A surge of cold, fresh air from the outside stirred the smoke and liquor fumes and Pinkie knew that the front door was open. She turned her eyes that way and thought of flight to the clean outside. The door stood wide open and a tall figure in an overcoat with a fur collar stood there.
“Good Gawd, Muttsy! Shet ’at do’,” cried Shorty. “Dass a pure razor blowing out dere tonight. Ah didn’t know you wuz outa here nohow.”
“Carried me down on de Smoky Road
Brought me back on de coolin’ board
Ahm gointer make me a graveyard of mah own,”
sang Muttsy, looking as if he sought someone and banged the door shut on the last words. He strode on in without removing hat or coat.
Pinkie saw in this short space that all the men deferred to him, that all the women sought his notice. She tried timidly to squeeze between two of the men and return to the quiet place beside old man Turner, thinking that Muttsy would hold the attention of her captors until she had escaped. But Muttsy spied her through the men about her and joined them. By this time her exasperation and embarrassment had her on the point of tears.
“Well, whadda yuh know about dis!” he exclaimed. “A real lil’ pullet.”
“Look out dere, Muttsy,” drawled Dramsleg with objection, catching Pinkie by the arm and trying to draw her toward him. “Lemme tell dis lil’ Pink Mama how crazy ah is ’bout her mahself. Ah ain’t got no lady atall an’—”
“Aw, shut up, Drams,” Muttsy said sternly, “put yo’ pocketbook where yo’ mouf is, an’ somebody will lissen. Ah’m a heavy-sugar papa. Ah eats fried chicken when the rest of you niggars is drinking rain water.”
He thrust some of the others aside and stood squarely before her. With her downcast eyes, she saw his well polished shoes, creased trousers, gloved hands and at last timidly raised her eyes to his face.
“Look a heah!” he frowned, “you roughnecks done got dis baby ready tuh cry.”
He put his forefinger under her chin and made her look at him. And for some reason he removed his hat.
“Come on in the sittin’ room an’ le’s talk. Come on befo’ some uh dese niggers sprinkle some salt on yuh and eat yuh clean up lak a radish.” Dramsleg looked after Muttsy and the girl as they swam through the smoke into the front room. He beckoned to Bluefront.
“Hey, Bluefront! Ain’t you mah fren’?”
“Yep,” answered Bluefront.
“Well, then why cain’t you help me? Muttsy done done me dirt wid the lil’ pig-meat—throw a louse on ’im.”
Pinkie’s hair was slipping down. She felt it, but her self-consciousness prevented her catching it and down it fell in a heavy roll that spread out and covered her nearly to the waist. She followed Muttsy into the front room and again sat shrinking in the corner. She did not wish to talk to Muttsy nor anyone else in that house, but there were fewer people in this room.
“Phew!” cried Bluefront, “dat baby sho got some righteous moss on her keg—dass reg’lar ‘nearow mah Gawd tuh thee’ stuff.” He made a lengthy gesture with his arms as if combing out long, silky hair.
“Shux,” sneered Ada in a moist, alcoholic voice. “Dat ain’t nothin’ mah haih uster be so’s ah could set on it.”
There was general laughter from the men.
“Yas, ah know it’s de truth!” shouted Shorty. “It’s jes’ ez close tuh yo’ head now as ninety-nine is tuh uh hund’ed.”
“Ah’ll call Muttsy tuh you,” Ada threatened.
“Oh, ’oman, Muttsy ain’t got you tuh study ’bout no ’mo cause he’s parkin’ his heart wid dat lil’ chicken wid white-folks’ haih. Why, dat lil’ chicken’s foot would make you a Sunday face.”
General laughter again. Ada dashed the whiskey glass upon the floor with the determined stalk of an angry tiger and arose and started forward.
“Muttsy Owens, uh nobody else ain’t gointer make no fool outer me. Dat lil’ kack girl ain’t gointer put me on de bricks—not much.”
Perhaps Muttsy heard her, perhaps he saw her out of the corner of his eye and read her mood. But knowing the woman as he did he might have known what she would do under such circumstances. At any rate he got to his feet as she entered the room where he sat with Pinkie.
“Ah know you ain’t lost yo’ head sho ’nuff ’oman. ’Deed, Gawd knows you bettah go ’way ’fum me.” He said this in a low, steady voice. The music stopped, the talking stopped and even the drinkers paused. Nothing happened, for Ada looked straight into Muttsy’s eyes and went on outside.
“Miss Pinkie, Ah votes you g’wan tuh bed,” Muttsy said suddenly to the girl.
“Yes-suh.”
“An’ don’t you worry ’bout no job. Ah knows where you kin git a good one. Ah’ll go see em first an tell yuh tomorrow night.”
She went off to bed upstairs. The rich baritone of the piano player came up to her as did laughter and shouting. But she was tired and slept soundly.
Ma shuffled in after eight the next morning. “Darlin’, ain’t you got ’nuff sleep yit?”
Pinkie opened her eyes a trifle. “Ain’t you the puttiest lil’ trick! An Muttsy done gone crazy ’bout yuh! Chile, he’s lousy wid money an’ diamon’s an’ everything—Yuh better grab him quick. Some folks has all de luck. Heah ah is—got uh man dat hates work lak de devil hates holy water. Ah gotta make dis house pay!”
Pinkie’s eyes opened wide. “What does Mr. Muttsy do?”
“Mah Gawd, chile! He’s de bes’ gambler in three states, cards, craps un hawses. He could be a boss stevedore if he so wanted. The big boss down on de dock would give him a fat job—just begs him to take it cause he can manage the men. He’s the biggest hero they got since Harry Wills left the waterfront. But he won’t take it cause he makes so much wid the games.”
“He’s awful good-lookin,” Pinkie agreed, “an’ he been mighty nice tuh me—but I like men to work. I wish he would. Gamblin’ ain’t nice.”
“Yeah, ’tis, ef yuh makes money lak Muttsy. Maybe yo ain’t noticed dat diamon’ set in his tooth. He picks women up when he wants tuh an’ puts ’em down when he choose.”
Pinkie turned her face to the wall and shuddered. Ma paid no attention.
“You doan hafta git up till you git good an’ ready, Muttsy says. Ah mean you kin stay roun’ the house ’till you come to, sorter.”
Another day passed. Its darkness woke up the land east of Lenox—all that land between the railroad tracks and the river. It was very ugly by day, and night kindly hid some of its sordid homeliness. Yes, nighttime gave it life.
The same women, or others just like them, came to Ma Turner’s. The same men, or men just like them, came also and treated them to liquor or mistreated them with fists or cruel jibes. Ma got half drunk as usual and cried over everyone who would let her.
Muttsy came alone and went straight to Pinkie where she sat trying to shrink into the wall. She had feared that he would not come.
“Howdy do, Miss Pinkie.”
“How’do Mistah Owens,” she actually achieved a smile. “Did you see bout m’ job?”
“Well, yeah—but the lady says she won’t needya fuh uh week yet. Doan worry. Ma ain’t gointer push yuh foh room rent. Mah wrist ain’t got no cramps.”
Pinkie half sobbed: “Ah wantsa job now!”
“Didn’t ah say dass alright? Well, Muttsy doan lie. Shux! Ah might jes’ es well tell yuh—ahm crazy ’bout yuh—money no objeck.”
It was the girl herself who first mentioned “bed” this night. He suffered her to go without protest.
The next night she did not come into the sitting room. She went to bed as soon as the dinner things had been cleared. Ma begged and cried, but Pinkie pretended illness and kept to her bed. This she repeated the next night and the next. Every night Muttsy came and every night he added to his sartorial splendor; but each night he went away, disappointed, more evidently crestfallen than before.
But the insistence for escape from her strange surroundings grew on the girl. When Ma was busy
elsewhere, she would take out the three one dollar bills from her shoe and reconsider her limitations. If that job would only come on! She felt shut in, imprisoned, walled in with these women who talked of nothing but men and numbers and drink, and men who talked of nothing but the numbers and drink and women. And desperation took her.
One night she was still waiting for the job—Ma’s alcoholic tears prevailed. Pinkie took a drink. She drank the stuff mixed with sugar and water and crept to bed even as the dizziness came on. She would not wake tonight. Tomorrow, maybe, the job would come and freedom.
The piano thumped but Pinkie did not hear; the shouts, laughter and cries did not reach her that night. Downstairs Muttsy pushed Ma into a corner.
“Looky heah, Ma. Dat girl done played me long enough. Ah pays her room rent, ah pays her boahd an’ all ah gets is uh hunk of ice. Now you said you wuz gointer fix things—you tole me so las’ night an’ heah she done gone tuh bed on me agin.”
“Deed, ah kaint do nothin’ wid huh. She’s thinkin’ sho’ nuff you goin’ git her uh job and she fret so cause tain’t come, dat she drunk uh toddy un hits knocked her down jes lak uh log.”
“Ada an’ all uh them laffin—they say ah done crapped.” He felt injured. “Caint ah go talk to her?”
“Lawdy, Muttsy, dat gal ded drunk an’ sleepin’ lak she’s buried.”
“Well, caint ah go up an’—an’ speak tuh her jus’ the same.” A yellow backed bill from Muttsy’s roll found itself in Ma’s hand and put her in such a good humor that she let old man Turner talk all he wanted for the rest of the night.
“Yas, Muttsy, gwan in. Youse mah frien’.”
Muttsy hurried up to the room indicated. He felt shaky inside there with Pinkie, somehow, but he approached the bed and stood for a while looking down upon her. Her hair in confusion about her face and swinging off the bedside; the brown arms revealed and the soft lips. He blew out the match he had struck and kissed her full on the mouth, kissed her several times and passed his hand down over her neck and throat and then hungrily down upon her breast. But here he drew back.
“Naw,” he said sternly to himself, “ah ain’t goin’ ter play her wid no loaded dice.” Then quickly he covered her with the blanket to her chin, kissed her again upon the lips and tipped down into the darkness of the vestibule.
“Ah reckon ah bettah git married.” He soliloquized. “B’lieve me, ah will, an’ go uptown wid dicties.”
He lit a cigar and stood there on the steps puffing and thinking for some time. His name was called inside the sitting room several times but he pretended not to hear. At last he stole back into the room where slept the girl who unwittingly and unwillingly was making him do queer things. He tipped up to the bed again and knelt there holding her hands so fiercely that she groaned without waking. He watched her and he wanted her so that he wished to crush her in his love; crush and crush and hurt her against himself, but somehow he resisted the impulse and merely kissed her lips again, kissed her hands back and front, removed the largest diamond ring from his hand and slipped it on her engagement finger. It was much too large so he closed her hand and tucked it securely beneath the covers.
“She’s mine!” he said triumphantly. “All mine!”
He switched off the light and softly closed the door as he went out again to the steps. He had gone up to the bed room from the sitting room boldly, caring not who knew that Muttsy Owens took what he wanted. He was stealing forth afraid that someone might suspect that he had been there. There is no secret love in those barrens; it is a thing to be approached boisterously and without delay or dalliance. One loves when one wills, and ceases when it palls. There is nothing sacred or hidden—all subject to coarse jokes. So Muttsy re-entered the sitting room from the steps as if he had been into the street.
“Where you been Muttsy?” whined Ada with an awkward attempt at coyness.
“What you wanta know for?” he asked roughly.
“Now, Muttsy you know you ain’t treatin’ me right, honey. How come you runnin’ de hawg ovah me lak you do?”
“Git outa mah face ’oman. Keep yo’ han’s offa me.” He clapped on his hat and strode from the house.
Pinkie awoke with a gripping stomach and thumping head.
Ma bustled in. “How yuh feelin’ darlin? Youse jes lak a li’l dol baby.”
“I got a headache, terrible from that ole whiskey. Thass mah first und las’ drink long as I live.” She felt the ring.
“Whut’s this?” she asked and drew her hand out to the light.
“Dat’s Muttsy’s ring. Ah seen him wid it fuh two years. How’d y’all make out? He sho is one thur’bred.”
“Muttsy? When? I didn’t see no Muttsy.”
“Dearie, you doan’ hafta tell yo’ bizniss ef you doan wanta. Ahm a hush-mouf. Thass all right, keep yo’ bizniss to you’ self.” Ma bleared her eyes wisely. “But ah know Muttsy wuz up heah tuh see yuh las’ night. Doan’ mine me, honey, gwan wid ’im. He’ll treat yuh right. Ah knows he’s crazy ’bout yuh. An’ all de women is crazy ’bout him. Lawd! Lookit dat ring!” Ma regarded it greedily for a long time, but she turned and walked toward the door at last. “Git up darlin’. Ah got fried chickin fuh breckfus’ un mush melon.”
She went on to the kitchen. Ma’s revelation sunk deeper, then there was the ring. Pinkie hurled the ring across the room and leaped out of bed.
“He ain’t goin’ to make me none of his women—I’ll die first! I’m goin’ outa this house if I starve, lemme starve!”
She got up and plunged her face into the cold water on the washstand in the corner and hurled herself into the shabby clothes, thrust the dollars which she never had occasion to spend, under the pillow where Ma would be sure to find them and slipped noiselessly out of the house and fled down Fifth Avenue toward the Park that marked the beginning of the Barrens. She did not know where she was going, and cared little so long as she removed herself as far as possible from the house where the great evil threatened her.
At ten o’clock that same morning, Muttsy Owens dressed his flashiest best, drove up to Ma’s door in a cab, the most luxurious that could be hired. He had gone so far as to stick two one hundred dollar notes to the inside of the windshield. Ma was overcome.
“Muttsy, dearie, what you doin’ heah so soon? Pinkie sho has got you goin’. Un in a swell cab too—gee!”
“Ahm gointer git mah’ried tuh de doll baby, thass how come. An’ ahm gointer treat her white too.”
“Umhumh! Thass how come de ring! You oughtn’t never fuhgit me, Muttsy, fuh puttin’ y’all together. But ah never thought you’d mah’ry nobody—you allus said you wouldn’t.”
“An’ ah wouldn’t neither ef ah hadn’t of seen her. Where she is?”
“In de room dressin’. She never tole me nothin’ ’bout dis.”
“She doan’ know. She wuz sleep when ah made up mah mind an’ slipped on de ring. But ah never miss no girl ah wants, you knows me.”
“Everybody in this man’s town knows you gets whut you wants.”
“Naw, ah come tuh take her to brek’fus ’fo we goes tuh de cote-house.”
“An’ y’all stay heah and eat wid me. You go call her whilst ah set de grub on table.”
Muttsy, with a lordly stride, went up to Pinkie’s door and rapped and waited and rapped and waited three times. Growing impatient or thinking her still asleep, he flung open the door and entered.
The first thing that struck him was the empty bed; the next was the glitter of his diamond ring upon the floor. He stumbled out to Ma. She was gone, no doubt of that.
“She looked awful funny when ah tole her you wuz in heah, but ah thought she wuz puttin’ on airs,” Ma declared finally.
“She thinks ah played her wid a marked deck, but ah didn’t. Ef ah could see her she’d love me. Ah know she would. ’Cause ah’d make her,” Muttsy lamented.
“I don’t know, Muttsy. She ain’t no New Yorker, and she thinks gamblin’ is awful.”
“Zat all she got a
gainst me? Ah’ll fix that up in a minute. You help me find her and ah’ll do anything she says jus’ so she marries me.” He laughed ruefully. “Looks like ah crapped this time, don’t it, Ma?”
The next day Muttsy was foreman of two hundred stevedores. How did he make them work. But oh how cheerfully they did their best for him. The company begrudged not one cent of his pay. He searched diligently, paid money to other searchers, went every night to Ma’s to see if by chance the girl had returned or if any clues had turned up.
Two weeks passed this way. Black empty days for Muttsy.
Then he found her. He was coming home from work. When crossing Seventh Avenue at 135th Street they almost collided. He seized her and began pleading before she even had time to recognize him.
He turned and followed her; took the employment office slip from her hand and destroyed it, took her arm and held it. He must have been very convincing for at 125th Street they entered a taxi that headed uptown again. Muttsy was smiling amiably upon the whole round world.
A month later, as Muttsy stood on the dock hustling his men to greater endeavor, Bluefront flashed past with his truck. “Say, Muttsy, you don’t know what you missin’ since you quit de game. Ah cleaned out de whole bunch las’ night.” He flashed a roll and laughed. “It don’t seem like a month ago you wuz king uh de bones in Harlem.” He vanished down the gangplank into the ship’s hold.
As he raced back up the gangplank with his loaded truck Muttsy answered him, “And now, I’m King of the Boneheads—which being interpreted means stevedores. Come on over behind dis crate wid yo’ roll. Mah wrist ain’t got no cramp ’cause ah’m married. You’se gettin’ too sassy.”
“Thought you wuzn’t gointer shoot no mo’!” Bluefront temporized.
“Aw, Hell! Come on back heah,” he said impatiently. “Ah’ll shoot you any way you wants to—hard or soft roll—you’se trying to stall. You know ah don’t crap neither. Come on, mah Pinkie needs a fur coat and you stevedores is got to buy it.”
He was on his knees with Bluefront. There was a quick movement of Muttsy’s wrist, and the cubes flew out on a piece of burlap spread for the purpose—a perfect seven.
Hitting a Straight Lick with a Crooked Stick Page 13
