“That you do.”
We ate at the Old Ebbitt Grill on Fifteenth Street, where she didn’t exactly blend in, but she took the stares in stride. After the meal we began to cruise for my last piece of equipment. The choices improve after dark when the dropping temperatures bring them huddling around heat vents and into crevices out of the wind. I found the one I was looking for in an alleyway off Twelfth and G streets. Curled up on his side, snoring with his mouth open, he lay beneath the exhaust vent of Blenheim’s Bakery. I propped him up under the armpits and tried to avoid his breath—a mix of equal parts vomit and red wine. He was the right size. The shoes would be the hard part.
“Partner, can you hear me?”
“Hunh?”
“You want to make some easy money? A C-note, right here and now?”
“Sure. Whatcha wanna do?” He was running his tongue around inside his mouth and over his oddly spaced teeth. At the end of each lap his mouth popped open with a clack.
“I want to buy your clothes. That’s all. Then I’m gonna take you out and buy you a nice dinner.”
He stopped clacking and a feral wariness crept into his eyes. “You a queer?”
“No. I just want to buy your clothes and I’ll make it worth your while.”
He started clacking again and his eyes flashed up and down the alley. Anita was sitting in the Camaro. Its sleek shape and dusky color made it blend into the night. The only working streetlight was at the far end of the alley. It threw an angled light over the strange topography: jagged fences, staggered rows of garbage cans, squatting dumpsters, and slick, roll-up loading gates. The shadows added an immensity and depth to the buildings around us, making the alley into a canyon. The old man looked around and saw no one else but me.
He moaned and threw his arms up before him. “Don’t kill me, please.”
“What?”
He started to slide down the wall until he was curled up at my feet. His hands were laced across the top of his head and his arms and shoulders were hunched up. “Do it quick. Please. I can’t run no more.” A tremor ran through his legs like a death spasm.
I reached down and pulled the old man up by the arm. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want your clothes. I’m willing to pay for them.” He avoided my eyes—the animal sign of submission. I guess it did seem pretty crazy to want to buy his clothes. I gave it one last try. “I’ll pay you one hundred dollars and then I’ll take you to any restaurant you want for a nice hot meal. What do you say? My car’s right here.”
Hunger, greed, curiosity, something subdued his fear and he walked down the alley towards my car.
Anita looked at me. “What’s this?”
“A prop. Let him in the back.”
She rolled down her window and rolled up her eyes when he slid past her. As he settled into the car he gave one last look at his home. A trace of fear was still in his eyes, the lingering doubt that instead of a hot meal there was just a pine box at the end of this trip. I drove slowly up the alley. Anita eyed me warily. The old man kept clacking his tongue. We nosed out of the alley and slipped into traffic. I wanted the old man out of this section of town.
“What do you like to eat?”
“Anything. Mostly soft stuff. My teeth ain’t so good any more. I don’t like soup much, though.”
“How about Chinese food, dumplings?”
“Yeah, I like that Chinese food.” He clacked.
“Dim sum it is then. All you can eat.”
I turned right on H Street and drove into Chinatown. There was a carryout between Sixth and Seventh that made great dim sum. I pulled up to the curb and gave Anita a twenty. “Get a big assortment. A beer for him, a glass of water for me, and whatever you want to drink.”
“Whatever you say, boss.” She took the twenty carefully, trying not to touch my hand. Perhaps she thought that my mental disorder was contagious.
She brought back a foil-wrapped platter, two beers and a large cup of water. I pulled into a nearby parking lot and we ate. The old guy must have been starving. When he finished the platter, I asked Anita to go back for another and a second round on the drinks.
When she returned, she handed the stuff in through the window. The old man grabbed the platter, tore off the foil and popped a pastry into his mouth. With each chew his face seemed to fold in on itself like an accordion. His nose almost touched his chin. Then miraculously it reinflated itself with all his features in the right place.
Anita climbed in, leaned back against the door and handed me the cup of water. “Have you got a kidney infection or something?”
“Nope, just getting ready for the night.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s my problem.”
“I can see that.”
The old guy finished off most of the platter. Anita and I nibbled a few pieces off it. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, ignoring a pile of napkins that came with the tray.
“God, that was good.”
I finished my glass of water and hooked an arm over the car seat. “Okay ace, time to conclude our business.” Reaching into my wallet I took out a C-note, folded it lengthwise and held it out to him. “Now we trade clothes.”
“Whatever you say.”
I drove in a loop through Chinatown and found another alley two blocks over. I pulled all the way into it where it crossed the T with another alley. In the darkness I killed the engine and the lights, climbed out with my bag in hand and motioned for the old man to get out. I looked in at Anita. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Don’t be in such a hurry. This car smells like a sewer. Give me a break, huh?”
“Sure thing.” I gave her the keys. “If anyone comes up here, turn on your lights and drive away real casually. Go around the block and pick me up where the other alley comes out.”
I led the old man up the alley to the darkest spot and told him to take off his clothes. I did the same until we were both in our underpants and socks. Then we exchanged jackets, shirts, pants and shoes. I took his hat.
When he was done dressing he looked down at himself, “That’s it, huh?” He couldn’t quite believe it.
“Yeah, that’s it. Just like I said. Now get.” He slid past me, still eyeing me warily for that last-second shiv in the ribs. Once by me he scrambled up the alley to the street and was gone.
I cinched the pants tight with his rope belt. His shoes fit, but more importantly the soles were good so I could kick with them. I unzipped my bag and began to rummage through it.
“Nice body.”
Startled, I looked up. Anita was standing there, hands on hips, staring at me.
“You look bigger without your clothes on.” She continued to appraise me as I got dressed. “Do you work out a lot?”
“When I can, but I’m not a bodybuilder or anything.”
“Don’t apologize. I don’t like a man who’s more into his body than mine.”
I let that pass. “Why aren’t you in the car?”
“I wanted to see what you were doing.”
“Well, now you know. I’m going to be giving you some instructions to follow later on and you had better do as I say. If you don’t we could both wind up dead. Do you understand?”
“I understand. Do you think you can take Jack?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t, now would I?”
“Well excuse me.” Anita walked briskly back to the car. Her stride was long and fluid, capped with a crisp carriage return of the hips.
I slipped leather gauntlets on my forearms and decided against the Kevlar vest. The Arkansas Toothpick is a stabbing knife not a slashing one and it’ll go through Kevlar like butter even if a .357 won’t. If Jack fancied himself the man of steel he’d use it that way. I took out a jar of grease and soot and daubed my face with the streaks of a man who carelessly wipes or picks at his face with a filthy sleeve. I rubbed some of the mix on my neck and hands. Next, I slipped on a pair of worn leather sap gloves. There was a half pound of
lead sewn in across the knuckles. Then on with the shirt and jacket. Last I plopped his soft hat on my head. I stood there trapped in that old man’s stink. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get that smell out of my mind. The clothes were stiff with urine, vomit, wine and sweat. I was a standing ruin and a monument to a life gone awry.
After putting my wallet and gun into my bag, I walked back to the car. Anita was behind the wheel, staring at me with a strange mixture of loathing and awe. I climbed into the car. “Do you know where Eldorado Jack hangs out?”
“Yeah, Wanda showed me once.”
“Okay. Drop me two blocks north of that on the corner. That’ll be Fourteenth and K. Drive past Jack’s corner and then up H Street. Park as close as you can, get out and wait. You’re the observer. Keep Jack in sight. Don’t look for me. I’ll get there. When it’s done, go back to the car and wait for me. I’ll get to you. Keep my bag on the front seat, unzipped. Got it?”
“Got it. Jesus, do you stink.”
“I know. I’m inside, remember.”
Chapter 17
Fifteen minutes later I climbed out of the car, slammed the door and looked down Fourteenth Street. A gap in the traffic appeared and I shuffled into the moving crowd. People moved away as I passed among them. I meekly met their eyes, embarrassed at my stench. Perhaps after a while you don’t care. Those that looked back at me did so with anger. I was offensive, a blot, disgusting. I swallowed, grinned ashamedly and shuffled along. I crossed the street and on the opposite corner stumbled into a couple hurrying by. The boy—he was no more than that—slammed me in the shoulder. I rocked back.
“Hey, man, the fuck’s the matter with you?” he yelled.
I shrugged harmlessly and mumbled, “Sorry.”
“Sorry? You sure are a sorry mutha fucka. You stinking up the whole street.” People hurried by, eyes down.
“I said I was sorry.” I snuck a look at him. His hair was long, slick with some gel and crinkled. A pencil-thin mustache and wispy goatee framed his thick lips.
“Maybe you don’t know how bad you smell, old man? Maybe you need your nose cleaned? Huh?”
I wasn’t about to let this little shit do me, but I surely didn’t want to coldcock him. After all, I was just a harmless bum.
“How about maybe I just cut you fuckin’ nose off? Huh?” He was bouncing around on his toes, revving himself up, looking back and forth from me to the woman he was with. She was a veteran of the streets and was looking up and down the sidewalk for The Hoss.
“How about I cut his nose off, mama? What you think?” His hand was moving towards his back pocket. I hoped she was a vegetarian.
“Come on, man, we don’t need no trouble.” She was yanking on his arm. “You wanted a good time, right, baby? Come on, I show you a good time.” She licked her lips. He started off with her. As he walked away he turned back and shook his finger at me. “You lucky, old man. I’d a cut your nose off, mutha fucka, but I’m a lover not a fighter.” He chuckled. I hoped his dick fell off.
After another block I had my hangdog shuffle down pat. A little bit of side-to-side wobble, a little bit of limp-leg drag-along. My kidneys hurt. I’d had too much to drink. I reached back to knead one. As a final touch I started to mumble to myself. I droned on, shaking my head as if the words were trapped inside like the last pennies in a piggybank, hoping they’d drop out of my mouth and leave me alone.
I crossed another street and my back was hurting worse. Up ahead on the corner Jack was holding court. His cherry red wagon was pulled up to the curb. Jack sat inside with the door open. The car’s T.V. was on. The stereo was blaring. As I wobbled up the street, a number of girls came to the door and spoke to Jack and left. With some he was tender, cooing, cupping their chins in his hand, kissing them lightly. With one girl, he grabbed her wrist, pulled her close to him, said something in her ear and then cracked her across the face one solid stinging blow. Her head snapped back and tears welled up in her eyes. Jack wagged his finger at her. “You hold out on me, sugar, I’ll retire you. Blind men won’t fuck you. You hear me?”
She nodded.
“I don’t hear you, bitch.”
“Yes, Daddy Jack, I hear you.”
“Good.” Jack waved her off and she clattered away on her heels.
Jack slid out of the car and stretched himself. Today he wore sky blue pointy-toed boots and a lemon yellow silk suit over a sky blue silk shirt open halfway to his crotch. He was going to wish he’d worn red. He shook out his arms and tugged on the French cuffs of his shirt so that the large gold cufflinks he wore could be seen. Jack checked the feel of his collar, ran his hands through his wavy hair and looked up and down the street. Checking the turf.
I went on shuffling and mumbling down the street. Jack’s eyes passed over me. There was no change in expression. I was beneath his contempt. Jack leaned against the front quarterpanel of his car. Three of his girls were with him, talking and laughing. They bantered with passing men. People passing by all snuck a look at the man, his women, and his car. The door was open to show off the bar, the T.V., the fur seats and carpet. I looked at Jack one last time. He was smiling as he surveyed all that was his. A man at peace with himself. God my back hurt. I took a deep breath; it was now or never. Look out, Jack, I’m gonna rain on your parade.
Jack was facing away from me, talking to a girl and another pimp. I lurched across the sidewalk towards the car, leaned against its open doorway, unzipped my fly and pissed all over his white fur seats.
“Goddamn, man, what the fuck you doin?” Jack spun me around. I pissed all over his shirt and pants.
“You fuckin’ son-of-a-bitch, I’ll kill you.” Jack, bug-eyed and snarling with rage, was starting to turn purple. He looked down at himself and then into his car with disbelief. I zipped up my fly and took a step back. A still zone of silence had spread around us. Jack whipped the blade out from under his left armpit. I licked my lips. A wave of fear left me nauseated. The blade was easily seven inches long and grew from his palm like a shiny sixth finger. Jack circled me, legs apart, up on the balls of his feet. His eyes were locked on my face. Where the head goes the body must follow. He stabbed upward, right to left. I leaped back. The blade whizzed by my face. His arm looped around and he lunged at my belly. I sidestepped, sucking in my gut like a toreador. Jack passed me and stabbed backwards at my face. The steel burned. I bled from jaw to nose. Jack pirouetted and stalked me. Voices cried, “Stick him, stick him. Make him pay, Jack. Cut him!” Jack stabbed again, right to left. I whipped my head away, spraying blood in a wide arc. The blade skidded off my left gauntlet. The artery was safe. Again the loop and lunge. I spun away and casually cuffed him with the sap glove. He staggered away holding his head. Then he whirled back around.
“What’s a matter, Jack, that old man hurt you?” the other pimp cackled.
Final exams were coming up. I wondered how good a student Jack was. Did he know that third on a match is a dead man? Again the same outward stab and loop. Again Jack lunged at my belly. This time, I pivoted inside the lunge, where my work would be invisible, and climbed up his body. Heel to instep, elbow to belly, leaden backhand to his nose. Jack staggered away, gasping for air and spouting blood from his mashed nose. Splotches of blood flecked his jacket and shirt. I slowly circled him. Still dragging my leg, I began to mumble to myself. Went to the well once too often, Jack. He was doubled over with his back to me. He seemed to be reaching into his coat pocket for something. I tensed. He turned back slowly, still doubled over, both arms pulled into his chest.
Two other pimps appeared and began laughing. Word was spreading. I flicked a quick glance at the crowd. Two of Jack’s girls were smiling faintly. Anita looked excited. Mumbling, I closed slightly with Jack. He stared at me. Come and get it, scumbag.
Jack uncoiled and leaped at me. Left hand up, he flung something at my eyes. I flinched and raised my arms. The blade came up under them. A single point of steel flew at my heart. No time to move. Crossed wrist parry. Steel strikes leather.
I grabbed his wrist. He pushed on, all his weight behind the blade. I turned sideways, sliding my arms and his thrust away from my body. As the blade passed my chest, I twisted his arm and screwed it into the shoulder socket. Locked in place, my lead fist easily shattered the elbow. I leaned away and casually snap-kicked his right knee. The joint caved in and the ligaments snapped like rubber bands. Jack crumpled and fell amid a chorus of laughter. He lay there moaning on the sidewalk. It sounded like he was trying to sing around a tongue depressor. His right arm and leg looked like they had been put on backwards.
One of the pimps looked down at Jack. “Big Bad Jack had hisself an accident, huh?” Then he spit on him. Heads were shaking. Jack’s girls were talking to other pimps. I heard one say, “Sheeit, ain’t that somethin’, old wino kick his fuckin’ ass. Musta been a fighter one time.” Anita was gone. The sirens were getting louder. The crowd was leaving the scene. I joined them.
I turned down the side street, keeping to the storefront shadows. Two blocks away I could see the taillights of a car parked at the corner. Just two blocks. My face was on fire. I was afraid to touch it with my filthy fingers, so I poked at it with my tongue. Slowly I moved it across the inside of my mouth. My tongue didn’t come through into the cold night. Thank you, God. A rivulet of blood was running down my cheek. It was warm and it pulsed. He hit an artery. I was in deep trouble. I staggered on towards the car. I focused on the taillights and counted them as I plodded on. One. Two. Left. Right. One foot. Two foot. Almost there. A piece of cake. A figure appeared. No place to run to. I took a deep breath. The rivulet ran faster. I was getting woozy. She moved towards me like solid darkness. I was turning into smoke.
Chapter 18
An arm slid around my waist and I toe-walked like an unstrung puppet up the street. I looked over and saw Anita staring at me. “Jesus Christ, look at your face.” She pulled open her purse, took out a handkerchief, folded it back and pressed it against my face. “Hold this against it, hard!” When we arrived at the car, she slid me into the front seat and buckled me up. I leaned my head back.
A Tax in Blood Page 9
