“This ain’t mine. Don’t get your hopes up—I’m giving it to someone soon’s I finish with you.” I handed her the keys to number 6 across the street, the apartment next to Miss Ellie. I regretted my decision as soon as I made it. But what could I do? I was a sucker. So what else was new?
Gloria tried to leap into my arms, but I sidestepped her and she bumped into the dresser. I reached for my hat and a jacket. “And I’ll pay for the divorce lawyer—get one.”
That cooled her motor. She took a step back and gave me the once-over, like she knew I couldn’t be serious, and slid her hands down her hips again. I ignored her, showed her across the street to the apartment, settled her and Youngblood, and took off for Harry’s.
Yeah, so okay, so maybe I had to tuck my bone back down my pants. What the fuck. It had a mind of its own, no matter what I thought.
The wind kicked up on the way to Harry’s, but I was cool.
Chapter 13
I hiked up Seventh Avenue to 136th Street. Even though the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, I took the scenic route to Harry’s. The walk lightened my mood and I began to groove with it. Even when my right sock crept into my shoe. Even when my heel began to hurt. Truth be told, I hadn’t walked these streets in a great while. I ignored the chill in the June air as the wind nipped at me and the rain drizzled down. Summertime, children, and the weather was strange.
The wind played “tag, you’re it” with my chapeau, and I pulled it down tight on my head. Like any tourist I checked out Harlem with new eyes. Okay, could be I was dragging my butt because I wasn’t in a great hurry to turn over all this dough to Harry, so any diversion was a good excuse, but no lie, I marveled at Harlem’s architecture.
For a ghetto, Harlem had amazing buildings. I had heard the term neoclassicism before, and that sounded about right. Heard it from old Charlie Caldwell, a friend and one of the few dudes I knew who had escaped these mean streets and made it through college. With a degree in architecture no less. God, hadn’t thought about him in years. Charlie lived over in Jersey now, Teaneck. Too bad no one ever let him design a house. Doing drafting, last I heard.
Equal opportunity? Nope. Not for a black man. Not yet. And people wonder why so many black men take to the streets. Ain’t waiting for some white man’s by-your-leave, that’s why. Independence. Bicentennial celebration notwithstanding—a separate case for a separate race. A wave washed over me. Well, at least Charlie escaped this hustle.
My heels dug into the pavement and I kept a steady pace. Voices jangled past my ears and fell like meteorites around me. Other voices, sweet and melodic, purred greetings in the familiar yo, sister-girl, brother-man, baby, sucker, sugar, honey, mama, daddy, niggah, my main man—the list endless.
Across the street, hanging from the window on the second story of a turn-of-the-century building, cigarette dangling loosely between lips, and melon breasts propped upon a window pane, a fleshy Nefertiti, head wrapped in a colorful scarf, threw coins down and shouted instructions to a child standing on the street below. A portrait, framed by stone ornamental moldings and sculpted bas-relief, telling in its rendering.
More people than a little bit lived in sumptuous Harlem digs. The poorest families often resided in brownstones and apartment buildings with high ceilings, crown molding, marbled foyers and fireplaces, dumbwaiters, crafted staircases, built-in bookcases, desks and doors made of mellowed antique wood. Of course their digs might be the worse for wear inside, but still ...
I smiled. Wait until white people remembered what they gave up. Ooowee. New York was busting out at the seams. Couldn’t wait for the stampede.
Harry’s combo bar/office and pool hall was the second building from the corner on the west side of the street. I crossed over, paused, and looked back down the avenue that used to be a promenade of sorts during the twenties and thirties and shook my head.
Towering trees still lined the street, and rain misted their leaves. Uptown from Central Park, here was an oasis in a teeming city. In Harlem’s heydey, men and women strolled this street on a Sunday afternoon dressed in all their finery.
Seeing the street jigged a memory. When I was nine, black servicemen, home from the war, marched along this very same avenue. This little black biscuit shoved and pushed his face in between sweaty, excited bodies to get a better view. I stood among the tens of thousands of black folk who lined the sidewalks, waving flags. People cheered and cried. The fact that they cried mystified me then. Almost forty years later, I understood.
I swept the expanse of street with my eyes and despaired at its deterioration. When I turned back to continue on to Harry’s, a drunk came out of nowhere and lurched across my path. He plowed headfirst into a tree and yelped and sucked air like he was about to pop a load. Didn’t miss a beat, I kept on trucking and at 136th Street I crossed over and came to a stop beside the filigreed iron doors that fronted Harry’s place.
The lookout man pressed his remote, a signal to Harry inside, and nodded me in. I entered the dim interior of the bar. The stale odor of beer and cigarettes drifted up my nostrils. It had been two months since I had stepped foot in Harry’s, and as far as I could tell, no one in the bar had changed positions—the same bunch of fellows hung out. Astounding to me that time had stood still in this place, while my life had moved like a whirlwind.
At the far end of the room a familiar figure sat, tucked away into a corner table. I did a double take. Shit-head Zeke, what was he doing here? The connection fell into place. He and Harry were countrymen—Trinidadians.
I slapped hands all around with the rest of the bloods, and kept one eye out for Zeke. No way was he escaping this time. Deacon Steadwell, him I pounded and gripped in a bear hug.
Steadwell I had known forever. If I ever had such a thing as a mentor, Steadwell would be it. The man was old when I was a kid, and he remained unchanged. Going strong, after forty years on the street. Where the action was, that’s where you found Steadwell—a clever hustler and booster. Far as I knew, Steadwell never went in for no gangster stuff, unlike the rest of the people that hung out in Harry’s. Everybody liked having him around. Always quick with a joke and he listened when you talked to him.
Place an order with Steadwell, count on it. He would come up with whatever merchandise you wanted, no matter the size, shape, or weight. It was a wonder how he did it.
His lean body stretched across the green felt of the pool table. He held his cue stick between arthritic fingers and struggled with his aim. I asked him how he was doing.
“Same-o, same-o,” he replied. “Deacon is still freaking, Skids over there still smells funky, and the rest of the cats here still crying the blues about life, the lack of liberty, and the pursuit of pussy. In there!” he said as he slammed the five ball into the corner pocket, his body following after.
“Hold on there, old-timer.” And I helped him off the table.
Steadwell pushed himself upright with more than a little difficulty. “Ain’t seen you around, Amos. What I heard true, you the heir to a Harlem kingdom? Moving up in the world, boy?”
“Sideways, Steadwell, moving sideways. You seen Harry?”
“He in the back. Guess you be joining one of them lodges, huh, Amos? Guess you be buying one of them BMWs now?”
I laughed. This Harlem heir business had moved me a step down in the world. I made the good money when I banked numbers. Raw from the walk, my heel attested to the fact. The status symbol I best represented and my only mode of transportation at the moment was not BMW; it was Chevrolet—Cheve one foot and lay the other. But these cats didn’t need to know that.
I smiled at Steadwell and said, “Check you later, man.” I nodded over in Zeke’s direction. “Let me go say hi to my neighbor.” I plastered a smile on my face as I strolled across to Zeke, plopped into a seat, and leaned, friendly-like, across the table.
Zeke’s face didn’t crack. He crossed his hands in front of him on the table and just looked at me.
“I got
a red bag at home that belongs to you,” I said. Sullen eyes stared back at me. No response.
“I got your number, Zeke. What I want to know is, why? What’d I do to you?”
Zeke took a slug of his beer. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah? And eggs ain’t poultry. I hear you like to draw on trees, too.”
“Who told you that?”
“A bird. Cut the crap, Zeke. You’ve been giving me trouble from the beginning, and it’s stopping now, hear me? And if your rent ain’t paid by the first of the month, this landlord is serving your ass a notice to vacate. You got that? You don’t know who you’re messing with.”
Fire sizzled behind Zeke’s eyes, and he sneered. “You have no idea who you’re messing with. I have papers Montcrieff gave me. You don’t have the right to put me out, nigger landlord.”
I stifled the urge to dust Zeke right then and there. The man had gotten on my last nerve. “Nigger is as nigger does, so who’s the nigger now? Huh?”
I leaned closer and dared him to say another word, when, swear to God, Zeke’s head snapped back, his eyes rolled around in his head, and his pupils changed colors—from deep brown to slate gray.
I ain’t stupid. I recoiled and hissed, “You better cut that voodoo shit out. I mean it, Zeke.” I took a quick look around the room. No one was watching.
In a flash, Zeke’s eyes reverted to normal. He picked up his beer, casually, his voice even and untroubled. “Tree by a river, roots deep, cannot be moved,” he said. Then he tipped the bottle and chugged.
I narrowed my eyes and stood. What the hell was Zeke talking about? The man was nuts. Too crazy to argue with, that’s for sure. And arrogant—I think that’s what bothered me the most. “Put paying your rent on your list of things to do, Zeke—before the first.” I left him staring into space and went to take care of the business that I had originally come for, my appointment with Harry.
I made my way down a dim hallway to a back room and knocked on Harry’s door. The door was answered by two of Harry’s men—Blood Clots, members of his muscle brigade, Trinidadians, and relatives of Harry. Their size effectively blocked my view. One was bulked-up and the other was plain fat. See, if anybody got out of line with Harry, Fatty sat on you, while Bulk pounded your brains out.
The Black Sea parted, and Harry greeted me like his long-lost friend (which clued me I’d better be careful). But the Clots stood ready, waiting for me to breathe wrong, or give Harry some lip.
“Amos, good to see you,” Harry said. I nodded at him. “We was just talking about you. How you and me niece doin’?”
By “We” Harry meant the criminal sitting next to him, Chazz Almendo, a Puerto-Rican brother who worked as a prison guard at Riker’s and dealt mucho dope in and out of that facility.
“Hope you’re saying good things, Harry.” I looked him in the eye and told a bold-faced lie. “Catherine and me are doing okay. I like her. She’s a nice woman.” The last part wasn’t a lie.
Harry waggled his finger at me and smiled. “Make sure you remember that.”
In a millisecond, I flashed on what might happen if Catherine and me did get together. Breaking up, as the song says, might be hard to do. Jesus.
I returned Harry’s smile with a weak-assed one, pulled the roll of money from my pocket, and placed it on Harry’s desk. “That’s all of it, Harry, with interest.”
“Ah, Amos, good to know, you ain’t forgettin’ the vig.” He accepted the money without counting it and scooped it into his desk drawer. “A man of honor, eh, Amos? Exactly why me thinking about doing business wit’ you. Eh? You ain’t doin’ the numbers no more?”
“Uh-uh. Pursuing a new line of work.”
“I heard, I heard ...” Harry pushed together the tips of his fingers and fish-eyed me. “So? You making the money you want?”
Time ticked by. “No. But I’m making the life I want.”
Harry wheezed and let out a laugh. “But a man can always make a little more money, ain’t that right, Amos?”
I didn’t respond. I didn’t know what Harry was getting at. Harry got up and came around his desk and stood eyeball to eyeball with me.
“Smart, Amos. You got out of the numbers at the right time. New Jersey mob gone make gambling in Atlantic City happen. Naturally, that’s gone put a squeeze on all the number businesses, eh? Got a proposition for you. Thinking about making you one of me boys—handling drugs on the East Side. What you think? More money than you can shake a stick at.”
I rocked back on my heels. Harry had thrown a one-two punch. How to tell Harry? I wasn’t in to shaking sticks.
I coughed. “Appreciate it, Harry, but I got ... uh, allergies. Can’t be around heroin, cocaine, things like that—they make me sneeze. I’d blow all the profits.”
I said this with a straight face, while Harry stood thoughtful for a minute and squinted beady eyes at me. The Blood Clots behind me shifted uneasily. Oh, shit, here we go.
Then, Harry laughed out loud, which of course permitted his three stooges to laugh. And the fools did, loudly—and they had no idea what the hell they were laughing about.
“Amos, you funny, man. Okay, I gone let you slide this one time. Think about it, is all. Don’t want Catherine to end up married to no poor man, you know.”
“Easy, Harry, easy, you’re moving way too fast. Me and Catherine are just, uh, dating, you know?”
Harry waggled his finger at me again and purred.
“No-o-o problem.”
No doubt about it, time for me to split. I said rapid good-byes to Harry and his three stooges, and hustled my butt on out of there. Exiting through the pool hall, I saw Zeke, crouched over his table, hands locked in a prayer position. Four empty beer bottles were lined up in front of him. He slid his eyes over me. Damn fool, drinking up my rent money. I slammed on my hat, hauled ass out of there.
Chapter 14
I caught a bus to Jersey. The rain poured steadily. No more pit-pat, it was the real deal. The bus bumped along and blew smoke out of its ass at every stop. Not much conversation from the other passengers. Even the kids were quiet. When you labor hard for a living, you’re not too chatty after work. I had a seat by the window and watched the scenery lurch by.
My riding companion snored softly in the seat next to me. A brother about my age, dressed in tan cords with a lunch pail on his lap. Wondered why he didn’t have a ride. To me, a man without a ride was like a man without a dick. Certainly not in control of his destiny. Was he on his way to work or coming home? And then I stopped worrying about him and thought about myself.
I fidgeted in my seat. This bus was taking forever—Herman’s Cadillac Sales was going to close up on me. I glanced at my watch, an Omega timepiece that had escaped Bunky the pawnbroker. Six-fifteen. Herman’s closed at seven on Saturdays. I had another forty-five minutes.
In Newark, I transferred to another bus that took me right up to the entrance of Herman’s lot. Good thing, too, because my heel was raw, and specks of dried blood dotted the ankle of my socks. This walking crap was for the birds.
Herman stood at the entrance of the dealership’s office with a shit-eating grin on his face—waiting for me, I guess. He probably saw me get off the bus. It was five minutes to seven.
Herman’s belly hung low over his belt, and he tugged at his tie as he waited for me to approach.
“Hey, Herman,” I said. “What you got for me?”
He stuck out his hand and pumped mine and clapped me on the shoulder. “Have I got a deal for you ...” he said.
He led me down a long row of cars that shone under bright lights, with spanking-new upholstery I could smell as I walked by—swear to God. The sight intoxicated me, even while I felt like an inmate doing the last mile. When we reached the used-car section of the lot, Herman stopped in front of a shitty green clunker with a dented right fender.
“Give it to you for five thousand.”
I looked around. Didn’t see Baby anywhere. She must hav
e found a home.
I turned back to Herman. “This is Amos Brown you talking to. I know you got something better than this.”
Herman colored and cleared his throat.
“Of course, of course. You and me, we go way back, don’t we? Played any poker lately?”
Herman once sat in a game with me and some of the boys, the scaredest motherfucker I ever sat down to a table with—didn’t do nothing but sweat and fold all night long, and he asked this same question every time I saw him. Today it irked the hell out of me, and I snapped at him.
“Cut the crap, Herman, and show me something we can get serious about. I ain’t got a lot of time, and neither do you, if you know what I mean.”
Herman turned white as a sheet—as if I were some big-time mafioso who was about to take him out. Herman never did know the real deal about who I was or what I did. His imagination worked overtime and painted a picture of me as some hood from Harlem. I can’t say I disavowed him of that notion—for a practical reason. Herman gave me better deals because of it. And some white types like Herman love to get chummy-chummy with the “darker race,” and if they’re criminals, it’s a bonus. They wet their pants.
Hence, the poker game. Herman had slobbered all over me the time I invited him. But when he came face-to-face with the amount of money lobbed around the table, the bastard lost heart. Greedy Herman didn’t want to part with his money, and whimpered each time he lost. Huh. The first and the last time he played poker with me.
So now here we were. Herman trying to game me, but he really didn’t have the nerve. We moved to a back row of cars. A black ’71 Caddie with tail fins caught my eye.
“How much for this?” I said.
Herman coughed. He did that a lot, and we both knew he didn’t have no cold.
“Seven thousand,” he said.
“For Christ’s sake, Herman, you got to be kidding. How many miles on it?”
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