Hard Luck And Trouble

by Gammy L. Singer

  I called Bundt, and of course, he wasn’t there—not on July 4, a holiday. I left a life-and-death message along with the names of the two boats with a Sergeant Willis, gave him my first name only and told him Bundt could reach me at home in about an hour. I hung up before Willis could ask questions. Then since no son-of-a-bitching taxi driver would pick me up, I took the A-train home.

  Thirty minutes later I was walking down my block, doing the last mile, as head down, I avoided the smiles, pats on the back, and applause of the neighbors. My cheeks were burning. They even waved their red, white, and blue flags at me. If you want to know the truth I was mortified. I entered my brownstone and shut them out.

  A few hours of sleep revived me somewhat and I called Steadwell, told him to pick me up at 4:00 A.M., and together we made Stepchild disappear from the Bronx alley before anybody investigated.

  Steadwell harangued that I had to make things right with Harry if I wanted to stay alive and remain in Harlem. I told him I didn’t have to do anything but stay black and die. I told him I’d give Harry back his money and call it quits.

  Like a send-off at a funeral, Steadwell wished me luck and dropped me at the hospital where Seltzer was staying, said he was going back home to get some sleep. I thanked him and went up to see Seltzer. Selz was awake, couldn’t talk much, still had tubes coming out of every which way. I let him know what had happened and saw a glimmer of a smile through the bandages. I stayed a little longer, and when Seltzer’s wife showed up, I said good-bye and left.

  At a coffee shop a block from the hospital I stopped and bought a couple of newspapers. Bicentennial news filled most of the front sections, the drug bust was relegated to the back pages. The papers said seven black men were arrested as principal suspects in a drug ring, and were likewise responsible for the homicide slaying of one Ezekiel Johnson. Ain’t that a blip? No mention of the DEA boys.

  With liberty and justice for all—no alphabet agency mentioned, but the Coast Guard, the Maritime Police and the NYPD and Lieutenant Bundt were labeled heroes. I smiled. I was okay with that. Guess I wouldn’t be hearing from Bundt.

  I put in a call to Catherine, didn’t give a lot of details, but I let her know I was all right and headed back home.

  As I rounded the corner of my block I bumped into the pastor and some of his flock, standing in front of the entrance to his church. Somebody’s funeral? The pastor shook his head and said, “Not yet.” It didn’t take long to figure out that the funeral might be mine.

  Neighbors lined the block on either side, on sidewalks and stoops. I strode past them, my footsteps keeping time to the thumping of my heart. I kept walking. The way I figured it, if a man is any kind of a man, sometime in his life he has to stand for something. The skeletons that nested in my head had been removed and for the first time in a long while I was clear about a lot of things.

  Finding out that Zeke was my real father—I knew that I wasn’t anything like him, and never would be—lifted a huge weight from my shoulders. What I came from didn’t have a damn thing to do with who I was.

  Familiar faces called to me. My neighbors began to reach for me, pat me on the back, and shake my hand. My people, my Harlem. Hell, these people were closer to anything I ever knew of family.

  Up ahead Harry and his army sat waiting, five cars of them, four black Lincolns and one shiny gold Cadillac. My tenants were out in front, crowded together in front of both brownstones, Wilbur leading them in a cheer. A sting in my nostril reminded me I had friends.

  When I was almost on them, the Clots poured out of their cars, black spiders loosed from their cocoons—and Harry the Monkey Chaser led the pack.

  He shouted, “Amos, didn’t think you were going to get away with it, did you?”

  Youngblood, my former tenant, crawled out of one of Harry’s cars like the cockroach he was and stood behind Harry, triumph on his face.

  “I got back your money, Harry. Take it and go.”

  “It ain’t about the money.”

  I smiled. “I know, Harry, I know, it’s about the glory.” I told Wilbur my apartment door was open, and to go inside and bring the life jacket laying on the coffee table. “The money’s in it,” I said to Harry. Wilbur handed off Josie to Winnie and hurriedly did as I asked.

  Harry and his crew walked toward me and I told my tenants to head indoors. Winnie bundled the baby up and went into the house. The other tenants stayed where they were. I didn’t move, I waited for Harry, ready to take anything he wanted to hand out. When Harry and I at last stood toe to toe I said, “When you get the money, that’s it, Harry. I don’t want any part of you or your operation.”

  “You queered the deal on purpose, didn’t you? Here I was, ready to bring you into the fold like a brother, and you fucked up—big time. Nobody crosses Harry.”

  “What can I say? You’re right, Harry. Can’t go the drug route. It ain’t in me—ain’t that kind of person. I can’t destroy the place where I live. Can’t do that to my people.”

  Harry’s eyes turned mean. “You can’t, huh? Ain’t that a piss-ass shame. I got casualties—casualties, seven good men—and it gone cost you. All your marbles, you hear me?”

  I shrugged. “Your boys were stupid, Harry—greedy too. Not my fault.”

  Harry sucker punched me in the stomach and I dropped to the pavement on one knee. Then he signaled to his men. They hauled gas cans out of their cars. I jumped to my feet and threw a right, smack into Harry’s wide-open face. The punch surprised him and, splat, Harry’s face opened like a watermelon splitting. It was Harry’s turn to hit the ground, and he screamed bloody murder.

  Then I lost my mind, I jumped on top of Harry and started pounding. The Clots pulled me off him and did the same number on me. Blows rained down on my face, shoulders, stomach. I saw stars—a whole galaxy. They had me down and began kicking.

  Wilbur tried to pull the Clots off and got knocked down for his trouble. At the same time, a taxi pulled up, horn honking. A noise began in the street and voices rose in protest. People screamed at Harry and his Clots. A wave of people pushed the Clots back, and off of me.

  Then I heard glass break and I smelled smoke. I struggled to my feet. Flames licked out of my office window. Fear gripped me—Josephine and Winnie were in the brownstone. I pushed past bodies and charged up the front steps.

  In front of the door was a Clot throwing gasoline on the building. I kicked the gasoline can out of his hand and pushed him over the railing. I dashed through the entrance to my brownstone. Smoke was rolling out of the office and up the stair well. My eyes burned and I started hacking from the smoke. I took off my undershirt, held it against my nose and mouth, and ascended the stair well.

  I heard Winnie call out on the landing above and I shouted, “Hang on, Winnie, I’m coming. Easy does it. Take it easy.” Winnie inched step by step down the stairs, carrying her small charge like precious cargo. Every black person knew that with sickle-cell anemia, one bruise to Josie’s body could put her back in the hospital, so Winnie was coming down the stairs slowly and carefully. I ran up the stairs to meet them.

  And then hallelujah, miracles of miracles, a whoosh of water fell, the sprinklers finally kicked in, and steam and smoke filled the stair well. Guess it was worth the money after all, but I could hardly see in front of me. I took Josie from Winnie. “Hang on to the banister going down, Winnie, you’ll be okay.”

  I shielded the baby’s face and carried her the rest of the way. When we reached the street, it was in total chaos. The cab was blocked and couldn’t move. A throng of people pushed and pulled, some in mortal battle with the Clots. Bottles, glass, and rocks were thrown. Catherine and her mother stood off to the side, at the edge of the crowd. Catherine saw me and started to press forward through the melee, but she was pushed back. I couldn’t get to her either.

  Wilbur, bleeding, his shirt ripped, tore himself away from the action, rescued Josie, and carried her to safety, a distance away from the crowd.

  Miss Ellie and ot
hers behind her—even Gloria—chanted on the sidewalk, “No more drugs, no more drugs.” Harry, with the yellow life jacket slung over his shoulder, looked like a giant bumblebee, raving hysterically.

  This had to end. I took off after him. He saw me coming and raced to his gold Cadillac and reached inside and came out with a grenade in his hand.

  “Hold it, Amos.” Harry wheezed, and sweat crawled down his face. “Tell all these people to stop, or me gone use this, and you know I will.”

  I looked Harry in the eye and stepped forward. Someone screamed behind me.

  Grenade held high, Harry reached into his waistband and pulled out a piece and said, “I’ll kill you first and blow everybody sky-high.”

  “That right, Harry? Blast everybody? Women, children—your sister and niece too?” People quieted behind me. They could see what was happening.

  Harry held the grenade still higher and searched the crowd for sight of Mrs. Walters and Catherine, his breathing heavy. “Over there, Harry. Next to the cab.” Harry’s eyes darted left and saw the two making their way through the crowd.

  Sirens sounded in the distance. Harry had to make a decision. The cops would be here soon. I pressed my advantage. “If it’s about winning, Harry, you won, you got your money back, you put a hurting on my buildings. Ain’t that enough?”

  From where I stood I could see the muscles twitching in Harry’s face, his eyes filled with rage. Harry wheezed and pointed the gun straight at my chest. “No,” he said, and fired.

  Chapter 47

  Shocked, I looked to where Harry lay on the ground. Catherine sobbed beside me. For sure, I thought I was good as dead. Wilbur had saved my life and fired a rock at Harry’s head, knocking Harry for a loop, his shot going wild.

  Catherine’s mother jabbered double time over Harry’s prostrate body, rolling out that West Indian patois so fast I couldn’t understand her. Then she turned and hugged me, pressed a red bag into my hand, and dropped to the ground to minister to Harry.

  In disbelief, the crowd edged closer to the fallen King of Harlem. I moved them back and knelt beside a wheezing Harry, his face covered with blood, and said, “I’m putting you in your car, Harry. But this is the deal—this street is out of bounds to you and yours, Harry, drug-free, understand?”

  Harry choked on his rage. “You punk ... you don’t give Harry orders. This street, she be junkie heaven, if me want it. Me boys will—”

  “Your boys ain’t around, Harry.” I helped him to his feet, and the red bag fell to the ground beside him. He jumped back and screamed as if I stabbed him, and his scream set off my key chain. “Here I am, here I am,” it proclaimed.

  He screamed again, louder this time. I don’t know what the hell Harry thought was happening. I guess he thought some voodoo god was speaking in another voice. Harry backed up, pressed against his car, and yelled to beat the band.

  I pinned him against the car while the key chain was still talking, and said, “No drugs, understand?”

  “No drugs,” Harry whispered, the sound barely escaping his lips. The key chain went silent and I stood Harry up. Once upright, he shook me off, mustered what dignity he could, gestured to his Clots, and they piled into their respective cars. “Until next time, Amos.”

  I called after him, “Won’t be no next time, Harry.”

  He indicated the red bag of gris-gris on the ground and smiled. “Eh-eh ... just like your father?”

  I narrowed my eyes. So Harry knew, too. “No, Harry, not like my father. Make no mistake, I ain’t that kind of fool.” And Harry and his hoods drove away.

  I surveyed the damage. Could have been worse. People returned to their homes. Some stayed to help with the cleanup. I gathered my tenants around and announced, “Third floors, basements in both places are okay. Parlor floors need work, but I can deal with that. Mostly smoke damage and broken windows. You’re welcome to move to any available apartment that’s livable if yours is messed up. Couple of neighbors said their homes would be open to you until I can get the brownstones back in order.”

  And then I thanked them for their support and I meant it. This group was family—I cared about each one of them and they seemed to know it. My only regret was Patty, and that troubled me. I hoped she was still alive.

  Then, out of the blue, Gloria threw her arms around me, with Catherine standing right there too, and said, “Oh, Amos, darling, I was so frightened for you.”

  Now, Gloria ain’t never in her life called me darling; I looked at her as if she had lost her mind. But the woman liked to perform, should have been an actress, and I’m sure she knew something was up with Catherine. Catherine moved back to let Gloria have full rein and crossed her arms—a sure sign of trouble. Mrs. Walters looked back and forth at the two women.

  I tried to unpeel Gloria, but she stuck to me like glue. I made the introductions with Gloria hanging off my neck—what else could I do? And it was all over for me then. Catherine told me she’d leave me to my wife—she put an extra zing in the word wife—told me to have a good life, she never wanted to speak to me again, and to top if off, called me Harlem trash. Can you believe it? The niece of a notorious drug dealer called me Harlem trash.

  Well, I told her straight out I had another woman anyway, that I planned to see her later tonight. Gloria was shocked, that got her off me, but Catherine was more shocked, and she and her mom left right after in the cab. Wilbur, standing on the sidelines with Josie still in his arms, pursed his lips together and just looked at me, disgust in his eyes.

  I’d call it a tension breaker. Life can’t be all bad if two women are upset with you. The neighbors bade their farewells and slipped away into their homes, and the street soon folded in on itself. Business as usual on 128th Street.

  Inside my burned office, I glanced at the charred photo gallery. The unknown woman’s picture was the only photo that had survived. Only the glass was broken. Probably an aunt, grandmother, or cousin of Montcrieff’s, not related to me at all. Huh, not related to me at all. I swept all of the pictures into the wastebasket and with the gesture bade the woman a fond farewell. She’d served her purpose and it was time to say good-bye.

  I stood for several minutes in that room with my hands in my pockets, not doing anything, really—thinking. The floor was soppy wet, the smoke strong, and I felt bone tired, deep down to my soul. But I had things to do yet. I roused myself, went to the cellar, and found wood, nails, and a hammer to board up the broken windows in both brownstones. “... and miles to go ...”

  Ten minutes later on the subway platform, I waited for the number 2 train to Brooklyn. The last stop.

  Chapter 48

  Reba knew the jig was up soon as I came through her front door. Her face ashen, she didn’t look well at all. What was it about Reba? The first thing she asked, did I want something to eat? Quietly I said, “Like what you fed Zeke? My father?”

  Reba swayed on her feet. I caught her and halfway carried her into the kitchen and deposited her into a kitchen chair. Then I got water from her refrigerator and gave it to her. She cried like a baby. Silent, I stared at a spot somewhere above her head, and waited for the waterfall to cease.

  “Zeke was an evil, vile man,” she said, and a fresh wave of sobs overtook her. “I never meant to hurt you, I swear I didn’t.”

  “Start at the beginning, Reba.”

  “Zeke and I had just begun to ... court. That’s what we called it in those days. Zeke introduced me to Montcrieff, his best friend, and I introduced Zeke to mine, my sister ... That’s when the trouble started.”

  I pulled no punches. “Zeke and my mother were lovers.”

  Reba straightened her spine and pulled herself up.

  “Yes, later. The four of us double-dated, went everywhere together. One day, I caught my sister and Zeke together. It was bad. I saw red, blamed my sister. We never spoke after that. Never. Then she suddenly up and married Montcrieff. And Zeke came back to me.”

  “After what he did to you, you wanted him?” I said.


  Reba broke down, her tears marking a path down her chin and into the folds of her neck. “He was my sickness, you see?” She wanted absolution. She looked to me as if I were a father confessor. I could only stare at her, and wonder.

  “Caught them again—after Elizabeth was married.” Reba pressed her hand against her chest, the pain so deep inside her it seemed to make her heart ache and stop her speech. “Elizabeth in Zeke’s old house, crying, Zeke slobbering all over her. I—I was angry, jealous. It wasn’t fair. Three months before, she had given birth to you. Started hitting her, she didn’t even defend herself. Fell, against the basement door. It gave way and she tumbled down the steps.... I was shocked ... so still, she just lay there. Zeke said I’d killed her—told me to get out of there before Montcrieff found her. I left her lying there, went back home, and never saw my sister again.”

  “Zeke told you what he did with the body?”

  “No, never. I didn’t want to know. He made up a lie for Montcrieff—to protect me, I thought. Told him Elizabeth had run off with another man. They were best friends. Montcrieff believed him. It broke Montcrieff’s heart. I couldn’t say no when he asked me to raise you.”

  “You never raised me, Reba, you let me grow up in the same house as you. It ain’t the same thing.”

  A fresh gush of tears poured from Reba’s eyes. “Every time I looked into your face I saw Elizabeth looking back at me. I couldn’t take it. I missed my sister. I wanted to sell the house and move away.”

  She dabbed at her nose with a lace handkerchief taken from her pocket. I grabbed her arm, paper-thin between my fingers, and said, “But you couldn’t do that, could you, until your sister was declared dead? That’s the only reason you reported her missing.”