Borrow Trouble (23 page)

“Yeah, what it is?” Baltimore answered, looking at some notebook paper he'd unfolded.

“Was that Unca Chunk really gonna shoot me?”

“Probably not,” Baltimore replied honestly, before changing the subject, as if it didn't matter one way or the other since Chunk didn't actually pull the trigger. “Hey, Pudge, is that bellhop Ashy Corvine still at the Marquette Hotel?” he asked, settling into the backseat.

“Yeah, old Ash Can ain't liable to go too far from the 'Quette. He's been there 'round ten years now.”

“Good. Then he ought to know a few other hotel hawks who can help our situation,” asserted Baltimore, pulling his suit coat closed at the chest. “Let's see what he's up to this morning. The last time I was in Kaycee, I put a lot of money in his pocket but didn't get the chance to benefit from it. There was this girl he hooked me to. She got herself killed dead as Moses when a beer truck ran her down. She was minding her own business, too, just crossing the street to my rooming house. I didn't even have the pleasure to see what all of the fuss was about. I found my way to the funeral, though, looking to get a refund from old Ash Can or at least some of my money back.” Baltimore rubbed his chin as he thought back to that very day with regret. “Funny thing, he didn't show up, though.”

“Don't figure I would've, either,” Henry reasoned. “Seeing as how he was partly the cause of her meeting that truck of suds head-on.”

“I never considered that,” Baltimore replied sympathetically, his brow furrowed like he was really thinking it over for the first time. “Hmm, I guess I won't hold that against Ashy then.”

Henry fiddled with a baseball in his right hand as the taxi idled against the curb outside of the Marquette Hotel. Seeing how he'd spent so much time with one in his palm, he didn't realize it was there until an ashy soot-colored shrimp of a man exited the hotel in a mint green and black bell captain's uniform. The man's eyes widened when he came out to inform them the hotel was “white only” and found Baltimore, with what appeared to be an enforcer accompanying him. “Hey, Baltimore, glad to see you,” he said nervously, reluctant to move his gaze from Henry and that baseball he was massaging.

“If you's so happy about it, why are you afraid that my friend here is gonna do something bad to you?” Baltimore asked him, after predicting correctly that was why the little man was so afraid. “Unless you give him a reason to shove that baseball up yo' intestines, you won't have to worry about it.” Henry looked at Baltimore and then turned his face away, as if he wasn't willing to ruin his perfectly good baseball. “Now then, Ash, I missed you at that girl's burial, but I know you had bad feelings about what happened to her. I'll let it pass if I can count on you for something very important.” Baltimore took out a small notepad and a short pencil chewed on the end. Within ten minutes, he'd squeezed out vital information concerning other hotels' guests, late-night parties, and the going rate for back-door female entertainment. He jotted the names of other black bellmen in the area and then moved on as quickly as he'd appeared, to grease their palms. Getting the word out that he had some clean dark meat for white men interested in jungle love was all he had to do before the money would come rolling in.

After Pudge had chauffeured him and Henry to the ritziest downtown lodging spots, Baltimore had the feeling that most of his business would come from Hotel Phillips, a twenty-floor establishment; the Marquette; and the Hereford House, which wasn't too far from the predominately black entertainment district. Baltimore also mentioned to each of the bellmen, after promising a dollar per referral, that there was a hefty bonus for contacting him about big-stakes, after-hours poker games. He'd say, kind of smooth and sly, “If you was to hear something, we'd be much obliged and willing to pay for the privilege of knowing the time and location.” Of course, the baggage carriers understood he wanted a line on the big-money games. They also appreciated the risks and rewards associated with staying in his good graces for a shot at the big payoff. With a lot of planning and a little luck, everyone involved could hit the jackpot.

D
aisy hid her face when she overheard Baltimore explaining to Franchetta why he needed a room closer to the action. She fully understood how emotions sometimes got in the way when sex for profit was up for discussion. It was best for him and Henry to pick up and move south, nearer toward downtown, but that didn't stop Daisy from missing Baltimore before he'd gathered up his things and hit the avenue. Franchetta noticed that she wasn't the only one with a long face. Melvina wore a vacant expression, too, trying to shield the uncomfortable twinge in her stomach over a man she hardly even knew. “Buck up, girls,” Franchetta suggested sternly. “Baltimore says it'll be hot and funky in the old town tonight, so get your heads on straight, and I mean that.” As Daisy sulked toward the staircase, Franchetta tossed her a bone. “Hey, baby girl, just because he's not here doesn't mean he don't care. He's figured out a way to deal down on this hustle, and it'll all come up aces.” When Daisy hit the steps, Franchetta saw the broad smile piercing her lips. “I know how you feel, Daisy. I go through the same thing every time I see him grab his hat and coat.”

Back at Uncle Chunk's, Henry dragged a card table into the back room. He took a seat, and then he took his time stacking a sandwich with several leaves of lettuce, cold cuts an inch thick, and half a dozen pickle slices from a gallon-sized jar he'd pilfered from the kitchen pantry. When he heard footsteps heading his way, he cleared his throat loud enough to get Baltimore's attention and then laid his plate aside. “You ready for the introductions?” he asked, with a thorough amount of caution standing behind it.

“Yeah, I'm itching to get acquainted,” Baltimore answered softly, as if his mind was on something else. He sank deeper in his folding chair as Pudge entered into the small room ahead of the others.

“I told you I could round them up before dinnertime,” Pudge boasted. “These are some good men, every one of them committed,” Pudge asserted in a calm, deliberate manner, leaving no doubt that the spare parts he'd brought in were willing to see a real moneymaking heist to the end, despite potentially unfavorable circumstances. The largest of the usual suspects stepped forward first. Baltimore recognized his chiseled face, with knots and thin scars over both eyes. “This is Dank Battles, y'all,” Pudge said proudly, as he presented the man like a prized bull. Henry looked the bull over as if he knew what to look for. Dank's deep-set, piercing eyes and dark leathery skin, black as a Virginia coal mine, caused Henry to nod his head agreeably. He rationalize that Dank was the kind of man he'd want backing his play, considering what might lie ahead.

“Dank here is an ex-boxer,” Pudge announced. “Maybe you heard of him. Once killed a man in the ring when he was a top contender.”

“Yeah, I seen Dank put that man down for good in Tulsa,” Baltimore admitted finally. “If I recall, it was on a Fourth of July. Dank sure did emancipate the hell out of him.” Baltimore signaled he was satisfied with this selection by shaking hands with the genuine article, as far as legitimate head thumpers were concerned. Another of the men looked familiar, but Baltimore was certain he didn't know the third one. “Who's this here?” he asked, referring to the obvious stranger.

“I'm Louis Strong, Mistah Floyd,” the man answered on his own behalf before Pudge had opened his mouth. Louis was in his early thirties, closer in age to Dank and Pudge, and medium brown with straight, slicked-back hair. His eyes were dark and narrow. The undertone in his skin was a peculiar shade of orange, and he was built like an old man, thin and wiry, but he had a reputation for having fast hands and an even quicker temper. His evil temperament more than accounted for what he lacked in size.

“Ole Louis is a real craftsman, a second-story man,” Pudge contended. He had to say something to help sell Louis better when it appeared that Baltimore wasn't all that impressed. “We calls him “Slow Fuse” on account he's so quick with his hands once the fuse burns down. You know, one of them there ironies.”

“First off, I go by Baltimore. There won't be no need for titles among us. We's all equal here,” said Baltimore. Eventually, he walked over to get a closer look at the other familiar face in the trio, circling the man and carefully apprising what he saw. This fellow was a nut-colored man, shorter than the other two, at about five-ten or so, with arms as thick as oilcans. From the back, he appeared to be cut from a pillar of stone. His broad shoulders and solid legs reminded Baltimore of a wild boar he had to kill many years ago. The scar raked across the back of his neck insinuated that somebody had jumped him from behind, but the mere fact that he was still walking around meant the other fellow got the worst end of the altercation. Baltimore smiled when it came to him that he'd met Rot Mayfield in a Joplin, Missouri, county jail cell. However, he doubted that the man remembered their brief stint sharing a worn-out cot and concrete floor overnight.

When Baltimore came face-to-face with him, Rot grinned as if he had remembered. Despite his foul-smelling breath, which reeked of chewing tobacco and cheap liquor, those were the two things that reminded Baltimore of his old pals from home. “Rot, it's good seeing you again. How long did they keep you?”

“Two months, after you took off with the sheriff's secretary,” Rot told him, cackling at the memory, which had returned for the first time since the event occurred long ago. Everyone in the room laughed heartily as the tension finally loosened its hold over the tiny room and everyone in it.

“Sit down, fellas, and take a load off,” Baltimore offered once the pleasantries were completed. “We've got a lot of things to talk about.” Around the wooden table, rectangular in shape and ragged from years of careless use, they listened attentively as Baltimore recited one honey of a plan, explaining in full detail how they would take down a major high-stakes card game. On the back of a napkin, he diagramed where every man would most likely be stationed and what duties they'd be responsible for. “We'll need one man outside the exit door at street level, one at the base of the stairs, and one inside the room with me and Henry so the folks we're party-crashing won't get any fancy ideas. After we make the getaway, we'll meet up at a safe place I decide on and split the take equally since every one of us is risking the same thing.”

Wisely, Baltimore never discussed the most important aspects involving where or when the robbery was to happen until it was time to strike. He didn't want any of his cohorts to go get any fancy idea, either. As long as they were kept in the dark, none of them would be tempted to crawfish on the deal and pull the stickup with another crew, leaving him out in the cold.

After everyone agreed to the arrangement, they scribbled phone numbers down where they could be reached. Before Baltimore sent the men away, he advised them to stay sober and wait for his call. The pieces were in place, and now all that Baltimore needed was the right card game to hit. Waiting and wondering, that was always the hardest part.

Uncle Chunk waddled into the back room as the men passed by his office. The stern leer he saddled on Baltimore conveyed what he didn't have to say with words. The older man was serious about keeping his establishment out of the headlines and off the district attorney's radar. Henry turned his eyes away and pretended to read the newspaper, but Baltimore acknowledged his concerns.

“Ain't none of this gonna come back on you Unca. You have my word on that. Those men are helping me to set up a floating cathouse is all. Just that all them opened legs we're positioning is bound to ruffle some feathers.” Baltimore knew right off, the crafty bar owner didn't believe him for a minute, but the scheme had only moments before been hatched. That early in the game, even the thinnest lie was better than the whole truth.

Henry, feeling out of sorts, decided to plug in the black rotary telephone, with hopes of making Baltimore's lie seem more plausible. As soon as he plugged the long cord in the wall jack, the phone started ringing and didn't stop until very close to midnight. Business was booming. Baltimore gave Franchetta the job of recruiting five new girls and managing the back end of the operation because the demand necessitated new stock to keep up with the growing clientele. Pudge's brother hired on as a secondary driver to shuttle the women between the “white only” hotels, while giving them a minute to freshen up at a black boardinghouse nearby.

Money was coming so fast that Baltimore doubled the companionship rate to ten dollars. Oddly enough, the phone calls didn't tail off a single bit. Bellmen made money on both ends, from Baltimore and the customers alike. Some of the working girls cleared one hundred dollars that first night, when, typically, it would have taken a month to knock down that amount. Henry couldn't believe how many white businessmen were practically standing in line to try out what others were talking about over breakfast the following morning. On the other hand, Baltimore knew that the novelty would wear off at about the same time those businessmen's wives expected them to catch the homebound train. The more things changed, he thought, the more they stayed the same.

Around about one in the morning, when Baltimore couldn't see taking any more requests for late-night company, he unplugged the cord to the illegal phone line and stretched his legs. “Franchetta, I'm getting too old for this line of work,” he joked, as if he was the one actually putting in the work. He peered over at her when she didn't respond. At first glance, the longing in her eyes was a giveaway. Baltimore suspected what played on her mind. “Alright, alright. I know that look,” he said, chuckling warmly. “I need to talk at Henry, and then we can slide by Club De Ville or the Blue Room. Now, I can't close it down tonight. Someone has to see to it that the money makes it all the way home by morning.”

Baltimore had his stable of hostesses give their drivers two dollars after being sneaked up the side entrance to deal personally with customers' most intimate needs; then he would collect the money at the end of the night from them and issue kickbacks to the bellhops on the following morning. And, because he and Franchetta set up each appointment and dispatched the talent personally, there was no way for the taxi drivers or the girls to circumvent the process. He'd be the wiser immediately. It was nice and easy, just the way Baltimore thought it up, and Franchetta was glad she'd successfully persuaded him to engineer it, along with the help of friends who didn't mind joining in to make it hop.

Although Baltimore's outsourcing cathouse idea was rolling along without a hitch, stepping away from the grind was a pleasant detour. Club De Ville was a ritzy nightclub, where those who considered themselves hip went to spend the spare change they did have. The doll of a hatcheck girl smiled at Baltimore as he handed her a woman's fur coat and a whole dollar to make sure she'd guard it vigilantly. That didn't slide by Franchetta's eye, but she wasn't at all concerned, because that young lady was simply admiring what she'd brought to the party.

“Over there, Baltimore,” Franchetta cooed in his ear, while pointing toward an open booth near the bandstand. “I'm going to powder my nose,” she told him before sauntering off in the other direction. Baltimore attempted to hand her a few dollar bills for incidentals, but she smiled and declined, thinking there was nothing in the restroom she'd want to blow money on. There was something refreshing about hitting a nightclub with a date and a sense of normalcy. Franchetta's smile glimmered as she washed up in the porcelain washbasin. “A girl could get used to this,” she heard herself say aloud. “If only for a little while.”

As soon as she exited the ladies' restroom, a slick-dressed stranger pulled at her arm. “Hey there, gorgeous,” he said, easing up closely beside her. “I seen you come in. Why on't you take me up on a discussion about me and you getting lost in each other at my place?”

“Huh, since you saw me come in, you had to see me come in with him,” Franchetta said politely as she stared lovingly at Baltimore, who was watching the band prepare for another set.

The snazzy stranger ogled Baltimore peculiarly, as if he didn't necessarily approve of Franchetta's taste in men. “Can't say I know his face. What's his name?”

Franchetta batted her eyes and grinned brightly. “Who? That tall, skinny papa on my hook? I calls him Daddy.”

The fellow was persistent. He pulled her even closer so he could whisper in her ear. “Don't tell me that sly cat is your man?”

“He's my man when I'm wit' him,” she answered quickly, wrestling her arm away from his grasp. “That's more than enough for me.”
That'll teach him to rough handle a lady
, she thought.
Especially one who's already nuzzled up on a date for the night.

Franchetta celebrated an evening on the town until she'd had her fill of joking around the dance floor, with Baltimore hot on her heels, as if he'd never had his way with her before. The sensual way he held her close to him, all the belly rubbing and carnal grinding, drew the attention of several other couples sharing the same music, time, and space.

A woman sitting next to the dance floor pouted continuously at her husband. “How come you don't move me like that anymore, Harry!” she spat. “Wait until I get you home. You've got your work cut out, mister. Go get my hat and coat.”

Baltimore escorted Franchetta back to the table, and they collapsed, perspiring and pleased to let their hair down. The night went perfectly until another couple, seated a few tables over, began arguing loudly. “I don't give a good goddamn what you think you saw,” shouted the tough-looking man with gold caps covering his two front teeth.

“You trying to tell me, I didn't see you slip that bitch three dollars for a pack of fifty-cent cigarettes when you ain't brought groceries home in weeks?” the woman fired back. Most of the onlookers tried to ignore common alcohol-induced lovers' quarrels, but that one caught Baltimore's attention when he recognized the woman's face from Abel's Diner. It was Macy, whose husband had a handful of her skin clinched in his fist, underneath the table.