“They do,” he said. “Just look at the way they dress, even the way you do. Your dress is so low-cut that your tits are sticking out and so tight across your ass that every wiggle seems like an invitation.”
“You really have a dirty mind,” she said.
“It’s normal,” he laughed. “Tits and ass. Every guy gets a hard on.”
“You have a hard on all the time,” she said. “Even when you were a kid.”
He didn’t answer.
“Did you meet with your father?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” he answered. “Everything’s okay.”
“Was your father angry?”
“You know Papa,” he said. “But everything worked out. I wound up getting a job at an importing company in New York.”
“What about the draft?” she asked.
He was annoyed. “I said everything was taken care of.”
She was silent for a moment; then, looking down at her handbag on her lap, “I got a letter from Stevie,” she said in a low voice. “He wants me to marry him when he comes home for the holidays.”
Surprise sounded in his voice. “My brother?”
Now she was annoyed. “You know any other Stevie?”
“I don’t understand it,” he said. “How did you get the letter before my mother?” His mother opened everybody’s mail before she passed it on.
“He didn’t mail it to the house,” she said. “I got it at the store when I came in this morning.”
“He’s been writing to you?”
“Now and then,” she answered.
“Ever said anything about it before?”
“No.”
“Sneaky bastard,” he said. He looked at her. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m afraid of what your mother will think about it. After all, we are first cousins.”
“That don’t mean shit,” he said. “That’s very normal in Jewish families. You know the saying, the family that marries together stays together.”
“It’s no joke,” she said.
He looked at her. “How do you feel about it? Do you want to marry Stevie?”
“I like him,” she said. “But I never thought about marrying him. In his letter he said that he had always thought about me. And if we could get married we would have a good life. First of all, this next year would be his last year in medical school and if we were married he wouldn’t go right into the army, he would take his residency in a regular hospital for three years instead of the medical corps. He already has been offered positions from eight hospitals across the country. He could live wherever we wanted. There’s a big shortage of doctors.”
He stared at her. “That sounds good. Even Mama wouldn’t argue about that. I don’t think you have to worry about her.”
She was silent.
“What’s bothering you?” he asked.
“I don’t know, she said huskily, her voice close to tears. “You know, it seems so cut-and-dried. I used to dream of love and romance. Maybe I’m being stupid. I’m twenty-five already. There’s a war on and there are no men around. Another couple of years and I’ll be an old maid.”
He reached for her hand and held it gently. “Don’t feel like that,” he said. “You’re a wonderful girl.”
There were tears in the corners of her eyes. “But he never said in the letter that he loved me.”
“Not at all?” he asked.
“Maybe at the end of the letter. He signed it, ‘Love, Stevie.’”
“Then what are you complaining about? He said it.” He smiled. “That’s Stevie, my brother. He’s a doctor, not a writer.”
In spite of herself, she began to laugh. “Then you think it’s all right?”
“Great!” he answered. “And just remember if he doesn’t give you enough, you can always call on me. That’s what brothers-in-law can be counted on for.”
4
THE PUSHCARTS WERE stretched out along the sidewalks between Fifty-second Street and Fifty-fourth Street on the west side of Tenth Avenue. The vendors were mainly Italian, and that was the language Joe heard as he walked along the sidewalks. He looked at the carts piled high with fruits and vegetables; others had Italian cheeses wrapped in gauze or shaped in a ball and hanging in thin ropes. There were pushcarts that displayed cheap housedresses and underwear, and others that sold housewares, knives and forks, plates and sundries. The sidewalks were crowded as women and men argued and bargained with each other as the shopping day began in earnest. It was almost ten o’clock when Joe crossed between two of the pushcarts to the other side of the street to the small store window that was lettered “Caribbean Imports.”
The window was dusty and probably had not been washed in months. There was no way he could have seen into the store. He opened the door, which was as dusty as the windows. If it had not been for the small card that read “Open,” the store would have seemed closed.
Inside there was a counter, and a single light burning dimly over it. He looked around. There were some shelves on which were displayed an assortment of knives and forks of various sizes held by wooden and steel holders. On the counters were several wooden dolls, also in various sizes, in different native costumes. On the walls behind were paintings, square, oblong and rectangular, in bright colors and representing scenes of people and villages indigenous to the Caribbean Islands.
He stood there for a moment. The store seemed empty—no one there and no sound. He knocked on the counter and waited. There was no answer. Then he glanced to the back of the store where there was a door in the rear wall behind the counter. In amateurish lettering was painted “Private.” He hesitated a moment, then knocked on the door softly.
A few seconds later a faintly British-accented black voice came through the closed door. “That the new boy?”
“Yes,” he called. “Joe Crown.”
“Mon!” the voice called. “Ten o’clock already?”
“Yes, sir,” Joe answered.
The sound of chain locks rattled and a tall black man peered out through the crack of the door. “Anyone else here with you?”
“No,” Joe answered. “I’m alone.”
“Lock the front door and turn the sign. Then come back in here.” The man watched through the crack of the door as Joe locked the store and returned to him. Then the big man opened his door. He stood in the doorway completely naked and held out his hand. “I’m Jamaica,” he said in a resonant Island voice.
Joe shook his hand. “Joe Crown.”
“Come in,” Jamaica said. “I’ll jump into a pair of pants.”
Joe followed him into the back room. There was a dim lamp resting on an old-fashioned roll-top desk. A faint scent of marijuana hung in the air. Jamaica pulled a pair of shorts and his pants from behind the desk chair and climbed into them. There was a sound against the far wall. Joe turned toward it.
A three-quarter sofa bed stood in the middle of the room. His mouth fell open in surprise. Three very pretty black girls, also naked, were on the bed.
Jamaica glanced at him and smiled, his teeth white and large. “Don’t pay no attention to them,” he said. “They all wifes.”
“Your wives?” Joe felt stupid.
“Sort of,” Jamaica said. “They my girls. They work for me. I have six more of them. I’m their sweet man.”
Joe stared at him. “How can you take care of all of them?”
Jamaica laughed. “It’s easy. I never take on more than three of them at the same time.”
“How do you remember their names?” Joe asked.
“That’s easy too,” Jamaica answered. “They all have the same name. Lolita.” He turned to the girls on the bed. “Now git your asses dressed an’ ready for work,” he said. “I got big business with this man.”
He pulled his shirt from the chair and began to slip into the sleeves, then looked at Joe. “I’m forgetting my manners,” he said. “Would y
ou like a fuck off’n one of them before’n they get dressed?”
“No, thanks,” Joe said, staring at them.
“Well, any time,” Jamaica said. “They available. An’ that’s free for you. Jes’ one of the extras on this job.”
Joe nodded.
“Then let’s go out into the store,” Jamaica said. He looked back at the girls. “One of you Lolitas get your ass out to the coffee shop down the corner an’ get us some coffee an’ sweet rolls.”
Jamaica followed Joe into the store and sat behind the counter opposite him. He looked at Joe. “They told me that you a writer.”
“That’s right,” Joe answered.
“What do you write?”
“Stories. For magazines—you know,” Joe said.
“I don’t read much,” Jamaica said. “But I have respect for writing.”
“That’s okay,” Joe said.
Jamaica looked at him. “You know them girls are not part of your job,” he said. “They a sideline of mine.”
“Not bad.” Joe smiled.
“Keeps me a little busy but it’s okay,” he said.
Joe nodded.
“Your job is mostly to stay in the store an’ answer the telephone because I’m mostly outside. Sometimes you have to make some deliveries after the store closes. You’ll get extra for that.” Jamaica looked at him. “That okay?”
“It’s fine,” Joe said. “But I still don’t know what I’m doing or what we’re selling here. I don’t know anything about these things I see on the shelves and walls here.”
Jamaica shook his head. “Mr. B. never told you?”
Joe shook his head.
Jamaica met his eyes. “Gumballs, ganch an’ happy dust.”
Opium, marijuana and cocaine. “Mr. B. never told me,” Joe said.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Jamaica said. “I have a very high-class clientele. All musicians and high-society people. An’ Mr. B. has an agreement with the syndicate. They have a big blanket on us so there’s never any trouble.”
Joe was silent.
“It’s a good job,” Jamaica said. “Most of the time you don’t do nothin’ here an’ you can write all you want. And along with the twenty-five dollars, you’ll probably pick up twenty or thirty a week extra on deliveries.”
“That’s fine,” Joe said.
Jamaica looked at him shrewdly. “You scared?”
Joe nodded.
“Look at it like this,” Jamaica said. “Jes’ figger you’re better off bein’ scared here than being scared shitless with your head bein’ shot off in the army.”
Joe was silent. That was one way of looking at it. The rear door opened and one of the girls came out. She was dressed in a cheap print housedress wrapped tightly over her big breasts and her big muscular buttocks. She looked at him curiously with her dark eyes, then, tossing her black hair ironed into soft curls around her face, turned to Jamaica. “Kin we get coffee an’ danish for us too?”
He looked at her. “The work tables set up?”
“Almos’ finished,” she answered.
He peeled a five-dollar bill from a big roll in his pocket. “Okay,” he said. “But make it fast, we have a lot of work to do.”
She took the money and looked at Joe. “Cream an’ sugar in your coffee?”
“Just black, thank you,” Joe said.
She smiled. “If’n you like black, you jes’ my kin’ of man.”
“Get goin’,” Jamaica said sharply. “Save your cock-teasin’ for after we finish working.” He watched her as she left the store and then turned back to Joe. “Gals are a pain in the ass,” he said. “Have to keep showin’ them all the time that you in charge.”
Joe was silent.
“Your hours will be noon to seven,” Jamaica said. “I’ll be out from one to six.”
Joe nodded.
“Come on,” Jamaica said. “Let’s see how the gals are doin’.”
Joe followed him into the back room. It had suddenly been changed into a workroom. Two fluorescent ceiling fixtures gave a harsh blue light. The sofa bed had been made up and turned into an imitation-leather couch. Two tables, each covered tightly with a black oilcloth cover, were placed together to form a T-square. The two girls still in the room were also wearing cheap print housedresses.
Jamaica pulled a key chain from one of his pockets. For the first time Joe realized that one of the walls was covered with tall, locked metal closets, and at the far end were two new electric refrigerators. The refrigerator doors were also fitted with locks. Quickly Jamaica began to unlock the closets and the refrigerators.
Quickly and expertly he and the girls began to remove the equipment from the closet and set up their sections on the table. The T end of the tables held a hand-operated mill grinder and a large electric flour mixer with two rotating blades that fit into a mixing bowl, and next to it was a large sifter that emptied into another bowl. In the center of the table was a balance scale, the small weights against it measuring from a half gram up to two ounces. At the other end of the T-square were small leaves of paper, one side waxed, the other side either pink or blue; beyond that were brown glass bottles already labeled. Joe looked at one. They were counterfeit-labeled, “Merck,” then “COCAINE. Flaked Crystalline Snow. Seven (7) Grams.”
The long rectangular table was divided into one small section and one longer section. The small section held a small hand press that made ten pills at a time. The larger one, another kind of a roller for marijuana, with small teeth like spikes, was used to strip leaves from the branches, which then were placed into another sifter that allowed the leaves to fall into a tray without the seeds. Next to that was a large, hand-operated cigarette roller.
Jamaica took several boxes from the refrigerators. Two gray boxes were placed on the T tables. He opened the boxes, which held ten brown bottles each. This was the real thing, original bottles of prescription cocaine. Next to the bottles he placed a large round tin labeled “Lactose” and a small little bottle labeled “Strychnine.” He looked at Joe. “Prescription coke is seventy percent pure. It could blow your head off,” he said. “We cut it into equal parts of coke and lactose, then a pinch of strych to give it the bitter taste that hides the sweetness of the lactose. That way everyone is happy.”
Joe didn’t answer. That it made a better profit was not even mentioned. He continued to watch while Jamaica placed a large square brownish-black block of pressed gum of opium in front of one girl, and then a large box filled with stems of marijuana before another.
Jamaica looked over at him. “Do you use any of this stuff?”
Joe shook his head. “A joint now and then. But I’m really not into it, gets me crazy.”
Jamaica smiled. “Just as well. If you can’t handle it, you’re better off leaving it alone.”
There was a knock at the door and the girl he’d sent out for coffee stuck her head into the room. “Coffee’s on the counter out here,” she said.
Jamaica smiled. “Okay,” he said. He looked at the girls. “Let’s go.”
The girl standing behind the T-square tables spoke to Jamaica. “Kin we all have a toot?” she asked. “We have to get ourselves up. Don’ forget we didn’ git much sleep last night. It was seven in the morning by the time we got in here.”
Jamaica stared at her for a moment, then nodded. He took out a small vial and a tiny silver spoon. “Okay. But on’y one toot each,” he answered. “Don’ forget we got a lot of work to do this morning. This is the weekend coming up.”
The girls clustered around him like a little flock of sparrows begging for bread crumbs. Jamaica looked at them and then at Joe. “They all Lolitas.” He smiled again. “All cunts.”
Jamaica rose from his chair behind the counter. He placed his empty coffee container down and looked at the girls. “Party time’s over,” he said. “Let’s get back to work.”
He watched the girls as they went into the back room, then turned to Joe. “Kin you start tomorrow at noon?
”
“I’ll be here,” Joe said.
“I’ll have more time to explain what you have to do,” he said. “Right now, I have to keep my eye on those girls. If I’m not there, they’ll steal my ass off.”
“Okay,” Joe said.
The telephone rang and Jamaica picked it up from under the counter. “Caribbean Imports,” he answered in a guarded voice. He listened for a moment. “Need it right away?” he asked. Another moment passed before he answered. “I’ll take care of it.”
He put down the telephone and looked at Joe. “Can you do me a favor?”
Joe nodded.
Jamaica gestured for Joe to follow him into the back room. The girls were already working. He took out two brown paper bags, putting one into the other, then very quickly filled them and closed them. His movements were so fast that Joe couldn’t even figure out what had been put into the bags.
Jamaica tied the bags with a brown cord and handed them to him. He scrawled an address on a piece of paper.
Joe looked down at it. “25 C.P.W. Penthouse C $1000.00.”
“Got it?” Jamaica asked.
He nodded.
Jamaica gave him a five-dollar bill from his roll. “Give this to the doorman,” he said. “He’ll let you in.” He walked into the store with Joe. “This is a big customer,” he said. “He’s a big Broadway composer, so make it fast. He said he’s making the Twentieth Century to California at two o’clock.”
“COD?” Joe asked.
“That’s the only way we do business,” Jamaica said.
It took less than ten minutes for Joe to reach the apartment house. The doorman peered at him, then pocketed the five-dollar bill and took Joe to a closed elevator and up to the apartment. He waited in the open elevator door and watched Joe deliver his package and receive an envelope. Joe checked the envelope and before he could nod his thanks the apartment door had closed. He returned to the elevator.
It took approximately another ten minutes for Joe to return to the store. It was empty. Joe knocked at the rear door. Jamaica came out into the store.
Joe gave him the envelope and Jamaica went behind the counter and counted the bills, then stuck them into his pocket. He came up with a ten-dollar bill in his hand and held it out to Joe. “The customer just called me and told me that he was in such a hurry he didn’t have time to give you a tip.”
The Storyteller Page 4
