He found a parking spot behind a dirty Mary Kay Cadillac with Arkansas tags. He cut off the engine and quickly pulled out a Texas Commerce Bank envelope filled with money. A steady thumb flipped through the bills, his quiet lips confirming the count. He opened the glove compartment and yanked out a chrome revolver that he stuck in his pocket.
“Stay by me,” he said, then slowly opened the door and climbed out on his crutches.
We headed to Lil’ Aubrie’s, which got me a bit anxious. Lil’ Aubrie’s place was almost a nightclub, with a younger crowd, full bar, and disco ball over the dice table. Lil’ Aubrie always wore a net muscle shirt to show off his prison build, compliments of Huntsville state penitentiary.
“John Frenchy!” someone exclaimed as Father eased into the house. I followed behind him carrying the coat hanger.
The place was packed. Local pimps and drug dealers exchanged crime stories and rumors with low talk and subtle, expressive movements of head and hands. Ghetto slickster pantomime. Working stiffs clung to the dice table waiting on a miracle. A few big-legged gals flirted with the patrons for a free drink and maybe a go-at-it in the back room.
“Hey, Lil’ Frenchy. You want a soda?” a scantily clad Rubenesque woman asked me, standing by the doorway to a small kitchen and shaking her hips to gutbucket.
“Yawl niggas ain’t shooting no dice in here,” Father exclaimed as he found a place at the dice table.
“John Frenchy at the table. John Frenchy shooting,” barked Lil’ Aubrie.
Father leaned into the table and picked up the dice with a quick, sweeping motion of his right hand, left hand gripping the crutch handle.1 His gold horseshoe pinkie ring with a lone diamond blinked its eye as the disco ball revolved above with checkered reflections. Several small, mirrored panels were missing from the ball, survivor of the dead disco era. Father shook the dice near his ear, working out the arrangement, negotiating the cost for the reward. The gambler’s petition. It’s a silent arrangement between the gambler and whatever petitioned or nonpetitioned gods are sought for assistance. A few profitable rolls and the gambler is given mystic status. That gambler is considered to be in league with chance, and that’s when the real money is wagered with side bets. On any given night, an unsuspecting gambler may receive the blessings of chance during a dice session. Colloquially, they’d say that gambler was “on fire” or “hot.” Thirty minutes after arriving at Lil’ Aubrie’s, Father was officially a four-alarm blaze. He had rolled a four, or Little Joe, twelve consecutive times to make point. Although he’d already garnered a reputation for having an uncanny relationship with dice, this improbable occurrence had catapulted him well beyond mystic status.
Lil’ Aubrie stared at the dice emotionless, calling the roll. The half-nude obese woman brought Father a Crown Royal and 7-Up, then blew on the dice. Bad move. There wasn’t anything lucky about that woman as far as I could tell.
Some at the table were becoming angry, like Sammy Reed, whose wife of fifteen years had recently left him after he’d been caught having relations with a skittish mare in Pearland on Valentine’s Day. After two long hours at Lil’ Aubrie’s, he’d already lost his child support and alimony payments and was fast approaching mortgage and utilities monies. Next to him stood Bertrand LeBlanc, who worked with Father at the ship channel. He had money to blow, having been a longtime participant in the fencing of stolen goods on the docks. I had him to thank for my Atari 2600. Arthur Duncan stood across from Father, more a spectator than a participant. Father stood there, crutch under his left armpit to support the pins. Granted, he wasn’t supposed to stand on that leg at all unless he was going to bed or the bathroom.
When the dice finally came back around to Father, Sammy Reed started calling “no dice” on every roll. Lil’ Aubrie warned him, but he continued, frustrating everybody who had money on the table.2 Sammy was making bogus calls. Father grabbed the dice, then turned to me—
“Sonny, get that pistol out my pocket,” he said casually.
“Unh-unh, Frenchy. None of that in here,” warned Lil’ Aubrie, but Father could care less.
I reached into his beige polyester pocket and grabbed the heavy revolver.
“Stick it in my waistband. Right there,” he said, pointing to his left side, then he stared at Sammy. “Nigga, can we shoot some dice now?”
The dice game continued with Sammy’s eyes focused on Father’s gun rather than the dice. The obese woman brought Father a barstool to rest on. He gave her a ten-dollar tip. I watched her sashay away to a waiting man in the hallway who’d been staring at me since we entered.
He was a tall, dark-skinned man with straight, wavy hair pulled back into a ponytail. Lesser-informed minds might’ve called him a “Geechee.” The deformed disco ball caught a gold watch and bracelet on his left wrist, which rested comfortably on his crotch. A soft, milky glow hovered around his left pinkie. The woman on his arm wore snakeskin boots. He didn’t smile, just watched, then he turned his attention to me. It was him. He stuck out a foot—snakeskin boots—and took a bow, then winked. Who bows? The only people I’d seen bow were priests, altar boys, and the guys in the karate movies, so this time I bowed back. He grinned, then nodded.
“Look who done showed up!” someone yelled; all heads turned to the front door, and for the first time today Father smiled.
It was Father’s old friend Johnny Guitar Watson, easing into the gambling shack with a flashy entourage, wearing a white suit with matching hat and cape. A cape! Gotdamn, he has a cape! And then he spoke with a voice right out of the seventies pimp films—
“Hell, I must be in the right place if John Frenchy is here,” he said, then hugged Father. They hadn’t seen each other in over twenty years.
Then Watson turned his red eyes to me, red eyes hidden behind huge designer sunglasses—
“This your son?”
Father nodded.
Watson pulled out a huge roll of money, peeled off a hundred-dollar bill, and handed it to me with “Put that in your pocket.” No shit.
Many had said that Watson did try his hand at pimping after John Frenchy dropped him off at his grandfather’s church years back, but that was just a rumor. What wasn’t a rumor was the company that Watson kept, basically pimps and hustlers. His popular soul-influenced blues music merely reflected the company he kept.
Sammy Reed wasn’t at all impressed that Father knew Watson. Pockets empty, he excused himself from the table.
“Make sure that nigga don’t come in here with a piece,” Father told Lil’ Aubrie, but Watson had already motioned for two of his men to follow Sammy. Nobody needed to make an announcement. Men who deal with this type of crowd know that the only words you need fear from a man are the words not spoken.
Sammy Reed returned to the table and dropped a pink slip.3
“How much?” Sammy asked Lil’ Aubrie while he inspected the pink slip.
“Five grand.”
“Bullshit, five grand. That car about fifteen,” Sammy protested.
“It’s five grand at this table,” Lil’ Aubrie said. “And I ain’t cashing you in.”
“I got it,” Father interrupted before Sammy could argue.
Father counted out five grand on the table and took the pink slip. Sammy glared at Father as he accepted the cash. The game had turned personal. Luck so had it that it was Father’s roll.
“Gimme that hanger,” Father asked me, then slid the hanger behind his cast to scratch. I reached down to my KangaROOS and scratched my foot as well. Then I smelled it. Burning wood. When I rose, the dark-skinned man was right beside Father, whispering in his ear on the left side.
The Burning Wood Man stepped back from Father with a grin, hand returning triumphantly to his crotch. He had done something special, something proud. Because he was so close, I noticed that the milky glow on his left pinkie was in fact an opal set in gold. I stared at the table, trying to avoid his presence. I could feel his eyes. My feet prickled like there were a thousand straight pins, red-hot, e
mbedded in my bare soles. I didn’t want to look at him, fearful that he might ignite me with some preternatural combustion by a mere glance. He felt powerful, at least in presence, like a burly cop with a black gun and strong aftershave. I wanted to say something, but the ranting, music, and rattling of dice in Father’s hand, which hadn’t stopped since the Burning Wood Man delivered his communiqué, drowned out any idea of an utterance. The other gamblers complained, encouraging Father to roll. He ignored them, then stopped, placed the dice gently on the table, and pushed them toward Sammy Reed. No dice.
“Sammy, I want you to check them dice out,” Father signified. “ ’Cause tonight, I’m gonna give you winehead niggas a miracle. But first I want this worrisome muthafucka to check these dice out ’cause I got bullets in that gun. And although yawl about to witness a miracle, the good Lord didn’t teach me how to bring a dead nigga back to life.”
Sammy sucked his teeth, then grabbed the dice.
“Check dice,” Lil’ Aubrie announced so no wagers would be placed.
Sammy examined the dice, then rolled them a few times. Satisfied, Sammy pushed the dice back to Father, who, in turn, put all of his winnings and the pink slip on the table.
“Now. I bet all of this, mostly yawl money, on this next roll, but I’m gonna change the game if Lil’ Aubrie don’t mind,” he said.
“What’s the game, John Frenchy?” asked Lil’ Aubrie.
“Trey deuce. I’m ’bout to roll a five,” Father answered.
Half of the men laughed, assuming the Crown Royal was talking, but he said it again.
“Five.”
And he didn’t smile. The room quieted. Some appeared frightened, but nobody said John Frenchy was crazy. That had been firmly established years ago. Watson looked at Father and nodded respectfully.
“Cut that gotdamn music off,” Sammy blurted.
Now there was true silence. A passing ambulance blared on Bellfort Street, close enough to scare the mice in the wall that counted the hours until they could come out and do a bit of their own gambling.
Shiny plastic cubes rested on the table with throbbing flashes of light cast from the disco ball above.
Father turned to me with anxious eyes. A familiar look. The same look he always had when he sat on his horse, rope in hand, waiting for the chute to open. Waiting to rope the calf. Waiting to win the buckle. Waiting on God or maybe something else. Whatever it was, he knew the outcome. Victory was in his eyes. Confirmed victory.
“Watch this, Sonny. This is how you trick the dice,” he said directly to me, instructionally, as though we were the only people in the room. That same warm, paternal tone he used whenever he taught me something—passing down the secrets, be it riding a horse, shooting a gun, cutting the lawn, baiting a hook, saying the prayers. This was the first time he announced the left hand, but it wouldn’t be the last.
“John Frenchy shootin’. Trey deuce on the hop,” Lil’ Aubrie announced.
Father grabbed the dice and shook them hard. Five grand and a pink slip lay on the table.
Then I heard it again and I knew damn well I heard it.
“J’ai venu pour te ’oir,”4 it said in a loud whisper.
I looked around quickly just as Father let the dice roll out of his left hand.
Bertrand Leblanc made a solemn sign of the cross. Sammy Reed bit his tongue. Lil’ Aubrie and most of the room threw hands over mouth and nose. Something was burning. Wood. That’s what it smelled like. Burning wood. Two red plastic dice stood still on the table. 2 + 3 = 5.
“Trey deuce,” Lil’ Aubrie announced between his fingers.
“Fuck that! John Frenchy cheatin’!” Sammy Reed yelled, then reached for the pink slip.5 Father stood up quickly while grabbing a leg of the stool, then slammed the stool over Sammy Reed’s head. Everyone jumped back from the table as Father hobbled around the table with the crutch and the freed stool leg. He pushed the disoriented man to the ground and started whaling on him with the wooden stool leg. Head shots. I moved closer. Father continued relentlessly, crazed. Sammy Reed was paying for all of Father’s anger. Lame limb. Los Angeles. Las Cruces. Lafayette. Life. All forced through every swing. He didn’t say a word as he beat the man, just grunts and gasps between swings from his heavy cowboy hands. Sammy Reed’s face was mangled, but Father didn’t stop. Maybe he couldn’t.
“Eh, John Frenchy! He had enough,” said Watson.
Father obliged. Blood dripped off the stool leg, staining the beaten indoor-outdoor carpet. Still angry and panting, Father turned to me but didn’t say anything, as though he was trying to figure out who I was. The drugs and alcohol had changed him, and the sudden burst of energy from the fight had spent the remaining opiates in his system. He was coming down. The whole room watched him closely. What would he do next?
“Somebody cut on that fan and open the door. And look around ’cause something’s burning,” ordered Lil’ Aubrie.
I looked for the Burning Wood Man, but he was gone. A few men picked up Sammy Reed.
“Put him in the back and call his old lady,” Lil’ Aubrie instructed.
Watson looked at Father and said, “Five?”
Father just nodded, then slowly grinned.
“Yeah. Five,” Father said, and just like that the night turned back on as the jukebox belted out Buckwheat’s version of “Sitting in the La La” on cue.
“You wanna drive my wife’s Christmas present home for me?” Father asked Arthur Duncan.
Driving home later, Father sang along with Clifton Chenier. His mood had dramatically shifted, and it had nothing to do with the huge roll of money in his pocket nor the dirty Mary Kay Cadillac with Arkansas tags that followed behind us. There was something very different that made him smile and sing, something removed, maybe a memory. Maybe it was something the Burning Wood Man said.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, Sonny.”
“Who was that man that was talking to you?”
“Which man, Sonny?”
“The tall one that smelled like something burning. Who was that?”
Alcohol tells the truth, and there was just enough alcohol left in Father’s blood for him not to realize what he was about to do. Something he should never have done. He gave it a name.
“Oh, that was your kinfolk, Sonnier. Nonc Sonnier,” Father said.
“How’s he related to us?”
Then it occurred to Father what he had done, so he changed the subject and pulled the car over. He flipped on the dome light.
“Make a fist.”
I balled my fist as hard as possible. He took my fist and examined it, then looked at me.
“Don’t never let nobody whip on you like that back there. You hear me?”
“Yeah, Daddy.”
“If you gotta hit somebody, ball your fist up hard and hit him first. Right between the eyes.”
“So I can knock him out, Daddy?”
“So that nigga won’t fuck with you.”
“Daddy?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s Nonc related to us?”
“Quit asking me all them gotdamn questions. Sounding like your momma,” he snapped as we drove off.
Hours later, before dawn, after we slid into the house without disturbing Mother, after the last train ran down the tracks on Mykawa Road, even after that busy mouse in the wall called it a night, a fireman banged on the front door.
Sammy Reed must’ve been a sore loser for setting his baby sister’s Mary Kay Cadillac on fire, I thought. At least, that’s what Father told Arthur Duncan later after the fire truck drove off. But for some reason he didn’t tell the police about Sammy.
Mother would never get to drive her early Christmas present, which didn’t bother her much. She hated pink, it reminded her of that parasol she carried around shamelessly in the fifties.
He thought Sonnier would never show up again after that scene in Basile some twenty years back. But Nonc Sonnier never says good-bye, not to family.
F
ather leaned against the tree in the front yard, chain-smoking with shaky hands, staring at the burnt-out Caddy. I watched him.
* * *
1. Dice Rule 1: Always keep your hands visible to avoid any accusations of mischief; namely, switching dice or pulling a weapon.
2. Dice Rule 2: Do not call “no dice” if the call is not applicable. Calling “no dice” disqualifies the roll, nullifying the outcome. “No dice” is normally called when the dice roll has been interrupted unnaturally, such as by someone kicking or handling either die as it rolls, or if a die rolls off the table or too far from the center of play.
3. Dice Rule 3: Do not accept wagers of personal property, including, but not limited to, jewelry and pink slips.
4. “I came to see you.”
5. Dice Rule 4: Do not touch any money wagered or near the center of play unless it is yours.
PART II
the left hand practice
Red nigger moon. Sinner!
Blood-burning moon. Sinner!
Come out that fact’ry door.
—Jean Toomer, Cane
fifteen
las cruces
1963
Even on the Sabbath, Satan’s torrid breath blows across forgotten deserts, sautéing sediment without butter or grease, a hot pan laying in wait. Behold, the cool breeze from flapping angels’ wings—spit on the hot pan. The illusion is born with a sizzle. It all conforms with Satan’s plan, tricking the willy-nilly angels into becoming confederates in his humor. And the thoughtful angels only seek to comfort God’s creatures from the sun’s heat. Yet the mirage appears on the horizon boasting that Mother Earth is flat-chested, shimmering with the promise of a refreshing spring to those most in need. An absolute lie. If only those angels weren’t so good-natured and naïve, the trick would never work. The thirsty see the mirage and squeal in delight, double-timing their efforts toward the sparkling hoax, only to be rewarded with a failed promise.
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