by Jack Cady
"One lot of ten to Fudd," Wade said, "Pass 'em around." He started parceling out lots of ten, a stall, while Fudd started getting his back up.
"Corbin," Daniels said, talking straight to Fudd. "You figure that country bastard is actually gonna pay? He'll leave you hanging out to dry."
Fudd stood confused, his big plan busted.
"Because, the bastard really will leave you hanging out," Daniels said. "He gives nary a damn, except to drop a sour invoice on the auction. How much of that load hits you?"
"He was payin' twenty bucks," Fudd whispered, and Fudd was a mighty confused man.
"You weren't gonna get a dime," Daniels told him. "By now he's halfway over the bridge and ready to drain a beer keg."
* * *
"I give the sod buster credit," Wade said. "He surely is persistent." Wade stood with Daniels after the sale. Wade's voice sounded raspy and rough after seven hours of steady performance. "I hope to hell I'm not coming down with something."
In this late afternoon the check-out lagged. A couple of trucks loaded cartons of tables. A few small items went through the doorway. Most of the check-out would happen Monday. A day-long sale wears everybody out, crowd included.
Jim checked one truck while Howard sorta supervised. Lester checked the other. Lucky lounged his way to Wade and Daniels. "You got truck space?" he asked Daniels. "You checking out?"
"Lester's going your way," Wade said.
"I hate to ask him," Lucky said. "Long day, and everybody's beat." He turned to Daniels. "I figure half a load."
"We can squeeze it."
"Are you worried?" Lucky came straight to the point.
"Dammit," Wade said, "Yes." He looked toward Lester. "I'm driving him to where the truck is parked. I'm following him home."
"We'll be headed that way," Lucky said. "We can follow him."
"I'm beholden," Wade told him. Wade watched Lester, then looked toward the doorway like he expected the country boy to come busting through. "I've met some meatheads in my day, but that old boy's brains are hamburger. What does it take to be that nuts?"
White Trash/Black Trash
The American south at mid-century was like God's lavender hankie, but with a glob of snot in one corner. Southerners, colored or white, rightly loved the place (though they didn't necessarily love each other). To this day, one may make sharp remarks about the middle west, and former midwesterners nod their heads and say, "Yep, oh-god-a-mighty, yep." But make cracks about the south in the presence of displaced southerns and you have a fight on your hands.
When the fool from Corbin came to the big city he did so with certain knowledge that he was "as goddamn good as any man alive," despite he wasn't worth five cents. He had certain knowledge, not opinion, but knowledge that he was better than any colored man who ever walked. Because he was white, he was better than men like Mr. Luther Burbank.
The country boy was raised in the squalor of stump-preacher religion that induces fear and self-hatred. The country boy knew he wasn't worth a pile of toenail clippings without the work of Jesus in his soul, but his preacher amended that by telling him he was God-anointed master of the Negro race. The country boy also learned that southern heat and southern small-town-hatred were the eleventh and twelfth commandments.
The country boy was different from professional haters who occupied cities. The city boys, white or colored, had to put up with people who held different opinions. The country boy, on the other hand, didn't know a single white man in his town who disagreed with anything having to do with hatred.
Until the day Lester slugged him at the warehouse, nothing in the country boy's whole life ever said a colored would stand up to a white. He might have taken a lesson. But, he lived around intimidated negroes who came to town days, worked, grinned, shucked and jived, and left before sundown. They, as he, were ignorant men.
How ignorant? Colored folk might talk about 'going north', but for a man to go north he has to understand that he can get on a bus, and he has to know how to get on a bus. That ignorant.
Did the country boy have a choice? You bet. Did he make a bad one? Here were his options:
In Kentucky, men were Southern Gentlemen, Colored Gentlemen, Rednecks, Hill Folk, Hillbillies, Sorry, or Trash.
Southern Gentlemen: Unlike the north, a poor man of any color could be a gentleman. A rich man of any color could be sorry.
The gentleman, rich or poor, comported himself with a sense of honor. He protected children, women, old people, and if white, protected negroes, though he might exploit them economically. Plus, he didn't screw around any more than absolutely necessary. This set of standards had been imported to the south from southern England, back in the 18th century.
Rednecks, of whom Wade was a moderate example, were generally men whose artistry lay in their work. They bulled their ways through life, were more honest than not, and though obnoxious rarely went to jail. They might have some notion of gentlemanly behavior, and might even rank somewhere on the Gentleman-scale, generally lower.
Hill People were strong, ethical, moral and decent; though, through isolation, necessarily narrow. Many could count themselves as gentlemen. Many had never seen a colored man in their lives.
Hillbillies were hill people who were sorry. They were often bootleggers and small-time chiselers.
The words Sorry and Trash were synonyms. They described a man of no honor who wheedled, shirked, blamed the whole world for his troubles; they described a coward, yellow to the bone; they called up visions of barn burnings, or cut tires, or rocks through windows at midnight. Not all white men who were sorry were Ku Kluxers, but all Ku Kluxers were sorry. If the country boy had been born colored, he would have murdered Jolly.
Not all colored men who were sorry were jailbait, but jail caught lots of them. Ignorance, and lack of any principle, were the keys. If Ozzie had been white, and raised in a mid-century, small southern town, Ozzie would have been Ku Klux.
Saturday Night, September 13th
The Fifth Death
To a man who ends a weary work day, options are reduced. He can 'go out', or stay home and listen to radio, even if race music will not get broadcast until ten p.m. Or, a man can do both. Have a beer, crap around a little, and make an early night.
Lester stood in his rooms looking down on Jackson St. Dusk, as mellow as Howard's skin, warmed the street, and sounds were like a patchwork quilt: a woman singing, the next-door lady, Miz Julia, raking the air with yells as she gave her man hell-'n-down-the-road, phonograph playing from somewhere, and folks gossiping as they gathered on doorsteps. Kids hollered, played, and, if out of hearing distance from their mommas, cussed like little troopers.
On the corner before Sapphire Top Spot a group of men stood, but no sign yet of Ozzie. Faint call of a chorus as Mr. Lionel Hampton banged out "Hey! Ba-Ba-Re-Bop" on the juke. Lester watched Alfonzo drift past Lucky's, headed toward talk and a beer. Alfonzo looked extra tired this Saturday night, and that is what decided Lester. It makes sense to sit with somebody who needs sittin' with. Work is three times harder when a man is alone.
He paused, savoring the one great thing about the day. The boss had taken his side, and the boss had advertised him as the best help going. It seemed like no colored man could ever, completely, one hundred percent, trust a white man; but set that aside for a spell. The good feeling was there. He would not turn it down.
His pause lengthened. That country boy had sounded just crazy. The colored streets of Louisville were not many. If the country boy worked at finding Lester he could cruise until he found the auction truck. Maybe it was smart to move the truck. Then Lester thought, 't'hell with it.' It was a tired, tired evening. And, by now the country boy was likely ripped and halfway home.
When he got to Sapphire Top Spot Lester found Alfonzo and Zeke holding down the same old table. Habit maybe, or good sense. The table sat toward the rear of the room. It looked out on the street corner. If badness started out there, or in the joint, a man could head for the back
room and jump out a window.
"Dancer," Zeke said. "Does you need a manager?" Zeke looked pretty fresh, and dressed-Saturday-night, spangles on his shirt like a jazzman. Then, "You get rid of all that junk?"
"Seat yourself," Alfonzo told him. "We need to know stuff." Alfonzo looked dragged-out to the point of worry. "Coal," he said, "about forty million ton of bituminous. Folks loadin' up against winter. Wheelbarrow work."
Nothing about the joint seemed different. Blue tending bar, fine-looking if a little skinny . . . Mona had been skinny; somethin' about skinny women . . . work is not only harder . . . it's a lot more lonesome when a man is by himself.
Toward the end of the bar Albert sat in bar-owner bliss, watching cash roll in, watching Blue at the register. Early drinkers sat around. Out there on the corner a man gave a little dance as the juke clicked, and Miss Velma Middleton poured song into the evening.
"What I gotta know," Zeke said, "is how much did my pile of sweepings sell for? I got investment in that pile."
"Thirty bucks," Lester told him. "I don't believe it either. Buyers crawled all over it."
"When you gonna need more help? That was good workin'." Alfonzo started to get a little lift from the beer; a man wanting a job with no wheelbarrows. Not desperate, just bone tired. "How much that pile of sawdust bring?"
"Four bucks," Lester told him. "I didn't believe that, neither."
"What do a man do with sawdust?"
"I couldn't say," Lester told him. "Used car lots put it in bad differentials sometimes. Muffles the roar."
"Ozzie's just come up. I think of coastin' my sweet ass outta here." Zeke looked toward Albert, as Albert checked the street. Albert beckoned to Blue, and said a few words too low for anybody but Blue to hear.
"I trust Albert to do any reconciling," Alfonzo said. "Albert is no fool."
Lester, then, began dancing; moving with the music, slow and fluid as befits a tired, tired man. Lester dancing just a little, then return to the table. Sit and talk. Music catches Lester. Moves a little more, then return to the table.
"It relaxes a man," he said to Zeke. "Works out the wrinkles." . . .Lester drinking quicker than usual against an early go-to-bed. Men on the street corner sipping from half pints of Jim Beam. Cop car riding past, slowing, going on. Ozzie talking ugly against the car.
Dance some more, and then Alfonzo joins in. Alfonzo begins to move with an old-man shuffle, but you could tell how graceful, how good Alfonzo once had been. Zeke sipping, sipping, sipping, watching night come down. Red neon of Sapphire Top Spot makes shadows from men standing on the street corner.
A stirring starts among those men. They turn, watch, mutter to each other. Zeke reaches over, taps Lester on the butt, and Lester stops his dance. Alfonzo looks around, then looks to Albert. Albert don't see nothin' yet, but Albert has a bar owner's instinct. He whispers quick to Blue, and Blue lays a bar towel on the bar, with you-know-what hidden beneath the towel.
The country boy walked steady enough. Drunk, but not terrible drunk. He passed Ozzie like Ozzie wasn't even there. He stepped through the doorway of Sapphire Top Spot and stood in red light, looking around 'til he found Lester.
"You," he said. "Get your black ass to the street. We're gonna settle something." To the rest of the bar he said, "Stay damn well where you are. This here is the only boy I want." He reached a hand to one pocket. Knife? Sap? Pistol?
"White man," Albert said, and said it louder than music. "Be a shame to shoot a damn fool, but that's what's gonna happen." Albert leveled a .38 revolver silver-color. Barlight glinted red off of it. Albert sounded more tired than mad, despite this white man, this late at night, was Albert's worse nightmare.
Lester pissed. Lester ready to fight. Zeke moving away. Alfonzo looking to Lester. "Leave it be," Alfonzo said. "Leave Albert with it."
"You wanna know how many white womens I lay beside?" . . .Lester so pissed he started darky-talk. He sounded ready for fight, glad for fight. "More'n you boy. Is you a little younger, I swear I is yo' daddy."
Silver pistol moving in Lester's direction. "No more mouth," Albert told him. To the white boy he said, "Walk out of where you don't belong. This is exclusive colored. Do it now."
"I can wait," the country boy said to Lester. "You got to take your black ass out of here sometime." He looked at Albert like Albert was dogshit, then turned and walked away. When he passed the men on the corner he didn't even watch his back.
"Well, I be go to hell," Zeke said to Lester, "you knows the strangest people." Zeke was trying to get a handhold on what happened. His joke was worth nothing.
Albert crossed the room and pulled the plug on the juke. "Drink up," he said to everybody. "I'm closin'." He walked to the door, started to pull it shut.
One shot. Pistol crack. Street dark. A yell. Silence.
Men on the corner turned, looked down the street, then moved quick. In ten seconds the street corner stood deserted.
"Those gents are headed home," Alfonzo said about the street-corner men. "And Ozzie not with them."
"Get gone," Albert told the bar, though it was not necessary. Men were already moving, the bar emptying, and Zeke in the lead.
"It's gotta be," Alfonzo said, "that the white boy shot Ozzie, or Ozzie shot the white boy. Don't nothing else signify."
Crash of beer glass breaking from behind the bar. Blue leaning on the bar. Blue ready to scream.
"Either way it happened," said Alfonzo, "Blue just lost her man."
"Don't go nowhere," Albert told Blue. "Nothin' you can do." He might as well talk to the wall. Blue was around the end of the bar and gone.
"Go along," Albert said to Alfonzo. To Lester he said, "Dancer, get your sass on down the road."
Lester stepped into medium darkness. Streetlight too close. Bar signs already off. He moved quick along the front of the building like a soldier under fire. If the country boy was out there, he would pack a pistol. Lester headed for the total darkness of the alley . . . strip off his Saturday-night shirt and ball it in one hand. With shirt off in total darkness, a man could give thanks for being black. Nobody, except maybe God himself—and even that doubtful—could see him in that lightless alley.
If he went west it was Preston St. and too much light. Best to make a dash, hit the alley across the way, and circle back on Hancock. Major stupidity to be walking Jackson St. He took a deep breath, rabbitted like a moving shadow across the street and into the other alley.
Walk along careful, hand to a wall, then a fence, then another wall. Lester bumped into garbage cans that caused a rattle. Alley dark as the inside of a pure black cow. The mouth of the alley held a little light and he moved toward it. When he got to the end of the alley he poked his head around the corner of a building to look up and down the street. The country boy's truck sat parked. It looked like someone sat in the cab.
He stepped back into the alley and studied. Instead of stepping into the street, he eased back for another look. Beside the truck, and maybe fifty yards from a street light, all kinds of stuff lay on the sidewalk, chairs, mostly. The country boy was so damn dumb he'd parked a loaded truck. Lester was ready to bet there wasn't more than half a load left. Some pretty sorry colored now owned stuff to hock with Lucky.
But no scavengers were now around the truck. It looked abandoned, but still that half a load. The country boy shouldn't be sitting in the cab. He should be cussing and picking stuff up. But, somebody was sitting in the cab.
Lester made a quick dash across the street, over to the mouth of the next alley. He peered around the corner of a building. He had a different angle.
It looked like movement in the cab. A shadowed head bent forward. It didn't move fast. It moved like a man tired-to-death, or something worse. Lester studied. It had to be the country boy, or Ozzie . . . . Lester paused.
The shadow of a man moved along the sidewalk. It fell away from the street light. Then a man came from behind the truck, paused, looking up and down the street. Lester recognized Ozzie, just befo
re Ozzie took off at a gallop.
Only a damn fool was gonna go anywhere near that truck. On the other hand, the country boy had to be a man shot. Somebody better do something. Lester moved cautiously toward the truck, and looked at what he had never seen before. During the war corpses had been frozen, with blood turned to frosty-white ice . . . never saw blood running, or not so much . . . .
It dripped black from under the door and off the running board of the truck. The country boy slumped over the wheel. Little sucking noises came from that cab, and the head leaning on the wheel turned but a little. The country boy's eyes were wide and alive and maybe, sorta, puzzled. Then the sucking noises stopped, and the eyes went dead. The body shivered just a little and rolled against the door. Blood stopped flowing from where Ozzie had laid a razor across a throat.
Get the hell out. Nothing to be done. Lester raced back to his warm alley (he thought of it as his, what with all this going on), and stood figuring. It had to be that Ozzie shot the man, and the man made it back to his truck. Then Ozzie came past and finished him off.
Look down the street, down beyond the streetlight. Skinny girl standing. Blue starting to scream, the scream high and awful and as sad as the death of Jesus. Blue starting to walk forward, then understanding that she better not. Screams getting fainter as Blue walked away, walked away, walked slumping.
No place to go except turn back and go home. When he came out the other end of the alley, Jackson St. ran empty as a dry creek. It ran soundless. No song, no murmur in the hot but cooling night. Everywhere along Jackson St. people kept to their houses, wide-awake and quiet. What with all the junk sitting on the sidewalk beside that truck, the police would discover the country boy the next time they cruised that street. All hell was gonna break loose.
And, faint and far-away, Blue screaming.
Sunday, September 14th
What Folks Did
Lester waited in his rooms figuring cops would call. He reconciled himself to bumps and bruises, and a whole lot worse. Further south, men got killed when questioned. Up in Chicago men got killed while questioned. Maybe in Louisville, maybe not. It was just terrible to sit waiting, but worse to run. If he ran it would be like confessing to something. With a white man dead, there wasn't a chance a colored man would not catch a beating.
