Borrow Trouble (30 page)

Chick must have told him how foolish she felt a half-dozen times during the cab ride home. Franchetta marveled at how a man who never believed in practicing the piano could've hopped up there at a moment's notice and ripped off one musical number after another without missing a beat, not counting that first one he stumbled over miserably. Baltimore tried to shrug off all of the attention, but there was no use. He had three very captivated ladies in his company, none of whom was ready to stop talking about it. And, if a strange noise at the front door hadn't broken up their merriment, it would have continued for hours.

“You should have seen the look on your face when the man called you up to bang on that piano with him,” Melvina recounted joyously. “I thought you was gon' die!”

“What you mean? I was as cool as a cucumber,” argued Baltimore, holding out his hands and making them tremble wildly to get a bigger laugh. “Well, I was more settled then.”

“Wait. Did y'all hear something?” Chick uttered nervously, staring in the direction where she'd heard the noise. Baltimore reached inside his jacket and pulled out the revolver he'd taken off the man on the train.

“Shhh,” he cautioned them, slowly walking over to the door. “I'll check it out.” As he lifted his hand to brush back the window curtain, just as Chick had when he'd arrived to fetch them that evening, the door opened. Baltimore cocked the pistol, pointed it, and prepared to fire. Daisy strolled in, sobbing silently. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Baltimore put his gun away and held her around the shoulders. He peeked out into the yard, concerned about what might have happened to her.

“She's ice cold,” said Melvina, after ushering Daisy inside like a person who'd lost their grip.

“Ohh, poor thing,” Franchetta whined, with a blanket in hand. “Daisy, take your time, but we need to know what's got you quivering like this.”

“Did somebody hurt you?” Chick asked hurriedly. That question seemed to bring Daisy out of her catatonic state. She shook her head faintly, then turned her saddened eyes on Baltimore.

“Your friend Henry,” she said in a haunting tone. “Your friend, they got him.”

F
ranchetta's heart began to flip-flop inside her chest. She understood the bond between Baltimore and Henry, his closest friend. Somebody was going to die behind this. Maybe even the wrong somebody. Franchetta got up and retreated to her bedroom and closed the door before Baltimore asked the million-dollar question. Chick and Melvina sought to comfort Daisy, but neither of them had any idea what to say to Baltimore as their eyes darted back and forth to one another.

He cleared his throat to choke back the knot swelling in it. “Hhh-huh, who's got him?” he asked carefully, avoiding eye contact. Daisy's words were running laps in his head. “You said
they
got him. Who?”

“Some fellas over at the Crest Mont Hotel, gangster types with the ones you and him robbed.” Daisy was wringing her hands again, although this time she worked at massaging away her sadness for Baltimore instead. “That's not all,” she said as a solemn afterthought. “They beat him real bad, too. Say they gonna kill him unless the niggahs who clipped 'em brings all their money back.” Daisy went on to tell them how she came about this valuable information. Moments after Franchetta had told her there was more to life than the birds and bees, much more, Daisy had agreed that a hair appointment might serve her well, especially if she was going to catch the morning train to Chicago, like she intended. “See, I was sitting here, on this very spot, trying to decided whether I was gonna grab a hot plate downtown or go straight over to Brenda's for a wash and set,” Daisy recalled rather coolly, considering the circumstances. “I wasn't that hungry, so I went directly to the beauty shop. The minute I sat down, two big thugs come in asking Brenda if she'd heard anything about a big poker game getting knocked over. Said they was colored policemen and wanted to turn the whole gang over to these white boys to prove they had nothing to do with it. When they didn't think I was listening, they started popping off about already finding one of 'em with this floozy in a new fur coat and a load of fancy rags. Well, I didn't think much of it until one of the cops mentioned how they haven't made Henry talk yet, but they would break him before long.”

Baltimore later learned that Henry had been cocked up in the best suite of a ritzy colored hotel and he had gotten pinched when that new woman of his sent him out for some neck bones and red crème soda. It seems that Henry was showing off an expensive ring that only the white motor assemblymen's members wore, and that was what tipped them off he might have been involved. If Baltimore had known about the dim-witted decision to keep Darby Kent's ring, he would have cut it out of Henry's hand to elude enduring his bad luck shadow's dismal shade.

Baltimore was mad at himself because he didn't see this coming. Conversely, he did recognize the black cop's ploy of sprinkling gossip in the community and hoping to trick Henry's pals into trying to come and break him out. What Daisy thought she overheard was simply bait, but what they hadn't counted on was encountering something too treacherous to pull into their boat.

Eventually, Daisy's tears ceased flowing. Like a small child, she peered up at Baltimore and chose her words before speaking. “Uh…you're not stud'n on tangling with them are you? I mean, they could kill you both.”

“Yeah,” Baltimore agreed. His labored expression was stiff and stern. “But, that don't change a thing, Daisy. Friends is friends. I couldn't roll over on Henry even if I wanted to.” He cast a fleeting glance at Franchetta's bedroom door, then grabbed his hat and coat. “Please tell Franchetta Faye good-bye for me. I reckon she can do without hearing that from me. I'm grateful to the three of y'all for taking me in when you didn't know me from Adam. That says a lot.” Baltimore didn't stand still long enough to watch them fall apart over how thankful they were for his generosity. He eased on his coat, held the felt hat in his hand, and disappeared into the darkness much like he'd appeared, with a cloud of uncertainty surrounding him.

There were three hours left until the sun came up. Baltimore used all of them to diminish his anxiety. He walked mile after mile until reaching the hotel he'd paid for a week in advance, concerned about being too broke to rent it from day to day when he checked in. Now that the current situation had him firmly by the neck, running short on cash was the least of his worries. The empty room greeted him as the morning sun peeked in through the gap between the curtains. Baltimore drew them closed and peeled off every stitch of clothing he had on. Climbing into bed alone in a strange place always made him yearn for a decent life and family. In a few hours, he'd awaken with a knot in his stomach and a desire to sacrifice ever having either of them.

At nine o'clock, a housekeeper tapped at his door, asking if he needed any new towels. Baltimore stirred, rolled over, and then mumbled “no thanks” toward the door. The maid must have heard him, because she went away without making a further disturbance. Moments later, he yawned and asked himself if it was a good day to die. With a coffee can full of cash tucked away in the closet, he didn't come up with the answer that lent itself to braving a dangerous trap. Baltimore realized he needed to do something that facilitated him coming up with the right answer as he sat up on the side of the queen-size bed, with his bare feet resting on the unkept hardwood floor. “It just don't seem right to check out with that kind of money on hand,” he reasoned with himself aloud. After wiggling his toes against the dusty wood beneath them, he decided on a remedy he could live with, or die with, for that matter. “I need to lighten my load,” he said assuredly. “Yeah, I got a way to fix that.”

Baltimore washed his face, ran a toothbrush through his mouth, and gargled. He didn't bother shaving, though, deciding that the undertaker should earn his funeral fee, if it came to that. After scribbling notes to remind himself of important things that needed to be done, he folded the small sheet of paper in half. A list of places, people, and things lined the page as he shoved it down the back pocket of his dark brown casual trousers. He exited that tiny rented room pretty much the way he'd found it, except for the hole he'd carved to hide his stash in, of course.

With a bundle containing all of his worldly belongings gathered beneath his arm, Baltimore made his first stop along the route to impending perdition. His smile evened out as he passed through the door at Abel's. Macy had seen him when he entered. She was determined to prevent Baltimore from catching a glimpse of her split lip and blackened eye, so she hightailed it to the rear of the restaurant.

Macy ducked into the kitchen, tapping her shoe pensively and praying he didn't see her attempt at eluding him. When she assumed he had gone on, she jutted her head out slowly, only to find Baltimore waiting on the other side of the wall she'd found herself hiding behind.

“By the looks of it, you're not in too big a hurry to see me,” he said, knowing she would rather not answer him. “I figured you and Tipton had another tussle when word got out he'd been pacing the streets to get at me. Well, that's what I wanted to tell you.” Baltimore was leaning back against the wall, painted a dingy shade of white by someone who'd obviously gotten paid in advance by the looks of the end result. He felt sorry for Macy, and the way she'd turned out, too, as she kept her bruised face from his.

“Something told me, you'd show up,” she said eventually, using slow, deliberate words. “And I can't, for the life of me, understand why you'd want to.”

Baltimore chuckled, knowing that her self-esteem had been kicked and stomped on for years. He was glad then because her life had already begun a metamorphosis before he'd had the opportunity to explain just how that was supposed to happen. “Funny thing about understanding,” he offered, “it all finds a way of clearing itself up sooner or later. I came by to tell you I was moving on, and that Tipton caught up to me yesterday.” Macy's eyes bucked as fear brushed over them.

“Humph, he got a powerful temper. Did he hurt you?” she asked, roaming his body with her eyes, checking for signs of trauma.

“Nah, we had a sit-down, a pow wow, like injuns, and talked about things like gentlemens,” he told her, although she knew that couldn't possibly have been true.

“Uh-uh, Tipton ain't one for pow wowing. He would just assume die first before wasting words after what he beat out of me about you,” Macy said, before rubbing the scab on her lip. “But you don't have not one mark on your face,” she marveled.

“Told you, we had a sit-down, a meetin' of the minds. He told me how sorry he was for doing that to your face, and he didn't feel right about showing his around here again because of it.” Macy flashed a “who you trying to fool” expression back at him, with her arms folded. “Yeah, that's not all.” Baltimore reeled off a number of bills from a thick roll he'd brought out of his pocket. “Here's the five hundred he wanted me to give you. Said to tell you he ain't never coming back, so you don't have to worry about that.” Moisture began to gather in the wells of Macy's eyes. “Come on now. Don't tell me you're sad he's gone?”

“Shoot, naw, Baltimore. It's just that I don't know what to do first, now that I'm sure he's dead,” Macy confessed. “There ain't no way in hell Tipton ever seen that much money at one time, and he wouldn't part with it if he did.” She accepted the money just the same because Baltimore was still holding it out there like a handshake and she'd have to be a fool to refuse it. “Is he, is there gon' be cause for a funeral?” she asked, as if it mattered. Baltimore lowered his eyes and shook his head no. “This is a great day in the morning, alright. I always thought it'd be him putting me in the ground.”

Someone began shouting Macy's name in front of the restaurant, but she shrugged it off.

“I don't want to blow back through town and find you done went and got yourself another Tipton,” Baltimore threatened, with a raised brow. “The next one just might finish the job this one started.”

“Naw, suh, I ain't gonna be the same fool twice,” she answered, folding the money in half and putting it inside her bra for safekeeping. “I've gotten used to the idea of being single and free already. If another man tries that with me, I'll see to it he don't get off without making it right with his soul.”

Macy watched Baltimore cinch up his bundle and head off without so much as a so long, but it was better that way. However, she did have one regret regarding Tipton. She told Baltimore “how sad it was that he didn't have a gravesite, where she could visit, get drunk, raise her dress, and then squat on it whenever she got good and goddamned ready.”

Baltimore was still smiling on the inside about Macy's designs on vandalizing her dead husband's final resting place when he stood at a post office-teller window, paying to have his bundle sent to himself in Harlem, New York. If he didn't show up to claim it within a month, it would be sent to a certain pale yellow house, free of charge. Franchetta would stand to receive a nice chunk of change, if that day did turn out to be the one to cash in, after all. Thinking push might come to shove, Baltimore contemplated seeing everyone he'd sent to hell before arriving there himself. He imagined his welcome might cause quite a ruckus at the gate, and he'd make sure of it.

The next stop Baltimore made had him feeling kind of jumpy. Union Station was bustling with hundreds of passengers coming and going. He studied each of the outbound train schedules and then closed himself up in one of seven phone booths, with glass folding doors, placed along the wall. He plunked in a nickel for a local call. Pudge answered it on the third ring. There was a short discussion between the two men, one listening attentively and the other explaining how Henry got nabbed. A seasoned driver was being sought at a cool grand for his skill and availability. Baltimore also let on that he fully understood if Pudge didn't want to throw in with him this go-around. Henry was stupid enough to get snatched up, and by all accounts, he deserved whatever punishment those men decided on inflicting.

“If needs be, I'll go it alone, Pudge,” Baltimore said earnestly. “Don't feel like this has to put you in the middle of it. If needs be, I'll tend to it. Either way, I'll be over to Unca Chunk's. There's a few other things I have to work out.”

Baltimore strolled into the same bar and billiards joint where Macy's husband, Tipton, had made a deal with the devil and paid with his life. Now it was Baltimore's turn to ante up, although he was hell-bent on outfoxing the man downstairs, who'd been casting bad luck shadows on him for too long. Behind Uncle Chunk's closed office door, Baltimore mapped out a plan to facilitate Henry's safe return. Since there was little to no chance he'd be able raise thirty-seven thousand dollars in exchange for what was left of his friend, he'd simply have to straddle a few hurdles in order to get in and then bite the bullet while shooting his way out.

Chunk liked what he heard overall, despite being 200 percent dead set against any of it. After keeping the details straight in his head, Baltimore stared across the office desk at the overweight thug, who was munching on his second ham on rye sandwich wrapped in wax paper. Chunk chased a mouthful of lunch with a healthy swig of root beer. “So, you think it's got a chance, the way I'ma set it up, I mean?” Baltimore asked, seeking his approval. Just then, Chunk cocked his meaty head back and let out a thunderously grotesque burp.

“Hell, naw,” he answered matter-of-factly. “Double hell, naw.”

“Glad I got your support on this one, Unca,” Baltimore replied, his remarks heavily laden with sarcasm. “I'm really feeling a connection between us right now.”

Chunk rolled his eyes and dropped the sandwich on his desk. “How you gone come at me like that? I was connected to your ass yesterday, when Tipton busted in, outnumbered and outgunned. Now, you can't wait to get yourself jammed up the same way he did. I won't back that play. That's a sucker's bet, Baltimore. Don't believe me. Ask ole Tipton. Oh, that's right. You can't do that, because he got himself me-mor-i-a-lized about as fast as it's 'bout to happen to you.”