Terraplane

by Jack Womack

  "A glass," he said. Jess poured.

  "Bill come around yet?" Doc asked.

  Jess shook his head, passing Jake's filled glass gently towards him. "Motherfucker's usually first one here come Saturday night. Haven't seen hide or hair of him. His momma drug his ass to temple, maybe."

  "Maybe. " Maybe not. The wooden wall clock's skeletal hands showed eight-forty; Doc expected an eight o'clock curtain, but then so had the club's audience. They could wait; our minutes passed into minutes lost. Thirst burned my throat; beer it might have been, but I drank, at once hearthappy I had. If the best bread was liquid it would have borne such a taste, sweet with yeast, its head dense enough to slice, not at all resembling our day's bitter water.

  "You've heard of Robert Johnson before, Jake?" Doc asked, gesturing towards the awaiting stage. "He's no Cab Calloway. Don't see how he's so well known in your day."

  "He's not," said Jake. "Only the most aware see the glory. Long years past I first filled ear with his song. During a weekend at the Old Man's old house. Those hearing as intended to hear know-" Jake paused, waved his hands before him as if seeking unseen prey. "It makes it easier, somehow. No explanation holds." Removing his pocket-player, he set it, planning to tape.

  Doc laughed. "Way you all talk sometimes breaks me up. Hell, Jake, you must know ever'thing he did by heart."

  "Knew it already," said Jake, seeming exhausted by his speech's worded emotions. "Didn't realize."

  A dapper man stepped onstage, held up his hands as if to slow a charge.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "there's a slight delay but don't worry. Mister Johnson'll be out to play for you shortly. Please be patient with us."

  "Who's he?" I asked.

  "That's Vernon," said Doc. "Wanda's second cousin. He runs the club. We all own the building. Went in together ten years ago, just before the Crash. Laid down cash money. Even if it gets ten times worse'n it is, and they're always saying it might, nobody's gonna toss my ass into the street. Now if one of my tenants doesn't come across after a while, they'll get the deep six, but-"

  "You never threw any of those deadbeats out in your life," laughed Jess. "Makes Wanda do it. "

  Doc ignored, continued. "I handle the apartments. Vernon runs the club. Break about even at worst and most of the time we do better than that. If the building's full and there's a good run of performers down here, well then we're eating high on the hog-"

  "We hope you're enjoying Harlem as much as we enjoy having you," Vernon insisted, straight-faced. Jess turned his head away, held a laugh.

  "Enjoy havin' 'em stuck on the end of my blade-"

  "Grin and bear it, Jess," said Doc. "Come on."

  "Mister Johnson will be out any moment now," said Vernon.

  "He'd better be," one especially ivory member of the audience shouted back. "These damned shows never start on time." His mate, a young woman, wore her coiffed blondness curled beneath her veiled hat; with white-gloved hand she swung a half-meterlength cigarette holder as if to brand. When she voiced, her words rebounded off the silence that always settles at inopportune moment, so that embarrassment resulting may be total.

  "We coulda stayed at the Rainbow Room," she whined, her tone rich with nose. "Oh, no. Moneybags here has to haul us up to Harlem for some damned coon show-"

  As Vernon stepped away her voice faded with audience's rising murmur; additional commentary went gratefully unheard, at least by us.

  "Oughta smoke the bitch," said Jess, lowvoiced.

  "Beats the devil," said Doc. "They haul themselves up here and once they get settled they don't do nothing but beef. It's too crowded. Too hot. Food's no good. Gimme a clean glass-"

  "What they expect?" Jess said. "You're right, though. They haul up a lotta green."

  "They do."

  "They can cry all they want long as they stick around long enough to spend it."

  "What was I saying? Oh, yeah. Anyway, see, Wanda and me, we lived in shitholes first ten years we lived up here," Doc continued. "Down in San Juan Hill. West Sixty-second. When I got out of the army they'd just put Prohibition into law Best damn thing ever happened to us. See, Wanda knew Vernon of course, he'd come up a few years earlier, and Cedric'd been in my regiment-"

  "Cedric?" I said. "He's your age?"

  Doc sighed. "Nobody seems to look my age but me. Yeah, he is. Anyway, we all started doing business together, see. Lee got mixed up into it later, after I got out of that end of things. Early on, though, Vernon set up a couple alky cookers, ran off batches of bathtub hooch. Cedric always had an eye for organization and the way he set things up we was able to keep the mob from cutting into our action too deep. Made arrangements, you know. That sort of thing. Time went on, we expanded. This place was a speak when we first opened 'er up. Good thing was all Cedric or Vernon had to do was pay off the precinct house and they wouldn't touch us. We did all right-"

  "Through illegalities."

  He stared at me as he hadn't since the first hour here. "Get off your high horse, man. What was I going to do? Till I took those medical courses I couldn't get a job running an elevator downtown. And where was I going to get money to start anything up with? Only colored banks there were all gone by the end of'33 and the U. S. Bank wouldn't give me paper to wipe a baby's ass. I wanted to get better'n I'd got, Luther. And I have. If things don't work one way you go another way. 't'hats all." Looking clockways he saw the time; nine-fifteen. "Shit."

  "Think he'll still appear?" I asked.

  "Might know this'd be the one night he wouldn't-"

  "Doc," Jess said, staring windowways, mopping the bar with an imprinted cloth. "You expectin' company?"

  "Why?" Doc asked, swiveling round. Beyond the mirror-read neon sign hanging in the window, within the awning's shadow, revolving red light swirled, flashed off. "Oh, hell-"

  "For us?" I asked.

  "More than likely-" The door swung open; in strolled a gentleman twirling a walking stick, craning his view behind him to see if he was the object of professional desire.

  "Who called the G-men?" he asked.

  "What you mean, Theodore?" Jess said. "Who's out there?"

  "Two white men in dark suits," he said. "Seem to be operating in official capacity. Also two gentlemen of color from the local department. All of them just hopped out of the squad car and went upstairs. Give me a highball, Jess."

  "Let's get out of here," said Doc, standing. "If they've gone to the apartment-" Jake already headed towards the front. "No, Jake. Out back. Follow me."

  With fast-mustered casualness we moved towards the rear through the club, ducking past a curtain overhanging stage right, and entered pitchblack.

  "He's let the lights burn out again," Doc mumbled. Light eking from an open door midway downhall helped us guide our steps. Inside the lit room I vizzed Vernon confronting a tall, lean man standing in a corner as if for punishment, his face turned from view Upon the dressing table lay a battered wooden guitar.

  "It's copacetic," Vernon said to him. "Ever'body's shy sometimes. You're gonna do fine-"

  "Not in front of these people," the man said, scratching his face with long, slender fingers.

  "Once you get goin' it won't matter. Come on, Bob-"

  We continued on; I had to pull Jake along. "Luther," he said, "that was him-"

  "He'll be playing again, Jake," I said, in foolish attempt to assure. "We've got to move. This crew must be appearing per Mal's request. No estimating what's been told. Prep yourself for anything. "

  "Chances missed never return," said Jake, his voice lower than usual. "My tools'll help."

  "We'll obtain," I said, "if possible." Ahead, at darkness's end, glowed a red exit sign, marking our path out. Doc paused before opening the door, his bloodlit form stalling us.

  "Keep quiet," he said. "This'll put us out in the courtyard just below the kitchen window. If it's open maybe we can hear what's going on. Figure something out." With gentle hand Doc opened the door; we lightstepped into the concrete garde
n. Kitchenglow, yellowed by drawn drapes, shone overhead; as the awning was rolled up, we could have known full view were we three meters high. To kitchen's right showed blank stones and two blacked-out windows.

  "Those lead where?" I asked.

  "Back room in my office," Doc whispered. "Looks like they haven't gone in there yet."

  "Then we should," said Jake. "My equipment's needed. What's eavesdroppable?" We pulled silence round us, the better to hear; two men, perhaps three, spoke in turn; from each we gleaned murmurs and bits of word.

  "... know somebody else ... make it a lot ... in time-"

  The el ground all sound underwheel, rolling uptown. Jake scuttled crosscourt, reaching the windows without sound; we followed, silent though not as silent. "These locked?" he asked, drawing from his jacket lining a thin, flexible bar.

  "Yeah," said Doc. Jake slid the bar between the sashes, jiggled and snapped; quietly raised the lower windowpane, hopped up and pulled himself inward, lifting himself with toe-edge against brick.

  "Thought so," he said, reaching down for us once he'd landed within. Doc lodged solid midway through, as if to rest; with considerable effort we squeezed him through, feeling as if we were trying to get the last inch of toothpaste. In yanking me up they nearly dislocated my own shoulder; my ribs felt for a moment to be pulling apart once more, but didn't.

  "Don't turn on the lights," Doc whispered, as if we knew where they were to turn on. "Put your hand on my shoulders. Watch your step. Follow me." Through dark we glided, traveling tiptoed so as not to cause the floorboards to weep of our presence. Alcohol's sharp perfume awared me that we must have entered the exam room. I heard jingling metal's clink.

  "Jake," said Doc. "The key. Turn it to the left. That one where your hand is."

  Jake unlocked and opened the door, withdrawing and jacketing whatever lay topside. Our breathing settled: I heard another sound, rising from below, alternately hard, then soft; as if snared from the heavens it faded and returned, the signal everpresent if rarely heard or caught proper. Robert Johnson sang.

  "Darktown Strutters' Ball," someone kept yelling below, but his plaints were trampled beneath the singer's plea. Jake kept still, his ears picking up all.

  "I'm cryin' please, please let us be friends-"

  "Alive," said Jake, unmoving, stilled as if by amber's wrap, drawing new life from each word.

  "Come on, Jake-"

  "An' when you hear me howlin' in my pathway, rider-"

  "Hush. "

  "Some a that `Darktown Strutters' Ball-' "

  "Please open your door 'n' lemme in-"

  Fresh sound distracted all; the reception office's door crashed open. Sudden light blinded before Doc and I took a single step; Jake, unseen to any, was already gone, as if swept up by angel's order.

  "I got the drop on you, boys. Stick 'em up." We lifted arms as if to give praise. The policeman showed nearly so lightskinned as I, and as tall, but bore twice the weight. He leveled his peacemaker our way, a .38 by its look, though judging caliber at distance is never easy, especially with such a collectible as his. At closer view, I noted the barrel bore an evident silencer. "Keep 'em up."

  "You're making a mistake," said Doc, in normal, though ragefilled, voice. "This is my office-"

  "Keep your trap shut," the policeman said, stepping forward, aiming direct. Catching eye of the open cabinet, spotting Jake's belongings, he froze. "Holy shit-" Keeping his gun, and his look, on us, he shouted across the hall to one unseen. "Nate!! Get over here. I'm gonna need a hand with these two."

  "I'm telling you this is my office-" The policeman took quick glance at a certificate hanging on the wall. "How long you been at this precinct, son-"

  "I work Central Harlem, usually," he said, "and I ain't your son. They didn't want to use anybody on this one you might be too used to dealin' with. Doctor, huh? Dillinger's doctor? Plannin' to knock off the treasury with this shit or what?"

  My prolonged hosannas strained my split ribs into spasms; involuntarily, my elbows began to slump. The policeman directed his barrel between any eyes.

  "Keep 'em up or I'lI blow your head off."

  "Who you got, Edgar?" his associate asked, entering; Senegalese dark, he was the size of a freezer unit.

  "Old guy says he's a doctor. If this one's the Venezuelan he'll have a passport. Frisk 'em down and pull their flyers. I got'em covered."

  Nate beat us updown as he searched for pocketed harm, patting blindly away, pulling my passport and yanking Doe's papers; he didn't take my wallet.

  "Would you get a load of this shit?" Edgar asked, dragging forth evidence once Nate had the drop on us. "You ever see a gun look like this?" he asked, fondling the Shrogin.

  "Popgun, looks like. What is it?"

  "Popgun, hell. Didn't know better I'd swear it's a machine gun."

  "Where's the drum? Keep 'em up," said Nate, aiming at us both.

  "Uses a belt, maybe. Must be foreign. We'll haul it all down, let the feds figure it out-"

  "What about that pistol, man?" Nate asked. "Evil-looking piece. Stick it somewhere, pick it up later. Those assholes won't know "

  "Shit. Take a look at the bullets in the chamber and tell me where I can buy some more. Okay, you two. Let's step across the hall and see your girlfriends. They probably miss you, we been talkin' to 'em awhile, tryin' to anyway. They're playin' hard to get. "

  "You better not've done anything to my wife-" Doc began; Edgar drew a sap from his pocket, struck Doc across the side of the head with it. He stumbled back, blood darkening his graying hair. I caught him before he fell.

  "Wouldn't touch your ugly wife, man," said Edgar. "It's little Red they're after. Now move it."

  With single arm I assisted Doc until his balance returned, both of us prodded forward by gun's sharp poke. Jake wouldn't have run, that was certain; dependent on what he'd had time to recover before our untimely interruption would decide the method of his action, and the timing. It couldn't be soon enough. That, once moving, he would apply total effort was as certain; that thought comforted and terrified.

  "It's AO, Doc," I said, helping him along; his head's blood dripped down his face like tears, splashed onto my shirtsleeve.

  "Shit," was all he said. Reaching the apartment and entering, we saw Wanda and Oktobriana in the kitchen, under guard of the two white men; they were young, suited and tied. One had brown hair, the other blond; otherwise they might have been brothers.

  "Norman," Wanda said, "what'd they do to you?"

  "Same thing we going to do to you, you don't shut up," said Nate. "How're you boys doin' here with the ladies?"

  "They're being very uncooperative," said the blond. "We've received none of the answers we'd hoped to receive. Stronger measures may be needed."

  "Where'd you get that? Whose is it?" asked the other, seeing Edgar lay Jake's goods atop the sideboard's ledge.

  "In his office. Think they were tryin' to get it. Must've come in the front after we did and before I went back out there."

  I eyed the space, judging position and distance. Doc and I stood stove-near, covered by Edgar and the brownhaired fed. Wanda, across the room, poised near the icebox, her head level with its toppositioned drum. Nate and the blond covered the door leading into the living room. On the kitchen table, in room's center, sat Oktobriana, wearing a baggy red jumpsuit she'd donned at evening's arrival; though I knew she'd noted Jake's absence immediate, she made no remark. The window's drapes were drawn shut; night breeze billowed their hems. Only streetsound came from without, and the regular roar of the el as it passed.

  "You got their papers?" asked the blond. "Let's see." Edgar handed them over. The brownhaired one walked across the room and brushed Oktobriana's hair from her face; her eyes burned as she stared at him. Edgar and Nate eyed the agent's movements with evident suspicion. With whitened hands she gripped the table edges.

  "Ready to talk yet?" brownhair asked her, grinning. "Where'd you get this janitor suit? You some kind of dyke?" She remain
ed still, her eyes fixed upon the window.

  "I'm no expert but this passport seems forged to me," said the blond. "We can check with the consulate later. What were you doing down by police headquarters this morning?"

  "I told you all like I told them at the time," said Wanda. "This man helped me out by walking me through a bad neighborhood and he got beat up for his troubles."

  "Gonna get beat up for more'n that if he don't talk-" said Nate.

  "There'll be none of that in a federal case," said the blond. "You weren't looking for anyone there, were you? Someone you thought might be inside?"

  "Were you carrying any of these weapons at the time?" asked brownhair, his attentions towards Oktobriana momentarily distracted. "Do you have Venezuelan licenses or permits for these, or are they yours?"

  "No answers until I'm lawyered," I said. The feds stared; Nate and Edgar laughed long and loud.

  "Nigger wants a lawyer," said Nate. "You hear that shit?"

  "Wants one to hold his hand while he gets the hot seat-" said Edgar.

  "You'll receive a fair trial in the United States Colored Court," said the blond. "Did you come into the country with the young lady?"

  "Specify charges for this fair trial," I said. Doc held himself upright by gripping the stove; if he slumped, I tugged him up.

  "At the proper time you'll be notified of all charges against you," said the blond. "Who else was with you and how did you arrive? Your assistance will make things much easier for all of us."

  Their questions ran with circular reason; though at first I'd been sure that Skuratov's hand behinded this assault, the more they talked the more I doubted.

  As an apparent Russian national, miss, you'll understand why we wonder that you have no visa-"

  "Is that your picture of Stalin? What sort of books are those in your grips?"

  `Are you a Russian national?" the blond asked me, possibly remembering Pushkin. `Are you a member of the American Communist Party?"