The small lemon grove had to go. He was keeping a few trees, “ornamental,” he said, but the new house would be three times the size of the old one, so everything else had to be leveled. “We’re anxious to get started,” he told Darnell’s father. “It took so long to get the permits and the financing. Clear it out as fast as possible, okay?”
“Yes, sir, get you some flat land soon as possible,” his father said, and Darnell watched the too-wide smile he’d always seen when his father talked to clients. When the contractor had taken the man back into the vacant house, Darnell’s father said, “Shit. These lemon trees ain’t even dead. Good Meyer stock, ever-bearin.” He shook his head.
Darnell smelled the oil in their leaves when they walked around to count the trees. The grove was small and thick, lemons still heavy on the dusty branches. “If they were dead, like the groves up there where they built Mr. Batiste’s house, we could just plow em over with dozers,” he said.
“Those trees were just wood by then,” his father said, and Roscoe nodded. “Crew’s supposed to show up tomorrow and pick these clean, and then we can start on the grove. You gon have to get Victor and Ronnie in the morning, cause if he want all this clean, we need two guys loadin.” His father spat into the dust. “Gotta split that way, make you less money.”
Darnell looked back at his father’s stare. “I can find some lizards and rats up here,” he said. “Take a coupla these lemons home to Brenda, too. She been cookin some hella stew past few nights.”
His father chewed on his lip and brushed his arm when he turned. “Might as well do the junk today. Maybe finish that up.”
They sorted through the rusted pile, throwing the scrap iron into the truck for Leo, the man who collected it. Darnell felt his muscles lengthen and stretch in the warmth, watched the alligator lizards undulate into the tall grass when he moved a piece of bumper or old pot they’d slept inside. He worked his way toward his father by the late afternoon and said, “Pretty shady up here. This close enough to the woods for you?”
His father didn’t look up from the ancient radiator he was lifting, and Darnell helped him. When it was on the truck, his father said, “Nothin close enough.” He wiped the water from under his cap. “You see me worryin about bein fulfilled? You see a lack of food on my table?”
“I get it, Pops,” Darnell said. He hesitated, though, before he moved back to the scattered pile. “I thought Brenda was gon try to save me,” he said, keeping his head down.
His father looked toward the lemon grove and Roscoe, wandering between the rows. “She was busy. She was feedin her own child. I was worryin about losin another one a mine.” Then he turned and walked back to the work still waiting.
Darnell watched his father in constant motion, dragging another abandoned radiator to the pile of machine parts. “Mr. King comin to pick up the metal?” Darnell said.
“Soon as I tell him where it is.”
“Wish we could just burn the rest of the trash, instead of haulin it to the dump,” Darnell said, looking at the pile of boxes and broken furniture and planter boxes.
“I bet you do,” his father said, laughing. “But you ain’t Fireman Fred—and ain’t no burnin allowed up here in Grayglen. Too much brush.”
“Too much money,” Roscoe said from behind him.
“Yeah,” Darnell said. “These people don’t need feed trails.”
“What time?” Ronnie said, leaning back on the couch under the pepper tree.
“Early,” Darnell said. “You know Pops. And they got a Mexican crew comin to pick the lemons.”
Victor half grinned. “Contractor went out to Terracina, huh?”
Ronnie said, “They all go over there and hire Mexicans now. I mean, when you talkin day work, old guys like your pops and Mr. King and them still come by here, but all them white dudes go by Terracina Avenue.”
“Mexicans underbid anybody, man,” Victor said. “Hundred guys sittin out there all day, waitin.” He leaned against a car parked at the curb. “Man, you can go by there at three and it’s still twenty guys squattin.” He called to Ruben Sotelo, who sat at the other end of the couch. “Ruben, man, how do you vatos squat like that, I mean, for hours? How your legs do that, ese?”
“Damn, Victor,” Ruben said, smiling. “It’s genetic, ese, like you guys can jump and run. We like to squat and talk, okay?”
An older man Darnell had seen around laughed and said, “Remember when Leland Emerson came down here and got four dudes to do his mail route?”
His buddy laughed. “Man, back then they didn’t drive—they walked every block. Leland been out with some girl, tired as hell. Told each dude to take a batch and a street and hurry up, so he could get back to the girl. Them old white ladies on his route never noticed the difference. And these dudes looked scruffy. But some old sista, live-in nurse or some shit, she called the post office right quick, talkin bout ‘Leland got some winos messin with the U.S. Mail.’ Got his ass fired.”
Darnell grinned. “So the brothas all looked alike, huh?”
But Victor sucked his teeth. “Yeah, well, contractors goin over to Terracina cause brothas too much trouble. They can pay them Mexican dudes anything, talk shit to em. They can’t talk shit to a brotha.”
Ronnie said, “That Italian guy still comes—Cacciotti. He buys lunch, too. Remember we did that cleanup last month at that minimall?”
Ruben looked over. “Somebody say Cacciotti? I’m starvin, man, where is he?”
Victor looked at Darnell. “So you sleepin at home again, huh? That mean we usin your El Camino and you takin the big cut?” He smiled. “It’s every brotha for himself around this fire.”
Darnell remembered the tumbleweeds piled in the ditch so long ago, the road-camp guys working while the station crew watched. Why Victor bringin that up now? he thought. I ain’t been a mountain man a long time. “Whoever can handle the shovel, brothaman,” he said, staring right back.
“Darnell,” Brother Lobo called from the domino game. He stood up and moved slowly from the table to a chair set alone in the dirt. When Darnell came close, Brother Lobo pulled out a folded-soft newspaper clipping from his pocket. The soft clicking of the new players mixing the bones stopped, and Lobo said, “I thought you might want to see this.”
WOUNDED POLICE DOG RECEIVES GET-WELL GIFTS, the headline on the small article read. Darnell frowned. “Blaze, the German shepherd shot in the shoulder last week, is being showered with attention as he recuperates. Floral bouquets, doggie bones, and cards have been received at the Rio Seco Police Department since the dog was wounded in a confrontation with an inebriated lawyer enraged that party guests at a neighboring estate had awakened him. Blaze’s handler, Officer Rick Kleiser, said the dog is resting comfortably.”
Darnell refolded the clipping and gave it back to Lobo, who held it loosely, squinting up. “Thanks,” Darnell said. He didn’t want to talk about dogs.
“Lobo,” his new opponent called, and Darnell was glad to help Lobo back to his chair.
He stood watching the game for a minute, and Lobo said, “I hear drumbeats—a distant army approaching.” His head was cocked to one side, his hand reaching out to the pile of extra dominoes.
“You just tryin to distract them from the fact that you goin to the boneyard again,” Mr. Talbert crowed, his glasses sliding. Darnell saw the Bronco pull up, Leon’s sunglasses glinting in the low-slanting sunlight. He and Vernon got out, leaving the music loud, and a guy on the dark boarded porch said, “You jammin the new House of Pain?”
Darnell stretched his sore arms. That’s me—house of pain. Let me get on home to my crib.
“Just chillin?” Leon said, working his way over to Darnell. Darnell turned his back, so Brother Lobo’s eyes wouldn’t watch him. “You want to ride over there and talk business?”
Darnell took a breath. “I still ain’t interested, man.”
Vernon said, “How’s your homey? He still serious mental and shit?”
“Donnie’s okay,” Da
rnell said, looking over the vacant lot to the church across the park, where GranaLene’s candles flickered. “He got some prayers, and he gotta figure it out for himself.”
Vernon snorted. “Prayers? Nigga, you bad luck. First your homey Birdman fuck up and lose money and then your other homey lose my piece.”
Leon said, harshly, “Save it, Vernon. You don’t know Donnie.”
“Rio Seco niggas,” Vernon mumbled.
“Yeah,” Leon said impatiently. “I’m fixin to hat up, Darnell. You gon come palaver or what?”
Lobo turned, regal, blind for a moment, and then his eyes fixed on Darnell. Darnell said, “I’m cool now, Leon. I got some jobs lined up.”
Leon folded his arms. “You ain’t interested, huh? Do the man got competition?”
“Why I gotta be all that?” Darnell said, lifting his chin. “You know me better than that, man.”
Leon threw back his head and stretched his neck. “Sorry, homes. It’s just somebody floatin around here, and I can’t figure it out.”
Darnell shook his head. “I been floatin, damn skippy, but not like that.”
“I don’t know. I heard some LA bangers tryin to front over here cause they think Rio Seco like virgin country. Somebody said they got a tall, light-skin dude for a enforcer, pack a AK. Hard toast.” Leon ran his eyes over the vacant lot. “Damn, for all I know Birdman mighta got out early, want some payback.”
Payback for what? Darnell thought. Did Leon set him up? But Vernon said harshly, “I hope he do try. Cause he know I’ma be toastin his ass for what he did.”
Darnell saw the burned-pale weeds near the fence, the wild tobacco sprays the only green left.
In the driveway at his father’s house, he sat in the folding chair with Charolette’s hand on his knee, feeling the sweat and iron dust on his neck. “Moon,” she said, pointing to the faint yellow wedge sitting high in the east before the sun had even set.
“Yeah,” he nodded, and Roscoe watched the sky silently, leaning on the Apache. All the years of sitting here with Roscoe, he thought, hearing what the different-sized moons could be compared to when Roscoe made up poems. All the old ladies on the street, when he was little and they’d be trickling water onto their roses and telling him, “Blood moon tonight, boy, you better go on home and get out the streets.” Even Fricke standing with him outside the station, peering through the pine needles to see the new moon.
He could hear a truck booming, the beats still far away, and Roscoe said, “Thumping like a telltale heart.” The truck passed down DaVinci Street, and Darnell listened to the pounding fade into the heat. Leon, or Gas, or Cartunes—a truck that goes boom. He thought of Louis riding long ago, Roscoe hearing the drums, Leon driving somewhere now looking, looking. I need to check Louis, he thought, watching Charolette bend to pick up a penny. Did the consultant turn Louis out, cause he didn’t want to do a job? Everybody says Louis wasn’t even carryin cash or slingin cane—just hangin out with Leon. Charolette pulled at his jeans by the ankle. “Mon,” she said, curling her fingers up, telling him she was ready. Roscoe was silent, his long legs crossed and the heavy workboots slanted on the driveway, his eyes staring into the darkened asphalt.
All the way home, Charolette put the rock inside the Baggie, folded the flyer, slid it next to the rock, and took them both out. “Mine,” she said, when Brenda tried to take it.
“You should be tired of that,” Darnell said.
Brenda said, “She loves anything you give her, cause you’re a special visitor, remember?” She stared at the dark cave of the parking stall.
“Not anymore,” Darnell said. “Here I am.”
He’d thought she would smile, but she didn’t look at him. “I’m tired,” she said, carrying her shoes up the steps. Inside, she sat down, keeping her eyes away from him. “I’m waitin for you to give me those old lyrics again: I’m goin through changes, baby.’ ‘Just let me get myself together.’ ‘Give me some time.’”
Darnell sat in the chair and took off his boots. “Yeah, but I ain’t the one that sings. You are.” He touched the hair starting to clump long at his neck. “And George do hair. I need to change my specialization.” He looked at her frown. “I’ma get big cash at the end of the week. And check the palms.” He held them out, and she reached to put her finger on the pillow-round calluses.
The Mexican crew was already set up, dropping lemons into crates. Five guys, all sun-dark, with red bandannas in loose circles around their necks, climbing ladders, laughing, reaching for the fruit. Darnell stood beside Victor, watching. Their music swirled from a radio in their truck: horns lassoing swirled air, guitars and voices high and fast. Darnell’s father came up beside him. “Did you get a bag for Brenda and your mother? They want to make fresh lemonade.”
Darnell nodded. He’d filled a paper sack and put it on the truck floorboards. Victor and Ronnie got chain saws and shovels, and Darnell’s father said, “Damn. If this guy wasn’t in such a big hurry, we could take it slow and split three ways. But he gotta have it now. After gas and dump fees, we’re lucky to clear decent change.”
“Victor and Ron are only fifty a day,” Darnell said, “and you’d be cryin if this was a ten-grand job.”
“How much is your day-labor fee?” his father said, raising his brows. He thrust a chain saw into Darnell’s hands.
Darnell worked near Roscoe, cutting the branches off the fallen elm. The clinging dust stayed with him in his own small cloud, and Victor and Ronnie dragged refuse to the trucks in their own stream of brown. The Mexican crew left by early afternoon, and the elm tree and dried hedges were stacked tight in the truckbeds.
“At least another day of this before we can get a dozer in here, if it’ll fit up these narrow streets,” Roscoe said, sweat streaming from under his cap. “Smell that—it’s like a thousand lemon meringue pies.”
“I smell a few hundred dollars disappearin if we don’t get this done fast,” Darnell’s father grumbled. “It’s three o’clock, and we still gotta hit the dump.” He squinted up toward the road. “And we gon have to clear out this driveway, trim all them overgrown hedges, if we gon get a small dozer down here.”
Darnell saw the owner’s Lexus pulling slow down the narrow space. The man parked down by the house, and Darnell said, “What does this guy do for a livin?” His father didn’t hear; he was walking toward the man.
Roscoe said, “He told me he’s an importer. Coffees, teas, exotic beans from all over the world. Coffee’s the big thing now.” Darnell saw the man walking around the house, looking at the dirt near the foundation. His tan chinos were pressed and his gold-rimmed glasses sank low on his nose. Imports. Well, hey, I was just learnin about distribution a while ago. I had another job offer, with this consultant. You got any openings?
His father came back, shaking his head. “Gon be one big house. And got all this privacy, so nobody gon be able to see this big house unless they invited.” Darnell looked at the trucks, all three with plywood gates straining with the stacked wood and refuse, and the narrow, sloped driveway. Victor and Ronnie sat in the cab of the El Camino, and Darnell said, “See you tomorrow. I know—early. You ain’t playin.”
All morning, they chain-sawed the trunks of the lemon trees, the pungent wood and leaves flying, then dragged the wide round-topped trees to the cleared space to reduce them to branches and firewood. Victor and Ronnie were still clearing the perimeters of the land, carrying rocks, chicken wire, scrap. The heat floated with the dust and lemon oil to coat them all. At noon, Darnell threw water onto himself and wiped his neck. “Come on,” he said to Victor and Ronnie, throwing Charolette’s car seat in the back with the scattered leaves and sticks and the two shovels they hadn’t used.
“The government gon get you if you don’t provide me with a lunch break, man,” Victor said to Darnell’s father, who shook his head.
Darnell took them to the little store all the way down Woodbine Avenue, at the base of the hill. No little markets in Grayglen, he thought. Nobody w
alks. He said, “Drink up, man, I ain’t in the mood for no open-container stop.”
Victor and Ronnie downed the malt liquor and two hot dogs each. Darnell ate a hot dog and steered. His father and Roscoe would be resting in the shade, drinking hot coffee from the thermos and eating sandwiches.
“I’ma try this one,” Darnell said, and Victor looked up. “I need a steady route, man.” He pulled into the gap in the block walls where the sign read Woodhaven.
“This ain’t Trent King’s hood?” Victor said, and Ronnie grinned.
“Uh-uh,” Darnell said. The houses were slightly smaller than in Trent’s tract. The streets were laid out the same way, though, circling and ending, and Darnell tried to park somewhere that didn’t block a driveway.
Victor said, “Damn, Trent packed in close up here in Grayglen. With the gray men.”
Darnell heard the derision in his voice, “Hey, homey’s just tryin to make it. He seem okay to me.’”
“He ain’t nobody’s homey,” Ronnie said. “Don’t try to borrow no change.”
Victor was peering outside. “They got three-car garages, so ain’t no need to park on the street.” He sat back. “Hurry up, man. I hate it up here.”
He left them at the corner and trudged up the cul-de-sac. Same as before—nobody answered doors, no garages were open with men inside and tools whirring. No kids played in sprinklers.
“Everybody at work, earnin that dinero to pay the house note,” Darnell said to himself. “Or they way back in the formal whatever room.”
The trees were broom-sized, poked into lawns and staked against the wind, and the yards were all the same: new sod, cast-iron mailbox, brick or cement walkway. “They ain’t openin the door for nothin,” he whispered, staring at the grass. That flyer was cool. They ain’t even gotta open the door. See it on the grass—they ain’t gotta see me. He headed back to the Chevy, saw Ronnie’s head resting against the window.
“Let’s get back up the hill before the boss goes ballistic,” he said, and Victor laughed. Darnell tried to find the exit in the walls, and finally he was on the avenue. The police car came around the corner behind them, and Darnell said, “Damn. Where y’all put the bottle?”
Blacker Than a Thousand Midnights Page 29
