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Authors: Victor McGlothin

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SLEEP DON'T COME EASY
 
MS. ETTA'S FAST HOUSE
 
BORROW TROUBLE
 
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SINFUL
 
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SLEEP DON'T COME EASY
1
T
he night before lightning struck, Vera Miles witnessed one thing she never thought possible. When she came up empty after trailing a client's husband over a week, it appearedout of nowhere like a flash. It had to be the first time in history a black woman became fighting mad because her man was
not
sneaking around. Most of them, still in the marketfor a good man, would never have considered the thought of dismissing a good man, so Vera knew right off that somethingabout Sylvia Everhart didn't fit. The hired snoop stood in her client's plush office, which was excessively decorated with fine furniture and extravagant original artwork, wonderingwhy the woman glared at her with clenched teeth after hearing that her husband Devin had not cheated nor displayed any evidence to suggest he was the philandering type. Even after Devin Everhart babysat a few drinks at an upscale, happy hour mix-and-mingle joint, he kept to himself,despite several women offering a menu of after-hours innuendo they assumed he was there to get.
For seven days, Vera followed Devin from his office building to a residential hotel a few blocks away, where he rented a room on the first floor. During that week, he ordered fast food and stepped out for quick bites, then returned to his single room with double beds, but always alone. Having been a private investigator for more than three years, Vera found it easy to make rational assumptions when shadowing a person for any length of time. She rarely had to guess whether there was a weakness for gambling, a predilection for sexual deviance or struggles with the bottle, because habits, especially bad ones, always had a way of showing themselves, like a stubborn pimple dabbled over with severallayers of makeup. Before too long, it was bound to rear its ugly head.
During the previous week, Vera grew to appreciate the kind of man Mrs. Everhart's husband was, probably more than she'd care to admit. Not only was he nice to look at, he had proven to be a conscientious worker who believed in being on time for the nine-to-five grind and back on the clock after lunch at exactly an hour on the dot, with no deviations.Most women would have been smart enough to admire his dependable and responsible work ethic. While contemplatingthe drastic measures other women would have gone through to snag a quality mate like Devin, Vera found herselfstaring at a family of college degrees on her client's wall. Coincidentally, she tried to figure out how a woman with so much book sense suffered miserably when it came down to the good old-fashioned common sense necessary to cherish a fine man like hers.
Maybe Vera had tipped her hand by allowing myriad unprofessionalthoughts to slow dance around that notion in her head too long. Perhaps Mrs. Everhart read those thoughts clearly enough to recognize Vera's lustful deliberations with her husband in mind. Whichever the case, Mrs. Everhart was mad as hell and didn't have any qualms about letting Vera know it when she finally switched her gaze from the client's accomplishments to the client's strained expression. That was the first time the private eye noticed how the woman's head seemed too big for her frail body. It had a lot to do with her outdated Mary-Tyler-Moore-flipped-up hairdo nesting above her shoulders and the fact that Sylvia Everhart was swelling with a rising tide of contempt. Seeing as how being hit with contemptible behavior from clients typically came with the territory, Vera shrugged off Mrs. Everhart's evil eye like water down a duck's back. After all, her client wasn't necessarily a bad person despite her soured disposition. Actually,under other circumstances, she might have even been tolerable. The woman's complexion was a shade lighter than Vera's, more of a toffee-brown hue. However, her spindly legs and slight build packaged into a perfect size four was enough to make Vera dislike her from the beginning. In fact, Vera considered all skinny women to be evil until proven otherwise. So far, not a single one of them had been given the benefit of the doubt. Not one.
After another long bout of silence, which was attached to that lingering glare Mrs. Everhart had propped up with a healthy dose of attitude, she decided to work her strategy from another angle. “I see,” she said, looking Vera over as if she wasn't close to being satisfied with her abilities as a PI and just as displeased with the snug fit of the navy colored corduroy slacks hugging her curvy hips. Vera, whose figure floated between sizes ten and twelve depending on the cut, was partly to blame. At the time, she was an everyday twelve, hoping to get by with half a wardrobe that should have been given up, let out, or traded in. And Vera should have given it a great deal more thought before leaving the house with that particular pair of dress slacks wrangled over all her womanly goodness. True, it was an error in judgment to think that no one would have noticed, but that was beside the point. Mrs. Everhart's disapproving sneer overshadowed Vera's first mistake of the day. She'd graded Vera with her narrowed, condescending eyes, which pushed Vera farther away from observing professional courtesy and much closer to opening her mouth with something she had been dying to say.
“Perhaps,” Mrs. Everhart continued, after a pinch of silenceskirted by, “perhaps you didn't adequately apply yourselfon my behalf, Ms. Miles.”
“Vera,” the PI whispered uncomfortably, after having been chastised.
“Excuse me?”
“I said Vera. Call me Vera.”
“Like I was saying,
Ms. Miles
, I've paid you good money and I expect good results.” That inflated head of hers begun to bobble slightly from side to side as she pressed hard with an ink pen against her checkbook. “Why don't I sweeten the pot? Some people need more inspiration than others to try harder.” Mrs. Sylvia Everhart reached out her hand, accessorizedwith a host of diamond trinkets. “Here is a check for two thousand dollars. Perhaps doubling your weekly fee will entice you to get out there and bring me something I can use,” she spat irritably.
A prideful disposition kept Vera from taking the check which dangled from the tips of the rich woman's skinny fingerslike a doggie treat offered from a doting master. The only thing missing was the customary pat on the head that generally followed such an gift. Pride that Vera's grandparentsinstilled during her upbringing wouldn't allow her to bow and shuffle. It made her feel like a pooch presented with scraps from the eccentric woman's table, one with far more money than couth. That's when Vera sized her up for another reason. She figured Sylvia to be about five-five, a few inches shorter than herself, and guessed that she was at least thirty pounds lighter. Before Vera realized it, she'd imagined how silly Mrs. Everhart would look face down on the mean streets of Dallas after tossing insults then immediately being introduced to the concrete on the heels of it. But, they weren't on the mean streets and there was no real reason for Vera to get all worked up behind some stuck-up rich chick, black woman or not. Besides, no one would have known about the stack of situational ethics Vera kept tucked deep down in the bottom corner of her purse had she taken the money, added two-thousand digits to her bank register, and then sat at home on her butt watching
Tru TV
for a week. There were a number of ways to get even with the stick figureof a woman whom she couldn't stand but violence was the first one that came to mind. No one would have been the wiser, except Vera and that stubborn pride of hers. The same pride that made her strong some times played her like a fool. This was one of those foolish times.
“On second thought, Mrs. Everhart,” Vera said, declining the money, “why don't you keep that money to buy yourself a clue? And if you happened to smarten up, you'd use it on a gang of marriage counselors to help you keep that good man of yours. I've had the pleasure of watching him for a solid week and he was a model husband, even when presented with some pretty nice can't-miss opportunities, if you know what I mean. Now here's something else you probably didn't know. Most men are generally as honest as their options but not Devin—he appeared to be a man who was missing his wife and wishing he was home.” Sylvia put Vera in the mind of a toy poodle when she marched her child-like frame towardher in an angered rant.
“That shows just how little you do know, Ms. Miles.
Mr. Everhart
left home on his own accord, so I know he's out there running behind some tramp willing to degrade herself by doing the things men fascinate themselves with. I'm not into greasing his ego or anything else for that matter. I don't have to and I won't.”
Vera couldn't believe her ears or her reaction. “Well, maybe you should have. Then your man might've stayed home.” Those eleven little dirty words just slipped right out of her mouth before she could tell them to go sit down and mind their own business.
“How dare you!” Mrs. Everhart yelled, from somewhere above the top of her lungs. “Get out!”
Vera swore that all three of the wall mirrors in that office were going to shatter against the woman's loud screeching pitch. Laughing in her client's face behind a teenaged-style tantrum was Vera's next thought commingled with one that served the situation a tad bit better, so she went with the latter.“OK, I'll leave, but not before I tell you what I think the problem with you really is. Uh-huh, it seems to me that you were hoping your breakup was brought on by what some other woman was doing, but then you looked at me like I had on two different colored shoes when I showed up and informedyou that Devin had not taken up with anyone else. That's disturbing, because it forces you to look at yourself and open to other folks' questions as to why your man ran off. I might be wrong but I doubt it. The way I see it,
Sylvia
, this is a big mess you've gotten yourself into and there isn't anyone else around to blame it on.”
Suddenly, Mrs. Everhart's top lip began to quiver. She was so mad that Vera nearly giggled at the mere thought of that swollen head of Sylvia's popping off at the neck.
“Are ... you ... finished now or should I call the police to have you removed from my building?” Sylvia threatened.
“Yeah, I'm through but don't think about stopping paymenton the check for the work I've already put in, or I'll be back and not as pleasant as I've been today.”
Vera was well aware that people didn't like paying for bad news, unless it was wrapped around some want ads and grocerystore coupons, so she raced to the nearest Wells Fargo branch to tender the check that was burning a hole in her pocket. She might have played a fool for the occasion, but she'd never once been mistaken for stupid.
It was just Vera's luck that the windows at the in-store branch were closed, so she cussed the bank's employees under her breath for closing down on time as she headed up the aisles to shop for a few female necessities. Getting over her last client's upsetting idea of what a marriage was supposedto be still troubled Vera, so she cussed Sylvia Everhart'ssilly ideologies altogether. Several shoppers threw strange glances her way and each of them was extremely close to getting cussed out too. That's what usually happened when CRUMBS (Clients, Reasonably Upset and Meaning to Bust Somebody) didn't get what they wanted via Vera's investigationservices. They'd smart off to her face and she'd cuss them out later, behind their backs.
That night, Vera applied all five of her bedtime beauty secretsthen slid beneath the covers to rest her troubled mind. She closed her eyes, repeating her personal PI Anthem while trying to feel good about the money she had made, until the sandman climbed into bed right along with her.
Once the case is closed and the money is made, don't matter win or lose. Some bills have been paid.
MS. ETTA'S FAST HOUSE
1
Penny Worth o' Blues
T
hree months deep into 1947, a disturbing calm rolled over St. Louis, Missouri. It was unimaginable to foresee the hope and heartache that one enigmatic season saw fit to unleash, mere inches from winter's edge. One unforgettable story changed the city for ever. This is that story.
 
 
Watkins Emporium was the only black-owned dry goods store for seven square blocks and the pride of “The Ville,” the city's famous black neighborhood. Talbot Watkins had opened it when the local Woolworth's fired him five years earlier. He allowed black customers to try on hats before purchasing them, which was in direct opposition to store policy. The department store manager had warned him severaltimes before that apparel wasn't fit for sale after having been worn by Negroes. Subsequently, Mr. Watkins used his life savings to start a successful business of his own with his daughter, Chozelle, a hot-natured twenty-year-old who had a propensity for older fast-talking men with even faster hands. Chozelle's scandalous ways became undeniably apparent to her father the third time he'd caught a man running from the backdoor of his storeroom, half-dressed and hell-bent on eluding his wrath. Mr. Watkins clapped an iron padlock on the rear door after realizing he'd have to protect his daughter'svirtue, whether she liked it or not. It was a hard pill to swallow, admitting to himself that canned meat wasn't the only thing getting dusted and polished in that backroom. However, his relationship with Chozelle was just about perfect,compared to that of his meanest customer.
“Penny! Git your bony tail away from that there dress!” Halstead King grunted from the checkout counter. “I done told you once, you're too damned simple for something that fine.” When Halstead's lanky daughter snatched her hand away from the red satin cocktail gown displayed in the front window as if a rabid dog had snapped at it, he went right on back to running his mouth and running his eyes up and down Chozelle's full hips and ample everything else. Halstead stuffed the hem of his shirttail into his tattered work pants and then shoved his stubby thumbs beneath the tight suspendersholding them up. After licking his lips and twisting the ends of his thick gray handlebar mustache, he slid a five dollar bill across the wooden countertop, eyeing Chozelle suggestively. “Now, like I was saying, How 'bout I come by later on when your daddy's away and help you arrange thangs in the storeroom?” His plump belly spread between the worn leather suspender straps like one of the heavy grain sacks he'd loaded on the back of his pickup truck just minutesbefore.
Chozelle had a live one on the hook, but old man Halsteaddidn't stand a chance of getting at what had his zipper about to burst. Although his appearance reminded her of a rusty old walrus, she strung him along. Chozelle was certain that five dollars was all she'd get from the tight-fisted miser, unless of course she agreed to give him something worth a lot more. After deciding to leave the lustful old man's offer on the counter top, she turned her back toward him and then pretended to adjust a line of canned peaches behind the counter. “Like what you see, Mr. Halstead?” Chozelle flirted. She didn't have to guess whether his mouth watered, because it always did when he imagined pressing his body against up hers. “It'll cost you a heap more than five dollars to catch a peek at the rest of it,” she informed him.
“A peek at what, Chozelle?” hissed Mr. Watkins suspiciously,as he stepped out of the side office.
Chozelle stammered while Halstead choked down a pound of culpability. “Oh, nothing, Papa. Mr. Halstead's just thinkingabout buying something nice for Penny over yonder.” Her father tossed a quick glance at the nervous seventeen-year-old obediently standing an arm's length away from the dress she'd been dreaming about for weeks. “I was telling him how we'd be getting in another shipment of ladies garments next Thursday,” Chozelle added, hoping that the lie sounded more plausible then. When Halstead's eyes fell to the floor, there was no doubting what he'd had in mind. It was common knowledge that Halstead King, the local moonshiner, treated his only daughter like an unwanted pet and that he never shelled out one thin dime toward her happiness.
“All right then,” said Mr. Watkins, in a cool calculated manner. “We'll put that there five on a new dress for Penny. Next weekend she can come back and get that red one in the window she's been fancying.” Halstead started to argue as the store owner lifted the money from the counter and folded it into his shirt pocket but it was gone for good, just like Penny's hopes of getting anything close to that red dress if her father had anything to say about it. “She's getting to be a grown woman and it'd make a right nice coming-out gift. Good day, Halstead,” Mr. Watkins offered, sealing the agreement.
“Papa, you know I've had my heart set on that satin numbersince it came in,” Chozelle whined, as if the whole world revolved around her.
Directly outside of the store, Halstead slapped Penny down onto the dirty sidewalk in front of the display window. “You done cost me more money than you're worth,” he spat. “I have half a mind to take it out of your hide.”
“Not unless you want worse coming to you,” a velvety smooth voice threatened from the driver's seat of a new Ford convertible with Maryland plates.
Halstead glared at the stranger then at the man's shiny beige Roadster. Penny was staring up at her handsome hero, with the buttery complexion, for another reason all together. She turned her head briefly, holding her sore eye then glanced back at the dress in the window. She managed a smile when the man in the convertible was the only thing she'd ever seen prettier than that red dress. Suddenly, her swollen face didn't sting nearly as much.
“You ain't got no business here, mistah!” Halstead exclaimedharshly. “People known to get hurt messin' where they don't belong.”
“Uh-uh, see, you went and made it my business by putting your hands on that girl. If she was half the man you pretend to be, she'd put a hole in your head as sure as you're standing there.” The handsome stranger unfastened the buttonson his expensive tweed sports coat to reveal a long black revolver cradled in a shoulder holster. When Halstead took that as a premonition of things to come, he backed down, like most bullies do when confronted by someone who didn't bluff so easily. “Uh-huh, that's what I thought,” he said, stepping out of his automobile idled at the curb. “Miss, you all right?” he asked Penny, helping her off the hard cement. He noticed that one of the buckles was broken on her run over shoes. “If not, I could fix that for you. Then, we can go get your shoe looked after.” Penny swooned as if she'd seen her first sunrise. Her eyes were opened almost as wide as Chozelle's, who was gawking from the other side of the large framed window. “They call me Baltimore, Baltimore Floyd. It's nice to make your acquaintance, miss. Sorry it had to be under such unfavorable circumstances.”
Penny thought she was going to faint right there on the very sidewalk she'd climbed up from. No man had taken the time to notice her, much less talk to her in such a flattering manner. If it were up to Penny, she was willing to get knocked down all over again for the sake of reliving that moment in time.
“Naw, suh, Halstead's right,” Penny sighed after giving it some thought. “This here be family business.” She dusted herself off, primped her pigtails, a hairstyle more appropriatefor much younger girls, then she batted her eyes like she'd done it all of her life. “Thank you kindly, though,” Penny mumbled, noting the contempt mounting in her father'sexpression. Halstead wished he'd brought along his gun and his daughter was wishing the same thing, so that Baltimore could make him eat it. She understood all too well that as soon as they returned to their shanty farmhouse on the outskirts of town, there would be hell to pay.
“Come on, Penny,” she heard Halstead gurgle softer than she'd imagined he could. “We ought to be getting on,” he added as if asking permission to leave.
“I'll be seeing you again, Penny,” Baltimore offered. “And next time, there bet' not be one scratch on your face,” he said, looking directly at Halstead. “It's hard enough on women folk as it is. They shouldn't have to go about wearing reminders of a man's shortcomings.”
Halstead hurried to the other side of the secondhand pickup truck and cranked it. “Penny,” he summoned, when her feet hadn't moved an inch. Perhaps she was waiting on permission to leave too. Baltimore tossed Penny a wink as he helped her up onto the tattered bench seat.
“Go on now. It'll be all right or else I'll fix it,” he assured her, nodding his head in a kind fashion and smiling brightly.
As the old pickup truck jerked forward, Penny stole a glance at the tall silky stranger then held the hand Baltimore had clasped inside his up to her nose. The fragrance of his store-bought cologne resonated through her nostrils for miles until the smell of farm animals whipped her back into a stale reality, her own.
It wasn't long before Halstead mustered up enough courage to revert back to the mean tyrant he'd always been. His unforgiving black heart and vivid memories of the woman who ran off with a traveling salesman fueled Halstead'shatred for Penny, the girl his wife left behind. Halsteadwas determined to destroy Penny's spirit since he couldn't do the same to her mother.
“Git those mason jar crates off 'n the truck while I fire up the still!” he hollered. “And you might as well forgit that man in town and ever meeting him again. His meddling can't help you way out here. He's probably on his way back east already.” When Penny moved too casually for Halstead's taste, he jumped up and popped her across the mouth. Blood squirted from her bottom lip. “Don't make me tell you again,” he cursed. “Ms. Etta's havin' her spring jig this weekendand I promised two more cases before sundown. Now git!”
Penny's injured lip quivered. “Yeah, suh,” she whispered, her head bowed.
As Halstead waddled to the rear of their orange brick and oak, weather-beaten house, cussing and complaining about wayward women, traveling salesmen, and slick strangers, he shouted additional chores. “Stack them crates up straight this time so's they don't tip over. Fetch a heap of water in that barrel, bring it around yonder and put my store receipts on top of the bureau in my room. Don't touch nothin' while you in there neither, useless heifer,” he grumbled.
“Yeah, suh, I will. I mean, I won't,” she whimpered. Penny allowed a long strand of blood to dangle from her angularchin before she took the hem of her faded dress and wiped it away. Feeling inadequate, Penny became confused as to in which order her chores were to have been performed. She reached inside the cab of the truck, collected the store receipts and crossed the pebble covered yard. She sighed deeply over how unfair it felt, having to do chores on such a beautiful spring day, and then she pushed open the front door and wandered into Halstead's room. She overlooked the assortment of loose coins scattered on the nightstand next to his disheveled queen-sized bed with filthy sheets she'd be expected to scrub clean before the day was through.
On the corner of the bed frame hung a silver-plated Colt revolver. Sunlight poured through the half-drawn window shade, glinting off the pistol. While mesmerized by the opportunityto take matters into her own hands, Penny palmed the forty-five carefully. She contemplated how easily she could have ended it all with one bullet to the head, hers. Something deep inside wouldn't allow Penny to hurt another human, something good and decent, something she didn't inherit from Halstead.
“Penny!” he yelled, from outside. “You got three seconds to git outta that house and back to work!” Startled, Penny dropped the gun onto the uneven floor and froze, praying it wouldn't go off. Halstead pressed his round face against the dusty window to look inside. “Goddammit! Gal, you've got to be the slowest somebody. Git back to work before I have to beat some speed into you.”
The puddle of warm urine Penny stood in confirmed that she was still alive. It could have just as easily been a pool of warm blood instead. Thoughts of ending her misery after her life had been spared fleeted quickly. She unbuttoned her thin cotton dress, used it to mop the floor then tossed it on the dirty clothes heap in her bedroom. Within minutes, she'd changed into an undershirt and denim overalls. Her pace was noticeably revitalized as she wrestled the crates off the truck as instructed. “Stack them crates,” Penny mumbled to herself. “Stack 'em straight so's they don't tip over. Then fetch the water.” The week before, she'd stacked the crates too high and a strong gust of wind toppled them over. Halstead was furious. He dragged Penny into the barn, tied her to a tractor wheel and left her there for three days without food or water. She was determined not to spend another three days warding off field mice and garden snakes.
Once the shipment had been situated on the front porch, Penny rolled the ten-gallon water barrel over to the well pump beside the cobblestone walkway. Halstead was busy behind the house, boiling sour mash and corn syrup in a copper pot with measures of grain. He'd made a small fortunedistilling alcohol and peddling it to bars, juke joints and roadhouses. “Hurr'up, with that water!” he shouted. “This still's plenty hot. Coils try'n'a bunch.”
Penny clutched the well handle with both hands and went to work. She had seen an illegal still explode when it reached the boiling point too quickly, causing the copper coils to clog when they didn't hold up to the rapidly increasing temperatures.Ironically, just as it came to Penny that someone had tampered with the neighbor's still on the morning it blew up, a thunderous blast shook her where she stood. Penny cringed. Her eyes grew wide when Halstead staggered from the backyard screaming and cussing, with every inch of his body covered in vibrant yellow flames. Stumbling to his knees, he cried out for Penny to help him.

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