The Collected Novels of Charles Wright

by Charles Wright

  I hunched down fast and he sailed right over my head. I spun around just in time to land a solid right in his submachine gun mouth.

  Panting hard, I watched him go down slow, his head bobbing in a kind of ratty frug.

  I felt good.

  “They at war!” I heard Mrs. Tucker yell. I looked over at Non-nie. She was backed against the door, mesmerized with admiration.

  When I turned to face the enemy again, two rats were retreating.

  Pursuing as fast as I could, I slipped on the waxed floor and fell smack on the remaining three. But I fell easily and was careful not to damage the fur.

  I lay there briefly, rolled over, and scouted for the deserters. Two were making a beeline for the wastebasket, which was brass and steel and filled with empty Fundador bottles.

  I was decent. I waited until they thought they were safe, only to discover that they were actually ice-skating on the brandy bottles.

  I knelt down and called, “Rasputin, Rasputin.” They raised their exquisite heads and I put my hands in the wastebasket, grabbed both by the neck—I squeezed, squeezed until the fur around their neck flattened. It was easy.

  “You can open your eyes, Nonnie,” I said in a tired voice.

  “A Good Man Is Hard to Find,” the gal from Storyville sang.

  I was tired. I made a V-for-victory sign, winked, and started skinning rats.

  Someone knocked at the door.

  Nonnie was excited. “Oh, Les. The welcoming committee has formed already!”

  “Wanna sub for me, cupcake.”

  “Delighted.”

  Another knock. “It’s Mrs. Tucker, your next-door neighbor, and I couldn’t help but hear what was going on . . .”

  “There ain’t no action in this joint, bitch,” said Nonnie.

  “I just wanted to offer my heartfelt congratulations to young Master Jefferson.”

  “Is that all you wanna offer him?” said Nonnie bitchily.

  “Now that’s no way to talk, Miss Swift, and you a Southernbred lady.”

  “You’re licking your old salty gums,” Nonnie taunted. “You smell fresh blood. If you’re hungry, go back to yo’ plantation in Carolina.”

  “I will in due time, thank you.” Mrs. Tucker withdrew in a huff.

  “Go! Go!” Nonnie said, and turned abruptly and walked over to where I sat on the floor. “I guess you know those skins ain’t tax-free,” she said.

  Engrossed in my job and thinking of The Deb, I did not answer.

  “I could report you,” Nonnie went on. “You don’t have a license for rat killing.”

  “But you invited me over. You were afraid they’d kill you!”

  “That’s beside the point,” Nonnie said sharply. “There are laws in this land that have to be obeyed.”

  “You didn’t mention the law when you were trying to break down my door.”

  “Smart aleck! Ambitious little Romeo. I want a percentage on every perfect skin!”

  “But I’m not gonna sell them,” I said clearly.

  “Listen, conkhead! You’ll put nothing over on me.”

  “Never fear, cupcake.”

  “You try to outsmart me and I’ll see your ass in jail if it’s the last thing I do.”

  I looked up at Nonnie and laughed. Rat killing was a manly sport and there was always the warmth of good sportsmanship after the game. I split open the belly of Rasputin number nine. The rich blood gushed on the parquet and I thought of the long red streamers on a young girl’s broad-brimmed summer hat.

  “At least you could give me some for broth,” Nonnie cried. “Don’t be so mean and selfish. I’m only a poor widow and soon there’ll be another mouth to feed.”

  I wasn’t really listening to Nonnie; in my mind I saw the tawny face of The Deb, saw her rapture upon receiving the magnificent pelts. We would talk and laugh and later make love. My penis, which I have never measured, flipped snakewise to an honest Negro’s estimate of seven and a half inches.

  Thirteen

  THREE HOURS LATER, I found myself with a slightly crushed Christian Dior box, jumping the sidewalk puddles, in which I saw the reflected solidity of Victorian brownstones. Despite the chilly drizzle, children seemed to be enjoying themselves on the fire escapes: laughing, singing, catching raindrops, telling dirty stories.

  I walked along, blinking at the reflections in the pools, thinking of the children against the background of the harsh Harlem streets (but magical, all the same, stuffed with riches), and looking up now and then at the wet gray sky, only to be knocked out of my reveries by the sound of music.

  It was blues, blues so real the’d make you hollow at five o’clock in the morning, no matter if you were alone or in the arms of your lover. These blues were coming out of a three-for-one bar and grill. I stopped for a moment and listened to Jimmie Witherspoon grind out “See-See Rider” on the jukebox. Through the steamy face of the grill, I saw hands working with the dexterity of an organ grinder, turning banquet-size slabs of barbecue spareribs on a spit. I could smell the spareribs, too. The crawlers in my stomach performed (Mr. Fishback’s Credit Card carried no weight in three-for-one bar and grills), so I moved on down the street, past select pawnshops, fourth-hand boutiques, liquor stores. In a doorway, narrow as a telephone directory, I saw a group of young people sitting on the staircase, playing Charlie Mingus music. I didn’t stop. Mingus always takes my energy away.

  Nor did I stop a little farther on, hearing, from a storefront church, Gospel music. No, I didn’t stop. I’ve been listening to Gospel music as far back as I can remember.

  As I went on, I began to hear Spanish music. I was not far from Spanish Harlem, where no rose ever grows, but human and paper roses sometimes blossom in the street. The Deb’s flat was here, in Harlem’s International Zone.

  She lived in a “real co-op,” she had told me. The cooperation came from the police department; the commissioner had stationed bluecoats on split six-hour shifts at the entrance. Even so, a “society” murder had been committed in the entrance last Thanksgiving morning.

  Walking up the flagstone path of the co-op, I recognized the Sunday afternoon bluecoat. He sported a frozen smile. Rumor said that a few of Harlem’s more inventive citizens had (under the personal direction of Mr. Fishback) drained the blood from his body and that now 150-proof gin ran through his veins.

  Offering a sunny, arctic smile, bluecoat eyed the Christian Dior box.

  “Hi,” I said, stepping smartly into the lobby. A hunk of dung-colored plaster fell from the ceiling, which was frosted like a cake, missing my head by inches.

  An old stoop-shouldered crone was standing opposite the mailboxes, stuffing beeswax into cracks of the wall.

  “Excuse me,” I said, “are you the concierge?”

  The crone looked up. Her face was buttermilk-yellow and granite-hard. “The who?”

  “The super.”

  “No. I am not the super and I ain’t his wife. I just happen to live here.”

  “I’m sorry. Do you know if The Deb’s in?”

  The crone seemed interested. “Which one, Sonny?”

  “The one on the ninth floor.”

  “Oh, her. She’s in. But I don’t know if she’s busy or not . . .”

  I clicked my heels, walked away, and bounded up the shaky staircase.

  The strains of “Muslim Da-Da, Mu-Mu” (the Faust of rock ’n’ roll) drifted from The Deb’s pad, but nothing could blanket my schoolboy joy as I knocked on the solid door.

  The doorknob fell off. Rolled, spun like a top. I watched until it stopped and then turned, certain The Deb would be spying through the peephole.

  “Oh. It’s you,” were her first words when she opened the door. She wore a yellow robe. “Come on in if you gonna.”

  “Thanks,” I said nervously.

  “You almost missed me. I was just getting ready to go to Radio City Music Hall. In a taxi, so as not to miss the newsreel.”

  “I thought perhaps we’d go to some quiet bistro .
. .”

  “You got any money?”

  “Why must you always think of money?”

  The Deb stared at me briefly. “You’re a card,” she said. “Did you know that?”

  “Now, cupcake . . . Look. Here is a little something I thought you might like.” I held the box out.

  “Oh. A present. What is it . . . no, let me guess. The definite, collected rock ’n’ roll records?”

  “Guess again.”

  “It wouldn’t be a blond Macy’s wig, would it?”

  “Women,” I sighed. The most fascinating, hypnotic—the strangest creatures on the face of the earth.

  “Give it to,” The Deb said and lunged at the box.

  “Easy, baby,” I said, brushing her hand aside. I tossed the Dior box casually on her rumpled bed and sat down on a sick chair which was vomiting straw.

  The Deb’s hands tore the box open. I yawned.

  “Oh! Oh Oh! Oh!”

  Hot-eyed, I watched The Deb fling open her yellow robe and press the pelts against her naked body.

  “Mr. Jefferson, you are the most thoughtful man!”

  “Just a little token of my esteem.”

  The Deb switched over and gave me a wet smacking kiss on the forehead. It was a sugar-daddy kiss, but I was grateful to be in her alluring old-rose presence. Dimpled nipples brushed my chin; the scent of her body was fresh as dew. My hands prepared for travel.

  “Now, Mr. Jefferson,” The Deb warned.

  “Cupcake . . .”

  “Men,” The Deb sneered, breaking away. “You want the world but don’t wanna pay the price. You don’t know the first thing about gentleness, and I don’t care what country you come from.”

  “Shut your trap,” I commanded. A masterly manner just might work.

  The Deb veered away from me and then stopped. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me,” I told her and stood up.

  “If that’s the way you feel,” The Deb said, “I’ll just play me a little music.”

  “Don’t you touch that goddamn machine!”

  “It’s mine,” The Deb said, “and I meet the landlord coming up the stairs on the first day of each month.”

  “Don’t give me that jazz,” I said, and began to sulk.

  “Your, your . . . Wig looks very glamorous this afternoon,” she said in a let’s-make-up tone. “I really mean it. It’s so dark and rainy out, it brings kind of a glow into the room.”

  “To hell with The Wig,” I said, not really meaning it, but I was interested in something more than sweet words.

  “I love it. Really I do.”

  Without answering, but thinking clearly, I went up to the tawny smasher and gave a backhanded slap that threw her against the low bed.

  “And I thought you came bearing gifts of love,” she cried.

  “But I did,” I said, kneeling down and cradling her tear-stained face in my firm hands, thinking of that old cat Othello. But being only an average young man, living in a terrible age, cuffed by ambition, and now in love—I could only press her against me and hope.

  “Les,” she said softly.

  It was a small triumph, a midget step past the gates of pain.

  The Deb had an “important engagement” at eleven and I had to be up early for Monday-morning business, so I left promptly at 9 P.M. Just as I reached my own block, I saw white-uniformed men carrying a covered stretcher. The frame of the stretcher gleamed under the street light.

  Nonnie and Miss Sandra Hanover were coming down the stoop. Miss Sandra Hanover was out of costume. She wore blue jeans and a man’s raincoat.

  “It’s old Miz Tucker, Les. Poor old thing passed away about an hour ago.”

  “Yes,” Nonnie said. “Thoughtless bitch. She had to kick off and me in the condition I’m in.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said.

  “We’re going to the funeral home and make arrangements,” Miss Hanover said. “She’s got no family, so we’re shipping her back to her white folks in Carolina.”

  “Yes,” Nonnie said vigorously. “That was her last wish. To have her remains sprinkled on the plantation’s blue grass. She’ll make excellent fertilizer, I’m sure.”

  “Where’s Mr. Fishback?” I asked.

  “Go up and look in your room,” Nonnie said. “He stopped by after you so rudely walked out on me this afternoon. I saw you steal that fancy box off the garbage truck.”

  Fuming, I rushed up the stairs.

  Two messages were stuck under my door. One was from Little Jimmie Wishbone and read:

  URGENT. Must talk with you. Please call me at this number.

  But there was no telephone number on the matchbox cover. I picked up Mr. Fishback’s note. It was written on Mr. Fishback’s usual fancy paper, a pale gray, with a border of asphodels and black bleeding hearts. It read:

  Lester Jefferson, this will come as a surprise STOP I am leaving for the deep-sea diver’s club STOP on Eleuthera Island which is in the Bahamas STOP From there I will go by chartered plane to Toledo, Spain STOP Will return in good time STOP

  “—F– —,” I said. Hump Mr. Fishback. But what did he mean: “Return in good time”?

  Fourteen

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING was, naturally, Monday, warm, windless, with a calendar-blue sky. I was up at the crack of dawn. I shaved, took a bath, borrowed a cup of day-old coffee grounds from Nonnie Swift from which I brewed a fine pot of java. Sitting at the kitchen table over coffee and cigarettes (it pays to rise early: first one in the john, where I found a pack of unopened filter-tip cigarettes), I began reading a small leatherette-bound volume, The New York Times Directory of Employment Agencies. “Whatever the job, depend on a private employment agent to help you find it,” it said. “You’ll find more employment-agency jobs in The New York Times”—a statement I was extremely glad to hear, for I was in desperate need of a job.

  Before the first cup of java had cooled, I started to read a listing of the employment agencies.

  CAREER BLAZERS—FLAME THROWERS & EXTINGUISHERS AGENCY

  We Are Looking For Young Men On The Way Up!

  We will find you any type of job that can be performed by a human being and not by computers. The fact that it sounds so ridiculous is what makes it so appealing and a step forward! Your very own human future! It wasn’t too long ago that the idea of having humans in every major industry was thought to be a little “ridiculous.” But now these dreams are realities. We must all look for new worlds to conquer. Being realistic at heart, we invite you to pay us a call at your convenience. Special service for those on lunch hour or for those waiting on the first major afternoon attraction at a 42nd Street cinema.

  RESERVATION AGENCY is proud to announce that it has immediate openings for men and women who want to work as a member of a closely knit research institute, located in Huntsville, Alabama. This is an opportunity to provide support for the U.S. Defense program. Activities involve analysis and evaluations of newly proposed weapons. In addition to a broad background, applicants must be thoroughly experienced or show some interest in the following: Discrimination, Simulation, Motivation, Meeting Head-on Aggressive Personalities.

  To Arrange An Interview Kindly Call Our New York Office

  RESERVATION AGENCY

  —an equal opportunity employer—

  BOYS! GIRLS! Take your Pick! Come see us! We never charge! The men who will play an important part in your future pay! We know you are tired of ads that say start in the mailroom or ads that say start selling homemade cookies! Here is a partial listing of our weekly “specials”:

  GIRLS—No experience if you are alert and looking for a dream future. But you must speak well, like to meet interesting people, and use telephone. Must be able to be accommodating. After a rotating program of three intensive weeks and, qualifying, you will be promoted fast—to men and boys and sporting buyers. Don’t be afraid. No real speed. Our clients pay beginners $60, plus fast raises and high bonuses.

  BOYS—BOYS—BOYS wanted by l
arge active Queens organization. Attractive. Boys who are interested and willing to deliver and clean. Some weekend work. Routine. Boys must be strong. Willing to work for giants. Vets preferred but not required.

  BOYS AND GIRLS! Procurement trainees. $55 as a starter. Seeking specialists. Only high-pressure sales types considered.

  BOYS & GIRLS UNLIMITED OPPORTUNITY AGENCY

  ART PROMOTION EMPLOYMENT AGENCY

  Position available as face retoucher. Requires skill in white and black. Dyeing, bleaching, applying plastic. Light manufacturing. Mostly cold items in all areas. No pre-pack. Frozen over 200 years. Please do not solicit. Our employees know of this ad. They have the incentive to succeed. Bacon is their specialty. Your salary is open.

  MISS NATIONAL SECRETARY EMPLOYMENT AGENCY

  Famous company is seeking well-bred ladies to screen Ivy League grads. Terrific opty for real pro with understanding. No shorthand required but must be capable of setting up exhibits for out-of-town executives. If you are assigned to diversified secretarial duties—we pay your medical expenses in confidence. We enjoy our employees and are liberal with them. Good salary plus low-cost lunch.

  EXPORT EMPLOYEE SEEKERS

  The Opportunity Of The Year!

  If you could write your own ticket you’d probably leave out some of the things offered by our client. No children. Multi-million-dollar credit benefits. Tax-free and sugar white. Brains and fortitude—not required. Do you live in a slum area? Do you have the ability to sell? Fantastic response to our Negro sale. Acclaimed by top authorities.

  If you think you qualify for this remarkable opportunity, please come to the East Side Air Terminal. Car necessary. Full transportation and monitoring. Paris. San Francisco. Hawaii. Take your pick. Our client asks us for men with vibrations. Men with a desire to succeed before 30! Men who are extremely active in extracurricular activities. Do you have the ability to reach top men and test, gas, debug, and interview? We are seeking safety maintenance men. Civil. Designing. No hand devices. This is a position entailing use of radar—malfunction performances as applied to manned space vehicles. No transients need apply. Our chief will be in New York. Liquidation is necessary.