“What did you let them throw us out for, Hal?” The Type said. “There’s no law against a man following a public crap game. I’ve gone broke in better flats than that one, anyway.”
The Type bumped into a lamp post. He turned around and kicked the iron pole with his foot.
“Winter’s a hell of a time of year,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
“Nick’s Place will be heated up,” I said. “Come on, and we’ll look in there for a while.”
The usual all-night crowd was standing around the stove in Nick’s Place, warming their fingers against the red-hot sides of the blast heater. Como, the Negro porter, stoked the fire and kept his back turned on the sleet that slashed against the door and windows.
When The Type and I walked in, Nick ran up from somewhere and met us halfway.
“I’m going to close up early tonight,” Nick said. “You boys will have to go home for a change. Won’t your folks be surprised to see you, though?”
“You mean you’re telling us to get out?” The Type said.
“There’s no money in keeping open on a night like this,” Nick argued. “I’d just be wasting heat and light, and getting nowhere at all.”
“Hello, Nick,” I said. “How about lending me a dollar till sometime next week? Here’s how it is. I started out —”
“No loans tonight, boys,” he said. “I’m going to close up right away.”
Como shivered.
“If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Nick,” Como said, “I’d just as lief stay and sleep right here on the floor by the stove tonight. Way out where I live, my old woman —”
“And burn up half a ton of coal,” Nick said.
“I won’t burn but one little shovelful the whole night long,” Como pleaded. “A black man like me would die of pneumonia if I had to go out in that cold sleet tonight.”
“You drag yourself out of here in half an hour, Como,” Nick told him. “After you sweep out, I don’t care where you go. You can go home if you want to.”
The crowd around the stove pressed a little closer at the prospect of having to leave a warm room.
Nick came around the stove behind me. He shoved his thumb into my ribs.
“Wake up, Hal,” he said. “What’s the matter with you? Broke again? No drinks, no eats, no playing the machines?”
“I’m cleaned out tonight, Nick,” I told him. “If I hadn’t got kicked out of a game over in the West End, I’d have been on my feet.”
Nick shrugged his shoulders and walked over to the wall where the row of slot machines stood on the tables. He shoved his fingers into the cups at the bottom of the machines where sometimes he found a nickel or a quarter somebody left behind.
“You boys are pretty bum sports,” Nick said, coming back to the stove. “Why don’t you go out and raise some money to play the machines with? The Type hasn’t had a dime in his pocket this week.”
“What’s the matter with you, Nick?” The Type said. “What do you want me to do? Go out and crack the First National Bank?”
“I’m carrying you for six dollars now,” Nick said. “I’ve got to have a pay day soon.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” The Type told him.
Como was dumping a scuttle of coal into the stove when the front door burst open in a whirl of sleet and icy air. Everybody turned and looked in that direction just as a girl’s head was seen outside. She stepped into the doorway.
“Shut the door,” Nick said.
Como ran to the front and closed the door.
Everybody looked surprised at the sight of a girl in Nick’s Place. I had never seen one there before; I had never heard of a girl entering the place. Nick’s was a hangout for men and boys, and there was nothing there except the slot machines and pool tables. The lunch counter was hardly a place to come for a meal. Nick and Como had drinks and a few sandwiches, but that was all.
The forlorn-looking girl stood at the front of the room, shivering a little. The sleet on her hair and coat began to melt in the warm air, but her slippers were wet.
“Who’s that?” The Type said. “She doesn’t look like one of the girls around the corner to me. I never saw her before.”
Como came back and dumped another scuttleful of coal into the iron heater. It was red-hot all over.
“I’ll bet she ran away from home,” The Type said.
Nick had gone up to the girl, and he was looking at her closely. She drew away from him, and he had to go and stand with his back against the door to keep her from running out into the street.
“This is a hell of a place for a runaway country girl to land,” The Type said.
“She won’t stay in here long,” I said, “As soon as she sees what she’s got into, she’ll leave.
The Type looked at the faces in the crowd around the stove.
“I’d hate to see . . .”
Nick said something to the girl, and The Type stopped to hear what it was.
“If anybody starts getting fresh with her,” I said, “I’m going to start swinging. I’m not going to stay here and see her get ganged.”
The Type did not pay any attention to what I had said. He walked a little closer to the front in order to hear what Nick was saying to her.
The girl found her handkerchief and wiped the tears that sprang into her eyes.
“What do you want?” Nick said.
She shook her head.
“What did you come in here for if you don’t want anything?” Nick asked her. “What’s up?”
She shook her head again. She was a girl about fifteen or sixteen, and a lot prettier than any of the girls in the house around the corner. To look at her reminded you of the girls you had seen going to Sunday school on Sunday mornings.
“Hungry?” Nick asked her.
She made no reply, but it was easy to see that she had come in for something to eat, thinking that Nick’s Place was a cafe.
“Como,” Nick yelled, “bring us up some coffee and a couple of sandwiches. Get a hump on!”
“Yes, sir!” Como said, patting the warmth of the stove before hurrying to the lunch counter.
Nick led the girl to the counter and made her sit down on one of the stools. He sat down beside her, between her and the door.
The boys around the stove began winking at each other, nodding their heads at Nick and the girl.
When Como had the coffee hot, Nick asked her what her name was.
“Martha Jean,” she said without hesitation.
Nick sat a little closer.
“Where you live?”
Martha Jean shook her head, tears springing to her eyes once more. Nick was satisfied. He did not ask her any more questions.
“When she finishes, give her a slice of cake, Como,” Nick said, getting up.
Como shook his head.
“There ain’t no cake, Mr. Nick,” Como said.
Nick flared up.
“I said give her cake, Como, you shoeshine African!” he shouted. “When I say give her cake, I mean give it to her!”
“Yes, sir, boss!” Como said, shaking his head.
Nick came over towards the stove, walking sideways while he tried to keep his eyes on Martha Jean, and washing his hands in the air. When he got to the stove, he looked the crowd over, and picked on The Type to glare at as usual.
“All right now, you boys beat it somewhere else. Go on home, or somewhere. I’m closing up for the night.”
Nobody made a move to leave.
Nick shoved The Type away from the stove.
“The next time you come back, have that six dollars you owe me,” Nick told him, pushing.
“What the hell, Nick?” The Type said. “You’ve never hurried me for anything on the books like this before. What’s the matter with you?”
“I had a bad dream last night,” Nick said. “I dreamed that they hauled you off to a big stone-wall building and you got electrocuted. I’ve got to look out for myself now.”
Some of the crowd moved awa
y from the stove, but nobody left the room.
Nick shoved me with a stiff-arm.
“What’s the big hurry, Nick?” I said to him.
“That’s my business,” Nick said. “Get a hump on.”
“When is the girl going?”
“Martha Jean’s staying.”
“You can’t do that, Nick,” I said. “She came in here to get something to eat. She’s nothing to me, but I hate to see her get pushed about like one of the girls around the corner.”
“You’re going to talk yourself out of a good thing, Hal,” he said. “Don’t I lend you money every time you ask for it, almost? Don’t I keep you posted on good things? Don’t I bail your brother-in-law every time he’s picked up? What’s the matter with you?”
Nick shoved me again, harder than before.
“What are you going to do with her?” I said.
“That’s Nick’s business,” he answered. “If you know what’s good for you, Hal, you’ll get out of here before you talk too much.”
The rest of the crowd was standing around the door, watching the girl. The Type was buttoning up his coat to leave.
Nick shoved me with his stiff-arm again.
“When you get home tonight, Hal,” he said, pushing and shoving me towards the door, “tell your folks to give you something to do if they’re not going to give you any spending money. I can’t be having you hanging around my place if you don’t have any money to play the machines with.”
Nick turned his back on me and went over to where the girl was seated at the counter. She had finished eating, and Nick took her arm and pulled her towards the stove. She tried to pull away from him, but during all that time she had not raised her eyes to look at anybody in the room.
He dragged her to the stove.
“Cold, Martha Jean?” he asked her, putting his arms around her.
Some of the crowd had already left. Nearly all the fellows were letting Nick drive them out because they were afraid he would stop making loans when they were broke. Besides that, there were the tips Nick was always passing out when he got news of a sure thing to bet on. If Nick stopped letting us in on sure things, nearly everybody would stop getting spending money. Nick always got it all back, sooner or later, in the slot machines. Nick’s crowd was afraid not to do what he told them to do.
The Type and I stood at the door watching Nick and Martha Jean at the stove.
“Got a place to stay tonight?” he asked her.
She answered him with a shake of her head and with a shiver that convulsed her whole body.
“How long have you been in town?” he asked.
“I came today,” Martha Jean said.
“Looking for a job?”
“Yes.”
Nick squeezed her with his arm.
“You don’t have to worry about that any more,” he told her, trying to raise her face up to his. “I’ll fix everything for you.”
Martha Jean tried again to get away from him, but Nick put both arms around her and held her tight to his side.
“Como,” Nick said, “go upstairs and fix a place for Martha Jean. Fix up the front room for her, the one with the new bed and chairs in it. Get a hump on!”
“Yes, sir, boss!” Como said, tapping the red-hot stove with his fingers.
Martha Jean looked up for the first time. There was a startled expression in her eyes. When she turned towards The Type and me, I could not keep from going to her. She looked as helpless as a rabbit that had been caught in a steel trap for two or three days.
Nick turned around and glared at me.
Como could be heard stamping around upstairs in the room overhead. He was fixing things in a hurry so he could get back downstairs to the red-hot stove.
“Do you want to stay here with him?” I said to her, edging closer. “Or do you want to leave?”
Martha Jean started to say something. Her tears began flowing again, and she fought Nick desperately.
“What did I tell you, Hal?” Nick said angrily. “You wouldn’t believe me, would you?”
He turned around and shook his head at me.
“Didn’t I tell you you’d talk yourself out of a good thing? You wouldn’t believe me, would you?”
He turned the girl loose for a moment, and swung around on his heels. Before I had a chance to duck, his fist flew at my head. The next thing 1 knew I was on the floor, unable to tell which was up and which was downside.
I could not see what The Type was doing, but I knew he was not helping me. Nick went back to Martha Jean, unbuttoning her coat and putting his arms under it. He held her so tight that she cried with pain.
By the time I could get to my feet, I did not know what to do next. After Nick had knocked me down, I began to realize there was nothing I could do to stop him. If The Type had helped me, it would have turned out differently. But The Type was thinking about Nick’s loans and racetrack tips. He stood at the door ready to leave.
When I was on both feet again, Nick stepped over and shoved me towards the door with his stiff-arm. I went flying across the room, falling against The Type. The Type opened the door and tried to push me out into the street.
I fought him off and came back inside the door.
Nick picked up Martha Jean and started for the stairway with her. She began to scratch and fight, and Nick had a hard time keeping her from hurting him. She finally succeeded in scratching his face with her fingernails, and Nick dropped her like a hot brick.
“Como!” he yelled.
Como came tumbling down the stairs.
“Put him out and lock the door, Como,” Nick ordered. “Throw him out, if he won’t get out.”
Nick grabbed Martha Jean again. She was such a little girl, and so young, she did not have much chance with Nick. All he had to do to hold her was to lock one arm around her neck, and cover both her hands with his other one.
Como picked up the iron stove poker and came towards me. He was scared to death. I knew he would never hit me, but I could see that he was so scared of Nick that he had to pretend to be trying to drive me out the door. The Type had gone.
“Throw that poker down, Como,” I said.
“Mr. Hal,” Como said, “you’d better leave Mr. Nick alone when he’s mad. There ain’t no telling what he’s liable to do when he gets good and mad at you.”
“Shut up, Como,” I said.
Nick picked Martha Jean up once more and carried her as far as the stairway. There he put her down quickly and ran towards me. I tried to meet him with my fists, but he jumped up into the air and came down on top of me. My bones felt as if they were being crushed like eggshells. When I woke up, I was lying on my face on the icy pavement.
The door was locked, and all but one light downstairs had been turned off. In the rear of the room, under one light, I could see Como throwing a hod of coal into the stove and trying to see through the window to the street outside at the same time.
I crossed the street, shielding my face against the sleet and wind that raced down the street. While I waited, I called for The Type two or three times. He did not answer, and I knew he had gone. There was nobody else on the street on a night like that.
Upstairs in the room Como had opened up, Nick had taken off his coat and was trying to make Martha Jean take off hers. She ran from him, from one side of the room to the other, Nick finally gave up trying to catch her, and picked up his coat and swung it at her.
At first she tried to cover her face and head against the stinging blows of the coat, but when Nick struck her across the back with it, she fell on the floor. All I could see was Nick bending over her and picking her up. When she was on her feet again, she got away from him. Nick swung at her with his coat, and struck the electric-light bulb hanging on a cord from the ceiling. The room suddenly became as black as the night outside.
I stood shaking and trembling in the street. The stinging, whipping, cutting sleet and wind blinded my eyes, and it was hard to open them after the light in the room went out. A
fter a while, when Como had put out the last light downstairs, I turned and walked heavily up the street.
Once I thought I heard Martha Jean scream, but when I stopped and listened in the stinging sleet, I could not hear it again. After that I did not know whether it was she or whether it was only the wind that cried against the sharp corners of the buildings.
(First published in Esquire)
Big Buck
WHEN THE SUN went down, there were a heap of people just tramping up and down the dusty road without a care in the whole wide world. It was Saturday night and the cool of the evening was coming on, and that was enough to make a lot of folks happy. There were a few old logging mules plodding along in the dust with a worried look on their faces, but they had a right to look that way, because they had worked hard in the swamp all week and suppertime had come and gone, and they were still a long way from home.
It was the best time of the whole year for colored people, because it was so hot the whites didn’t stir around much, and a colored man could walk up and down in the big road as much as he wanted to. The women and girls were all dressed up in starched white dresses and bright silk hair bows, and the men had on their Sunday clothes.
All at once a hound dog somewhere down the road started barking his head off. You could look down that way, but you couldn’t see anything much, because the moon hadn’t come up yet. The boys stopped in the middle of the road and listened. The old dog just kept on barking. They didn’t say much, but they knew good and well those old hound dogs never took the trouble to get up and bark unless it was a stranger they smelled.
“Take care yourself, nigger!” the black boy in the yellow hat yelled. “Stand back and hold your breath, because if you don’t, you won’t never know what hit you.”
‘What you talking about, anyhow?” Jimson said.
“I just turned around and looked down the road,” Moses said, “and I saw a sight that’ll make your eyes pop out of your head.”
“What you see, nigger?” Jimson asked, trembling like a quiver bug. “You see something scary?”
Stories of Erskine Caldwell Page 68