A Taste of Honey

by Jabari Asim

  At the intersection of Delmar and Finney, Guts had to stomp the brakes when a young black man sprang from nowhere and darted across the street. He’d barely registered that event when a police cruiser came screaming through, siren blasting and beacons ablaze.

  “Chasing a black man in black clothes on a black night,” Guts said aloud. “Good luck with that.”

  At the docks, Guts backed his Plymouth to the edge of the water. He retrieved his fretful bundle and dumped it on the stones. “Paul,” he said. “Did you know that W. C. Handy slept on these very stones when he first came to Gateway?” It was a speech he’d given before. Guts reached under the driver’s seat and found his trusty length of pipe, to which he’d attached a finger-friendly grip normally used on a bicycle’s handlebar.

  “He was poor and hungry and had nowhere to sleep. You’re keeping good company, friend. But this is where you and I part ways. I got to get a move on because I’m hungry and I also have to take a tinkle.”

  That a man so massively masculine and robustly rotund would favor a delicate word like tinkle struck even Guts as a tad incongruous. He’d inherited it from his beloved mother, who shared both Guts’s dimensions and his fondness for jokes. He’d experimented with coarser words—blue-collar, labor-union words like piss and whiz. But he always found himself returning to the euphemisms of childhood. So tinkle it was.

  Paul’s eyes gleamed hugely in the moonlight.

  “You can’t cross over to the Gateway side ever again. Not for any reason at all, got it?”

  Paul nodded violently. Guts took one practice swing, then another. “If you are foolish enough to cross over, Paul, it won’t be on foot. I’m going to make sure of that.”

  Guts noticed wetness spreading across the front of Paul’s pants. He sighed.

  “Looks like I’m not the only one who had to go. Watch the boots, huh, Paul?”

  Lives of the Artists

  while Guts handled his business and dreamed of banana pudding, the men of the Black Swan hung out late. Above their heads swirled the fumes and scents that defined their comfort: paint, turpentine, coffee, tobacco, Skin Bracer, smoke.

  Bob Cobb, a round, amiable gentleman, wore a knee-length lab smock that was probably white once. It was covered with lackluster splotches of gunmetal gray, lurid splashes of neon orange, silver, and indigo. An aura of goodwill glowing from his shiny, nearly bald scalp, he puffed contentedly on a pipe and watched Reuben match wits with George West over a checkerboard that had clearly seen better days. Both combatants held foam cups filled with steaming black coffee.

  Tall and taciturn, Talk Much presided over an ancient hi-fi teetering in a corner, from which issued the unmistakable sound of Chuck Berry expressing his impatience with Maybellene. Lucius Monday, hunched over a large drafting table, actually an old door balanced on a couple of sawhorses, was the only man working. Every now and then he’d look up and comment on the checkers game with a jocularity that belied his intimidating appearance.

  He was dark and rough-skinned. A long, unruly beard, a blend of coal dust and cotton, connected the deep scars on either side of his wide nose to a pair of spectacularly bloodshot eyes. In the center of his beard sat a fat and equally crimson slice of bottom lip. He held in one hand a sign painter’s tool called a maulstick, a length of wood that looked like a sawed-off bamboo fishing pole. A round, uneven ball made of rags and tape was stuck to the other end of the stick, held there by a looped and knotted tangle of twine. His other hand, grasping a brush with the light, sure touch of a surgeon wielding a scalpel, applied the finishing touches to a sign declaring “20% Off!”

  Between moves, Reuben and West discussed their attempts to collect a debt from a delinquent client. Forced to toil without the services of a proven accounts manager of the Guts Tolliver variety, the men of the Black Swan sometimes found themselves at the mercy of the North Side’s most elusive characters.

  “Boudreau’s most likely not going to pay,” Monday predicted.

  “I doubted that punch-drunk chump from the get-go,” West said. “We’re never going to see that money.”

  They were talking about Jerome “the Creole Crusher” Boudreau, who almost fought a championship bout once. He had a TV repair shop on Prairie Avenue.

  “Monday and I went over there two days ago,” Reuben said. “I had called first to tell him we were on our way over, which was probably a mistake. We get there and nothing’s going on inside. No lights on. We ring the bell, bang on the glass, nobody answers.”

  “Suddenly I make out something moving,” Monday interjects, “a shadow moving in the semidarkness. Turns out it’s Boudreau crawling around on his hands and knees, hoping we don’t see him.”

  “I feel sorry for him,” said Bob Cobb. “In his prime, he was a real contender. One of the best fighters I’ve ever seen.”

  “I’ve seen better,” Reuben said. “The best I ever saw used to skirmish in the back of my uncle’s Laundromat. They were rats, understand. Big, rowdy-looking rodents. They’d actually stand on their hind legs and trade punches.”

  Over at the hi-fi, Talk Much chuckled and started the record over.

  Bob Cobb had introduced his tight-lipped friend to the others some years ago, after Reuben had admired Talk Much’s spectacular handling of the giant feline gracing the front of Katz Drugs. “Whoever did that sign is operating on a whole other level,” he had surmised.

  “That there is the handiwork of Talk Much, formerly known as Ronald Ewing,” Cobb explained. “But it’s been a long time since he answered to that. A real artistic genius, that one. Planets and prophecies bloomed from the end of his brush. Had a full scholarship to Grambling. A life of promise and potential just waiting for him to jump up and seize the day.”

  “Get to the point if you got one,” West had urged. He could talk without parting his teeth.

  Reuben glared at West, but Cobb blithely ignored him. “His woman left him. Name was Karintha. Pretty as a picture. Curls fat and greasy as strips of bacon. She was with him through college and two years of the service. Six years, all told, until he found her in the arms of another man.”

  “That’s terrible,” Reuben said. West just rolled his eyes.

  “Lucius and I have seen her,” Cobb said. “Talk still carries her picture in his wallet.”

  “I wouldn’t say she was so pretty,” Monday said. “That mustache would have distracted me.”

  “She did not have a mustache,” said Cobb. “She had a dusky upper lip, that’s all.”

  “So he’s been screwed up ever since?” Reuben asked, staring up at the sign and half-expecting the huge, realistic whiskers to start trembling in the breeze.

  “I prefer to say he occasionally has problems maintaining sobriety,” Cobb replied.

  Monday nodded sympathetically. He knew something about that too.

  Talk Much joined the crew soon after. Now he swayed lightly above the rickety stereo while Chuck Berry’s beloved broke his heart again.

  Cobb snorted. “Man, get outta here with that John Brown jive.”

  John Brown jive was Swan-speak for b.s.

  West rolled his eyes. “Stop lying, Reub, and concentrate on this game before I dethrone your prevaricating ass.”

  “I’m telling the truth as sure as I’m sitting here with four ugly fellas,” Reuben rejoined.

  West was a skinny, sharp-nosed man dressed in dungarees and pointy-toed, paint-stained cowboy boots. His big, bushy mustache vibrated when he spoke. Setting down his coffee cup, West picked up his pipe, placed it between his clenched teeth, and lighted it. After a few preliminary puffs, he exhaled a plume of smoke. “Myself,” he began, “I’ve had an encounter with rodents too. Some of them set up living quarters in a box in my basement, without seeking my permission or negotiating a reasonable rental fee.”

  “What did you do?” Lucius asked.

  West could hardly wait to reply. “I slid that box out the back door, all the way to the alley. Tossed some gasoline on that sucker and
set it on fire. I could hear them rats frying, understand. Hopping and popping and squealing and burning the hell up. That’s how you handle rats.”

  Cobb scratched his head. “Look here, all this talk of rats frying brings back memories of my delightful Southern childhood.”

  “Watch out, fellas,” West warned. “This Negro’s about to let loose a tall one.”

  “No,” Cobb protested, “this is good as gospel here. Consider my mouth a prayer book.”

  Lucius Monday pretended to back away. “I’m just making room for the lightning strike,” he said with a grin.

  “We ate ’em all the time,” Cobb continued. “Used to go down to the river and knock up ’em upside the head. Shoot, man, you ain’t had you nothin’ until you’ve had some rat. Dip ’em in some flour, dust ’em with some salt and pepper, and drop ’em in some Crisco, you got yourself somethin’. Even better when you soak ’em in some buttermilk first. Stick to your ribs, I’m telling you.”

  “Now look who’s talking John Brown jive,” Reuben said.

  Cobb acted like his feelings were hurt. “Hmph, last time I share a sentimental glimpse of my younger days with you hardhearted burrheads. And some folks think you coloreds got merciful tendencies.”

  Reuben smiled. “Those are folks who’ve never seen me play checkers.” He looked over at West. “I got you where I want you, my friend.”

  West stared at the checkerboard, puzzled. Reuben lifted a checker and plunked it down with a triumphant flourish. “Jump. Jump. Jump. And … jump!”

  He swept up the rest of West’s checkers and gathered them in his fist. “Savor the sour flavor of defeat, black man,” he said. “I believe I shall keep my crown, thank you.”

  “Son of a gun,” West hissed. “All this conversation threw me off my game.”

  “Man, the John Brown is getting deep in here,” Reuben teased. “Cobb, you want a piece of me?”

  Cobb’s normally placid forehead suddenly wrinkled with concern. “Hold on,” he said. “What is it, Talk?”

  Talk Much had silenced the hi-fi and placed his palm on the front door. He stood patiently, waiting for enlightenment. Finally he pulled away. “Trouble’s coming,” he said. He retreated to his corner.

  “Maybe we should call it a night,” West said, but his suggestion was lost in the rude scream of police cruisers racing down Easton Avenue.

  “Sounds like a whole squadron,” Monday said, just as more hysterical sirens and squealing tires shattered the brief silence.

  “Whoever they’re after is probably halfway to Chicago by now—”

  The door flew open. A slender, black-clad teenager dived through and crashed to the floor. Reuben recognized him immediately as one of the young Warriors of Freedom, Gabriel Patterson’s ragtag “army.” He had been handing out leaflets at Curly’s funeral. On the lawn in front of Good Samaritan, he’d worn an expression of hard-won masculinity, an earnest gaze full of pride and fearlessness. Apparently he’d dropped his mask of courage somewhere during a night of endless ducking and dodging. Sprawled on the floor of the Black Swan, he merely looked tired and terrified, a boy hardly weaned from his mother’s breast.

  “What the hell?” George said.

  “Please,” whispered the young stranger.

  “Close the door, Talk,” Cobb said. “Let’s get this boy some water.”

  “No time,” the boy sputtered.

  Reuben helped him to his feet. “What’s your name, son?”

  “PeeWee. PeeWee Jefferson. They’ve been hunting us. All night, they’ve been hunting us.”

  Monday thought he already knew the answer. They all did, he was sure. But he asked anyway: “Who? Who’s been hunting you?”

  “The police. They catch us, kick us around, then they let us go. They’re bored.”

  George eyed the boy with undisguised skepticism. “Doesn’t look like anything’s broke on you,” he said.

  “Like I said, they’re just kicking us around, scaring us half to death. ‘We’re keeping an eye on all of you,’ they say. ‘We know where you live. We know where your mama works.’ Stuff like that.”

  “These crazy cops,” Cobb said. “They’re getting out of control.”

  “Getting?” George’s narrow eyes blazed. “Somebody turns up dead seem like every goddamn day.”

  “One of them, he tries to make you sing.”

  All eyes were on the boy.

  “What?”

  “You heard me right. Going on and on about doo-wop. Got mad when I said I didn’t know anything about it. He had me pinned on the sidewalk near the Top Hat Lounge. Said he’d shoot me if I couldn’t do a song by the Ink Spots. But I got loose and I ran. Look, I appreciate your help, but I got to get out of here.”

  “Get out? You almost broke your neck trying to get in,” Reuben reminded him.

  Cobb moved to the front window. “Looks like they’re going door to door,” he said.

  “Should we kill the lights?”

  “No, Monday,” Reuben said. “I think they’d notice.” He turned to PeeWee. “Come with me,” he urged. “Hurry.”

  Reuben and George led him toward the back of the shop. Reuben pointed to a pair of planks sitting atop an empty barrel. “I’ve been planning to do something with this. Guess now is as good a time as any.” They pushed the barrel to the darkest recesses of the shop and helped PeeWee climb inside. “Don’t make a sound,” Reuben cautioned.

  They replaced the planks, covered them with a stack of stretched canvases, and made it back to the checkers table just as the door swung open.

  Detective Ray Mortimer sauntered in, accompanied by his stern black partner.

  Reuben got up slowly, his hands in plain sight. “Evening, Detectives. Is there a problem?”

  “Maybe,” Mortimer said smugly.

  “I’m Reuben Jones.”

  Detective Grimes gave no indication that he’d been to the Black Swan before. He regarded Reuben as coolly as a stranger. Perhaps according to some predetermined agreement, Mortimer was doing the talking.

  “This your place, Reuben Jones?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of business do you do here?”

  “Like the sign says, this is a sign shop.”

  “Uh-huh. And Ananias Goode is a church deacon.”

  Reuben stole a look at Grimes. Not even a twitch.

  “Awful late to be painting signs, ain’t it?”

  “It was a long day. We’re relaxing before heading home. To our families.”

  “Relaxing. Imagine that.”

  Mortimer ordered the men to remain where they were. No strangers to interrogation, they didn’t need to be told twice.

  He studied each of them, returning again and again to Talk Much. Finally he spoke to him.

  “Some reason you’re so fond of that record player?”

  Talk Much stared back implacably. “Trouble’s coming,” he replied.

  Before Mortimer could respond, Reuben told him what he told everyone who encountered his strange colleague.

  “That’s Talk Much,” he explained. “He doesn’t talk much.”

  Mortimer shot an impatient look at Reuben. “Was I talking to you?”

  Reuben considered his hands. He’d first gone to work at age eleven, hauling deliveries on his bicycle for a pharmacy. He’d been working ever since, lifeguarding, stacking ice, digging ditches, lifting freight—whatever it took to keep climbing. Once a freak wind blew his ladder from beneath him and he held on to a ledge three stories up, stayed alive by the grace of God and the strength of his grip. He took note of Mortimer’s small, soft hands, each one dancing nervously at the edge of a hip. All things equal, Mortimer would go down easy. One hard punch to the jaw maybe, or an almost gentle twist of his pink neck. Reuben balled his hands into fists, stuffed them into his pockets to avoid thinking about them.

  Mortimer kicked jars and cans, spilled brushes, knocked over easels, looked under tables. He unscrewed bottles and sniffed the contents. In sharp con
trast, Grimes never moved his hands from his sides as he moved slowly toward the back of the shop. Watching him, Reuben remembered his way of taking in the whole room without noticeably turning his head. He was sure he would find PeeWee without breaking a sweat.

  Mortimer remained fascinated with Talk Much. “Anybody ever tell you how much you look like Otis Redding? Spitting image, huh, Grimes?”

  “Hush,” the black cop commanded.

  Mortimer reddened. He made a show of digging in his ears. “What’s that? Because I thought I heard you sa____”

  “Hush. I said hush.”

  Grimes stood transfixed. He had uncovered his daughter’s portrait, to which Reuben had yet to apply the finishing touches.

  “Fuck me,” Mortimer said.

  “Nothing here for you,” Grimes said, gazing into his daughter’s eyes. He kept his back to his partner. “Wait outside.”

  The white man trembled with anger. He started to protest but thought better of it and headed for the door. He paused and got in Reuben’s face. Close enough to see his spittle landing on the sign painter’s cheeks and nose.

  “You think we’re done here. But we’re not.”

  Mortimer slammed the door, but Grimes never turned around. Although he stared at the portrait, his mind seemed far away, gone to some distant place and time. A tear slid down his face. Raising his black-gloved hand, he gently wiped it off. “How long?” he asked.

  “Not long,” said Reuben. “I’m nearly done.”

  Grimes nodded. Only then did he turn to face Reuben. “Tell the boy to wait here awhile.”

  He strode toward the door. Talk Much took a step in his direction. “Trouble’s coming,” he repeated.

  The detective shook his head. “It’s already here.”