Chicago Hustle (18 page)

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Campbell, my name is Donald Adams, investigation unit of the First National Bank. May I come in, please? I won't take more than a few minutes of your time.”

He was easing past her into the apartment before she gave her consent, timing it to appear that he was accepting her invitation.

The first part was over … not too hard, people went for I.D. cards, especially white folks. He had noticed very early in his life of games … the proper I.D. card could work miracles.

“Yes … uhhh, come in.” Mrs. Campbell slowly closed the door and stood with her hands clenched together at waist level. After all, he
was
black. “What can I do for you, Mr. Atkins?”

Elijah took his time, pressing the weight of his authority on her, setting his own rhythm. “Adams,” he corrected her. “Mrs. Campbell, beautiful place you have.”

“Thank you.” She tried not to show too much pleasure with his statement. Her fingers unclenched slightly.

“May I sit down? It's been a long day already.”

Mrs. Campbell graciously fluttered her hand toward one of her stuffed chairs.

Elijah, in turn, smiled her into the chair opposite him, a stuffed ottoman between them, and pulled a small black notebook out of his breast pocket. “I know you're puzzled by this visit, Mrs. Campbell. I'll try to explain it as quickly and clearly as I can.”

He cleared his throat and concentrated on his diction … it wouldn't do to be slurrin' no words. How would a brother workin' for the bank talk? Was there anybody else in the place?

“We have serious reason to believe that the teller with whom you transacted business today is an embezzler.”

With whom? with who? fuck it! it's said now.

Mrs. Campbell's hand shot up to her mouth as though she had heard a juicy bit of gossip. “Really? are you certain?”

He leaned forward slightly, jutting his chin out, playing. “No, we aren't certain, but we have, as I said, serious reason to suspect him. That is why I'm payin' you this visit, to ask your help in our investigation.”

The sudden, sizzling whistle made him jump. Mrs. Campbell released a maternal smile all over him.

“It's just the teapot, Mr. Askins … it always scares people, would you care for a cup?… or a can of beer? My husband always drank beer.”

“The name is Adams, Mrs. Campbell,” he corrected her again and half stood, superpolitely, as she made a spritely move to the kitchen. “A cup of tea sounds great. I would like the beer but, well, being on duty 'n all, you understand.”

“Yes, of course, I understand,” she replied and disappeared through the dining room door.

Was she going to call the police?

He lowered himself back into the chair, breathing in shallow pools. Was she going for it? Things seem to be taking too long, I'd better speed the pace up a bit. More businesslike. Whiter.

What had she said? “My husband always drank beer.” She ain't got no husband. Nobody else seems to be on the scene. Hurry up! goddamn it!

He sprang out of the seat to help her with the tray of teacups and saucers. Tea? oh wowwww …

“One or two?”

One or two? what the …?! oh!

“Uhhh, two please.” He settled back in the chair, controlling the slight case of nerves he felt. Teacup and two lumps. Hah! One sip. Two sips. Now!

“Mmmmm … that really hits the spot, Mrs. Campbell … now then …”

“Yes, I love a good cup of tea after a busy day, my husband used to …”

“Uhhh, yes, now then, Mrs. Campbell, before I go on, I must ask you to give me your word that you won't tell anybody about our investigation?”

The little old lady's sparkling blue eyes lit up, obviously intrigued by intrigue. “Ohhh, cross my heart 'n hope to die, sir.”

“Uhhh hah hah hah, that won't be necessary, Mrs. Campbell.” Elijah carefully placed his cup and saucer on the tray before going on. “What we're asking you, and nine other depositors, to do is this …”

The telephone ringing caused him to clench his back teeth together.

“Excuse me, that must be Doris.”

“Doris?”

“Yes, my daughter, she worries so about me.”

“Remember, Mrs. Campbell,” he reminded her urgently. “Don't say a word about …”

She nodded in agreement, picking up the telephone. “Hello … yes, I thought it would be you, dear … yes …”

Elijah groaned inwardly. Was it going well? badly? was it going at all? He strained to listen to the mother-daughter dialogue. Why did she have to pick Now to call?

With nothing else to do for the ten minutes that Mrs. Campbell spent sighing, nodding, yessing, no-ing and giving advice, Elijah drank two more cups of tea.

Finally Mrs. Campbell hung up the phone and returned to her seat opposite him. “Doris wants to give me a couple kittens, she thinks I ought to have more living things in the house. I told her, my plants are …”

“Yes, they really are beautiful,” Elijah interrupted suavely, glancing around at the small, potted jungle behind his chair. “Really beautiful. As I was saying, Mrs. Campbell …'

“Yes? yes? you were saying?”

Good. She's still right there.

“The First National Bank is asking you and nine other depositors for help in capturing an embezzler.”

“My help? what can I …?”

“Here is what we want you to do … I hate to rush through this, Mrs. Campbell, but I have three other depositors to see this evening. We want you—” He took a slight pause for emphasis, “to withdraw half your savings.”

He paused again, this time to study the little old lady's reaction. It was positive. She was nodding amiably, waiting for instructions.

“We don't really care how much you withdraw, as long as it's half. Oh, before I go on, did I mention that you and the other cooperating depositors would receive bonus interest rates for the next six quarters, as well as a modest reward?”

Mrs. Campbell, taken in by Elijah's earnest, sincere manner, practically thanked him. “The First National wants me to withdraw half my savings? That would be …”

He waved her to a stop. “Please, Mrs. Campbell, the amount doesn't matter to me … the accounting section will deal with that. We'd simply like to have your withdrawal tomorrow morning, say, between eleven and twelve o'clock? Your savings will then be re-deposited, the accounting section will double-check the master accounting ledgers and, hopefully, we'll be able to find out who is stealin' our money … hah hah hah.”

Mrs. Campbell nodded in agreement as Elijah stood up to leave, totally involved with the idea of justice being done.

“I'd like to remind you,” he cautioned her, “this is a top secret operation.”

He paused to purse his mouth, pantomiming a zip the lips gesture. “I'll return tomorrow afternoon at exactly two o'clock, re-deposit your funds and … well, what can I say, Mrs. Campbell? Thank you for your cooperation.”

“I'm glad to be able to offer my cooperation, Mr. Adams … the nerve of that rascal!” Mrs. Campbell stated flatly, and stuck her hand out, good buddy-old pal fashion.

He shook her hand warmly, lit his face up with just the right amount of smile, officialdom being human.

“Oh, one other thing, Mrs. Campbell, our investigation will be completed by the end of this month and there's bound to be some publicity, a newspaper article, at least. You wouldn't be too put out by havin' your picture in the news, would you? maybe a television interview?”

“Ohhh, no, not at all.” Mrs. Campbell beamed at the possibility.

“Well then, until tomorrow, Mrs. Campbell … take care, thank you for the tea. Remember, between eleven and twelve? We have other people scheduled for the hours before and after that time.

She flashed him the round, doughnut A-okay sign and winked.

Elijah floated down the stairs. How lucky could you be? Am I really over? was she really in the bag? or was she calling her daughter and every goddamned body within dialing distance, to blab about this secret bank thing she was involved with?

Well, the proof of the pudding would be in the eating … and that wouldn't take place until tomorrow.

He raced to catch a bus back downtown, to retrieve his car, mentally slashing back and forth across his game. Did I lay it on too thick? Did I lay it on thick enough?

Lemme see, today is Wednesday. She gets the dough out tomorrow, I give her a receipt … that's Thursday. She wouldn't, shouldn't begin to get suspicious before Friday, maybe Monday.

He plunked himself down into a seat by the window, brooding and gloating with the idea of the possibility of success. How much did she have in the bank? Ten grand? Twenty? Wowwww … what if the old bitch had a million dollars?! The thought stunned his mouth open for a split second. Nawwwww, ain't nobody got a million dollars. Awww shit! why didn't I offer to take her to the bank and pick her up!? Damn!

Elijah nodded congenially to the early evening regulars in the Afro Lounge, headed straight for the telephone hung midway between the mens and womens, his nose smarting from a couple thick lines of recently snorted girl.

He banged the telephone back into the receiver the minute the message unit started. Bitch! What the fuck was she trying to pull off?!

He held her card up and glared at it for the umpteenth time. Toni Mathews, it said, and her telephone number and that was all. He slipped the card back into his wallet and strolled out to the bar, feeling a little confused and sorry for himself, despite the nervous energy released in him by the cocaine.

“Whatil it be?” the lady bartender, in tune with all the latest twists and turns of fortune, fixed her brightest smile on him.

“Lemme have a double Bristol Cream,” he growled, dark, evil thoughts on his mind.

The bartender's smile lapsed into a coma … niggers could be so unpredictable sometimes.

“What's goin' on, man? you look like your dick won't ever get hard again.” Elijah looked up from his second double Bristol Cream. Good ol' Sid, you could always count on him to say something outrageous, with his sausage pouch eyes.

“What's to it, Sid? Buy you a taste?”

Sid mounted the stool next to Elijah, being careful to pull his creases tight so that his pants wouldn't get baggy at the knees. “Yeah, I could dig some kind of refreshment. Lemme have a shot o' that Regal, willya, babysweets?”

The two men sat next to each other for a full minute, sipping their drinks, unhurried by life, into games and scenes, fraternity brothers.

“Couple dagos was through here a li'l while ago, askin' 'bout you,” Sid opened up casually.

“Oh yeah? you know 'em?” Elijah asked, trying to be equally casual.

Sid grimaced behind a swallow of his drink and signalled silently for the bartender to give him a glass of water. “Nawww, not really, I know their types though. You got a bad scene goin' on somewhere?”

Elijah felt the sudden urge to tell Sid to mind his own business, but then realized that he was dealing with one of his main men, someone who had always been on the good side of Righteous with him. “Uhhh, nawww, you know how it is.”

“Yeahhh, yeah, I'm hip to it.” Sid nodded, reading between the lines of the verbal shorthand, “But you best git yo' shit together, them dagos don't be jivin', man.”

Elijah slapped Sid's outstretched hand lightly, in affirmation. “Yeah, I hear ya, blood, I hear ya … everything gon' be extremely cool by this time next week, extremely cool … I got a thang in the works right now.”

Did the old broad call her daughter and blab? Are the pigs goin' to be waitin' for my black ass tomorrow? Why didn't I offer the old bitch a ride to the bank? Damn! that would've really tightened it all up.

Now Browney is on my case. Shit!

Sid carefully drained his glass and slowly dismounted, as much concern as could possibly be shown on his poker face. “Take care, bruh … you know how cold-blooded them motherfuckers is.”

“Right on! right on!” Elijah bluffed off the solemn warning, unusual, coming from cynical Sid. “Take care yourself, man.”

“I'm gon' do that,” Sid said quietly, and eased off to the Stickhall in search of fresh blood.

Elijah screwed his glass around in the water print it had made. Yeahhh, I must needs take care that business … how much am I in the hole now?

“Can I get you another drink? ahhhem …?”

“Huh?… oh?”

“I said, can I get you another drink?”

Another drink? Yeah, why not? nothing else to do 'til two p.m. tomorrow. “Yeah, baby … gon' do it again.”

The bartender lady refilled Elijah's glass, looking up as quickly as he did when two neighborhood regulars popped in. It paid to be on your ps 'n qs at all times, no tellin' when someone was going to pop in the door and throw a knife, a brick, a bottle or just simply shoot.

Elijah sat, twirling the glass by the stem, feeling the urge to do ten things, and nothing, at the same time. Wonder if I could rap to Browney? maybe cool him out 'til next week?

He smiled at his own bad, silent joke. You didn't rap to Browney, you didn't cool him out. You paid him. Period. Interest on the principle, and more interest, all the time. God! I hope this ol' bitch has a hundred grand.

He stood up suddenly, the thought of Toni Mathews being at home wisping through his subconscious, and just as suddenly reseated himself. Fuck her! wait 'til I get my pockets stuffed with grand-theft dough.

He turned to look around at the people scattered around the lounge. Typical Wednesday night group. Nine-thirty. Too early for the heavyweights. He winked at the two middle-aged sisters in lavender, rose and hot pink, but decided to be cool.

Wonder if li'l Miss Brown got married yet? Wonder if li'l Miss Brown got home from the party yet? I can just see her now, trying to look up Phillip Dobson in the phone book … she and about ten other bitches. Clotille.