by Jabari Asim
“You know much about Gladys?”
“I’ve seen her around enough to nod at her,” Guts replied.
“You ever made a move on her?”
“Naw, not my type.”
“What’s your type?”
“I like ’em petite. Besides, I’ve got somebody.”
“It’s just as well,” Crenshaw said. “She’s scared of you anyway. Said she saw you take a man’s finger off one night at a place called High Wheels. You remember that?”
Guts kept his eyes on the road. “I do. He touched something didn’t belong to him.”
“Shit. What did you cut his finger with?”
“I didn’t cut it. I twisted it off.”
“Goddamn! You are stone cold.”
“It was my job. It’s not anymore.”
Guts could feel Crenshaw’s eyes on him but he refused to turn and acknowledge him. They rode in silence down Grand Boulevard, past the Egg Roll Kitchen, the YMCA, and the Harry Truman Boys Club.
“So what happened in there?” Guts asked. “You dropped Gladys like you found out she had the clap.”
“Nothing like that. Like you say, not my type.”
“No sex appeal?”
“More like no pussy.”
“Come again?”
Crenshaw laughed. “You heard me. The sister is a brother.”
“Hell naw.”
“Hell, yeah. Trust me. I get out a little more than you do.”
“What did you whisper in her ear?”
“I asked her how she dealt with stubble,” Crenshaw said. “I didn’t see any. I mean, it was dark in there but I looked real hard.”
“What’d she—he—say?”
“She said a girl’s got to have her secrets.”
“Ain’t that a bitch,” Guts said. After a moment, he asked, “So how come you didn’t bust her—his—teeth in?”
“I got no beef with her. Most folks know her deal, I figure. Surprised you didn’t.”
“Gladys a man? Damn!”
The Spotlight, the second club they visited, was much livelier. About a decade ago, a local black musician turned rock-and-roll star had opened an integrated club at the same location. But he was ahead of his time, and authorities were sickened by the sight of white girls lining up outside a place where black men were drinking and dancing inside. They raided the spot a couple of times on made-up missions, took the rocker’s liquor license, and generally harassed him until he had no choice but to shut the place down. Two years later, it reopened as the Spotlight, an all-black joint that frequently hosted live entertainment.
When they entered, the hostess turned up her nose as if she smelled a skunk. Guts greeted her first. “Evening, Marnita.”
“Guts. I didn’t expect to see you around here.”
“Neither did I. But I’m escorting a VIP tonight. I’m hoping you’ll be kind enough to give us a good booth.”
Marnita turned to Crenshaw. “A VIP? Let’s see, do you sing, dance, or hit a ball with a stick?”
Crenshaw turned on the charm. “For a woman as lovely as you, I’m tempted to say all three. But that would be foolish. And I am, I confess, a fool for love.”
Marnita lightened up a bit. “If you were here with anyone but Guts, your drinks would be on the house.”
“Marnita Taylor,” Guts said, “meet Rip Crenshaw. He plays first base for the home team.”
“My pleasure,” Rip said.
“I’m sure,” Marnita said.
She led them to a booth with a good view of the stage.
A young woman joined the combo under the lights. She counted off and they launched into the opening notes of “Rescue Me.”
Rip had his eyes on Marnita as she walked away. “What happened? You leave that little filly at the altar or something?”
Guts shook his head. “It never got that far.”
“You broke her heart.”
“I broke her cousin’s back. Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“I was chasing him. On a roof. He jumped. Broke his back, put himself in a wheelchair.”
A waiter came and took their orders. Both men ordered beer.
“And Marnita couldn’t forgive you.”
“Sounds about right.”
Guts nursed a second beer while Crenshaw worked the room like a seasoned pro. He danced with three different women for three successive songs, then posed for photos with the singer and others when the band took a break. Guts sipped, watched, and imagined what it would be like to have Pearl with him. She was a nimble dancer and he was almost as light on his feet, despite his bulk. But they confined their dancing to their living rooms. He seldom took her anywhere because he had too many enemies, too many people nursing old grudges. Becoming known as Guts’s woman would be like having a target on her back.
Pearl had won his heart with her banana pudding. She was the first woman who could make it like his mother did. She was ambitious, hardworking, and claimed to have no fascination with nightlife. Almost from the moment they met, she showed less interest in cutting the rug than in turning Guts’s modest house into a genuine home. Before her, he had only a king-sized bed, a refrigerator, a hi-fi system, and his beloved W.C. Handy records. Before her, he found it easier just to cruise down Washington Avenue and find someone who didn’t want anything besides an agreed-upon payment for services rendered.
They met at Stormy Monday’s. Guts was staring at the revolving pie case, trying to decide on a dessert to take home. He had been gazing at a banana pudding when Pearl tugged on his sleeve. “Mine tastes better,” she said, looking up at him and flashing a wicked smile. Guts took in all of Pearl’s virtues in a single glance—the small, high breasts, the pinched waist, bold rump, and surprisingly generous calves—and could think of only one reply: “I bet it does.”
Guts’s 35 years on the planet had convinced him that belief in true love was a high-risk proposition. The night King died, Guts had wheeled through riot-torn streets at the behest of Goode, who was helping out a young couple that wanted—needed—to be married on the spot. He had driven Goode’s New Yorker, steering around rage-crazed North Siders and dodging flaming debris while Rev. Washington rode shotgun and led the giddy, frightened couple in the backseat through their wedding vows. They were clearly crazy in love—and more than a little crazy too, in Guts’s opinion. Nearly every man he knew who took the chance on lifelong love had lost out in the end. Ananias Goode. Mr. Logan. His own father. The groom in the backseat had been Gabe Patterson, the former self-proclaimed revolutionary, whom Cherry had described as “that liberatin’ nigger.” Patterson once claimed that violent rebellion was not only possible but also necessary. He turned his back on all that, though, when he fell for Rose Reynolds. King’s death and Pearl’s tenderness had combined to cause similar changes in Guts. However, he had shown no willingness to go as far as Patterson—despite Nifty going around and telling people that Guts had been “domesticated.”
“Big Man, you think you can stop daydreaming long enough to meet this sexy mama?”
Guts looked up and saw Crenshaw leaning in close, a young woman at his side. She was pretty but looked suspiciously young.
“This is Summer. Summer, this is Guts.”
Guts nodded and tried to smile. He suspected that if you took away the shiny dress, high heels, and the carefully layered face paint, there just might be a child underneath.
“How you doin’?” Her voice was squeaky.
“Imagine,” Crenshaw said, “meeting a girl named Summer in the month of June. Talk about good timing.”
A drink made Summer even squeakier, and compliant enough to accompany Guts and Crenshaw to a third nightspot. Guts had planned to take Crenshaw to the Riviera, a friendly place he knew well. But Summer convinced the ballplayer to choose the Earthquake instead. Once he got there, she promised, she’d introduce him to some of her friends.
Guts rarely visited the Earthquake because the crowd was younger than he preferred. Also,
his presence had been discouraged ever since a man had driven through the front window in an attempt to run him down. They had just entered—the large dance floor was packed and the music painfully loud—when three large bouncers stepped in front of them.
“Evening, Guts,” their leader said.
“Gentlemen,” Guts said.
“Surprised to see you here.”
“Not as surprised as I am to see you stepping in front of me.”
The leader appeared to be losing confidence. So he spoke louder to encourage himself. “There’s three of us,” he said.
“And there’s three of us,” Crenshaw said. He stepped forward and extended a hand. “Rip Crenshaw, first baseman. I really appreciate the hospitality you’re showing me and my good friend Guts Tolliver. It will make fine publicity for your club when I mention it during the story about me in the Gateway Citizen.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Crenshaw,” the lead bouncer said, smiling shyly. “I thought that homer you hit against the Cubs last week was going to fly right out of the park. That ball took off like a rocket.”
“It’s all in the wrists,” Crenshaw said.
“Listen, Mr. Crenshaw, anything you want is on the house.”
“’Preciate it. We won’t be here long. We’re meeting a couple of friends.”
Crenshaw and Summer strolled off and melted into the crowd.
“We don’t want any trouble, Guts.”
“Then why are you still in my face?”
With that, the bouncers departed. Guts scanned the crowd. He thought he spotted a lean brother in a stingy brim doing the camel walk. Nifty? He took a step in that direction but became aware of someone watching him. He turned and saw the bartender across the room. The bartender quickly looked down. When he looked up again, Guts was staring straight at him. The bartender threw down his towel and ran. Guts saw him darting through the dancers toward the rear. Quickly but calmly, Guts went out the front door.
He went around to the side of the building, counted silently to himself, then stuck out his arm. The fleeing bartender ran into it with his throat. Before the man’s back was flattened fully on the pavement, Guts planted his foot firmly on his chest. Guts reached in the waistband of his pants and pulled out a piece of peppermint candy. He freed it from the cellophane and popped it in his mouth.
“The Lord is my shepherd I shall not want,” the man gasped. “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures he leadeth me beside the still waters he restoreth—”
Guts increased his pressure on the man’s chest, silencing him. But as soon as Guts let up, the man’s fierce praying began again. “He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake yea though I walk—”
Guts removed his foot, grabbed his victim’s throat, and yanked him to his feet. He shoved him against the wall.
“Stop praying and start talking. Why’d you run?”
“I’m just 23, sir, working my way through grad school.”
“Oh yeah? What are you studying?”
“Economics.”
“Economics?”
“Yes, sir. Wealth, financial systems, supply and demand.”
“I know what it is. Why’d you run?”
“I was there.”
“Come again?”
“When you killed that man. I was there.”
“You better start making sense.”
“In the shoeshine parlor, when you killed that man with a shoelace. I was 12 years old. I knew I wouldn’t ever forget your face. I’ve never been so scared, before or since. I was with my dad. I thought you were going to kill us. People said you were going around killing all the witnesses, that you wouldn’t rest until we were all dead. I’d almost forgotten but then I saw you tonight and I guess I had a flashback. You’re not going to kill me, are you?”
Guts had not killed any of the witnesses from that shine parlor. The very fear of him, strengthened by rumor, had inspired every single one of them to remain silent. That had often been the case. In other instances, Ananias Goode had reliably stepped in to grease the appropriate palms.
Guts relaxed his hold on the young man, then straightened his shirt. “Naw, brother. I don’t do that anymore. I’m sorry you had to see that in the shine parlor. But that man had it coming. You don’t. Go on back to school and study that economics.”
“Thank you,” the young man said. His breathing had almost returned to normal. “Thank you.” He turned and moved toward the entrance. Guts stayed outside.
He had been seconds from snapping the bartender’s neck. Guts blamed it on the bouncers for pissing him off. He went to the parking lot, thinking he might take a spin to calm down and clear his head. Leaning forward to unlock the car, he paused at his reflection in the window. Pearl insisted that she saw a matinee idol when she looked at his face. But he knew that most people saw what the bartender had seen: a bogeyman.
Pearl thought he just needed some friends. People would regard him differently if they got to know him in a comfortable setting. He got along with the men at the cabstand, the sign painters at Black Swan. But calling them friends was a stretch.
“Your closest friend is a 90-year-old man,” Pearl had said.
“Mr. Logan? He’s 83.”
“He’s old as Methuselah.”
Guts opened the car, started the engine, and turned on the radio. Broadcasting from the KSD studio, the Man in the Red Vest was deep into his shift. As Miles Davis’s “Kind of Blue” began, Guts got out and leaned back against the Plymouth.
Two Coltrane ballads and one Ellington medley later, Crenshaw strolled up with three ladies arm-in-arm. He was grinning and more than a little tipsy.
“Ladies, this is Guts Tolliver, man about town. Guts, you’ve already met Summer, and this here is Spring and Autumn. That ain’t their real names, but that’s what I’m callin’ ’em. Too bad we couldn’t get a Winter too. I’m not just an All-Star, baby. I’m a man for all seasons. My good man, could you kindly give us a lift to the Park Plaza? It’s time to let it Rip.”
Guts’s rearview mirror showed only blackness. He had the windows rolled down to dissipate the perfume clouds Crenshaw’s “girlfriends” had left behind. The Man in the Red Vest was still going strong on the radio. Certain he wasn’t being tailed, Guts turned onto Margaretta. He always entered and left through the back door, and he never failed to park his car in the locked garage behind his home. Still, he customarily drove past the front of his house before calling it a night, just to make sure nothing was amiss. His street was quiet and the houses dark, except for porch lights and the occasional illuminated room. Then he saw something that made him turn off the music and pause quietly in front of his house. The light was on in the living room.
He had instructed Pearl to leave on only the porch light and to be sure to set his alarm. Guts eased off the brake, barely touching the gas until he was a good distance past his house. He turned the corner and drove up the alley. He killed the headlights, pulled in behind his garage, and turned off the engine. The basement door showed no signs of forced entry. Neither did the back door, which he unlocked before stepping carefully into the kitchen. He could hear the Temptations and the Supremes crooning on his hi-fi. Guts slid along the hallway, his back against the wall. Slowly he peeked around the corner…and saw Pearl in all her naked glory. She was standing on a chair, hanging a picture on the wall. She sang along with the record.
“I’m gonna make you love me. Yes I will, yes I will.”
“Pearl.”
She spun on the chair and nearly lost her balance. Guts stuck out a hand and steadied her.
“Tell me,” she said. “How does a man as big as you move without making any noise?”
“Practice. What are you doing?”
Pearl turned and went back to work. “What does it look like I’m doing? Hanging this artwork I bought for my man. Every time I come in here and see these blank walls, it makes me want to cry. Don’t worry, I picked out something I knew you would like. See?”<
br />
Guts took a step back and saw that she had already mounted two paintings of ducks and had two more to install. The ducks looked nearly as real as the ones in Fairgrounds Park.
“They’re Audubon prints. Don’t the feathers look like you could just reach out and ruffle them? These are mass-market copies, but I figured if the frames were fancy enough they’d look just as good as the originals. What do you think?”
“They’re nice. How did you get in?”
“I left the door unlocked because I knew I was coming back later to surprise you with these. The back door, like you insist. If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were ashamed of me.”
“You left the door unlocked?”
“It’s a good thing I checked you out before we got serious. I’d suspect you had a woman hidden in here somewhere. Sealed up in a secret room or something.”
“You left the door unlocked?”
Pearl left the third print hanging crookedly from a nail. She got down off the chair and put her arms around Guts’s waist.
“Relax, sugar,” she cooed. “Who’d be crazy enough to break into Guts Tolliver’s house?”
Guts didn’t return the hug. “Most people don’t know this is Guts Tolliver’s house. I aim to keep it that way.”
Pearl dropped her arms. “You really trying to have an attitude about this? Sneaking me in and out through the back, changing the subject when I ask for a key. If anybody should have an attitude, it’s me.”
“Slow down, Pearl. I told you, it’s about your safety.”
“I am safe. You think I’m fragile because I like pretty things…. You’re right, though. Maybe we should slow this down.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“But that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Hold on, Pearl.”
“Hold on nothing. I’m getting dressed.”
She hurried out of the room. Guts sighed and scratched the side of his nose with his index finger.
Pearl emerged, carrying clothes. She sat them on the chair she’d been standing on. She put on her bra, glaring at him while she fiddled with the straps.
“Why do you think I’m decorating your house?” She picked up her panties.
