colored cadets to the chief that the shenanigans stopped immediately.

  “Funny how Brandish’s flunkies cut out busting in our lockers,” Willie B. chuckled, from the other side of a half-empty beer can. “I thought they’d drum me out for sure when my revolver came up missing from my hutch. All’s I could think of was my pops telling me ‘I told you they didn’t want no colored policemen, I told you, Willie B,’” he mimicked. “‘Now, a colored mortician’s got a place in society. A damned good place, yuck-yuck-yuck.’”

  “Yeah, that sounds just like old man Bernard,” Smiley joked. “‘And another thing, Willie B., git yo’ ass up to the cemetery and git to diggin’. Yuck-yuck-yuck,’” he added, using the same voice Willie B. had. “Huh, ’least your pops is still talking to you. My old man ain’t said two words since I signed up with the department, except for ‘What the hell y’all doing in the newspaper in your drawers? ’”

  Trace sat across from Henry, shaking his head and still as embarrassed as the day they hit the Post-Dispatch front page topless and darn near bottomless too. “Could we talk about something else? I’ve put my past behind me,” he said, blowing a stream of cigarette smoke into the warm evening air. Smiley was working on a stack of ribs and almost choked while going after Trace.

  “Yeah, but the white paper done went and put your behind on the top of page one.”

  P.J. sucked barbeque sauce from his greasy fingers. He’d listened to their stories and was actually relieved that he didn’t meet the height requirements. He had subsequently took a position in the department’s automotive unit, although he experienced hardships as well. “You want to talk about showing your ass. Them white boys in the motor pool ain’t no cakewalk. Better than a week ago, I went to get a nip from my coffee thermos and I’ll be damned if they didn’t put a dead rat in it. I couldn’t wait ’til quitting time, because my cousin Lucille stays over at the gov’ment projects on Fifty Third. That evening, I collected a shoebox full of roaches from there, and I’m talking about them great big old flying demons. The next morning I let them loose in the lunch cabinet at the job. Them roaches was the onliest ones who ate lunch that day but I was full off revenge.”

  Henry laughed the hardest, but what kept him up nights boiling over wasn’t funny at all. He sipped on the RC Cola that Roberta suggested he trade in after three cans of brew. “Hey, fellas, I didn’t want to say anything at first, but the more I think about it the madder I get all over again.” Now that he had everyone’s attention, getting to the heart of the matter was more difficult than he would have guessed. “We all know how Clay Sinclair is with us every step of the way, but that rotten brother of his ain’t nothing but a foul-hearted crook. The first day of ride-alongs I was partnered up with that lying buzzard Tasman Gillespie. As far as dirty cops go, he’s one of the worst. Told me he would make false allegations to have me booted out if I let on to anybody what I saw.”

  “What did you see?” asked Trace, leaning in.

  “We stopped at this apartment building on North Market. Gillespie hollered for me to stay in the car when I went to follow after him. There wasn’t a call on the car radio, so’s I figured he must’ve been meeting a chippie or something to past the time. But then Barker’s car rolled up and parked in the front. They’s in the building for a few minutes until a colored man comes running out screaming and bleeding from his mouth. Barker grabbed him up and then stomped him into the ground. He said, for holding out on him.”

  No one blinked when Henry paused to catch his breath. “I wanted to jump out of that patrol car and help the man, but that chump Gillespie got his licks in and gave me the evil eye. Hell, I knew what that meant, so’s I sat on my hands and looked the other way. Boys, I ain’t never been so ashamed in all my life. I’ve seen Barker a couple of other times too, up to no good each one of them. He was parked up on the hill at Shookie Bush’s just yesterday. He come out all causal like with a burlap sack dangling by his side, you know, in a way that looked suspicious, sorta like he was trying to hide it. I always heard of dirty cops and drug pushers throwing in together but I didn’t want to believe it. Don’t seem to matter who I ride with, Barker Sinclair is always around with me while I’m stuck in the patrol car sitting on my hands. Clear as I can tell, don’t nothing happen in “The Ville” unless he’s benefiting from it.”

  “I figured that I was the onliest one seeing the bad side of the blue wall,” Smiley said, with disgrace covering his voice as well. “What a fine pickle we got ourselves into. The biggest criminals there is got guns and badges to back them up. Ain’t nobody gone do nothing to sway them, especially not some colored cadets they’d just as soon shoot and claim a robber did it. Most of the veterans carry a second gun they use for that kinda thing, when they don’t want the mess to get on them. I got enough trouble trying to keep my body off a slab at the Bernard Mortuary. Dead men tell no tales. And believe me, I’m shutting the hell up.”

  Willie B. bit into his bottom lip and exhaled slowly. Out of nowhere, a single tear crawled from his eye. “After all we’s going through and been put through, I think Helen’s tipping out on me. She’s likely to be getting it on with one of them doctors at Homer Gee. Policeman ain’t good enough for her, I guess.”

  Henry put his can down and frowned at his friend’s accusation. “Ah, man, scratch that. Helen is true as the day is long. She’s probably just putting in more hours so she can move up and get in deep over there. Don’t let this police business mess up nothing between you and that good woman.”

  “Yeah, Henry’s right,” Trace asserted. “This is just a job, they come and go, but a woman like yours is forever. After putting up with your janky ways for the better part of five years, she ain’t fit for nobody else.”

  “I’m glad y’all see it that way, because I’ma kill the sonabitch who’s jooking Helen when I find out. I ain’t looking to share that good woman I got,” he chuckled in a sinister manner. “And if I catch her spreading her legs away from home, I’ma kill her too.” Willie’s mean streaks and fearlessness were legendary. He’d once stared down the muzzle of a loaded gun and didn’t blink when the man pulled the trigger. If Willie B.’s wife was sleeping around, there would be hell to pay, all the way around.

  18

  ALL’S FAIR IN LOVE AND HOUSE CALLS

  On Saturday afternoon the county fair was in full swing. Children had their fill of popcorn, hot dogs and cotton candy. The rodeo was a major attraction, as were the amusement rides, but the event which had M.K. and Ollie foaming at the mouth was the contest they had convinced Mr. Watkins to sponsor, the Prettiest Twins competition.

  To the store owner’s delight, herds of on-lookers showed up to view the contestants. While having their undivided attention, he made the best of it. Scores of white and colored customers feasted on bags of peanuts, corn-dogs and waffle cakes. He was making money hand over fist while Chozelle flirted with every adult male who looked half decent and looked at her twice. She consistently shooed Jinx away when he hung around the booth too long for her liking. “Go on and check out the rodeo or something, Jinxy,” she scolded him, not waiting for an answer. “I can’t keep the cash drawer straight with you lurking about. Go on now, git. I’ll see you later.” With his feelings hurt in the process, Jinx wandered away. Loving Chozelle was bittersweet at times. She was a doll when the mood hit her and a dragon when she developed a taste for something other than him.

  Baltimore held a secret meeting with Ollie and M.K. on the side, while Dinah, Penny and Etta applauded the twins’ talent portion of the competition. A pair of white teenagers, who dazzled the crowd with a baton twirling exhibition, appeared to be leading the pack early on by three o’clock. But a stunning colored duo, in their early twenties, tap danced their way into the voters’ hearts. Baltimore
teased M.K. about the remote chance of an elderly set of sisters, who recited the Gettysburg Address in perfect tandem, making off with the trophy, and the men’s dreams of bagging the tap dancers while doing it. It wasn’t until Ollie exposed several stacks of blank ballots he had run off at the printer that Baltimore conceded the fix was properly administered. He congratulated them on their deceitfulness and aptitude. M. K. had previously promised a matching set of tiaras and fifty dollars prize money in return for the dancers’ agreeing to show their appreciation over drinks and devilment afterwards. The only thing standing in his way was working the tail end of a split shift with another resident, and then it was all over but the moaning.

  Penny, dressed in new blue jeans, a white cotton pullover and loafers, excused herself from the festivities when she saw Jinx being banished from his steady’s company. “Hey, Jinxy. Where’re you off to?” she asked, with traces of powdered sugar from the waffle cakes she’d eaten on both cheeks. “All the fun is going on right here,” she mentioned suggestively, “unless you want to be around some smelly ole animals over at the rodeo.” Jinx smiled as he took the corner of a rag from his back pocket, dabbed it on his tongue and then wiped the white powder from Penny’s face.

  “You always did have a thing for waffle cakes,” he said, smiling even brighter now.

  “You wanna know what else I always had a thing for?” she asked shamelessly.

  “What’s that, Penny King?” he replied, pretending that he didn’t have an inkling what she was referring to.

  “Well, if’n you don’t know, maybe I should keep it to myself,” she teased. When Jinx hunched his shoulders as if he was willing to let it go at that, Penny popped him on the head with a bag of cotton candy. “Ooh, silly boys. I can’t stand y’all sometimes, I swear.” Jinx let her fume for a minute before kissing her on the forehead.