by Lionel White
“Where’s Ruby?” she asked. She looked over at crippled Milly,
who was her maid as well as her towel girl, and who took care of I the bedrooms and did the cooking. “I tol’ you I wanted all the girls
here.”
Milly, who never spoke anymore, just looked down at her feet, which were bulging out of the torn bedroom slippers. Alice, the short Jamaican mulatto with the dyed yellow hair, spoke up.
“Ruby in bed,” Alice said. “She real sick. That son a bitch done hurt her bad. He beat her bad. He bite her tit haf off. That son a bitch crazy.”
Goldie shook her head. “Hambone,” she said. “Where’s he at? He git back yet?”
Alice again answered. “He take that boy out and throw him in that yellow pickup of his. Throw him in the back and drive off. Then he come back.”
“What he do with him? He kill him?”
Alice shook her head.
“He come back and he say he not kill that crazy boy. He say it bad luck to kill a crazy person. So he just leave him in the truck and set it on fire. That boy real crazy. He almost kill little Ruby. Beat her up and then he bite ..
“Where’s Hambone now?” Goldie Jackson interrupted.
“He go out again. He say he gonna git himself a color TV set. He mad about what happen to Ruby and he say he gonna get him a honky and he gonna git him a TV.”
“Hambone is crazy as that crazy boy,” Goldie said. “Just as well he gone. We don’t need no bouncer anymore around here tonight. Now I want you girls should go up to your rooms. I’m closin’ this place up. Tonight all we could get is trouble. 1 shouldn't even a let that boy in. But two hunnert dollas ..
Alice said, “I’d like to go out, Miz Goldie, and see some of them fires. I’d like to ..
“You goin’ upstairs with the rest of the girls,” Goldie said. “I’m closin’ up and takin’ no more customers tonight. But I want you girls should stay in the house. All you can git is trouble outside. You stay here and Milly will bring you anything you want. You want food, you want booze, you want something else, pills or something,
why, you just ask Milly. She’ll git it for you. But I want you should stay in the house tonight. Outside, they’s just trouble outside.”
Sissy, who was only seventeen and had been working at Goldie’s for less than two months, looked up petulantly and spoke.
“If we ain’t takin’ on any more johns tonight,” she said, “why, I’d kinda like to see my man ..
“I said I don’t want no one going out a this house.”
“Maybe then,” Sissy said, “I could have him ...”
Goldie Jackson slammed her big fist down on the table so hard that the paper cup jumped and spilled.
“You know the rules of this place. Ain’t ever been no black man in here and there ain’t never gonna be. 'Cept Hambone, a course, and he don’t count ’cause he’s got no balls. But I ain’t havin’ no black man in this here who’ house. I don’t want ’em for customers and I don't want none a your pimps cornin’ round here. I let one in and I gotta let ’em all in and when I do, then I lose my white trade. An’ it’s the white trade that brings in the money. So don’t you go askin’ to have your man come here. Now you all go on and git upstairs. I’ll be runnin’ out of candles pretty soon now, so if you girls want something, you git it from Milly. An’ one of you look in on Ruby and see if she’s all right.”
“That white bastard damn near kill little Ruby,” Alice said. “Crazy son a bitch ...”
“All whiteys crazy and all of ’em mean,” Sissy said. “That po-liceman I had! My God, that pig. He haf’ drunk and he cain’t come an’ I thought he ride me right through the springs an’ then he git mad and slap me ’round and what he make me do before he ready to ...”
“Never you mind what he make you do. You git paid an’ that’s all that counts,” Goldie said. “Anyway, someday your time come. All our time’ll come. But right now, all we can do is take they money an’ give ’em what they come here for. Now let’s just break it up an’..
She stopped speaking in midsentence as the sound of the banging on the outside kitchen door reverberated through the room.
“Now, who can that be?” Goldie said. “Alice, you go an’ tell ’em we all closed up. No more customers tonight. Keep the chain on an’ just git rid of them.”
3 HUGHY Crown thought, Goddamn it, I must be off my rocker. Here I am, half scared to death and damned if I ain’t feeling horny.
He remembered reading somewhere that, when criminals were executed, either by hanging or by electrocution, they were said to have an orgasm just as they died. He had doubted it at the time, but it occurred to him now that perhaps there might actually be some truth in it after all. Certainly a man about to be executed would be scared. He said, under his breath, “Scared stiff.” He laughed nervously.
Well, if the story was true, he just hoped he wasn’t on the verge of an orgasm. Because there was no doubt he was thoroughly frightened and there was no doubt but what he had good reason to be so. He’d managed to get through the fire zone all right and gone down Elm Street and he’d made the turn on Central, heading south. That had been his mistake. A half dozen blocks and he would have been back in the white part of the city. It had seemed the logical thing to do. It would have been, had it not been for the trouble he’d run into in the middle of the block.
He’d spotted the car, turned over on its side, from a couple of hundred yards away and the minute his headlights outlined it, he’d recognized it as a police squad car from the red rotating light on the roof. The car lay directly in the middle of the street and its headlights were still on. For some stupid reason he had assumed that it had been an accident, that the car must have skidded and rolled over on its side.
He could see, even at a distance, that there were a number of people around the car and, without thinking, he kept on going. If a police car was in an accident, it would be a story and a story was what he was after.
It was only as he drew closer, slowing down to avoid the people who were everywhere on the street around him by now, that he began to understand what had happened. He was able to see, just beyond the overturned squad car, the barricade which had been erected out of old furniture, garbage cans, and whatever odds and ends of junk that were available for those who decided to block off the thoroughfare. He suddenly realized that the squad car had been in no run-of-the-mill accident. He realized it only when he was close enough not only to make out the barricade, but also to see the men who were hurling bricks and rocks at the overturned vehicle.
And by now he was aware of the voices which seemed all around him, the harsh, hysterical voices yelling, “Kill the mothafuckas! Gitdem pigs! Burn ’em, baby!”
It was more shock than actual fear in that first instant when he fully understood what had happened and what was happening.
His reactions were automatic. He brought the XKE to a quick stop and for a second or so he just sat there. And then the fear began to come and he knew that he must do something. He must get away and get away as quietly and speedily as possible. There was no going ahead and, if he just abandoned the car, tried to get out of it and sneak back through those people who were beginning now to close in behind him, he knew he would be recognized as a white man even in the half darkness of the street. Had it not been for the light being reflected from the fires a couple of blocks away, he might have had a chance, but his instincts told him that he would never make it.
The best thing would be to try to turn around, weave his way back through the crowds. If he could just get the car headed back, keep the car moving, he would have a chance. If worse came to worst, he’d gun the powerful engine and just plow ahead. If someone got in his way, that would be their lookout.
He pulled his hat well over his eyes, slouched low in the seat and trying to keep as much out of the light as possible, twisted the wheel hard to the left and began to back around.
Someone outside yelled, “Watch where you goin’, you motha!�
�
He pushed down on the horn button, turned in his seat to see if he had clearance.
The door of the Jag was jerked open and a man put his head inside.
“Man, you jus’ about run into . . the voice began and then stopped shortly.
A hand reached across him, found the ignition key and the engine went dead.
“We got us another whitey!” the voice said, and a moment later he felt himself being jerked from the car.
He managed to get his press card out and he tried to hold it up, saying in a high hysterical yell, “Press, fellows! I’m from the press. I’m a reporter and ..
“Cat say he de press,” the man said who was holding his arm. “Now, what you think of that?”
They were crowding in now and for a moment he couldn’t even find his voice. But he forced down the sob which was swelling in his throat, and he spoke fast.
“You fellows know me,” he said. “You know me. Hughy Crown. The disk jock. Station WXZQ. You know me. I play those rock records for you every night. Why, fellows . . .”
Someone pushed him and he almost fell.
A high girlish voice spoke at his elbow.
“Man, don’ burn this car. I always wanted to drive me one of these rods. Yessah, I sure always wanted to drive me one of these. You wouldn’ mind if I drive you fine automobile now would you, Mista Crown?”
“That fella really the disk jockey?”
“I say burn it. Boy, that baby make a real nice fire.”
“No sah, Mista Crown, he want me to drive his cah, don’ you, Mista Crown?”
“Look,” Hughy said, trying to keep the fear and desperation out of his voice. “Look, of course, you can drive the car. I tell you what. I gotta get back to the radio station. Why don’t you just drive me back and then, if you want to take the car for a little spin ...”
“We wanna take it, we jus’ take it,” said the man who held his arm. “Now, what you all doin’ down here, anyway? Don’ you know this is nigga town? Don’ you know we segregated down heah? This no place for a nice white boy to be. No sah. You goin’ be down heah, we just have to toast you up nice an’ brown so you be
maybe as black as the rest of us. We put you back in that fine auto and light it up and toast you ..
“I said I always want a car like this. We ain’t goin’ burn this car, not til I get a chance ...”
The man holding his arm suddenly dropped it and turned and swung, and Hughy heard the crunch of a fist smashing into bare flesh. Someone groaned and started to fall, and then Hughy saw the reflection of light on a knife blade and there were screams all around him. He fell to his knees and a body hurtled over him.
Someone was tearing at his clothes and he could feel a hand searching his inside coat pocket. A heavy boot struck the side of his head and he crumpled and went flat. As he lost consciousness, he was dimly aware that someone was trying to pull his sports jacket off over his head. And then everyone on the street seemed to fall directly on top of him.
The first thing he heard when he came to was the screaming and the yelling. He knew that he was lying flat on the pavement, but he seemed completely alone. Something was covering his head and it took him a moment or so to realize that it was his own jacket. There was so much noise, so many voices screaming and yelling, that he couldn’t make out individual words, but the sounds seemed to be coming from a short distance away. He turned his head slightly but could see nothing. One cheek was pressed against the pavement and he felt something wet and unpleasant under his face. His right arm was stretched next to his head and he moved it slowly and his hand came in contact with the cloth of his jacket. He lifted the edge of the jacket and in the dim light he was able to make out the silhouette of his car at the side of the street, some thirty feet away. There was a crowd of people standing around it and they suddenly closed in.
A sudden flash of light shot up over the crowd by the car and he heard a long, piercing scream above the roar of the voices. And then the explosion came and the entire street around him was as bright as at high noon.
He realized without even trying to figure it out that the XKE had been set on fire and that the flames must have reached the gas tank, which had exploded.
Even as the voices changed to screams of agony, he was on his hands and knees, crawling off toward the darkness between the
* two houses on the side of the street opposite the burning car.
As he found the shadows between the two buildings, he was still frightened. Frightened half to death. But his mind was suddenly crystal clear. He knew exactly where he was and he knew what he had to do, if he was to live, to make an escape.
Finding a sanctuary, a hiding place in the immediate neighborhood wouldn’t be the answer. Sooner or later they would find him. Sooner or later other buildings would be put to the torch. He had to get away, completely away from the area.
There was an alley running north and south, between Central Avenue and Mission Avenue, the next street over. The alley would be darker than either of the streets and, being used for nothing but a collection area for garbage cans and trash, the chances of anyone’s being in it were slim. He would stay in the shadows and try to make his way slowly south until he could reach safety.
When he came to the alley, he slowly got to his feet. The side of his face was on fire and he lifted his hand and rubbed it and, when it came away wet, he didn’t know if it was blood or sweat. He ached all over, felt as though he had been through a meat grinder. Slowly he started up the alley, but he hadn’t gone more than a hundred feet when he suddenly stopped, frozen into immobility.
The figure in front of him had seemed to materialize out of nowhere, a crouched, hunched-over figure. In the darkness he couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman or a child.
The voice said, “You gotta a light, mista?”
His hand started for his pocket, for his cigarette lighter, and then stopped in midair. A light was the last thing he wanted. A light would show his face.
He didn't even trust himself to speak. Instead he turned, moving quickly in a semicircle, and started to run. He hadn’t gone thirty yards when something caught him just above his right knee and he tripped and fell in the darkness. He wanted to cry out with the pain, but he clamped his teeth together and lay still and quiet, afraid to hardly breathe.
It was while he lay there, half-sprawled across the overturned garbage can which he’d tripped over, that he saw the dim light in the window of the house which backed onto the alley opposite him, a light cast from the reflection of a candle through a kitchen window.
As recognition slowly came to him, so did the idea. That light was coming from the kitchen of a house he knew well, a house he had been in a hundred times. Goldie Jackson’s Central Avenue whorehouse, a house where only white men were allowed to enter, a house protected by the law, a house beyond the law, beyond riots and wars and disaster. As truly a sanctuary as though it were a monastery or a foreign embassy in a South American revolutionary country.
It was sanctuary he needed.
4 GOLDIE looked up drunkenly, trying to focus her eyes. Her mind was clear enough, but the damned booze always hit her physically. She had a lot of trouble seeing, but then she was half blind even when she wasn’t drinking.
“Who you say it is, Alice?" she asked.
“That radio fella. You know, that Mista Crown. Son of bitch never gives a girl anything extra and wants everything. Straight job never good enough for him an'...”
“Tell him to go away. We closed,” Goldie said.
“I tol' him,” Alice said. “But he still wanna come in. Say he’s hurt and needs help. Say he just have to come in.”
“He has to come in, does he?” Goldie said. “He owes me for the las’ six times he come in this house. He owe me a couple hunnert dollas already.”
There was a pounding on the door again and Goldie frowned.
“You tell that cat...’’ she started and then suddenly stopped, a shrewd, calculating look coming
over her face.
“Tell him he want to pay the money he owe, I let him in. Tell him jus’ give you two hunnert dollas, he can come in. But if he wanna stay, it be three hunnert.”
Alice again went to the door and this time she took the safety chain off when she opened the door.
Hughy Crown quickly pushed past her into the kitchen.
“My God, Goldie,” he said. “My God, you gotta let me stay here. I’ve been hurt and . .
Goldie squinted her eyes and stared at him.
“You got the money you owe . ..”
“I’ll give you the money. Just let me have a drink and . . .”
Goldie nodded toward the bottle on the kitchen table and Hughy staggered over and poured a drink in a paper cup and quickly downed it.
“Where your money?” Goldie asked.
“Goldie, I’ll give you a check. Look, give all the girls a drink. The drinks tonight are on me. You have one and give the girls ...”
Goldie reached for the bottle and twisted the cap on it.
“No check, Mista Crown!” she said. “Goldie Jackson take no checks. You know that, Mista Crown. Now either you git up the money, all the money you owe me, or else out you go.”
“For God’s sake, Goldie,” Hughy said, “I can't go. You know what’s going on outside. I just have to stay here ..
“You have to pay if you wanna stay here. Where’s you money?”
The drink was beginning to work and Hughy felt a surge of confidence.
“Now listen, Goldie,” he began, “you know I’m a good customer and ..
“Money. Or else out you go."
“Look, right now I’m a little short. But Monday, well, Monday I’ll give you the money I owe. I’ll pay for tonight, the booze for everybody and everything. Hell, Goldie, Monday I’ll give you the two hundred and well, well, two hundred more. Just for staying here tonight. How’s that?”
