But somebody did.
And he left his mess in Elgin Balfour’s backyard.
Screaming and yelling, weeping and wailing were the Friday-morning sounds on Chesnutt Street when four carloads of determined young officers of the law, shotguns loaded and billy clubs drawn, descended on one slightly buzzing ex-fullback who could not comprehend their anger. They dragged him off fighting to await the opportunity to plead his case before the bar of justice. A speedy trial was his right, and Elgin saw to his rights.
“I didn’t do no wrong,” the man lied, but we knew what he meant.
“Fry his ass,” Elgin Balfour cried.
“I saw Dexter Simpkins in the vicinity of the crime,” Marissa Balfour wept spitefully; “he tried to get me, but daddy scared him off.
“He was with me and fifteen others at the Celebrity,” Puss Cleveland countered.
“You’re a whore, and reliable witnesses don’t frequent that haven for the lawless,” the DA replied.
“You’re a nubbin-dicked piece of shit,” Johnny-O piped up.
“You’re in contempt,” the judge declared. “Order in the court.”
The jury said guilty in the first degree.
“Fry his ass, Judge. You owe it to the community,” Elgin Balfour demanded.
The judge concurred, Elgin winked. A hod carrier named Andrew breathed a sigh of relief. And that settled it.
The night of the judgment there was a mournful gathering at the Celebrity Club. Puss Cleveland sobbed and bought for the house, courtesy of her used-to-be old man, and they drank to his honor.
“We were gonna get married,” Puss announced, tears swelling up in her eyes.
“Be glad you didn’t,” Johnny-O allowed, lust swelling up in his pants.
Papa Monk Sanders said, “The boy had it coming. He was predesigned for a big fall. But Lord, he knew how to act at party time.”
And they drank one more bottle of beer to his memory.