by Jack Cady
"A lot of trouble," Lucky murmured to Lester. "Things all right with you?" He touched Lester's shoulder, one friend to another.
"Still worried," Lester said. "Won't nothin' come of it, prob-ly, but a man worries." He looked toward Mrs. Samuels' house. "There's ugly tokens this year. Charlie dead, people killing themselves. Jolly dead. Ozzie doing bad. A man gets queasy." He paused, and really looked at the house. "It started there. I don't study suicide."
"I don't think it was," Lucky said, and said it careful. "Anybody who went through what those folks went through is not likely to kill himself."
"What'd they go through?"
"They're eastern," Lucky said. "Russian, Finn, Poland, who knows?" He sounded mad, but also sad. "You were in Europe. You saw what went on."
"I didn't know." Lester looked up and down Bardstown Road. The Shell station sat all yellow and glowy, the drugstore had its neon on; and White Castle shining like a full and fancy moon. In the Kaiser-Frazier dealership, a fat, round-faced car stared bulbous at the street. "I saw little of it," Lester told Lucky, "but I saw more'n a man would want." He looked at the house. "How the hell they get here?"
"Some come in legally," Lucky said. "Congregations help. The government finally allowed a few. Some come in the back door." He glanced toward the auction where Wade looked ready to start. "I expect these folks were illegal. They acted mighty shy."
"Gotta go," Lester said. "We're cranking it up."
Opening spiel. Wade's voice sounded rough but capable, like a bulldog a-woof. "Terms cash or good check, and move stuff by Saturday . . . goods sold free and clear of all encumbrance . . . dealers get open titles to cars, otherwise you wait 'til seller registers sale . . . now, gimmie something."
Lester . . . holding up a ruby lampshade, antique, good, but with cracked metal hangings; red glow against black. Lester yelping "home furnishings" and small dance, no shuffle. Gloria stepping right up. Wade selling it quick, dropping it cheap. "Gloria, three bucks. Gimmie something."
This crowd held mostly dealers, plus a few civilians. No society people were present. Country boys scattered through the crowd, but they were business-types who likely hadn't heard of the murder. If they had, they thought it none of their affair.
Wade made it through the first hour, and then faded. First it was a rough cough, then his hoarseness increased. Uneasiness ran through the crowd. The flow of the sale threatened to break. Fudd stood beside Lucky. "He's gonna quit. He's gonna have to shoot the rest off in one or two lots." Fudd stood ready to move in on the sale.
A big man, helpless, is a sad and sorry sight. Wade searched the crowd, looked for Jim; and Jim was wisely nowhere in sight. "Kid's too young anyway," Wade whispered. "The crowd wouldn't take him serious."
"Me," Lester whispered quick, like he didn't trust himself if he went slow. Lester sounded so nervous he didn't even sound pushy. "I can cut this, boss." Lester, like Wade, was a-sweat. His face glowed shiny beneath lights, his short hair almost dripping. He rubbed a black hand across a wet, black forehead. Paused. Lester standing on one foot then on the other. Lester sounding queasy.
Wade standing like a man breathless, like a man mule-kicked. Wade wiping sweat with a white hand across a white forehead. Wade looking at a sweaty black man, and in that moment Wade decided he'd better grow all-the-way-up. What he saw was a man working, and not a sweaty Negro. Wade had a thoughtless mouth, but give him credit.
"Give it a whirl," Wade said. "I can do grip." To the crowd, he croaked, "Got another auctioneer. Get with him." Wade stepped from his stool, and Lester ascended . . . Lester standing a good twelve inches above the crowd . . . Lester ascending like the blackest angel in God's good heaven.
Lester looking at the biggest damn crowd of white men that any colored man had ever seen . . . not true, of course, but so it seemed to Lester. After all, about the only time a colored man stood above white was when he was dangling from a rope. He felt a tug at his pant leg. "Give it hell, baby," Gloria said, and giggled friendly; and may the good Lord look down on Gloria.
He started nervous, and the rap sounded disjointed. He sold a couple of numbers, watched the crowd, and the crowd watched him. The crowd tried to make up its mind, individually, and collectively. A skinny black man running a sale?
A couple of the country boys whispered to each other. Waited. Lester fumbled. Daniels tossed in a bid. Gloria tugged again at Lester's pant leg. "Sounding good," Gloria whispered, "now spread a little crap."
"Sounds just how you'd expect," Fudd told Lucky. "Swartzer sounds illiterate. I don't put up with this." Fudd headed for the door.
"Fudd, one buck," yelped Lester.
Fudd stopped, turned, wondering what'n'hell? A box of mixed stuff, not much of it junk, was being set aside. With his name on it. O-boy. The box was probably worth seven bucks, or eight. Fudd turned back, discovering he was glad to put up with it.
"Nice pickup," Wade whispered to Lester. "You've got 'em. Start kickin'."
The rap began to smooth out, and it was different from Charlie Wheeler's remembered rap, and different from Wade's; though you could hear the influence of both. As Lester sold, the rap became metrical. He sold like he danced, lots of body, lots of emphasis on the roll of nouns, the same way he rolled his shoulders. Lots of Charlie Wheeler in there, lots of Wade; but lots of Dancer.
"Forty-one Hudson, look her over gents. Heater and radio, fire and a fiddle. Get enough traction and it'll drive straight up. Listen to her purr." Desire entered Lester's voice. His voice wanted that car so much, that everybody else wanted it as well. What a salesman. What an actor.
The filling station had tried to sell that car at two-and-a-quarter, and had failed. When the bid stalled at two-seventy, and Lester sold, Wade grinned like that proverbial fox in the henhouse. "Goddamn," Wade croaked, an impressed and happy man.
Being a grip is tiring. Being a buyer is tiring. But, selling is exhausting. By the time the sale ended, out at the rear of the store, out by the nighttime alley, Lester had absolutely nothin' left. When he stepped down after selling the last number, and when the adrenalin dropped off, he drooped. There wasn't a dance left in the man. There wasn't even a shuffle. But Lester carried a happy brain and a full heart.
"This is gonna work," Wade told him. "I think this is gonna work."
"Damndest thing I ever seen." One of the country boys talked to another. Jim stood by, waiting to check the guy out.
"Niggers taking over everything." This country boy looked like a heavyweight two years past his prime. His words sounded indignant, but his voice did not.
"It's the big city," the other country boy said. "I don't fret it a-tall." He was a small, dark-haired man named Sammy. A Hebrew from a real small town. "I'm ready to call auctioneer, not nigger." Sammy turned away.
"I'm ready to call him Lester," Jim said to the country boy. Jim, who weighed only a smidgen more than Howard, was nervous and ready to fight.
"Okay." The country boy sounded affable. "Do I give a fat rat's fanny? I'll get the big stuff tomorrow. Let's get the little stuff now."
And Jim, with a load of juvenile-jump, adrenalin-and-fight, found he had no place to put it. He worked quick, got the guy checked, then went looking for Howard.
Howard dawdled because Lucky dawdled. Lucky stood talking to other dealers, probably flipping a little b.s. just to stay in tune. Howard hung back, goofing off, but Howard watched Lester.
Howard's life had just changed, and Howard did not understand, but he understood something.
"I'm going to have a store," he whispered to Jim. "I always thought I was, and now I know it." Howard watched Lester like Lester was President of the United States, or General of the Army. "Mother claims Lester is a credit to the race. I wish she was here. I wish she'd been here to see."
Thursday, September 18th
Check-Out
The Sixth Death
Lester left for work happy, early and eager; but not a little queasy. Life done changed, and Lester had lived long enoug
h to know that good stuff and bad stuff generally mix.
He knew, for sure, that Howard told his momma about last night, and she would spread the word to every woman in church. The women would spread the word to their men, and the men would either praise Lester, or damn his innards to the lowest depths of the hot place. Lots of colored men had terrible times when other colored men succeeded. In that they were a hell of a lot like whites.
Then, there was the boss. Wade thought himself such a catfish among minnows, that he might start resenting Lester. On the other hand, Wade was practical as a brick. Have to step soft, wait and see.
When Lester got to Charlie Weaver's place he pulled over. The storefront had stripey-red awning. One of those new plastic signs, three times bigger than needed, swung from a tripod pole vertical to the street. Candy Land the sign said. Nothin' classy about that.
Over there to Cave Hill, Charlie lay to his rest. Charlie wasn't hardly even cold yet. Because here it was, not even the end of September, and Charlie dead only since the last week of August. It had been not quite two months, and everything changed. Charlie seemed like an echo of the past, like a sign of what 'used to be'. Still, it seemed like Charlie whispered friendly sounds in Lester's ear.
Charlie's old store, where Lester had put in his years, now had nothing going. Louisville-town was changing, but it sure wasn't finding itself. First, there had been a tea and coffee palace, and a joy-boy run out of town. Now, an ice cream store that would be gone by January. "Goddamit, Charlie," Lester whispered. "Just, you know, goddamit."
Drive on down the road. Nothin' else to do. When he got to Wade's auction, men stood out front waiting to load. Nary a colored in sight, but Daniels was there.
"Lester," Daniels said to the other men, " . . . last night Lester cut a fat piggie in the butt. Looks like Wade's got competition." Daniels clapped Lester on the shoulder, and the other men either grinned or shut up.
When Wade arrived he acted like he was shoving the world ahead of him, like always. His voice sounded raspy but improved, and he still sucked horehound. "We'll get these guys checked," he told Lester, "and talk later."
Odd, it is, how people who are busy can walk right past the most amazing stuff with never-a-notion. In early morning light goods moved out of the auction. Trucks pulled away, and other trucks pulled up to front and back doors. Men pushed, stacked, cussed, spread tarps, roped loads. Trucks squatted on their helper springs. Merchandise just poured onto the sidewalk, and not a soul looked toward Mrs. Samuels' sun porch. Not a soul.
Perhaps no one saw anything because sun, all goldy on Mrs. Samuels' sun porch, glazed the rusty screens making it hard to see beyond them.
Lucky parked a-ways from the auction, and walked. On this morning he found himself hopeful. Leaves of trees were in beginning change and morning air felt almost cool. If he knew anything about cops, and he did, the police were nearly burned out when it came to Jackson St. Maybe as early as today, things would return to normal.
And, the newspapers, for a change, seemed not so bad. True, they had been reporting on a man named Alger Hiss for a couple of months, and the new congressman Nixon pushed the investigation; spy stuff . . . some kind of rinky-dink about microfilm hidden in a pumpkin. A pumpkin?
So yes, the haters were busy. And true, a man on a white horse tried to clamber center stage.
But, it now looked like the new State of Israel had a chance of surviving. Money going to Israel would actually make a difference. And, in proof of that, Israel remained firm in opening its doors to all Jews, everywhere. It wasn't totally altruistic. Israel needed men and women for its army.
Perhaps because he thought of open doors and how Mrs. Samuels might have been illegal, Lucky stopped before her house. He looked through rusty, sun-sheened screens.
Small movement stirred behind dusty sunlight; little more than a tremble, a palsied hand, or a head falling sideways. Maybe it wasn't even human. Maybe a cat?
At Lucky's side, hotel furniture was being pushed or carried toward trucks: chests and beds and desks as utilitarian as crockery, but, still, symbols of civilization.
He stepped away from the auction and toward Mrs. Samuels' house. He stepped slow, telling himself that of all the things he didn't want, moving toward that house had to be number one. Charlie dead, Mrs. Samuels dead, her son dead, Jolly dead, plus the country fool. Lucky moved cautious and fearful.
When the light was just right, the man in the stuffed chair sat in plain view. The man looked like a thin child, too little for the littlest man. His face, what face he had, was only a fragile covering for his skull. His eyes, if his eyes saw anything, were seeing the floor because he could not lift his head. A blue tattoo, a number, stood vivid on a pale and sticklike forearm. Sighs, shallow as whispers dwelt around him like echoes of long forgotten thoughts. He breathed only well enough to sigh.
Lucky pushed the screen door. It was latched. He yelled. Smacked the screen with his fist, rusting wire parting so he could reach in for the latch. Blood welled from the back of his hand where the screen wire cut and scraped. He moved onto the porch, stood nearly helpless at first because he knew himself crazed. Then, having no time for helplessness, turned. Men standing on the sidewalk, gazed, responding to Lucky's yell . . . Lester appearing from the auction.
Lucky calmed himself. Firmed his voice. "Telephone," he said to Lester. "Get a doctor. There's gotta be a doctor someplace close." As Lester ran for the phone, Lucky spoke to the man. "Can you talk. Say a word."
Silence. Sighs. Behind Lucky, men crowded on the steps. Men peered in. All kinds of reactions.
"Need help?"
"I think I'm gonna puke."
"God-a-mighty, get help."
"Whose blood is that?"
"Where ta hell is Lester? I gotta finish this load."
When Wade arrived he pushed onto the porch. "You guys break it up." To Lucky he said, "What?" He stood watching. "We called a doc. Right down the street. Be here in a minute. What's wrong?"
"I think he's sick from starving . . . nobody ever saw a man so thin." Not a lie. Well, partly a lie. Pictures of German death camps had been printed in magazines, and shown in newsreels. There wasn't a Jew in the country who hadn't seen them.
The man died. He sounded a slightly deeper sigh. He tilted a little forward, and the sigh was so small it did not sound deadly. Lucky caught the man, kept him from falling, and Lucky did not understand the man was dead. A patch of blood appeared on the man's shirt, and Lucky did not understand the blood was his own. Lucky steadied the corpse, then felt it settling, all muscles deflated. Lucky still steadied, like he could not let the man go. He accepted death.
All around dwelt only silence, except from the sidewalk where a mirrored chest rumbled on its castors as it was pushed toward a truck.
"Go along," Lucky told Wade. "I'll stay." The weight of the man was no more than a bundle of kindling. The body tilted against Lucky, like the dead man had found friendly arms and could not break away. The body felt cool to the touch. Blood dripped on the man's shirt. It seemed a lot of blood for not much of a cut. The dead man's head leaned against Lucky's waist, and Lucky stood silent, waiting, waiting; knowing it was time to mourn, and beyond that, was past time to weep. The dead man's hair, what little there was, hung stringy; and rancid was the smell of death.
When the doctor arrived he worked quickly, as he and Lucky eased the man to the floor. No pulse, no breath, no life. Then, with time to really see the corpse, the doctor knelt stunned. He looked ready to weep, and he was no kid. As a doc in his fifties, he had seen his share of dying. He was a broad, tough-looking man, balding and with a gentle, gentle voice. "I'll take care of this," he told Lucky. "Keep people away."
"Police?"
"I don't doubt that police were part of his problem," the doc said. "But I'll see to it."
"You understand this?" Lucky, subdued, sounded so deep in misery he had nothing left but tears. Of those he suddenly had a-plenty.
"This is not supposed t
o happen," the doc said. "Not in this country." Anger in his voice. More than anger. Fury. " . . . not supposed to happen, anywhere, ever. Again.
"Close that screen. Keep the fools and gawkers out. Let the man finally have some goddamn dignity. I need a phone." The doc took Lucky's hand, blood running from the cut and scrape, staining Lucky's sleeve. "Superficial," the doc said before he left, "but soap it good. You'll need a tetanus."
Lucky stood above the man and looked into the street. Trucks lined the curb. On a truck in front of the Samuels' house a stack of mattresses pooched beyond the tailgate. A driver hooked a red bandanna to the end of a mattress, flagging the load. Men worked. Life proceeded. Business as usual.
And, he told himself, why not? There was nothing those men could do except turn this death into a story over beer, or maybe a story to think of during quiet hours. These men had their work, and some of them, during the war, had probably been brave. He could not blame them for loading furniture. Somehow, though, he knew he could blame himself.
He turned and walked into Mrs. Samuels' house. Somewhere in the house there must be answers.
A 2 x 4 lay on the floor, and when Lucky checked, he saw brackets where the 2 x 4 had been used to bar the door. A radio aerial hung from one wall attached to a little tabletop Philco. Living room furniture was well-used, dusty, but unstained.
It was a shotgun house. A sun porch, a front bedroom, followed by a middle bedroom. There was nothing remarkable in the bedrooms except dust. The beds were bare, and a mattress was missing from one of them. Lucky shuddered, looked carefully around the room. Nothing.
The rest of the house split between small kitchen and bathroom. A back porch. It was a house built in a straight line; a workman's house, once company-owned from olden days.
These people had nothing unusual: a kitchen table, holding electric and water bills and papers. Kitchen chairs, a monitor top refrigerator. Old high-oven stove. Lucky pulled the switch on a dangling electric light. No electricity. He turned a faucet. No water. From somewhere above the ceiling, where an attic would be, came a scurry, a tumble, a squeak.
