Federal Resource

At the Fordyce Bathhouse, the colored attendants approach you apprehensively. While you never saw any signs explicitly saying Whites Only, the look in their eyes indicated that this place was.

They helped yall strip out of your clothes and into robes and blankets — all the time looking at Taylor for guidance on dealing with you, a colored guest. He largely ignored them.

They lead you to the public bathhouse, a large pool steaming in a tile-covered cavernous room. You’re the only ones there. You immerse yourselves nekkid into the hot water. At first, it’s hot to the touch — but, as your skin acclimates to the heat, the water feels good.

“The vapors,” Taylor says, “they’ll cure anything.

The attendants ask if you needed anything else.

You ask for a coffee. You are told that you can’t have drinks in the bathhouse. “It’s okay,” Taylor says, pulling a flask and a couple of cigars out from a towel blanket, “we don’t need anything else.”

Smoking’s fine — they bring you an ashtray without even asking.

“Capone envisioned Hot Springs to be a kind of neutral zone,” Taylor says, “some place where you can relax, get away from the stresses of business and the day-to-day. A place where you can take your family and you didn’t have to watch your back to make sure every street corner is clear. He particularly liked the bathhouses where everyone’s stripped down, hiding nothing.”

“Mostly nothing,” you add, taking a swig from the flask.

Taylor continues, “When Capone discussed business with his associates — adversaries, even — he’d take them to his personal bath here at Fordyce. No one would be armed, not even his bodyguards. Everyone’d be nekkid as the day they were born.”

The hot water and the whiskey are doing the trick — you feel loose, relaxed and attentive to Taylor Capone stories.

“Of course, this idyll’s strongly enforced by local authorities top to bottom — from the Mayor to the lowly flatfoot. You can imagine that, with this many gangsters running around, something’d catch fire every once in a while. But the local municipality — the Mayor, the Police Chief — they’ve kept the peace round Hot Springs.”

Later, a couple of cops show up, followed by one of the attendants. The cops looked like they’d been in a hurry — pink and sweaty, their brown uniforms stained wet under their arms.

“Hey Sherriff Jimmie,” Taylor says.

“Hey Taylor,” Jimmie says, “who’s your nigga?”

“Now, Jimmie — there’s no call for impoliteness on this fine Monday morning.”

“Well — you and I know we can’t have him in here.”

“These springs are a federal resource, Jimmie,” Taylor says, relighting his cigar. “Every American is entitled.”

“Not on county land, it aint.”

“Jimmie — you don’t even know what that means.” Taylor rolls his eyes and turns to you, “Jimmie’s not the type of person who can fully comprehend matters constitutional.”

He turns to Jimmie. “He obviously has a problem understanding jurisdiction — coming round here usurping city discretion.”

“Keep your talking, Taylor,” Jimmie says, “Maybe you can take your talking to the colored baths at the Pythian.”

The cop who wasn’t Jimmie just stood there droopy-eyed, breathing through his mouth, watching the back-and-forth between the men.

“Not only does Jimmie have trouble understanding his boundaries — he also has a poor memory.” Taylor sucks on his cigar and billows smoke towards Jimmie. “Remember the time when you told Mr. Frank Nitti to go back to school so he can learn English?”

That shuts Jimmie up. His buddy’s waiting for him to come up with some retort — when he doesn’t, he merely grunts.

You help yourself to one of Taylor cigars.

“You were impolite to him as well,” Taylor says, “You called him a stupid guinea W-O-P. You remember that?”

“I apologized to the man,” Jimmie says, stupidly.

“Only after you were told who he was — Al Capone right-hand man! You’re lucky you weren’t shot on the spot!”

The cop with the open-mouthed grin lets out a dry, scratchy laugh. Jimmie turns round, glares at him — his laughter fades into a look of bewilderment.

“You’re lucky you just lost your city job and perhaps a tooth or two,” Taylor continues, “You’d think that, after all that, you would’ve learned some kinda lesson bout being polite to everyone round here — strangers included.”

In the pool, you stand back to blow smoke upwards. Typically, an altercation like this would’ve made you incredibly tense. But the hot water and whiskey had an effect of alienating you from the situation — a strangerness. You’re just an invisible witness to yet another pointless argument between two White men.

Even nekkid and underwater, Taylor’s on the attack. “Cause you never know if they’re a close personal friend of the Capones — or if they once saved Al Capone life. Or if they’re best friends with the Chief of Police. You never know. That’s why it’s important to be polite to everyone at all times.”

Jimmie eyes dart between you and Taylor — looking like he’d soiled himself.

“So why don’t you and your lackey go back to county? I’m sure your time is better spent elsewhere, away from decent folk trying to go bout their business.”

The only sound from Jimmie is a muttering huff as he walks out the door, his open-mouthed lackey following glumly behind.

Next Chapter — The Prophet of Oaklawn

Halfway Crook — Table of Contents