Them Hustlers

by Jeffrey Manber

  Those office buildings that remained had expelled the light manufacturing, commercial printers, messenger services and other back-office support for the Federal machinery. Now, instead, up and down the street were cutting edge law firms, consulting shops, media houses and software developers that had little to do with the political world of Tommy Tucker, Bob Livingston and the like. Here on 7th Street idealists worried over environmental issues, architects worked on "living buildings," attorney's crafted proposals to create sustainable farming and a cottage industry had grown up for firms handling local media empires such as Robert Johnson's BET Television.

  Having finally arrived in the reception area for Gregory Davis III, Herb cared little for the implications that a class of workers now lived and worked in the nation's capital that didn't bow to the anonymous congressional staffers or lowest White House staffers. Herb at this moment was in no mood to consider how cities filled with mostly government workers, such as Brussels and Bonn and Washington, compared negatively to those like Paris and London, which pitted government workers together with bankers and factory workers and artists and entrepreneurs.

  No, Herb was tired. The long drive and the tension were catching up to him. He worried that the two hour parking would expire, leaving him the recipient of a parking fine or worse, having his car towed. The D.C. government was universally scorned for inefficiencies, with the one exception the parking enforcement. And more to the point, the deep thoughts the fortune teller was having concerned not the likes of cities like Paris or Bonn but the shifting status of the industry of pornography.

  At this exact moment the seventy-one year old ex-sailor sitting in the designer decorated reception area of McLeod, Young and Flowers on 7th Street Northwest was wondering what the hell happened to the porno theaters that he and his teenage friends had patronized six decades ago and intermittently ever since. When he had arrived on 7th Street he had been seized with the desire to revisit a never forgotten part of his youth. It was a spur of the moment decision, but one that had temporarily quieted all his pent-up concerns.

  Instead of looking for a parking space, Herb swung left onto the broad expanse that is Pennsylvania Avenue, heading in the direction opposite from the Capitol Building. Herb's immediate destination was 14th Street near Franklin Square, the Mecca for a Maryland teenager like him of the 1950s. Gaudy movie palaces with names like "This is It!" or "The Butterfly" catered to the fantasies of every Elvis Presley fan. And hustlers and hawkers offered counterfeit watches and the temptation of quick money from games of Three-card Monte. Sure, Herb had expected some changes. All of Washington had changed in the past decade. What he found instead was a complete whitewash of his youth. The theaters were gone--replaced by rows of sanitized office complexes. Shocked, he got back in his car and drove over to the once-forbidden territory of 9th Street, where the queers hung out. Some of his friends would gravitate over there just to have some fun. "Take care of 'em" they had called their game, meaning taunting the scared businessmen praying to remain anonymous as they darted out of the gay movies. What awaited him as he circled the street were buildings and stores no different than the rest of Washington.

  7th Street had once been home for the small shops, the seedy bars, and a Chinatown filled with cheap food. All gone. "China Corner" his wife had contemptuously referred to it the last time they had come in, almost five years before, to discover only a handful of Chinese restaurants among the Irish bars, art galleries and chain sea food restaurants. The whole landscape was altered. Herb felt an overwhelming weight of weariness. It was childish, but he had really been looking forward to an hour watching a dirty movie.

  As he sat waiting, Herb couldn't stop wondering where were the porno theaters nowadays. He could understand that the printing shops may have moved to Florida. He could grasp how with round the clock transportation much of the light manufacturing had moved halfway around the world--but where in the America of the 1990s were the good porno theaters? The ones in Baltimore were now closing--being replaced, just like on 14th Street, with rows of offices. Were there red-light districts in the suburbs? Herb gave that some thought before realizing he lived in the suburbs and sure hadn't seen a porno store or movie theater in the Annapolis shopping mall. Watch porno at home? Not Herb McDermott.

  He shifted his weary body. All day he had been sitting. He wished there was someone here his age he could ask--'hey, what happened to the cheap theaters and the like, but the twenty-something perfectly adorned receptionist with her silver and black t-shirt and no doubt expensive designer jeans, who through the phone headset was chatting on about her fab manicure, was not the one to ask. Anyway, that wasn't the real question. Being truthful, the whole worry over the disappearing porno theaters was just another way to ask, 'hey, what happened to our youth. Where the hell did the time go?' This whole day had unexpectedly made him feel old.

  * * *

  "Hey, Hey!"

  Herb's ruminations were disrupted by the cry coming from the other side of the glass reception door.

  “Hey, hey, heyeeee!”

  Herb avoided the sophomoric yell, turning his gaze instead towards the receptionist. She and he were alone, so it had to be the woman who was the intended target.

  But the receptionist was running on about the color of her nails, how “the-Beverly-Hill plum-polish-was-perfecto-like-Madonna-on-the-last-tour-its-the-Garden-where-they-finish-you-know? And-I know-exactly-because-my-roommate's-boyfriend-has-a-gay-friend,-you-met, Timmy? Uh-huh-exactly-anyway (deep breath)-his-lover-was-on-tour--you-heard-me-girl - on-tour-with-Madonna-no-I-don't think-they-slept-together-(pause)-mebbe they did! Listen-he-knows-exactly-that-shade-did-ya'-see-it-honey?-how-last-month's -Ebony-described-it-as-heavenly-and-hot--did-ya'-see-it?”

  "Heyeeeee!"

  Herb finally looked over, but not before setting his face into a deep frown.

  The source of Herb’s discomfort was barreling out of the elevator and into the waiting area.

  Other than the yell, nothing was out of place with the 30-something very black man, but Herb harbored an immediate visceral dislike just the same. It was not this one guy that so irked Herb, but the whole damn generation. He had come to feel disdain for the crop of Michael Jordan look-alikes that were the rage on television and in all the magazines his wife bought. Urban professionals in their late 20s and 30s emulating athletes and Hollywood personalities. Eddie Murphy. George Clooney. Arsenio Hall. This one hit the look just right. A home run.

  The executive burst through the reception doors, opening both sides simultaneously. Carried with him was the air of supreme confidence. He knew his perfectly fitted dark pin-striped banker's style suit provided a sense of tradition despite his young years. He knew his thin silver and green post-modern tie spoke of a tasteful courage in design, and being anchored by the mahogany tie pin laced with a thin strand of gold gave off the desired hint of traditional European style. The white shirt was of Italian weave, and the Italian brown wing tipped loafers spoke of comfort without sacrificing taste while at the same time reflecting nicely with his skin tone. His Michael Jordan image, got to love the man, was capped off by the single diamond in the right ear lobe, just like most of the brothers at Alpha Phi Alpha. How women loved the diamond! It signaled confidence in his manliness. Just like when his girlfriend, soon after they began seriously dating, had nonchalantly asked him to run to the store for tampons. "Darlin', would you be a dear..." He dropped the Sunday newspaper and off he went. No hesitation. That's what he wanted the diamond to signal. It all came together perfectly. He knew that.

  * * *

  “Hey, Hey, Hey.” A big grin crossed the attorney's face. Now the receptionist was smiling, her finger on the mute switch for the phone, her eyes flashing with approval. Few people, the attorney knew, could be bothered to look past his wardrobe. That was the point--to establish the reference point before the conversation began. His mother had taught him that. Usually the opposite applied as well. He had been taught to respect how others chose t
o present themselves. But the attorney didn't know where to even begin with the fortune teller who sat stiffly, his confusion clearly visible.

  Look at this guy, the attorney thought, even as he opened his arms wide to make Herb feel welcome. Look at those black baggy pants. Look at that black shirt, good Lord, gotta be three sizes too big. Black angel of death in a campy outfit. And that western belt, bet he don't even remember which decade he bought it. The lawyer threw a quick glance to the fortune tellers' waist. Man, with those added home-done belt holes revealing the weight gained, he was like the rings of a tree that records the rainfall. Only this history was in one direction only: bigger and wider as the decades ran on.

  Still, here was the man his father had respected. It was not for him to judge. Not yet, anyway. The attorney threw open his arms. “Show me some luv, Mr. Fortune Teller all the way from Annapolis. Give it up for Gregory Davis III, oldest son of your first client.”

  Herb froze. This walking billboard ad for bi-sexuality, this attorney in his thousand dollar suit, this was Gregory Davis III?

  Davis now understood the confusion. He pulled back. "You were expecting the janitor?"

  Truth was, yes.

  It had never occurred to Herb that the son of post office manager Gregory Davis Jr., he with his single three piece suit and gold watch that never worked, would produce the supremely confident attorney standing in front of him. Maybe not the janitor, probably the office manager. Oh, this was really one long, tiring day.

  * * *

  *

  Gregory the third, as he called himself, politely escorted Herb upstairs to his office. It was a small room, one wall a window overlooking a franchised Irish bar on 7th Street. Magazines like GQ and Esquire and Ebony and something called Media Mergers were scattered on the floor. The two walls held pictures of Gregory with Stevie Wonder, Gregory with Rupert Murdoch and Gregory with Muhammad Ali. Impressive.

  A certificate of appreciation for efforts to thwart human trafficking from the government of Haiti hung behind the desk. The biggest picture was of a young Gregory with his father and mother. It must have been taken at Highland Beach sometime in the early 1970s. The picture had that sharp Kodachrome color, and it showed the proud parents gamely squinting into the camera while the son cupped his hand over his eyes to block out the sun. Behind the family was a crowded sea of dark skinned bodies, interlaced here and there were a few pale bodies lying out in the summer sun. Another photo showed the father and his now teenaged son standing by a village road, in front of a half-finished two story house, with a dozen Haitians standing around them proudly.

  Herb dropped himself into the one free seat. The other was piled high with manila folders. In the elevator not much had been said. It was Gregory who was doing the thinking. Herb had reached that point of just wanting to go home. He would give it a try, but there seemed not much hope this young man had the mojo. Or that he, Herb, had the energy to make this happen.

  Gregory knew otherwise. He had known since his father died that it was his destiny to help the man sitting in his office with the dazed look. His father had told him the fortune teller of Annapolis would one day come for help. If he had passed on, it would be for Gregory to honor the word of the Davis family. It was not an obligation, his father had stressed. If it came to pass it would be our honor, as it would wipe clean a family debt.

  Gregory had to make the fortune teller understand the real situation. "Mr. McDermott," he began. But that seemed too artificial. "May I call you Herb?"

  Herb nodded. "I feel like a fool."

  Gregory dismissed the apology with a wave of his hand. "Happens all the time," he answered truthfully. "Won't be the last." He motioned to the picture of his father. "See that?"

  Herb nodded.

  "That's me with Dad in Haiti. That's where the family's from. Dad ever tell you our history?"

  "Not that I remember." Again a poor choice of words. "No, we never spoke of the past."

  Gregory thought through how to get across the situation. He had told their story to only a few people, and never to a white person. "We're not African-Americans like most. We arrived via Haiti. That makes us Creole. We were Creole slaves." Gregory cleared his throat. "My forefathers worked the sugar plantations in the Plaine du Nord region. That's the northern part of modern-day Haiti. It was hell. Most historians consider the French slavery system to have been the most brutal of them all. But we were among the lucky few that got out. And I was taught, and I will teach my kids when that day comes, that the story of the Davis family is of rising up. Rising up out of the plantations. Rising up out of slavery. Rising up out of Haiti." Gregory's voice took on the jubilant tone from the church. "Rising up out of the suppression of the south. Rising up out of mediocrity. Rising up out of segregation. Rising up. For two hundred years we've been rising up!"

  Herb didn't like what he was hearing and pulled himself up from the seat. "You know, I can see this has all been a waste of time. For both of us. I came looking for your father and maybe we should just let it go."

  Gregory jumped out of his chair. It was essential to catch Herb's attention. "I know why you came looking for my father. In fact," Gregory walked around the desk and put his hand on Herb's left shoulder. "I've known for some time you would be here. Please,” he gently added, "give me a little time to explain."

  He had captured the fortune teller's interest. The man’s face was losing its beet red shade and his eyes were fixed on Gregory. The attorney motioned for Herb to sit back down, which he slowly did.

  Given how tired Herb looked, Gregory figured he had just a few quick minutes to tell the story of Haiti, of voodoo, of the Davis family and the centuries long feud with the others. It was a tall order.

  Gregory took a deep breath. "Listen to me. My family was owned by one of the more brutal French families."

  Gregory interrupted himself as he realized the man was tired and probably hungry. His mother had expected him to arrive about four; he must have gotten lost for a couple of hours. "Coffee?"

  Herb was relieved. "Coffee would be perfect."

  Gregory picked up the phone and called down to the deli, ordering coffee and a couple of sandwiches.

  "The first of our family," resumed Gregory, "arrived in Haiti from West Africa sometime in the 1780s. We know this for a certainty. That was a few years before the infamous slave revolt. Like I said, it was hell on earth. Inhuman conditions. Yellow fever. Men, women and children forced to work the sugar fields 12 hours a day. Bodies piled high and no one cared. In the middle of this inferno my forefather--we're not sure exactly his name--saved the life of his owner, a grand blanc. These were the French aristocrats who spent most of the year in Paris but lived a few months at the plantation. These were the true bastards. The day-to-day running of the slave system was the job of the petit blancs. The French sure created a hell of a caste system. Anyway, this grand blanc was attacked by a slave. My forefather carried the injured grand blanc to the safety of his house. In appreciation, the owner promised the man could become a gens de couleur, which means a free person of color." Gregory snorted. "Like hell. He never was freed, but the owner owed him, and knew that, and slowly gave him limited freedoms. We know for sure that the slave, our descendent, was taken off of field work and given odd jobs at the main house. He used this new situation to connect with the escaped slaves known as maroons. You following all this?"

  Herb nodded.

  "Well, the ex-slaves lived in the forests surrounding Plaine du Nord. Thousands of men and women sought refuge in this no-man’s land. These were the foot soldiers in the fight to throw out the French. Okay. Last point: the leaders of the slaves and the gens de couleur were the great voodoo priests. The greatest. You still listening?" The fortune teller looked like he might fall asleep.

  "I'm listening. I see where you going and I'm listening."

  Gregory sure hoped that was true. "One of the greatest voodoo priests was a Frenchman, a gens de couleur named Julien Raimond. My forefather became a he
lper of Raimond. Imagine, a helper of the great Raimond. From this legendary priest he was taught the deepest secrets. The practical side of black magic. How to move the trees, stop the bullets, heal the sick, twist the barrel of a musket back on the owner. He studied for years on the knee of Raimond, learning the ancient art the Africans modified and developed in Haiti against the bastard French."

  Gregory had a thought. "You believe in voodoo?"

  "I believed in your father." Good, thought Herb, I finally said something right.

  "Something we both share, then."

  The food arrived. Gregory spread the sandwiches and chips on his desk. Herb realized only then how hungry he was; he hadn't eaten since grabbing a Ruth's bagel almost 12 hours earlier.

  Greg needed to continue. "It's a long story." He apologized.

  "No, no," mumbled Herb, his mouth stuffed with the first bite of the tuna sandwich. "Keep goin'."

  "Here's what you need to take away for tonight: my family helped the great voodoo priests free the slaves from the French. We learned the power--good and bad--to use black magic for political gain. And on August 22nd, 1791, the Haitian slave revolution exploded. It was led by a man named Dutty Boukman, one of the most powerful high priest's ever, and the leader of the maroons. Within weeks--against all odds--the slaves controlled much of the island. Eventually tens of thousands of slaves would be murdered. The land of Haiti became a new type of hell-hole. The British were fighting with the Spanish against the French. The slaves were being lied to by all the white men. Finally, the French parliament had enough, and slavery was outlawed. Months and years of pandemonium followed. Blacks attacking blacks, whites being burned, old scores settled. In the midst of the chaos my forefather stole gold from the safe of the grand blanc. As I said, it was a time to settle old scores. That gold paid for him and his lover and their two children to flee to the Caribbean, where documents could be forged. Five years later they landed in New Orleans with new names and registered as free persons of color."