by Iceberg Slim
We were on Halsted Street. I pulled to the curb. The booth was next to a filling station. Blue’s eyes avoided me as he got out. He walked slowly to the phone. His eyes flashed sadly at me as he dialed. Poor Blue really thought he was a dirty double-crosser who had barred me from the big-time con and the white world. He wasn’t so dumb either. Neither of us had done any time.
At no time during our twenty years together had I given serious thought to sneaking over the racial fence to pass for white. I wouldn’t have moved from our pink frame house on Langley Avenue to a castle on the Riviera, unless of course Blue came along.
He hung up the phone and dialed another number. He was probably calling Cloe. He put up the receiver after a few seconds. His shoulders were slumped as he walked toward the car. He got in and sighed. I pulled out and drove south on Halsted.
I said, “Has Fixer heard anything?”
He stared straight ahead. He said, “Son, it’s worse than bad for us. We were lucky to get off the Southside. Felix told me Nino and two of his killers are already on the Southside looking for us. He is also posting his spies to look out for us.
“Nino’s chief spy, that stupid ass-kissing sonuvabitch, Butcher Knife Brown, is on the prowl for us. That crazy black sucker would croak us for free. He’d suck Nino’s ass with a straw.
“I told you we were hot! I told you! Felix said we would be better off if we were grand jury witnesses against the syndicate. He can’t help us, son. Nino is crazy with grief. Oh! Why did I have to play for old man Frascati?
“Son, it’s all my fault. The whole stupid mess. Folks, you don’t know how glad I am that I made those pre-need arrangements with Metropolitan Funeral Home. You told me Phala wanted to be cremated and her ashes thrown to the winds. I carried out her wishes. But I want every nigger hustler in Chicago to turn green with envy. I want everybody to know old Blue was put away like a white aristocrat. I want to lie there in my luxury casket for all to see.
I felt guilt shoot through me. Phala had been dead for weeks before I knew. I had been out of town in a drunken tailspin. The Goddess sure had been my poison.
I said, “Goddamnit! Blue, stop it! You make me want to vomit! You’re talking like a lop-eared mark. We’re going to come through this thing alive. I suffered through your lousy confession. But damn if I can stand any more of the same bullshit.
“Blue, I have some news for you. Even a fetus in its mother’s belly is starting to die before its birth. What the hell, you want to live forever? Every hustler in Chicago is going to know you were a sucker to toss ten grand to the worms.
“Besides, you’re not going to die in an alley with your shoes on. You’ll die a buck-naked sucker between Cleo’s legs. Your lovesick heart is going to burst like a pricked balloon.
“Sure I hate you for chaining me and holding me prisoner in a nigger world. You put a pistol on me and forced me to make the Frascati play. That’s why I copped a heel when you went to the phone. It would have been easy to have driven away and left you alone out there.
“I’ll say it for the last time, Blue, we’re friends. Nino or even the end of the world couldn’t change that. Now, Blue, let’s be sensible. Why go to Jewtown? As hot as we are, shouldn’t I just head out of town away from the furnace? Chicago is a deathtrap for us.
“I could drive to New York in less than a day. You could send for Cleo later. How about it pal? Blue, I’m sorry I made that personal remark about you and Cleo. Forgive me?”
His eyes were downcast. He cracked his knuckles in his lap. Finally he said, “Son, I’ve forgotten and forgiven your crack about Cleo. Folks, Cleo is like a baby. I just couldn’t leave her in Chicago alone. Besides, Nino might see an angle in her to even the score.
“The sweet little doll would go out of her mind without me. She’s like Midge was long ago. I destroyed Midge with neglect. I can’t destroy Cleo. Wherever I go she has to go with me.
“Folks, we can’t risk renting a room anywhere in town. Some hustler renting a room for the night with a dame could spot us. Don’t worry, the bird we’re going to owes me a million favors. Furthermore, he’s a boyhood chum of mine. We’re from the same town in Mississippi. He was Joe Coleman. But now he calls himself Reverend Josephus.
“Who could imagine that Blue and White Folks were hiding out in the house of an ex-wino turned religious fanatic? Twenty years ago he hung out and flunkied in the joints around Thirty-ninth and Cottage Grove. He was never underworld. He was just a Deep South chump driven to the grape by the confusion and disappointment of a big city.
“He knew your mother well. He’s married to a country girl from down home. He and Bertha Mae had a house in Jewtown when I ran into him several years ago preaching in the street. He’s a nut all right. But he’s our only hope for a safe hideout. He’s in my debt. But he’ll put the chill on us if he thinks our troubles are crooked ones.
“Son, I give you my sacred promise. I’ll have Cleo with us before the night is over. Monday morning I’ll get to my safe deposit box in the Loop. While I’m down there I’ll give my mouthpiece power of attorney to sell the house, car and furniture. We’ll be out of Chicago no later than Monday noon. Fair enough, Folks?”
I didn’t answer. I thought, “Should I tell him how damn unfair it is? Should I blurt out, ‘Blue, she’s a cheap chippie. Don’t you understand she isn’t worth a hair on your head?
“‘She’s not interested in you. She knows how close we are, but I could have laid her a hundred times. She only cares for the jewelry and furs and money you shower on her. Blue, she’s going to rip your heart out of you one day. You’re just an old black chump to her.
“‘Dump her now for your own good. We’ll drive to New York right now. There are thousands of young dames in New York you can screw. You can always come back later and handle your business affairs. Blue, you risk your life for her. Don’t risk mine.’”
He startled me from my silent tirade.
He said, “Folks, maybe I’m being selfish again. Here I am asking you to stay in Chicago until I straighten out my affairs. After all, Cleo is my wife, not yours. If you’ve got the slightest thought that you should blow tonight, then drop me off. We can use Fixer as a contact.”
I said, “Blue, you’re making me sick to my stomach again. That silly thought never crossed my mind. Say, we’re at Roosevelt and Halsted. Which way now?”
He said, “We’re in Jewtown all right. Just go down Halsted to the corner of Maxwell. This is Saturday night. Our holy host should be on the corner giving the sinners hell.”
I parked at the curb on Halsted facing the northwest corner of Maxwell, less than fifteen feet away. I let my window down. I left the motor and heater on. Three porcine gourmets stood in front of a Kosher hot dog joint gobbling Jewtown’s famous delicacy.
There he was hopping about on the corner in a threadbare forest-green greatcoat. He looked like a monstrous happy frog bathing in the red pool of light shimmering from a battered steel-drum stove on the sidewalk. His huge maroon eyes were popping globes focused on the light sky. They seemed ready to explode from their black-rimmed sockets.
A dozen amen-ing shadows semicircled Josephus, transited in the bitter cold, watching him commune with the fearsome Son of God. He hurled his skeletal hands clutching a Bible toward heaven. His withered, yellow throat trembled as he hoarsely croaked his divine incantations. His bald skull glistened in the flickering blaze.
“Oh, Sweet Jesus, I owe you so much, Sweet Jesus. Have mercy, Jesus, on all sinful disbelievers. Don’t strike ’em dead, Jesus, before I get ’em ready for they heavenly home.
“Kind Jesus, you called me to heal the sick and afflicted. Wonderful Jesus, you drove the wine demon out of me. I ain’t got no more desire.
“I got running water, Jesus. I don’t worry when it rains no more. My roof don’t leak. Sweet Jesus, you showed me how to make my livin’ off what the white people throws away.
“Thank you, Jesus, I don’t go outside no more to no privy. No more corn co
bs, Lord; I got toilet paper. I don’t ride no onery mule no more. I got a truck, Lord.
“I know what you done for me, Lord. Thank you, Jesus. No more fat-back and beans seven days a—”
A gang of ragged black teenagers had come around the corner of Maxwell. They had stopped and stood staring at him. Then they descended on him like a Biblical plague and strangled his eulogy.
The biggest one kicked over the fiery drum. Glowing jewels of fire skittered across the ice-pocked sidewalk like enormous rubies flung from the mischievous hand of a colossus.
As they moved past the stricken preacher, the kicker screamed, “You shit-colored, square-ass poor mother-fucking junkman. Stop bullshitting the people. Ain’t no God for Niggers. Fuck you and your peckerwood God in the ass, and fuck the Virgin Mary, too.”
The preacher received an instant, foolish charge of divine courage. He shouted at the retreating backs of the mob, “You black crazy devils will burn in eternal hell. The Lord punishes evil blasphemers.”
They turned as one and started back to him. Blue opened the door on his side.
He said, “Folks, you got that button? Those Mau Mau are going to maim our damn-fool host.”
I reached under the seat and got the fake detective badge. Blue took out his wallet and pinned the shield to the inner leather. He got out fast and lumbered toward the preacher. I followed him. I left the Caddie’s motor running.
The gang had almost reached Josephus cowering alone against a store window. The superstitious shadows had vanished into the bleak catacombs of Jewtown. The gang froze and then back-pedaled down the sidewalk.
Blue didn’t need to flash the button. They were certain we were a detective team. Little doubt that I looked white to them. Blue weighed forty pounds more than my two hundred. He was only two inches shorter than my six feet four. The Mau Mau pounded out of sight.
At first even Josephus thought we were heat. His frog eyes leaped for the top of his head looking up at Blue. He nervously dabbed a dirty rag at twin ropes of snot dangling from his wide nostrils.
He was startled by Blue’s bull bulk looming up before him. In his alarm he performed a clumsy matador’s veronica as his hips spun sideways. The rag fluttered in his hand like a tiny cape as he leaned away.
Then recognition gurgled in his throat. He threw himself forward and embraced Blue. Blue winked at me and hugged our hideout angel tightly.
Blue said, “How are you and Bertha Mae?”
Josephus stepped out of the clinch, looked heavenward and said, “Blue, we doing fine, thank you. We still in love. Don’t the Lord work in mysterious ways his wonders to perform? It’s been over five years since I seen you right on this corner. He sent you to drive Satan’s imps away. I’m going to pray and give thanks to Jesus. Let’s bow our heads.”
Blue said, “Reverend Joe, I have no objections to prayer. But suppose we go to your place now. We’d like to stay at your place for a day or so. I’ve got an urgent matter to take up with you. We’re in trouble. Reverend, this is Johnny O’Brien, Phala’s boy.”
He said, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, son.”
I said, “Reverend, it’s a pleasure.”
Then he gave me a long look and said, “I think I remember you as a lad around Thirty-ninth Street. Many nights I used to see you standing outside the cabaret waiting for your mama. But I knew your mother well. Have faith and pray. Only Jesus can help her. Believe in His power, and He will cast out the demons in her poor head.”
I said, “Reverend, it’s much too late for that. She died in Forty-five.”
Blue took him urgently by the arm and steered him toward the car. I followed them. Three dapper white men passed slowly by in a dark sedan. They turned swarthy cruel faces and glared at us.
Blue’s steps faltered. Wild currents revved up my heartbeat. Blue looked over his shoulder at me. His awful terror of the outfit shone in the phosphorescent whites of his eyes.
We got into the Fleetwood. The preacher sat between us. His eyes were closed. My foot trembled on the gas pedal. I cut the wheels sharply to the left. I was going to smash down on the pedal and bullet away in a U-turn if the sedan came back. Blue and I stared through the windshield until the sedan’s tail lights became harmless red pinpoints in the distance. I inflated my cheeks with air and blew out in relief.
Blue said, “Reverend Joe, do you live in the same house?”
Joe said, “Yes, indeedy. Just turn right on Fourteenth Place and go to Newberry, then turn left. It’s the two story white house in the middle of the block. It ain’t no mansion, but thank Jesus it’s mine and Bertha Mae’s.
“I got a big shed in the backyard. A big fine car like this wouldn’t last long on these streets. These slick Jewtown thieves could pick it clean as a chitlin’ in half an hour. They ain’t going to bother with my old truck.”
I pulled around the corner and drove to the middle of the block. No one would possibly imagine that Joe’s house could be the hideout for two fast grifters. It was a nineteenth-century cadaver, hacked hideous by weather and time. The ancient white paint on the brownstone had rotted away in scabby slabs. The scarred relic was leaning crookedly toward us as I turned into the alley beside it. I drove to the back of it and started to turn into the backyard.
The Reverend said, “Son, let me out and pull up the alley a piece. I’ll put my old truck on the street. Wait for me at the back door.”
Blue let him out and got back in. I cut into the backyard and backed twenty feet up the alley. My headlights beamed on the Reverend just as he went into the black maw of the shed.
We heard the asthmatic wheezing of the elderly engine when the Reverend tried to start it.
Blue said, “I sure hope Jesus starts that wreck for him. This Fleetwood has a bitch of a need for cover. Now listen, Folks, when we get inside, I’ll handle the tale of our troubles. A ding-a-ling like him might spook out on us if the tale isn’t, as you always say, a glove-fit. Chumps prefer a beautiful lie to an ugly truth.”
The truck finally stuttered to a clanking roar. The Reverend backed it out and went down the alley to the street. I pulled the Fleetwood into the shed and cut the lights and engine. Blue and I got out and walked to the tunnel blackness at the back door.
The hot, sexy voice of Billy Daniels torched faintly through the chilling air. He was singing Old Black Magic. I looked up into a second-floor bedroom window across the alley. The shade was up. I nudged Blue.
A naked yellow dame was standing beside a dresser near the window. In the light from the lamp on the dresser we saw her grinning and talking to someone out of our sight. She took a drink from a tall glass. She backed up to the dresser. She put her palms on it. Then she leaped up to a sitting position on the dresser top.
She jackknifed her curvy legs. She held her wide-apart thighs against her fat breasts with her hands. She scooted her massive rear-end to the edge of the dresser and leaned her back against the mirror.
Blue said, “That filthy slut is posing for dirty pictures. I wonder what the hell is keeping Joe. I’m freezing to death.”
A milk-white barrel-chested giant hulked into view. His great biceps rippled as he adjusted his long blond wig. Huge shiny earrings dangled to his rouged cheeks. He reached and got a chair and sat down in front of the dame.
He leaned forward and put his elbows on his thighs. He supported his big ugly head in his cupped hands. He just sat there, gazing into the wondrous valley of womanhood that was, alas, painfully absent in him.
I said, “Blue, that bird ain’t no photographer.”
Blue said, “Folks, a freakish jack-off like that should be stroked with a barbed-wire club, then tarred and feathered.”
I said, “Now, Blue, what the hell is so horrible about that pitiful jerk aching to be a fluff? Dames have the best of it, you know.”
5
THE VOICE OF SATAN CONS THE PREACHER
There was a fumbling rattle at the back door. We turned away from the scene across the alley. A pale riv
er of yellow light suddenly flooded the darkness. Reverend Josephus stood in the doorway pressing an index finger against his lips. We went by him into a soot-stained kitchen reeking of stale collard greens.
He shut the door and whispered, “Bertha Mae is been feeling mighty cranky of late. Ain’t no sense to have her up running her mouth and asking about our goings on. ’Course, I’m the boss of this house. You just follow me. We’ll go to the back bedroom upstairs to talk.”
He pulled a long piece of greasy string hanging from a bald light bulb in the cracked ceiling. The yellow light winked out. He stepped through an arch and started up a rickety stairway.
We followed in the dim glow from a wall light at the top of the musty stairs. We passed a half-opened toilet door as we went down the upstairs hallway on our way to the rear bedroom. In the distance behind me I heard Bertha Mae snoring in guttural growls.
The Reverend went in and pulled another string. An amber light came on. Blue and I stepped inside. We stood looking around the curtainless room. Ragged shades hung at two windows facing the backyard. A lopsided bunk-bed sat near the windows on a mildewed gray carpet.
I saw my funhouse image in a shattered dresser mirror, spider-webbed beneath a faded picture of a savage Christ, cat-o’-nining the terrified grifters down the temple steps. The peeling purple wallpaper was smallpoxed by gray grime. It was going to be a helluva long pleasant weekend.
Blue and I took off our hats and coats and threw them across the top bunk-bed. Reverend stood in the middle of the room with that big question in his eyes.
He said, “What trouble you in, Blue? You ain’t still robbing honest people on the carnival wheel, is you? Bertha Mae and me can’t shelter no crooks. The Lord would strike us dead.”
Blue said, “You haven’t heard? Johnny and I are in the restaurant business. I’ve repented my evil ways. Say, Reverend Joe, I have a call to make. Do you have a phone?”
Reverend said, “I got the same phone and number I had five years ago. I give it to you on my preaching corner. But you ain’t never called like you promised. It’s on a table down that hall from the kitchen. You ain’t making no long-distance call is you, Blue?”
