by Paul Hond
Hawk looked back at him, as if searching his eyes for a sign that would tell him how to respond, then threw back his head and clapped his hands together and threw out what struck Nelson as a laugh born of terror. “Little Man,” he said, but the laughter took over, cascading over his quaking body like a liquid armor. Nelson was amazed: it was as though he had thrown a stone into darkness and broke a window that he hadn’t been sure was there. Hawk’s laughter—loud and insistent enough to cause the kids on the corner to turn and look over at them (a tacit threat, Nelson supposed: Hawk knew those kids, they might be at his disposal)—Hawk’s laughter shattered his own myth. Nelson saw a chance to gain the upper hand.
“You wanna see somebody take a nigga out?”
Hawk kept laughing. “You know me,” he said. “What the fuck that supposed to mean? You a faggy or what? How you wanna know me, yo?” He clapped his hands. “Talkin’ ‘bout ‘I know you’ ‘n’ shit. I always knew you was a faggy. Who the last girl you was with?”
Nelson ignored this. “The white boy who got me fired,” he said. “Jay Rattner. I’m gonna shoot the motherfucker.” Just uttering the words seemed to push him to the verge of the act; he pulled the gun an inch from his pocket, gave Hawk a glimpse of the butt. “Know what I’m sayin’?”
Hawk stopped laughing. “Boy, you crazy.”
“Come with me, then,” said Nelson. “We’ll see whassup. See who’s soft.”
“Yo. You ain’t got to prove yourself to me.”
“It ain’t about you,” said Nelson. “I’m doin’ it for my own situation, a’ight? I just thought maybe you’d want to come along.”
“I don’t know, yo. I can’t be riskin’ trouble right now.”
“It’s on me,” said Nelson. “I’m the doer. Right?”
“I don’t know,” said Hawk. He seemed to be thinking.
“Then you’ll see,” said Nelson. “Then maybe you can get me some work.”
“A’ight, then,” said Hawk. “Maybe I’ll go with you. Maybe I’ll bring Chuck along too.” He rubbed his chin. “You gonna need a ride, right?”
“Don’t matter,” said Nelson, trying not to betray his excitement over having gotten what amounted to an audition for Chuckie’s crew. Just like that, he had set an enormous thing in motion; he could not entirely believe in it.
“When?” said Hawk.
“I’ll call you in an hour,” Nelson said. He turned his head, spat a white pill of saliva on the pavement, shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away, not sure whether he was more haunted or relieved by the specter of his “good sense” hovering just over his shoulder. He walked faster to see if he could outpace it.
“Is that him?” said Hawk.
A lone figure was striding up the gravel hill toward the employee parking lot of Seven Pines. The lot commanded a vista of the entire club—the rolling, hilly golf course, the dining hall, the pool, the tennis courts—and Nelson had seen the same figure emerge from the dining hall. He knew at once that it was Rattner, but something had kept him from pointing this out to Hawk and Chuckie. Now it was too late: having already identified to them Rattner’s BMW (Rattner had his own marked space on the lot), it would be impossible to deny that the man about to step into that car was someone other than his quarry.
“Yeah,” said Nelson, his throat dry. “That’s him.” They were parked several spaces away from Rattner’s car, one of the few that remained on the lot, which was maybe a hundred yards from the dining hall. Nelson almost hoped that Rattner would become suspicious at the sight of Chuckie’s car and retreat down the hill before Nelson could get out and accost him.
Where was his nerve? As recently as an hour ago he had been ready, urged into the rhythm of things by the music blasting out of Chuckie’s car stereo as the bottle was passed along like an idol, weaving, Nelson perceived, an invisible thread through all of them, drawing them closer to the bloody moment at hand; it was like an initiation, an echo of the fraternal ceremonies that Nelson had learned of at college: the blindfolded floggings, the ritual mutilation. But all through it, Chuckie Banks had remained silent, and Nelson began to fear that it might be some kind of setup, that Chuckie was thinking about Rattner’s wallet and car, that new BMW there, yes, Nelson could see it, Hawk was in on it too, they’d let him smoke Rattner and then smoke him and run off with the spoils—but no, that was crazy, they wouldn’t hurt him, they didn’t even know how to get out of here, they’d need him, he was just trying to think up excuses for getting out of it, he was afraid, God he was afraid, he knew the spotlight was on, knew Hawk was counting on him, knew that Hawk, ever loyal, had persuaded Chuckie to come, had probably had to convince, no, promise him that Nelson would distinguish himself, that he would prove himself worthy of a position, that he could be trusted in matters of honor. And so Hawk, too, had a stake in this, Nelson realized; had a promoter’s stake in Nelson’s success.
Christmas night, he’d told Hawk two days ago; Christmas night was the night. He knew that Rattner would be working late on Christmas, as he did on other holidays, and that he’d be coming, as he was now, up the hill, alone and defenseless in the dark. Nelson was glad for one thing, that he’d at least done his duty as a son and nephew and cousin this morning under the Christmas tree. He’d gotten a nice cotton shirt from Mama (he could barely face her: he knew the shirt was supposed to be for work) and a duffel bag from Aunt Tina, though Mama did seem strangely preoccupied, and Nelson couldn’t help but wonder if she hadn’t phoned Crumb over at the bakery and gotten his side of the story. Was she waiting for him to come out with it, then? Giving him a chance? Nelson had decided to stay quiet.
Rattner pulled out his car keys, jingled them in his hand. He didn’t seem to notice Chuckie’s car.
“A’ight then, Little Man,” Hawk said.
Nelson swallowed hard against the sickness. Why was Chuckie so quiet? But there was no time to think: Rattner was ten yards from his car.
“Go!” said Hawk, and at the sound of his voice Nelson opened the door and watched his feet swing out and land soundlessly on the ground. The moment had seized him; there was no way out.
“Yo,” Nelson said. He pulled out the gun and walked toward Rattner, who wore a long dark coat over a white shirt and black pants.
“What the hell?” Rattner said. He stopped and raised his hands.
“Just shut the fuck up,” Nelson said. He had to act fast; someone could come out of the dining hall at any moment. “Get down on the ground.”
Rattner fell to his knees.
Nelson glanced back at Chuckie’s car: four eyes watched him.
“Take my wallet,” Rattner said. “Take my car. I swear I won’t tell anybody. Please—”
“I said, be quiet!” Nelson tried to summon his hatred for Rattner, but such thoughts were blocked both by panic and the wild hope that Hawk would rescue him—that, true to form, Hawk would intervene and do the job for him, prove himself to Chuckie. Wasn’t it possible? Shouldn’t he hesitate a moment longer, give Hawk the chance to leap from the car and push him aside?
“Little Man!” came a voice from the car. Chuckie’s? Nelson heard the engine start: they were ready to go. All he had to do was pull the trigger and run to the car: they’d be gone in a heartbeat.
Rattner’s wallet lay by his side. Nelson knelt down and with his free hand took out the cash to make it look like a straight robbery.
“Yo!” came the voice.
“Don’t,” Rattner said, his cheek pressed against the ground. “Please don’t.”
Nelson placed the muzzle of the gun next to Rattner’s eye. “You shouldn’t have done it,” he said. “Shouldn’t have fucked with me. You fucked me up, Rattner. You hear me? You fucked me up!” Yes, he thought: you fucked me up: my life is nothing: I have no choice. “Fuck you, motherfucker!”
“I’m sorry,” Rattner cried. “I’m sorry. I’ll give you anything!”
“Little Man!”
“Fuck you!” said Nelson, his finger poised on
the trigger. He averted his head and closed his eyes and squeezed.
The gun went off, and no sooner did Nelson feel the jolt go through his hand and up his arm than he heard a screech of tires. He opened his eyes: Chuckie’s car was flying off the lot and down the driveway.
Nelson looked down: Rattner was motionless. The gun was still pointed in the direction it had fired: an inch above Rattner’s head. The bullet had traveled into the darkness of the golf course, had burrowed somewhere in the frozen hills.
Chuckie’s car was gone.
“Shit!” Nelson said. He tried to understand. For some reason he’d raised the gun an inch before firing, but Chuckie and Hawk could not have known that; they could only have assumed that Rattner had been hit—and so why did they flee? Had they seen someone coming? Nelson looked around: there was no one.
Rattner was still playing dead.
“Yo,” said Nelson. “Get up.”
Rattner didn’t move.
“Yo. You ain’t dead. Get up.”
Rattner opened his eyes. “Please don’t kill me,” he said.
“I need a ride,” Nelson told him. “Let’s get in your car.”
“You can take the car.”
“I don’t want your car. I just want a ride.”
“You’re going to make me drive you somewhere and shoot me.”
“Yo, it’s too cold out here to argue. I ain’t gonna shoot you if you do what I say.”
Rattner got up slowly, brushed off his clothes.
Nelson hardly knew this dangerous gangster who was walking Rattner to his car; he felt as though he were a figment of Rattner’s imagination, a grisly manifestation of Rattner’s opinion of him.
They got into the car, which was so loaded with state-of-the-art features that for a moment Nelson did consider, not too seriously, dumping Rattner on the side of the road and taking the thing for a spin. “How much this cost?” said Nelson, flinching as the automatic locks fired shut.
“A lot,” said Rattner.
“How much?”
Rattner shivered. “If anything happens to me,” he said, “you will get caught. I’ve already told people that you threatened me. And some of the top judges and lawyers in the state belong to this club.” He started the engine, whose low growl seemed to confirm his extravagant claims. Headlights speared the darkness. “Millionaires. They’d put so much money on your head you’d have half the city on your trail. Or maybe your buddies would turn you in. Weren’t you just with some buddies? Wasn’t there a car?”
“You seein’ things, Rattner.”
“I thought I—”
“Yo, just drop me down Northern Parkway and Park Heights, and stop askin’ me questions. You hear me?”
Rattner’s boldness withered; he swallowed, nodded.
“And turn up the heat in this motherfucker.” Nelson slumped down in his seat. So that was it, he thought: it had been a setup after all. Hawk and Chuckie would wait for the reward to be posted for information leading to the conviction of the killer, then go to the police and say how he, Nelson, had bragged to them of the murder. That there had been no killing and would therefore be no money was of little consolation to Nelson; his best friend had sold him out.
He clutched his gut. He must be the sorriest, most pitiful human being on the face of the earth, with the possible exception of Rattner, who was now chauffeuring his would-be assassin down to Northern Parkway. But even this did not cheer Nelson; had he in fact shot Rattner and been caught and locked up, he’d be, he thought, no worse off than he was now; for what did he have? He had nothing. And Rattner—the man who started it all in the first place, the man who’d gotten him fired—would wake up tomorrow morning and get in his flashy car and go to work and at the end of the week bring home a nice fat paycheck.
Nor did he expect that Rattner’s soul would be improved by this ordeal, or that he himself would be repaid for the mercy he’d shown Rattner.
He said, “If I was you, I’d start paying attention to how I treat people. Specially the brothers in the kitchen. I know you got pressures, but yo, these are human beings. Just ‘cause they black don’t mean they your slaves and shit.”
Rattner didn’t respond.
Nelson fidgeted in his seat. “See, you quiet ‘cause you know I’m right.” He was becoming irked at himself as well as Rattner. How could he take this self-righteous stance, when he’d just tortured the man, fired a bullet right past his head? If only he could be himself, he thought. He needed some time alone.
Not another word was spoken until they arrived at Nelson’s stop. Rattner pulled over to the side of the road and closed his eyes, either awaiting a bullet or else thanking God that the episode was finally coming to an end. “Thank you,” he said, “for not hurting me.”
Nelson detected some sarcasm there, but he knew Rattner was grateful. He opened the door.
“You’re lucky,” he said. “Now just make sure you don’t go to the police. I got friends too.” He stared hard at Rattner, who was gazing straight ahead. “We’re even now. A’ight?”
“Yes,” said Rattner.
“A’ight, then.” Nelson then remembered something: he reached in his pocket and pulled out the bills he’d taken from Rattner’s wallet. “This belongs to you.” He dropped the money on the seat between them, then got out and threw the door. He watched as Rattner made a U-turn and sped off.
What next? He was still a couple of miles from home, and now it troubled him to think that he’d told Rattner to let him off here so that Rattner wouldn’t see where he lived. As if Rattner couldn’t have guessed! And what was Jay Rattner to him anyway?
He began running down Park Heights Avenue. No one was around. The sky was clear, chinked with stars. The night would only get colder.
As he got closer to his street, Nelson wondered what would happen. For sooner or later he would have to run into Hawk.
22
Mickey shouted, opened his eyes. Where was he? Was this real? Night; a street. How long had he been there? Was he really awake? He looked at his numb hands: they were still attached: they had not, he was relieved to find, been torn off him like heels of bread and—eaten? Strange dreams! He looked around: there was no one. The boxes were still there, just as he’d left them, one atop the other. Mickey gathered his strength, and with a great effort raised himself to his feet. The bread was nearly frozen.
He thought to take the boxes back to Dulac’s, revive the bread somehow, but of course that was impossible. He decided to let the boxes stand there, a ragged monument to himself. Maybe the birds would come for it, the dirty-breasted pigeons that, on his first day here, had, on some inaudible cue, exploded from the many-figured gallery of a cathedral he’d passed on foot, a plague of beating gray that cast a fast-moving shadow over the cobblestones.
He walked down to the boulevard to hail a cab back to Dulac’s. The need to give of himself had reduced to a dull pang in his loins; the rest of his body ached with emptiness.
It was a long ride. Light, shadow, darkness, light; the city rushed by in flickers, it beat its wings; its changes passed over his stinging face.
All he had wanted was to give, and now he felt as though he’d killed something, that in abandoning his loaves to the cold he had violated the cardinal law of fatherhood. They were his creations, individuals of a sort, unique beings for whom he was unconditionally responsible. He had meant well, God knew he’d meant well. He wished there was something he could do, something to feed this hunger not only to give—and more than give: to make, nurture, provide—but to salvage what he’d ruined, to embrace what he had forsaken, to redeem himself and be, finally, good: if only, he thought, he could be good.
It was almost midnight when he arrived at the bakery. As soon as he walked in he noticed, on the highest shelf, a single loaf of bread that Dulac had either forgotten to toss into the boxes or else had left there on purpose for him to eat; in any case it struck Mickey as a miracle, a second life, and he reached out for that loaf just as he
’d clutched at his suitcase that first day in Paris, when it had finally appeared on the baggage carousel, a lost part of himself returning to him, making him whole.
He took down the loaf and held it close. A strange impulse invaded him, dire and primitive, derived, it seemed, from the substance of the bread itself; it entered through his fingertips and flushed throughout his blood. Without thinking he went back outside with the loaf in his arms, and damn all the cabs and street maps that might point him out the way. He would follow his nose, yes, like an animal he would sniff and wander, and though he was lost on a darkened avenue of swirling trash and leaves, of glass-enclosed phone booths and empty shop windows, he knew, not only from the breeze but from the way the street seemed to be aiming itself, and him, toward a huge wall of blackness, that he was headed, inexorably, for water; and sure enough, he came out of the avenue as though it were a dense wood (and in fact there was a stand of trees to his left, a park of some sort, a jardin) and found himself looking upon a vast black clearing, through which ran the great river: it was at his feet, encountering him.
He walked out onto the nearby bridge and looked over the railing. The chill water rushed incessantly under numerous bridges toward the floodlit opulence of the quai des Tuileries, whose lights it would carry and deposit along the great stone embankments before finally shaking the city off its glinting reptilian back and winding to the sea.
Mickey felt the cold air blow crystals into his lungs, and watched with a great unnameable piety as his fingers tore off a small piece from the loaf and let it drop over the rail: it fluttered down, where the idea of its flight was stolen by the black, glassy water: it went sailing now in a kind of horizontal flight, aloft on the current. Mickey repeated the act, feeling strangely compelled. It was as though he were heeding some ancient tribal call to the water, some timeless urge of the species to cast off one’s sins. His hands labored, sending a riot of feathers into the night. He was rending himself, bit by bit, until he found himself rising up in a high ecstasy of contrition—for what, he couldn’t say—up like ashes to the speckled vault of night.
