Only the Strong

by Jabari Asim

  In a quick, desperate move, Guts swatted the sword from Nifty’s grip and grabbed his throat. He pulled him close and squeezed. Nifty’s eyes bulged, blood vessels straining against viscous yellow. Snot burst from his nostrils and his breath slowed to a whistle. Guts turned away. Nifty’s struggles grew faint and finally still. Guts released him and he fell over, the sword lying flat under his body.

  “Damn, never seen a nigger hugged to death before,” Sharps exclaimed. He entered the room dragging a bundle behind him. The bundle was Artinces Noel.

  “He got too greedy,” he said. “I told him not to take you on, but he was smelling himself. I told him, ‘Guts ain’t too bright, but he’s plenty strong. Maybe we should invite him to join our operation.’ What a team we could have been, with my brains and your brawn. But you ain’t much use with a broken wing. Look at you, bleeding all over the doctor’s Persian rug.” Sharps dropped the unconscious doctor near the door and got out a pearl-handled razor, the razor that once belonged to Rudolph Fisher. He crossed the room and leaned in close to Guts.

  “Think of your reputation,” he advised. “Go down strong, so your name will ring out. You don’t want people saying you died crying like a bitch.”

  “Goode is on to you,” Guts said.

  “Ask me if I give a fuck,” Sharps said, grinning.

  “Grimes is on your trail. He has a badge. You should give a fuck about that.”

  Sharps grew serious. “Grimes? That spooky bastard’s not in with Goode. He told me himself.”

  “Sounds like you fell for the okey-doke,” Guts said, stretching his fingers under Nifty’s corpse. “Didn’t you say something about having brains?”

  “I’m telling you they don’t know each other,” Sharps insisted. “That’s bullshit!”

  “Shh,” Guts said. “I think I hear him now.” He could feel the hilt of Nifty’s sword at the edge of his fingertips.

  “Stop!”

  Sharps turned and saw Charlotte in the doorway, aiming a pistol at his head. Still on his back, Guts gripped the sword, raised it.

  Sharps smiled again. To Charlotte, his leer looked reptilian. She could almost see the venom dripping off his fangs as he rose slowly to his feet.

  “Say, Little Bit,” he said. “Put that down before you hurt yourself.”

  Charlotte squeezed the trigger, just as Mr. Pippen had taught her. The gun’s report was louder than she’d heard in the restrained confines of the Pippens’ shed; it rang in her ears like a hammer dropped on a tin roof. Sharps ducked, and then slipped in Guts’s blood. Losing his balance, he fell belly-first onto the sword. Calling forth all the vigor he had left, Guts ran him through, finishing the job. He exhaled. Problem solved.

  He shoved Sharps away, then pushed him even farther with his 14 EEE.

  Detective Grimes entered the front door. In the library he found bloodstained walls, overturned furniture, signs of a struggle. He squatted down and picked up an object with his black-gloved fingers, turned it in the lamp’s faint glow. He saw that it was a tooth. PeeWee rose to a sitting position, moaning. Grimes punched him, putting him back under. He saw the bloody trail leading to the stairs. Following it to the second floor, he checked to see who was living and who was not. He scooped up any inconvenient evidence before using his radio to report a burglary gone terribly wrong. He waited for the lab techs and ambulances to cart away the broken and the dead.

  But all that came after.

  Before all that, Charlotte put the gun down. “Too much,” she said. “Too much.” She started to cry.

  “Hush,” Guts said, his breathing labored. “You did good. Gonna be fine.”

  Dizzy, she staggered over to Guts, lowered herself to the bloody floor and curled up against his torso. He wrapped her in his one good arm.

  THE STRONG

  ANANIAS GOODE SAT beside the bed of his unconscious wife. The machines beeped and whirred.

  Mr. Logan sat on his front porch in his favorite chair. His lawn was freshly mowed. Crickets were singing and the sun felt good on his skin.

  A few blocks away, Playfair loaded his deuce-and-a-quarter in preparation for the day’s action. Gladys helped him.

  Dr. Artinces Noel, bearing the scars of her recent struggle, sat at the kitchen table in her new house. She sipped tea while Charlotte talked. And talked.

  At Fairgrounds Park, Mrs. Tichenor and Mrs. Means, co-founders of the Gateway City Horticultural Study Club, tended the Abram Higgins Memorial Garden.

  Across the vast expanse of green, near the edge of the pond, Pearl Tolliver used one hand to toss breadcrumbs to the ducks. With the other, she held on to her husband, Lorenzo. He looked slimmer than he’d been in years and his arm was in a sling and encased in plaster. But he was feeling no pain.

  The men of the Black Swan sat in bleachers alongside Softball Diamond No. 2. They drank from cold cans of Stag and Pepsi while Reuben Jones’s youngest boy occupied his usual spot at the end of the bench.

  The Little League infielders buzzed with chatter. The pitcher tossed warm-ups to the plate.

  Lucius Monday, formerly hooked on cheap rotgut whiskey, had learned to get high on lemon meringue. He touched Reuben’s shoulder to get his attention. Both men watched as Rip Crenshaw moved toward the dugout, riding a roar of recognition. Sunlight reflected off his World Series ring.

  The All-Star spoke briefly with the coach, who gestured to Reuben’s son. In the on-deck circle, Crenshaw helped him don his batting helmet, whispering in his ear all the while.

  To a chorus of murmurs, 10-year-old Crispus Jones entered the batter’s box. He relaxed as he’d been taught, his fingers cradling the bat. He watched the ball as it floated toward him in slow motion, big as the world.

  The End

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I WOULD FIRST LIKE TO THANK MY ANCESTORS. In addition, many friends and relatives helped me complete this book, including my parents, Joyce and Irving Smith; my dear friend Fred McKissack, Jr.; my cousin Sal Martinez; and Doug Seibold of Agate; Joy Harris and Adam Reed of the Joy Harris Literary Agency; Linda Reisman, Paula Penn-Nabrit, and the late, dearly missed Charles Nabrit; and my colleagues at Emerson College.

  Most of all, I am indebted to my wife, Liana, and our wonderful brood: Joseph & Sysseden, G’Ra, Indigo, Jelani, Gyasi, Genzya, and Amandla.