Killing Johnny Fry

by Walter Mosley

  “Sorry . . . no."

  “M‘kay. Thanks for walkin‘ me."

  He turned and went into the restaurant, where other young men greeted him and kissed his cheek and lips.

  The rain started coming down even harder.

  On the walk back toward Grand Central, I thought about the last time I‘d driven up to visit my mother. She was having a nice time. The only thing my siblings and I agreed on was ‘making sure that our mother had a comfortable place to retire. We all chipped in for the monthly payments and her government income covered the rest. There were bingo games and nightly movies in the small auditorium. She had a white boyfriend who still played tennis and ate dinner with her every weeknight.

  “Would you think of marrying him?” I asked my mom during one of our three-minute talks.

  “Oh no, Eric,” she said. She often called me by my brother‘s name. I wondered if she even remembered that she had two sons.

  “Oh no,” she repeated. “I never even married your daddy."

  “What?"

  “I never married him. I‘m a free woman. He can‘t own me. Nobody can own me.” She was very animated, angry even.

  “So you never wanted to be married?"

  “No sir. Not me."

  “Yes, sir?” the young Hispanic hostess asked.

  “My name is Cordell,” I said. “Hers is Brenda. We were to have dinner at ten."

  The handsome young brown woman looked down at her computer screen and smiled.

  “Your guest is already at the table, Mr. Cordell. Just walk past the bar and turn to your right."

  At the entrance to the dining room, a chubby white girl in a flouncy blue dress smiled at me.

  “Right this way,” she said holding the menus to cover her ample cleavage.

  The restaurant was divided into sections. The first one was smaller but with large tables and a banquette for eight or nine couples. The next room, where our table was, was open, looking out onto the main floor of the station and up at the roof, which was dark turquoise and had the creatures of constellations painted on it, with small yellow lights to indicate the position of the stars.

  The waitress was bringing me to a table that was perched at the outer wall, giving the best view of the floor. I was so happy about the placement that I didn‘t pay close attention to the profile of my blind date.

  She was black, that is to say, Negro; her coloring was caramel, and her dark hair was straightened. She wore a red dress and seemed to have a nice figure.

  The waitress brought me to the table and set down the menu. It was only then that I got a clear view of Brenda‘s face.

  “Have a nice dinner,” the waitress was saying.

  “Uh . . . huh . . . “ I said, gawping at the woman who called herself Brenda.

  “Maybe you should sit down, Cordell,” my date suggested.

  I realized that the hostess was holding the chair for me. I tried to show some decorum sitting, but I went down too fast and stopped the chair before she could push it fully under me.

  “That‘s okay,” I said. “I‘ll get it."

  The buxom hostess moved away, and I gazed into Brenda‘s radiant face.

  “I can‘t believe this,” I said.

  “You know me?"

  “I, I, I . . . “ I said. Then I took a breath. “You‘re a dream, not a person—not a living, breathing, smiling, eating person."

  Her smile was certain and sharp.

  “Am I your fantasy?"

  “Was Mel an actor or someone who didn‘t know what he was in for?” I asked.

  “You could tell that?"

  The surprise on her face sent a wave of glee down into my intestines. I had to use all of my strength not to giggle and jitter in my chair.

  “How did Cynthia know?” I asked. “How did she know to send you to me? And why would you, you, agree to meet with me?"

  Sisypha‘s smile was intelligent. Her eyes defied my humility.

  “I‘m a woman and you‘re a man,” she said. “Nothing‘s gonna change that. Cynthia used to be a sex worker a long time ago. We were friends in West Hollywood. She‘s always had my number."

  “And she just called you and you came to New York?"

  “That was serendipity . . ."

  Just her use of the word elated me. My right foot was tapping out her name in Morse code: my first foreign language. I used to sit at the dinner table tapping out fuck you daddy asshole while my father lorded over dinner.

  “ . . . I had to be .in New York for the games,” Sisypha was explaining. “Cynthia knew I‘d be here, and she called and said that there was someone who was on the edge of something wonderful or something bad. She said that you had seen my film, The Myth, and that it intrigued you."

  “You made him submit to you,” I said.

  “Is that what you want?"

  I brought my hand to my face and then put it down again. I looked for a waiter, but there wasn‘t one around.

  “What, what are the games?” I asked, hoping that my heart didn‘t leap out of my throat.

  Sisypha (I would always know her by that name or some derivative thereof) sat back and smiled, showing her teeth.

  “The Sex Games,” she said. “They‘re held in New York every three years. There are twelve major events and twice that many entertaining performances. They also have mixers very late at night, after the competitions are over."

  “I‘ve never heard of them,” I said, and her smile broadened.

  “No. You wouldn‘t have. They bend a few rules and so they‘re kept quiet. Tickets are a thousand dollars each and the events are held in special warehouses in Brooklyn and the Bronx."

  “And you, you like to go to, um, the events?"

  “I‘m a judge,” she said. “I score a few competitions every season."

  “I was walking down the street just now,” I said. “And it was raining, and this young man asked me if he could walk with me because, because I had an umbrella."

  Her face was hard in places but the underlying beauty was undeniable. I wanted to keep her attention on me, on my words.

  “And?” she asked.

  “When we got to where he was going, he offered me a free blow job.” I whispered the last words.

  “Did you take it?"

  “No. No I, I wasn‘t interested."

  “Oh. I see. So why are you telling me this?"

  “My whole life up to last week was as plain as a brown paper bag,” I said. “I had missionary sex with my girlfriend, with some slight variations here and there. I had never been approached by a woman sexually, much less a man. And I never met women like you at all."

  “And what am I like?” she said with a hint of danger in her tone.

  “You‘re a person who lives in the world. You make your own decisions and live by them. You take your feelings and make them real. You are everything I want to be, but I never knew it before."

  “You want to be a woman?"

  “No. I want to be free."

  A spark of something beyond humor and indignation showed in Sisypha‘s eyes. She regarded me closely and clasped her hands before her.

  I noticed that she wore no jewelry.

  “Aren‘t we all free in America?” she asked.

  “Freedom is a state of mind,” I said, wondering where I had heard it before, “not a state of being. We are all slaves to gravity and mortality and the vicissitudes of nature. Our genes govern us much more than we‘d like to think. Our bodies cannot know absolute freedom, but our minds can, can at least try."

  “That‘s very wordy, Cordell,” Sisypha said, and then she looked up behind me.

  “Anything to drink?” the waiter, dressed in black and white, asked.

  There were nicks on his newly shaven face. He stood close enough to me that I could smell the cedar fumes in the fabric of his jacket.

  “Just water,” Sisypha replied. “And I‘ll have the Caesar salad with chicken."

  “Pork chops for me,” I said, “with green beans a
nd that stacked-up bread you have."

  “Very good,” he said without writing anything down.

  I waited for him to leave before starting up our talk again.

  “Too wordy, huh?” I said.

  “Freedom is also an exercise,” she said. “You have to practice it to master it."

  I breathed in and for a moment forgot how to exhale.

  I wanted to tell her about how I intended to kill Johnny Fry, but I held back.

  “Would you like to come with me to the games tonight?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said knowing nothing about what I was agreeing to. “I‘d love it."

  This seemed to make Sisypha happy. Maybe she thought it was a submission. Maybe it was.

  After the salad she ordered the cheesecake.

  “You should have some coffee,” she said. “The games are pretty late. They don‘t start till after midnight."

  I ordered a triple espresso and flan. They were both delicious.

  Over the meal Sisypha talked about ordinary, even dull topics. She was from Milwaukee originally and had three years of college, where she studied accounting. She owned almost every image of herself in existence and therefore made a good living over the Internet.

  “My audience is small but dedicated,” she told me at one moment. “They like the serious bent in my work. I always try to make some kind of point somewhere, either about love or loss or how impossible our desires are really."

  “You mean because we want one thing and also the opposite of that same thing?"

  She smiled and said, “Cynthia didn‘t tell me that you would be good for me too."

  “When do we leave for the game?"

  “Games,” she said. “I don‘t know. In a while. I guess we could take a walk after dinner."

  “If it isn‘t raining.” The sex star smiled, and I knew it wouldn‘t be raining.

  “What was Cynthia talking about?” Sisypha asked me.

  We were walking down Sixth Avenue nearing 40th Street. Cars were rushing up the avenue, but there were no pedestrians other than us two. The bleak street had a hard-edged beauty to it—a quality of waiting that resonated with my emotions.

  “I found my girlfriend with this guy,” I said. “This white guy named Johnny Fry."

  “And you were jealous?” she asked. Her tone was nonchalant.

  I looked at her sleek figure, thinking that any boyfriend she had could see her with dozens of men. He would know that when she left for work in the morning she was going to have sex with any number of powerful, well-endowed lovers.

  No. Not lovers. Something other than mere love.

  “He was fucking her, and she was looking at him like he was some kind of god . . . Then he turned her around and fucked her back there. It destroyed me,” I said.

  The woman named Brenda put a hand in the crook of my elbow, stopping me. She brought her fingertips together under my chin and turned my face. I thought that she was going to ask me a question, but instead she just stared into my eyes, looking for something.

  After a moment she said, “Go on,” and we continued our slow walk.

  “Nothing else to say,” I said. “She was my girlfriend and my only friend. There‘s nobody in my life I could talk to about this. I mean really talk to. Someone who knows me."

  “That‘s why you called Cindy?"

  Just the mention of Cynthia made me nervous and lightheaded.

  We were passing a little bistro called Trente-Sept. It was closed, but they had a small wooden bench out in front, chained to the metal bars that protected their glass door. I took two uneven steps and then fell onto the bench. I was breathing hard. My chest was quivering.

  Sisypha sat down next to me, her warm thigh pressed up next to mine. She put her hand to the side of my face, molding her palm to the dimensions of my jaw.

  “Did you, did you do something?” she asked.

  “No. No, I didn‘t do a thing. They didn‘t even see me. I just walked away.” I hesitated. “He was so big. It made me feel like nothing."

  “And you‘re afraid she‘ll leave you if you tell her you know?” Sisypha asked.

  The tone in her voice was gentle. I turned toward her. She was gazing at me with deep concern.

  “I feel like I don‘t have any skin or bones and all that‘s holding me together is her. If she leaves, I‘ll fall apart. A big pile of blood and guts on the ground."

  Sisypha took her hand from my face and laid it across my bruised knuckles. There was no sexual tension between us. I felt as if there was nothing separating us at all.

  “Will you tell her?” she asked.

  “I don‘t think I can."

  The thought of killing Johnny Fry seemed ludicrous to me then. He didn‘t matter, not at all. Nothing mattered except for that bench and the feel of Sisypha‘s hand on my pain.

  “Why not?” she asked in a whisper.

  “Her uncle,” I said.

  “What about him?"

  “He raped her . . . a long time ago, when she was a kid. He died, and she needed something . . . something I don‘t have."

  “Lots of people have it hard when they‘re little,” Sisypha said.

  “That‘s not your responsibility."

  “That‘s what Cynthia thinks. She said that everybody is responsible for themselves."

  “Damn right,” Sisypha said with surprising emphasis. “A black woman taking a white man up in her ass, and her man comes in on it? Her black man? She should expect a bullet."

  “Yeah,” I said, still whispering. “But don‘t you see? When I saw them together, I knew somewhere deep inside that she needed more than I had. I never even suspected what was going on in Jo‘s mind. Johnny saw her one time and knew how to get there.” Sisypha‘s indignation melded into wonder.

  “You knew that?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I knew. And I hated them both, Johnny especially, but at the same time I knew, I knew they weren‘t afraid to go after what they needed. And so when Jo took me and made me do what johnny had done to her—” “She what?"

  “But don‘t you see,” I said to the sex worker, “I couldn‘t have gotten there by myself."

  “So why are you so upset? Shouldn‘t you be happy that you know all this now?"

  “Yeah, but I‘m not. I quit my job and started a whole new life. I‘ve had two lovers. But . . ."

  Brenda caressed my hurt hand with both of hers.

  “Are you giving up?” she asked.

  “I don‘t know what you mean."

  At that moment a white stretch limo pulled up to the curb in front of us. I expected someone to get out, but the big Lincoln just sat there as if waiting for us.

  “Are you running away from life?"

  “I have no life to leave,” I said. “There‘s nobody there."

  “But it‘s her fault that you feel like that."

  “If there was a hunger deep inside you and, and, and then one day you saw what you needed, would someone you love hold you back from that?"

  “They‘d want to,” she said. “They‘d want me to be with them."

  “But you‘d already be gone."

  Sisypha/Brenda gasped and put her hands over her lips. Again I thought she was going to ask me something but she didn‘t.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I want to ask you for something, Cordell. But it‘s too soon."

  “What is it?"

  She smiled and stood up.

  “Shall we go?” she said gesturing at the car.

  On cue, the driver‘s door opened, and a tall, extremely handsome Asian man got out. There were a few strands of gray in his shoulder-length black mane. His face was completely without emotion. He wore a driver‘s uniform and cap and had very muscular hands.

  “This is your car?” I asked Sisypha.

  “Of course."

  “How did he know how to find you?"

  “I carry a small device that he can track. All I do is tell him when to pick me up. He appears wherever I am.


  “Miss Landfall,” the driver said in greeting.

  “Yes, Wan,” she said. “This is my guest—Cordell."

  He nodded and opened the door.

  We climbed into the backseat facing forward. The seats opposite were taken by a couple, a man and woman. The woman was white as anything, from her platinum hair to the satin slip she was using as a dress. The man next to her was as black as a blindfolded vision of midnight.

  “Caesar, Inga,” Sisypha said in greeting. “This is my friend Cordell."

  Caesar‘s white teeth were a shock next to such black skin. I thought that his eyes were probably white too, but the sunglasses he wore hid them.

  Instead of saying anything, Inga pulled down her bodice, exposing two very firm and upstanding breasts.

  “I like a dick between my tits while I‘m getting fucked, Cordell,” she said with a sneer.

  The car moved from the curb.

  “Uh-uh, no,” Sisypha interjected. “I have no intention of smelling your pussy all the way to Brooklyn. If you want to ride with us, Caesar and you both have to keep it in your pants."

  “Snap!” Caesar shouted.

  “I don‘t have any pants on,” Inga said, looking me in the eye.

  She couldn‘t have been more than twenty-one. But her eyes were much more experienced than I would ever be. There was power in her.

  I was glad that Sisypha had interrupted. Sex had brought me to that car, but I wasn‘t interested in Inga. She was only flesh, and I had come to believe that I was looking for something else.

  I turned to my hostess. “What were you going to ask me?"

  “Later,” she said, patting my hand. “Maybe."

  On the ride over, Caesar talked about his African ancestry. His people had been nomads two thousand years ago, and their history had been, he claimed, passed down unbroken since that time.

  “Seventy-six generations back,” he said. “My ancestor lay with Julius Caesar. All of the firstborn male children in my lineage bear his name."

  “And what brings you to the Sex Games?” I asked.

  The big African cocked his head as if trying to discern an insult.

  He took off his glasses, showing that he wore bloodred lenses over his eyes.

  “Sex,” he hissed. “Long, hard campaigns in the bedrooms of the most beautiful people in the world.” He reached around Inga and took her breasts into his large hands. She closed her eyes, transported by his touch.