No Face's black eye patch glowed like the barrel hole of a fired gun. I be dog. We fell asleep.
Nigga, what the fuck!
Some powerful shit. No Face's head hung suspended between his knees, a heavy balloon.
Every inch of Jesus's skin was alive, seeing, watching himself move in a dream. Bitch, what did you put in that weed? Jesus grabbed No Face by his collar and jerked him to his feet.
Nuthin. Somebody had stuck a red moon and a black moon in his face where the eyes should be. I told you I—
You can get hurt like that, seriously hurt. Hardly getting the words out, throat clogged with hate, each word anger-clotted.
But—
Jesus shoved him back on the couch. The sunlight scorched Jesus's socked-but-shoeless feet. Where my goddamn shoes? Once again he snatched No Face up from the couch.
No Face pointed. Red color began to bleed from his eye. He adjusted his black patch. Over there. By the couch. Jesus pushed No Face down like crumbs off of a table. Mamma musta put them over there while—
Jesus quickly shoved his warm shoes on his feet. I ain't never heard of no Buddha making nobody sleep like that. Pass out. He checked his pockets. Found everything in order. I mean, it's tomorrow already. I mean. He sat down on the couch.
The pipe on the coffee table had been cleaned of ashes.
I be dog.
Where'd you get that shit?
From Keylo. He musta gave me some of that crazy shit. Whacked. Nigga always be jokin around.
You lucky I don't . . . Jesus rested the words.
It's cool, No Face said. We're cool. Hey, you wanna watch some TV?
No.
We can watch some.
Bitch, do it look like I watch TV?
No Face studied the words, magnified them under the lens of his one eye. Well, what you wanna do?
Jesus felt a hole in his stomach, growing and spreading. His hands ran an orbit around his belly. Got anything to eat?
Sure.
He followed No Face to the refrigerator. Watched him open it. Almost threw up when he saw old cooking grease inside a mason jar, brown and gray like a rotting limb.
See anything you want? If you don't, we go down to Mamma Henry's house. She keep our meat in her freezer. And Mamma—
I know, Jesus said. I can't wait.
They took out some leftover meat loaf and ate it cold and fast, then drank milk, right from the gallon jug, sharing swigs until the plastic container was whistle-empty.
You can take a shower. No Face's anxious eye watched Jesus. I got some clothes you can wear. We go shoot some hoop.
Jesus looked at him. You lucky to be alive.
No Face directed his good eye somewhere else.
Real lucky.
Look. The eye returned. I got some of my own shit.
I don't wanna try no mo of yo shit. I mean—
You don't know me from Adam. I told you, that wasn't mine. Keylo gave me that. Look, I'll take you to my kitty so we can smoke us some real—
Nawl. I don't wanna smoke no mo.
Cool.
You lucky to be alive.
We can pick up some oysters.
What?
Oysters. Wit hot sauce.
That's what you like?
That's what I like.
Funny. Spokesman used to eat that.
Who?
Never mind. Jus somebody from back in the day. You don't know him.
So why—
It's cool. You can eat. I'll watch.
I ain't hungry. Let's shoot some hoop.
Some hoop?
Yeah, you know. No Face curved his wrist in a mock shot.
Well—
What's wrong? You don't want to?
I don't care. I'll whup yo ass in a game or two.
Follow me.
They squeezed through a narrow neck of doorway, then hurried to the elevator, which began to lower like a rusty bucket. The walls came rushing in and Jesus had to fight the urge to extend his arms in defense. The elevator opened into a dark vestibule. No Face miscalculated the height of the vestibule step and tripped out into the day. Jesus blinked forth upon the sky.
Hey, boys. Give you five dollars if you can tell me what kind of bird this is. The words emerged from pitch blackness, a dark niche cut deep in the building's brick. A face, then a body—blue overalls with dirty suspenders, parachute straps—pushed into the light, fist holding the groin. A janitor, Jesus thought. He's a janitor, cleaning up after this nigga trash. He saw Jesus looking at him. Flicked his tongue fast and dirty.
Damn, No Face said. You see that? He a stone-cold freak.
You can get hurt that way, old man, Jesus said.
The janitor cupped his hand over his ear. What? What you say?
Hurt.
And I can get hurt getting out of the bathtub, too.
Jesus turned up the heat in his eyes, red coals. The janitor winked at him. Dushan, the janitor said to No Face.
No Face did not answer.
Tell yo mamma I be up there to see her later.
Damn, Jesus said. You gon take that shit?
Aw, man, he can't sweat me. No Face waits a beat, watching Jesus.
Nigga, he talkin bout yo mamma.
You don't know me from Adam. He ain't nobody. That's Redtail.
Who?
Redtail.
What kind of name is that?
Well, his real name is Roscoe. Roscoe Lipton.
He yall janitor?
The superintendent.
A janitor.
Yeah.
Don't see how he can be nobody's janitor. Too fuckin ole. Nigga can hardly move.
Crazy too. Nigga be feedin rats and shit. Feedin em.
What?
Word.
Jesus shook his head.
I know. But guess what?
What?
He used to be a pilot.
What?
A pilot.
You mean an airplane?
Yeah.
Jesus tried to picture the old drunk in a cockpit. What he do, fly a bottle round his lips?
Nawl, in a war. Warplane. Flying Tiger. Hell from Heaven. He changed some enemies too.
That old drunk motherfucker?
Yeah.
He can't change his dirty draws.
He did.
Musta been a long time ago.
Yeah. Old nigga can't even hear.
I can tell that. So that was why he did it, covered his deaf ear and cupped his good one.
But he hear good nough to hear what he shouldn hear.
What?
He a transformer.
Jesus considered the possibility of this.
You do something, and he can't wait to snitch. Hey, he might even snitch on you.
Jesus looked at No Face.
Round here, he gotta watch his back. I almost changed that nigga a few times myself.
I bet. He walk like you. He talk like you. He yo daddy?
No Face watched—one red eye—Jesus hard for a stocktaking moment.
They began their journey. Above the river, a gull white-winged along a wave. A hang-tailed hound sat tough beside a garbage can until No Face roused it with a speeding stone. A ragtop speeded past, but slow enough for Jesus to be momentarily blinded by a flash of hand signals.
Trey Deuces, No Face said.
Right, Jesus said.
No Face took cautious steps crossing the street, as if fording a river. He walked, Jesus beside him, for several more blocks through a fog of belching cars, dragging his feet, tripping over his shadow, slow and purposeful, the blind motion of sleep. The morning increased, the wind rose, gusts of it shaking the branches, bringing a faint snow of spring petals, flake on sifting flake. Through rectangles of glass, Jesus saw men dipping their heads in coffee cups, sitting stiff with their beers or hiding their faces behind newspapers. He and No Face rounded the corner. The sun brightened in the distance, and Stonewall glittered white. Tall rockets of
buildings, ready to blast off.
Damn, we walked that far? You ain't tell me we walkin to Stonewall?
Chill.
Nigga, you crazy.
You be aw ight.
A fenced-in basketball court loomed in the distance, thick shapes roving inside. Jetting along, Jesus and No Face found a stone bench and sat down to watch the game. Tongues circulated the circumference of the court. Homeys lined the fence, fingers poking through the chain-link holes, slurping Night Train and firing up missile-shaped joints. Floating heat. Sweat air. Grit that Jesus tasted in his cough.
Whirling colors, four men played the full-length of the court. Jesus took a good look. Two men in khaki pants and bare chests, and two in chests and blue jeans. Khaki One a tall (Jesus's height) man with a sharp-angled haircut like a double-headed ax (V from widow's peak to neckline). Bull-wide nose and thick worm lips. Wedges of muscle angling up from the waist and fanning out to a winged back. Big Popeye forearms. Dull white skin, as if faded from bleach. Whispered under his breath when he shot a free throw. Khaki Two a short nigga with carefully greased and patterned hair—a sculpture—and proud, bowed wishbone legs. He passed Khaki One the ball for a rim-ringing dunk. Serious hang time in the radiant haze. The opposing team took out the ball. Light-moving, the white man fell like an avalanche and smothered a shot. Drove the ball up the alley and around the other defender for the easy layup. Hoop, poles, and backboard cold-shuddered. The ball swirled around the rim before it flushed.
Good game.
Who got winners? Khaki Two curled up first one leg, then the other, checking his shoe soles. He pulled an old fighter pilot's helmet (World War I stick-winged biplane, Snoopy and the Red Baron) over his sculpted hair.
A scuffle flared up. No Face started for the court, Jesus followed him. Like a magnet, faces drew them in.
Keylo. No Face spoke to Khaki Two. Why you give me that whacked weed?
Give you? Bitch, I ain't give you shit. You paid me.
Jesus blinked. Focused. Keylo? So Khaki Two was Keylo, legend in the flesh. Word, drove an old red ambulance with a bed (stretcher?) in the back. His ho buggy he called it. Say he never changed the sheets.
Keylo approached, and Jesus imagined him choking No Face in the noose of his bowed legs. He smiled toothless, like a snake. Crunched his face, a single line of eyebrow above lidless rat eyes. Balled in a boxer's crouch. Rose on his toes with a dance in his body and pimp-slapped No Face upside the head.
Damn, Keylo. Why you always fuckin around?
Cause I want to. Keylo slapped No Face again. A storm of laughter convulsed the spectators.
Damn, Keylo. No Face's dreads rose like cobras. Quit.
Make me, bitch. Fists moving, Keylo circled No Face, dukes up, slow-moving like an old man. Circling, he fired slaps, loud as thunder in easy rain, stinging blows which rocked No Face, hard, fast-pitched blows to the soft mitt of his raised chin. No Face hung tough, refusing to go down.
Chill.
Laughter died down.
That's right. Chill.
Jesus searched for the voice's source. Khaki One. Sunlight streaked his greased flesh, accentuating every vein. Chill, he said, voice feverish, cloggy and hot, phlegm-filled as if from a cold.
Damn, Freeze.
Freeze. Freeze.
No Face alright, Freeze said. He hooked No Face's head under his elbow and stroked the idiot's bowed head. No Face grinned, tongue fish-flopping in his mouth. He alright. Freeze yanked down on No Face's head, then released it. No Face ballooned up to his normal height. Don't try to play him like a bitch.
I was—
Freeze cut Keylo off with a sharp glance. Shoved him into No Face. Kiss and make up.
What?
Kiss and make up. Freeze's biceps were round and solid, train wheels. Go on. Kiss and make up.
Keylo searched the crowd, pleading eyes and mouth.
Freeze cut a grin. The crowd flew into stitches.
You see the look on his face?
Yeah.
Had that nigga goin'.
Yeah.
Thought he was serious.
Bout to piss his pants.
Shit.
No Face bobbed in place, grinning, cannibal teeth, appreciative, glad that Freeze had made a fool of him. Freeze slapped him on the back. You did good, he said. He looked at Jesus, and his eyes spoke recognition. Jesus was sure of it. You did real good.
Thanks, No Face said.
Something inside told Jesus that Freeze's compliment went beyond the battle with Keylo, addressed some secret subject.
Yo, Freeze.
The voice spun Freeze's head.
You had yo fun. A short dude spoke, coal-black face under a red baseball cap, brim backward, manufacturer's tag dangling from the side like a tassel on a graduate's mortarboard. You ready to do this?
Aw ight, Country Plus, Freeze said. If you hard.
I'm always hard.
So pick yo team.
Well you know I got my nigga here. Freeze nodded at Keylo. They slapped palms and locked fingers in some private ritual.
Huh, Country Plus said. So what else is new? Ain't yall married?
Freeze ignored the comment.
Give me MD 2020.
My nigga.
Cool, Freeze said. You can have him. Give me my man No Face. No Face swelled up with gratitude, chest out, lips inflated into a grin, one eye expanding expanding expanding, and he rose, tiptoes.
Thunderbird.
Damn, Freeze, Keylo said. You gon let this bitch play on our team?
Jesus breathed his first whiff of Keylo's gravedigger breath.
Give a nigga a chance, Freeze said. Even a bitch. He gave Keylo a quick hug.
Come on, Country Plus said. Choose another man.
Damn, who else? Freeze studied the crowd.
Pick him. No Face pointed to Jesus.
Freeze gave Jesus a fishy-eyed look. I want him.
That doofy-lookin' muddafudda, Keylo said. He and Jesus faced one another, eyes colliding.
And I'll take Mad Dog. Okay. We set.
Jesus pondered the faulty mathematics. That's only four. Four players, not. . . . No Face pulled Jesus into the huddle.
Yo, g, Freeze said. What's yo name?
Jesus.
Jesus?
Yeah.
Welcome, Jesus. I'm Freeze. Freeze extended his hand, and Jesus took it with his firmest grip.
Country Plus pulled a dime from his pocket and tossed it shimmering into the air. Call em.
Heads, Freeze said.
The coin fell to the surface of Country's skin. He slapped his palm over it.
See, Freeze said. You already lost.
What you call?
You know.
Country removed his palm. Heads.
See.
Country Plus stared into Freeze's face, the price tag dangling from his cap and jerking back and forth in the breeze like a hooked fish on a line. From this time forward, I will make you hear new things.
Whatever, Freeze said. You talk a good game. Let's see if you can play.
No Face unzipped his jacket and pulled it off, removed his T-shirt, and revealed his Mr. Universe torso.
Hey, Jesus, Freeze said. That's yo man. He pointed to Country Plus. Stick him.
Word, Jesus said. Damn, how Freeze tryin to play me? Jesus always played center, the tallest and strongest player on the court. And here Freeze was, playin him like a guard.
We skins, No Face said. Ain't you gon take off yo shirt?
Nawl.
Why not?
Nawl.
Yo shirt gon get all funky.
I'm aw ight.
Better take out yo earring.
Nawl.
Nigga yank it off.
Nawl.
No Face, Freeze said. Take out the ball.
No Face took out the ball. MD 2020 snatched his lazy entry pass and tossed an easy layup. Good steal. Country Plus congratulated his teammate, and his team�
�Thunderbird and Mad Dog—celebrated their first basket. No Face looked at Freeze with a drowning man's eyes (eye!), begging for mercy.
Country Plus threw Freeze the ball.
Wait a minute, Jesus said. It's their ball.
Wake up! Keylo said. You in South Lincoln. Red Hook rules. Stonewall rules. Stonewall rules.
Freeze took out the ball. Fired it to Keylo, who crouched low and ran it hard on his short, baby-thick legs. Country Plus's unit swooped down on him, a flock of small fast birds moving in streaks, sparrows in a room. Keylo froze in place. Fired the ball at Jesus, but Country Plus clawed it in midair, and in the spark of a moment swept Jesus aside like a swatted fly. Jesus gave chase with everything in his legs. Country Plus launched for the nest-high basket, his elbow catching Jesus in the throat.
Damn!
Don't sweat it, Freeze said. He took the ball out. Fired it in to Jesus. Jesus dribbled. Green-thumbed grass poked through the concrete and snatched at the ball. Tall weeds twisted around his legs. And puddles swamped him, quicksand. With each putting down of his heels, his whole body sank further into the court. Then Country Plus liberated the ball from his paralyzed fingers. Rode an invisible rainbow to the hoop. Reaming sight. The rim vibrated colors.
Freeze looked at Jesus. Took the ball out, fired it to Jesus. Jesus barely caught it. A large fish. It slipped from his hands back into the dark court waters. Country Plus clawed it up, bearlike. Lifted for the jump shot. Jesus jumped as hard and high as he could, springs in his toes. Fake. Country Plus had never left his feet. Now he took it casually to the hoop. Jesus landed back hard on the court, waves of hard concrete pulsing from his feet and through his body, mixing with waves of laughter circulating the court.
You see that muddafudda? Way up in the air.
Yeah. A real sucker.
Freeze took out the ball.
Wait, Jesus said. You take it in. The center is supposed to—
Freeze fired the ball hard into Jesus's defiant chest. Jesus watched him a moment, eyes working. He dribbled the ball up the court. Country Plus yanked it from his hands, a string on rolled twine. He dribbled, in front of him, behind his back, between his legs, while Jesus grabbed at the ball, again and again.
Damn, look at that mark nigga!
Gettin played like a bitch.
Country Plus blew past Jesus. Took it behind the backboard for the reverse lay-in.
In yo eye, punk.
Mark.
Gumbo Page 59