Standing at the Scratch Line (20 page)

“No, you just take care of Leah and Mamie; that’s yo’ job. I’ll tend to these others. Keep an eye out for Tyrone. He might have one of them white boys with him,” King advised Big Ed as he headed for the kitchen. King had no particular plan when he went through the kitchen doors, but his instinct told him he had to make his move immediately. It was nearly midnight.

King was standing in the back hallway by the doorway into the kitchen talking with Butterball when three young colored men came running through the back door. They were soaking wet from the rain and mincing oaths. “Damn, it’s like someone turned on the tap!” exclaimed the tallest of the three. He looked down at his feet and said, “Ah, man, these was my good shoes too!”

“Them’s yo’ only shoes,” corrected the shortest of the three.

“Get you a rain sheet, man,” urged the third companion, who was stocky and heavyset. He opened the tarp in which he had wrapped himself and showed how dry his clothes were.

“That wouldn’t do nothing for my feets,” the tall man scoffed.

“Then come barefeet,” asserted the short man with an infectious laugh. “Because you sure is gon’ be barefootin’ when them sad-ass shoes you got falls apart next week.” Both he and the heavyset man guffawed.

“You on my last nerve, J.J.” warned the tall man.

“Oh, God!” J.J. exclaimed, looking around on the floor, “I left the cleanser in the car!”

“See! See!” declared the tall man. “God don’t like ugly.”

The interchange between the men gave King an idea. He whispered in Butterball’s ear and Butterball nodded in agreement.

“Where’d you park, J.J.?” Butterball asked.

“I parked in the alley, Mr. Brown, where I usually park. Did I do wrong?” The little man’s tone conveyed respect and honest concern. Like most of the employees on Butterball Brown’s staff, J.J. was very appreciative of the chance to work at the Biloxi and he did not want to do anything to jeopardize his job.

“No, it’s fine, J.J.,” Butterball smiled. “Did you park behind any other cars?”

“Yeah, we parked behind a big black Packard.”

Butterball gave no indication of the value of J.J.’s answer. “Well, we’re not going to close for another couple of hours. Why don’t you boys grab a bite to eat, then begin your work. Maybe by the time you finish eating, the rain will have stopped and you will be able to get the cleanser without getting wet.”

There was an immediate chorus of gratitude from the men. “Sho’ ’nough, Mr. Brown. If that’s alright with you, we’d like to sit down to some vittles.”

“Thank you kindly, Mr. Brown. The place’ll be sparklin’ clean tomorrow mornin’.”

“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir.”

When the men passed him in the hall, King asked the heavyset man if he could borrow his rain sheet. The man gave King the once-over, but when he saw Butterball nod his approval, he relented and handed over the tarp. When the men had disappeared into the kitchen, King quickly doffed his shirt and jacket, then strapped on his holsters and put the tarp over his bare shoulders. Butterball took King’s clothes and indicated that they would be in his office.

King pulled the silencers from their sheaths and screwed them onto the barrels of his .45s. He pulled the tarp over his head and stepped out the door. The first thing he encountered was the sound of the rain falling on the canopy. It fell with a loud, continuous drumming sound akin to the long drumroll that precedes a firing squad. King smiled; it was appropriate.

King patiently made his way through the throng of silent waiters, then wrapped the tarp more firmly about himself and ran out into the rain toward the black Packard. The rain fell in obscuring sheets of water, and with the darkness of the alley it was ideal for him. The rain pounded down on the tarp he was wearing with a hypnotic monotony. As he passed the Packard, he noticed that there was one window barely halfway open. The other windows were closed and misted over. He went to the rear of the car parked behind the Packard and used a knife to pry open its trunk. Cold rainwater ran down his hands onto the blade as he popped the lock. He raised the trunk and closed it with a slam. Since the only light in the alley came from the bulb over the Biloxi’s back door, he knew he was hidden in darkness, but he wanted to provide sounds that would indicate the normalcy of returning for a forgotten item.

Looking over the top of the car he had broken into, King saw the glow of a cigarette in the backseat of the Packard. He pulled his Colt pistols from their holsters and trotted back toward the Biloxi, but when he was abreast of the Packard, King turned and fired both pistols through the windows into the car. The windows shattered immediately, spraying glass everywhere. The soft cough of the pistols made less noise than the disintegration of the glass.

King kept firing until he had emptied both magazines. Then he quickly loaded two more into the pistols. He looked into the car; there was only one body in the backseat. King checked for a pulse; the man was dead. He glanced up and down the alley but everything beyond thirty feet was obscured by rain. He was certain that the sound had not carried far. He quickly entered the Packard, found the key in the ignition, and started the car. He drove the vehicle around the corner and left it one street over from the entrance of the restaurant.

With the tarp wrapped around him, King trotted toward the Biloxi in the pouring rain. Water was flowing in the gutters and flooding across the alley. He splashed through puddles as he watched for signs of the men from the black Packard. King was particularly alert when he neared the Biloxi, but he saw nothing but the torrent of rain falling from the darkness of the sky. He moved cautiously through the people who were waiting for food before he entered the restaurant. They moved aside for him as if they recognized that he did not belong.

King changed back into his clothes in Butterball’s office. His pants were soaking wet from the knees down and his leather shoes were squeaking with water. Fortunately, his pants were a dark blue wool and the dampness was barely noticeable. He dried off his guns and ensured that the carriages and chamber feed mechanisms were working smoothly. He returned the pistols to their holsters, adjusted his jacket, and then checked his image in the wall mirror. A youthful, clean-shaven, light brown–skinned face stared back at him. His hair was cut military short, close to the scalp. His suit was well tailored and made of good material. Overall he was pleased with his image.

King entered the kitchen wondering how many men were with Tyrone. The bright lights, the clash of pans, and the rushing staff dressed in white tunics were a little unnerving to King because he was wary of noise and fast movement. He continued through the swinging doors, entered the main dining room, and saw that many of the diners had gathered around the alcove where the musicians were playing. As he was making his way over to the table where he and Mamie had sat, Ira Goldbaum intercepted him.

“Have you seen my wife?” Ira asked in a hoarse, agitated voice.

“I ain’t seen her, but I ain’t been lookin’ either. I’ll keep an eye out for her, if you need.”

“Do that! Do that! I just saw a man with a machine gun under his coat! I’ve got to get her and get out of here! This looks like a mob hit! I didn’t think they’d be so bold!”

“You think they’s after you?” King asked with surprise.

Ira looked King in the eye. “They’ve got no reason to love me. They’d be happy to see me killed in a spray of bullets, even if I’m not the principal target.” He glanced anxiously around the dining room, then muttered, “I’ve got no time for more explaining. I’ve got to find my wife.”

“Just tell me what the guy with the machine gun looked like and where you last saw him and maybe I can distract him for you,” King said as if he was only trying to be helpful.

Ira answered hurriedly, while glancing around the room. “By the men’s room, wearing a long brown coat and a black fedora. He’s a short man who walks with a swagger.”

King turned and walked rapidly toward the men’s room. The rest rooms were located adjacent to the cloakroom along the right side of the restaurant as one entered through the front door. There was a steady traffic of both men and women in and around the rest rooms. King saw the little man standing against the maroon satin curtains that lined the walls, his pale white face pinched up in a sneer. He stared challengingly at everyone who passed. His right hand was plunged deep in the pocket of his long brown coat, which was buttoned only with one button, obviously for swinging the machine gun into firing position. The man shifted his weight from foot to foot. He was anxious. He looked like a man who had something to prove.

King checked the length of the restaurant, searching for the man’s accomplices. Just beyond the men’s room was a shoe shine stand with three chairs run by old Slap Thomas. The two outside chairs were occupied, one by a white man upon whom Slap was working and the other by a man whose head and torso were hidden by an upheld newspaper, but his brown-skinned hands and two-toned brown shoes were visible. The newspaper was suspicious. Tyrone was nowhere to be seen. There was no time to investigate; the man with the machine gun was on the move.

King watched the man walk through a recessed door and enter a hallway that led to another door that opened out onto a covered patio. King knew that the covered patio had an exit onto the alley behind the restaurant. He looked back at the shoe shine stand and the colored man with the paper and the two-toned shoes was gone. King smiled; he figured the man was somewhere behind him. King reasoned that he couldn’t afford a gunfight in a public place. Not only would it draw police attention, but it would give the mob a clearer picture of the person with whom they were dealing.

He figured that the short man had probably gone to check with his companion in the car and when he discovered that the car was no longer where it should be, he would come running back. If King could surprise him as he came out of the hallway, he would catch him distracted, perhaps a tad slower on the reflexes. A moment’s hesitation was all that King needed. The problem now was how to shake the spotter.

The issue was still unresolved when King saw a group of white women on their way to the women’s room. He noticed how free and easy the chatter passed among them. He also noticed that a couple of them, particularly a heavyset woman, were weaving drunkenly as they walked. King had moved to stand next to the door of the hallway. The women entered the rest room and left King chuckling cynically at the twists of life that allowed white women to feel comfortable enough to be drunk on the colored side of the tracks while colored people had to be on guard no matter which side they were on.

King walked into the recessed hallway leading to the patio and looked for a place to hide. The shiny maroon curtains that hung along the wall from ceiling to floor between the rest rooms and the door to the patio hid a storeroom, which also had a recessed doorway. If he stepped behind the curtains while in the hallway leading to the patio, he wouldn’t be seen. He could make his way to the storeroom and wait for his pursuers to make a move. King slipped behind the curtains. There was about one and a half to two feet between the wall and the curtains, which, for all their seeming richness, were fairly sheer. He could see the shapes of people outlined against the lights as they passed.

As he was making his way to the storeroom behind the curtains, the body of a big white woman stumbled into the sheer satin and fell heavily against the wall. She was sliding toward the floor when another woman came to her assistance.

“Doris, are you alright?” asked a female voice with a heavy Bronx accent.

“Men are pigs!” Doris rejoined angrily as she continued her slide to the floor, threatening to pull all the curtains from their fastenings.

“Doris, get yourself together!” the woman said, pulling her friend to her feet. “You think you’s got problems. At least Melvin comes home with the paycheck. My husband’s such a fool, he gambles away half he earns before I see it!”

“They’re all pigs, Sheila! They’re all pigs!” Doris said as she staggered into the curtains again. She belched loudly and growled, “Goddamn drapes! Oh, I just want to tear his balls off!” The woman’s voice was loud, with the same brash accent as her friend.

King could see both women quite clearly silhouetted against the lights. There was only four feet separating him from the entrance to the storeroom, but he was hesitant to traverse the distance with the heavyset white woman swaying unstably so close to the curtains. He was in a vulnerable position and he knew it. While deciding to chance easing behind the women, King saw the silhouette of the little man with the machine gun come through the door from the patio. He walked up to the mouth of the recessed doorway and stood, peering around. He was standing about three feet from King.

King stood perfectly still and regulated his breathing. It would be easy to kill the little man silently, but he would only kill in the restaurant if he had no other choice.

Another man joined the little man at the mouth of the doorway and hissed, “Did you see him?”

“Who?” the little man responded in a high squeaky voice.

“The nigger! The hit! He just walked out of here not three minutes ago! You must have walked right past him.”

“I din’t see nobody, Lefty. But there’s something funny going on, I can tell you that! I went out—”

Lefty interrupted. “What the hell’re you telling me? You didn’t see nobody! I told you I saw him go through this door! Don’t bullshit me!”

The little man would not be bullied. He turned and faced Lefty. His voice took on a serious tone. “I told ya, I din’t see nobody. And I’m tellin’ you agin, I din’t see nobody!”

The little man was now standing next to the curtains but had his back to King. From his left, King saw the heavyset woman make a sudden corrective movement, then sway back on her heels and totter backward out of control as if she were headed downhill. Her trajectory was leading toward a simultaneous collision with the little man and the curtains. King prepared himself to take advantage of the confusion that would be created. At one point in her stumbling backward, Doris reached out for the curtains for support, but King snatched them out of her grasp. He had no desire to see her rip them from their moorings. Without benefit of something to counter her inertia, Doris fell heavily against the little man, knocking his black fedora to the ground.