But he still looks that way, toward the nigger room, each day when he comes in for his two bourbons on the rocks. Like I said, the place been closed down these past fifteen, maybe even seventeen years, and I’m using the room now for my stockroom, but he still looks there when he’s drinking. Anything could be on television—football, baseball, basketball, Jap volleyball, Chinaman Ping-Pong, niggers and white boys running all over the place, nigger fags and white fags throwing little white pom-pom girls up in the air—anything. Still he looks toward that door. I wonder if he’s hearing ghosts in there. I wonder if he’s hearing singing coming out of there.
Sometimes when I’m here by myself, I cock my ear that way to listen, but I never hear nothing. A rat, maybe, trying to get into one of them croker sacks or one of them bags I got stacked in there, but that’s about all.
You know, I sympathize with him. ’Cause you see he never wanted none of this. Never wanted to be responsible for name and land. They dropped it on him, left it on him. That’s why he drinks the way he does, and let that niece of his run the place. Let her have it, he don’t care. Don’t care if it go to hell. He want it to go to hell. To hell with it. He go by the name ’cause they gived him that name, he live on the land ’cause they left it there, but he don’t give a damn for it. That’s why he drinks the way he does. Get up and drink. Take a little nap, wake up and drink some more. Take another little nap, wake up and come here. Like clockwork. Don’t give a damn for nothing. Women or nothing. Pussy or nothing. Politics or nothing. Nigger or nothing. Buy them a drink ’cause Nate or Dan or Brother, one of them, left it in a will to buy it. But he don’t give a damn. And I don’t blame him. Things just too complicated. I reckon for people like him they have always been complicated—protecting name and land. It’s just too much for most people. Feeling guilty about this, guilty about that. It wasn’t his doing. He came here and found it, and they died and left it on him. You know, something just struck me. Maybe that’s what he’s doing when he looks at that door—cussing them. No, not the niggers who used to be in there singing—the ones who brought them here, the ones built that room. Yes, that just right this moment struck me—he’s cussing them out when he’s standing there gazing at that door. Sometimes he even miss his mouth with that glass, for looking at that door.
I had two other customers in the bar when he came in, and me and one of the customers had been talking about the killing. When Jack came in the door, I nodded to my customer to lower his voice. We weren’t suppose to know about it yet. But something like that can’t stay hidden long in a place like this. When that nigger Charlie didn’t show up at the mill with them two trailers of cane at one-thirty like he was supposed to, Robert Jarreau, foreman there at Morgan, waited till round two-fifteen before he called to find out what was the matter.
Wait—hold it—let me tell you how that worked now. Beau delivered six trailers of cane to the mill six days a week during grinding. Or I should say his nigger Charlie did. The first load, two trailers each time, came in around nine, nine-thirty. The second load was ready by noon, but Beau always let Charlie eat dinner before delivering it; then after he had eaten, he would then get the second load of two trailers to the mill by one-thirty, quarter to two, depending on traffic from other trucks and tractors, of course. After delivering that load, then he would go back for the third load, which he would deliver around four, maybe four-thirty, depending on the traffic again. So when Robert didn’t see that middle load come in, that one-thirty, quarter-to-two load, he waited till two-fifteen, two-thirty, then he called Fix’s house to ask why. That’s when they told him what had happened. Robert came over to the store around three o’clock and told me. After he had himself couple beers, he left for the mill again. For the rest of the day I waited and waited for the action. Me and one of my customers got to talking about it, and he told me where he came from—he was from Mississippi. He said folks there knowed how to take care little matters like these. I told him we had some folks right here in St. Raphael Parish who wasn’t too bad at it either. I had another customer at the bar, a sallow, thoughtful-looking fellow, but he stayed quiet. Even stood a good distance away from me and the fellow from Mississippi. Didn’t make me no never mind, and didn’t seem to worry the Mississippi fellow either. We just went right on talking like he wasn’t even there. When I saw Jack coming in, I nodded to my Mississippi customer to lower his voice.
“How are you, Jack?” I said.
He nodded. Didn’t say anything. Just went over to the corner, facing the door to the old nigger room. I served him his first drink, Jack Daniels on the rocks. I could see he wasn’t in no mood for talking, so I went back to my Mississippi customer.
“Got to move on,” he said. “Having supper with some of the boys in town. You sure you don’t want to put a little bet on the game?”
“Don’t like to take money from a new customer,” I said.
He laughed. A pleasant fellow.
“Better pray nothing happen to Salt or Pepper,” he said. “Ole Miss would run the draws off ’em.”
He finished his drink and left me fifty cents tip.
“Thanks,” I said. “Can’t wish you good luck, ’cause you know who I’m pulling for.”
He laughed and went out. A nice fellow, real nice fellow.
It was quiet after he had gone. Jack had nothing to say, and the other fellow had even less than that to talk about. I was sure he was educated, always thinking. When he needed a drink, he just nodded toward his glass. Never saying, “Say, bartender,” or anything like that—just a little nod toward his empty glass. After I served him, he would nod again. Never a word. Damn if I didn’t think I was in a morgue instead of a bar. Went on like that fifteen, twenty minutes—till Robert came in again. I was so glad to see him I almost offered him a free beer.
“Heard about Beau?” he asked.
Now, Robert knew Jack was in there. He had already seen Jack’s car before the door, and he knew Jack came to my place around this time every day God send. But I wasn’t supposed to know what had happened, not yet.
“What about Beau?” I said.
“Got himself killed,” Robert said. “Oh, hello, Jack,” he said to Marshall.
Marshall nodded. Didn’t say anything.
“Beau killed?” I said. “How did it happen? Where? When?”
I’m a pretty good actor when I want to be.
“On that plantation,” Robert said, glancing at Jack. “Bring me a Miller,” he said to me.
“Jack, that’s true?” I asked Marshall.
He nodded.
I got the Miller for Robert. Me and Robert looked at each other. He was a pretty good actor himself, there.
“Murder?” I asked Robert.
“Mapes over there now questioning niggers,” Robert said. “Hilly told me.”
“Boy, boy, boy, we haven’t had a good stringing in these parts in quite a while,” I said. “We’ll have one now, if you know Fix.”
“That kind of thing is over with,” the quiet customer said.
I almost jumped. It was like if a dead man had just spoke. That was the most he had said since ordering his first drink. Me and Robert looked down the bar at him, but didn’t answer him. Jack never looked up from his drink.
“When did it happen?” I asked Robert.
“Dinnertime,” Robert said.
“And Fix ain’t here yet?”
“Not yet,” Robert said.
“He’ll be here,” I said. “You can bet your boots old Fix will ride before this night is over with.”
“That kind of thing doesn’t happen anymore,” the quiet customer said again. He didn’t look at us when he spoke. He was looking in the mirror behind the bar. Then he turned to Jack. “Don’t you agree, Mister? That kind of thing doesn’t happen anymore?”
Jack didn’t look at him for a while; then he looked at him a time before answering. He didn’t like for anybody to ask him a question uninvited.
“I don’t think we’ve progressed th
at much yet,” he said, looking at the door, not at the customer. I wondered if he heard ghosts singing in there.
“I was hoping we had progressed some,” the quiet customer said quietly.
He looked at Jack a long time. Jack, in his neat gray suit, white shirt, and tie, looked like an intelligent man. The kind of man another man could have an intelligent conversation with. But Jack wasn’t interested. He didn’t look at the customer when he answered him, and he surely wasn’t looking at him now. He was looking down at his drink.
Robert was drinking a Miller’s beer a good heavy man’s width from Jack Marshall. Nobody got much closer than that to Jack, unless it was Felix Morgan, no matter how crowded the place got. Though he came here to drink, sometimes even bought a round, he would let you know he was not of your crowd. Felix Morgan was. The Morgan family owned the joining plantation and the sugar mill where most of the cane in this parish was ground.
I had just poured Jack his second drink when Luke Will, Sharp Thompson, Henry Tobias, Alcee Boudreaux, and that boy Leroy Hall came in. They came in the place once or twice a week. I had kinda expected to see them tonight, and still I had kinda not expected to see them so soon again, since I had just seen Luke Will, Sharp Thompson, and Beau together the night before. So I was a little surprised, but maybe not too surprised, not after what had happened.
“Gentlemen,” Luke Will said, in that big, hoarse voice he’s got there.
Luke Will and Sharp Thompson were truck drivers for the Dixie Gravel, Cement & Dirt Company of Bayonne. The other three with them worked for the same company. On the side, they did other little jobs to keep things running smoothly in the parish. Like turning over nigger school buses, throwing a few snakes into nigger churches during prayer meetings, or running niggers out of what used to be all-white motels and restaurants. Some people say they got paid as much for these little civic duties as they did at that dirt plant. But nobody knew where the money was coming from, or if they did know, they knew better than to go blabbing about it.
“Boys,” I said. “Nice day, isn’t it?”
They pushed their way up to the bar. They stood at the opposite end of the bar from Jack Marshall. Robert and the other customer was between them and Jack. Jack was looking down at his drink. If he raised his head, he would see Luke Will, not the door to the old nigger room. Luke Will was about the same size as the door.
“Give us a bottle, Tee Jack,” Luke Will said. “Bring some Cokes.”
“No beer tonight, boys?” I asked.
“Just bring a bottle,” Luke Will said, and looked down the bar at Jack. “Mr. Marshall, how are you?” he said.
Jack Marshall looked toward Luke Will and nodded.
“Had some trouble, I hear?” Luke Will said.
“I didn’t have any,” Jack said, not looking at him, just looking that way.
“That thing with Beau,” Luke Will said.
“I heard he got himself killed,” Jack said, with no more feeling than if somebody had told him a rat was dead.
“One of your niggers did it, Mr. Marshall,” Luke Will said.
Jack Marshall looked at him now. He wasn’t just looking in that direction; he was looking straight at him.
“I have no niggers,” he said. “Never had any niggers. Never wanted any niggers. Never will have any niggers. They belong to her.”
“Where is Candy?” Luke Will asked.
“In the quarters, I should think.”
“Protecting her niggers?”
“I have no idea what she’s doing.”
“Is Mapes still down there playing detective?”
“From what I hear he is,” Jack said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to finish my drink.”
“Another second of your time, Mr. Marshall,” Luke Will said.
Jack Marshall had already looked down. Since he couldn’t see the door anymore, he thought he might’s well look down at his glass. He didn’t raise his head. I reckon he had already talked to Luke Will and his kind more than he had ever done at any one time before. I started to tell Luke Will to lay off, but then I said to myself, “Oh, what the hell. Jack Marshall don’t own my place, I do. And the only reason he comes here, it’s the nearest saloon to his fancy house there on the river.” Jack looked up.
“I think Mapes needs help,” Luke Will said.
Jack looked at him, but with no more feeling than if he was looking at a chinaball tree or a fence post. He showed more concern looking at that door to the nigger room than he did looking at a live Luke Will.
“I hope you wouldn’t mind,” Luke Will said.
“Are you suggesting I go down there and help him?” Jack asked.
“Not exactly,” Luke Will said.
“What are you suggesting?” Jack asked.
Luke Will and his boys, all five of them, looked at Jack. We all knowed what Luke Will was suggesting. Jack did, too. Luke Will didn’t say any more. Nobody did. And I went on serving. I set a bottle of Old Crow, glasses, Cokes, and a bowl of ice on the bar. Luke Will and his boys started digging their hands into the ice bowl, and pouring their own drinks. I glanced into the ice bowl, and I could see dirt and grit settled at the bottom. Couple of these boys had not washed their hands since leaving work.
“Law seems to work slow at times,” the quiet customer said quietly. “But it’s still the best thing that we have. Was it Churchill who said that?” He took out a pipe. “You gentlemen don’t mind, do you?”
Nobody answered him. He lit the pipe.
Luke Will turned up the glass, and half the drink was gone. When he turned it up again, everything was gone except the ice, and he fixed himself another drink.
“The old man ain’t showing up,” he said.
“What?” I said.
“His All-American son talked him out of it,” Luke Will said.
“That’s a lie,” I said.
Luke Will and his boys looked at me all at the same time.
“What’s that you said, Tee Jack?” Luke Will asked.
“I didn’t mean it,” I said. “God in Heaven knows I didn’t mean that. Just slipped out, just slipped out, hearing that Fix wasn’t coming here tonight. Just slipped out.”
“Be careful, Tee Jack, my fuse is short,” Luke Will said.
“I can see why,” I said. “I can see why. Listen, why don’t you boys just have that bottle on me? Show you where my heart at. Don’t have to pay me a penny. Have it on me. All right?”
They all said all right, and I felt a little better. I had thought about that Little League baseball bat under the bar. I knew I couldn’t do much with it against all five of them, but you got to use what you got.
“I think it’s the right thing to do,” the man with the pipe said.
Now, why did he have to go and open his mouth just when things was settling down? He didn’t even know these boys. I knew them, and he could see they were ready to jump across that bar on me, so what chance would he have? They would lynch him like they would a nigger, that’s what.
“What’s that you said, Mister?” Luke Will asked him.
“Let the law handle this,” the pipe man said, not even looking at Luke Will.
“Say, where you from, Mister?” Leroy asked. “Not one of them New York Yankee NAPC Jews, are you?”
The fellow took the pipe from his mouth and looked at Leroy. Leroy was no more than seventeen, eighteen at the most. I wasn’t supposed to let him drink in here, but I wasn’t no fool, not with that crowd.
“Texas,” the pipe man said. “Teaching at USL. Lafayette.”
“What you teaching there, nigger study?” Leroy asked.
“I teach black writing, among other things,” the man from USL said. He held the stem of his pipe against the corner of his mouth while he looked at Leroy. Looked like he was trying to figure out what Leroy was. You know how you look at a headless and gutted animal in a butcher shop, and for a while you don’t know exactly what it is? Well, that’s the way that schoolteaching fellow was lo
oking at Leroy.
“Ain’t you a little late for class?” Leroy asked him.
“None on Friday nights,” the fellow said.
“You must have one. Think, now,” Leroy said.
The pipe man thought for a couple of seconds; then he shook his head. “Nope. None that I can recall,” he said.
“Then why don’t you just go on back to Lafayette and start up one,” Leroy said, stepping a little closer to the fellow from USL.
“Now, now, Leroy,” I said. “Calm down, calm down.”
“Sure,” Leroy said, looking at the fellow. “Sure.”
He finished his drink, and went back and fixed up another one. I looked at that pipe fellow from USL. I hate putting a white man out of my place, but I sure wished that fellow would go on home.
“So Fix’s leaving it up to Mapes, huh?” Robert asked Luke Will. He raised the empty bottle for me to bring him another Miller.
“It’s not him,” Luke Will said to Robert. “It’s that All-American fart and that hog-gut salesman there in Bayonne. They the ones talked him out of it. He wanted to come, but he wouldn’t come without them. I left him there crying.”
A Gathering of Old Men Page 15