“What’d the man look like?”
“Small and bald. Other than that, I don’t recall.”
Florek closed his eyes. “Why’d she go with him?”
“This man, see, he put her onto something nicer than what I was giving her. Your sister, she liked to have a good time. She really liked these pills I was gettin’ for her. Nembutols. You know, goofballs. I get ‘em cheap from a pharmacist friend over in Youngstown. But this guy, he showed her a really good time. Put a needle in her arm, made her feel real dreamy and good. Promised her more of the same, more needles, more good times, nice clothes and big city life, all kinds of fancy shit like that. It’s kind of funny, you know. What’s that word for it? Ironic. Yeah, it was ironic, like. I introduced this guy to her, and then he takes her away.”
“You sound pretty broken up about it.”
Auerbach shrugged. “Hey, he paid me and all that. Fifty bucks, it was. So I didn’t lose out all the way.”
Florek’s voice shook. “You made out real good.”
“Yeah, I made out all right. I’m gonna miss her though, is what I’m saying. I had a good thing with her. She never complained once about who I brought down those stairs. Long as I kept feeding her those goofballs, she never got particular on me. You gotta admit, it’s not a bad setup down here. It’s warm all the time, with the furnace next door and all, so warm she never even had to get dressed. I walked in on her once or twice myself, got a good eyeful. Like I say, your sister Lola, for a hophead I mean, she was some kind of dish.”
Florek turned on his feet and took a step toward Auerbach. The bellhop grinned, dropped his cigarette to the concrete, ground it under his shoe. He didn’t move back an inch.
Auerbach smiled, looked Florek over. “Aw, get a look at you. You got your fists balled up like you wanna fight. Is that what you want, stretch? You wanna go a few with Danny Auerbach?”
Florek let the heat in his blood pass. He unbailed his fists. He felt a tear run down his cheek, hated himself for letting it go.
Auerbach’s smile disappeared. “Get outta here. Go on and beat it before I kick you in the ass.”
Florek walked from the room. He passed through a veil of heat coming from the boiler room, smelled the alcohol in his sweat, the stench of it turning his stomach. On the stairs, he stopped to retch, holding the banister for support. Then he was out on the street, walking down the strip toward the Plymouth, his head down, his hands buried deep in his jacket. There was little to remember of the ride home.
* * *
That evening, Florek went to the California Confectionery and spoke to his boss. On Sunday he had supper with his mother and younger sister, a special meal with dishes prepared especially for him. Later he and his mother sat at the kitchen table while the radio played standards in the room. His mother kept her hand over his as they spoke into the night.
On Monday morning, Michael Florek took the two hundred dollars he had saved since high school from the bottom of his dresser. He gave his mother half of it and stuck the remainder in the pocket of his wool trousers. He kissed his mother on the cheek, picked up his duffel bag, and went out to the street.
Florek walked along the highway until he reached the edge of town. A flatbed truck hauling vegetables stopped for his upturned thumb. Florek went to the passenger side, looked through the open window. The driver had a kind, welcoming face. He wore a red plaid cap with flaps that covered his ears.
“Can I get a ride with you?”
The driver made a motion with his head. “Throw that bag of yours in the back, son, and get in.”
Florek looked behind him at the town. Down along the Shenango River, blankets of smoke flowed into the gray sky from the stacks of Sharon Steel.
Florek swung the duffel bag over the rail of the truck’s bed. He climbed into the cab.
The driver put the shifter in gear, gave the truck gas as it lurched onto the highway. He reached for a cigarette from the sun visor, placed the cigarette between his cracked lips. He struck a straight match on the dashboard, paused to glance at Florek before he gave himself the light.
“Where you goin’, anyway?”
“Washington.”
“Warshington? Down above Waynesburg?”
“Not Washington County,” said Florek. “Washington, D.C.”
FIVE
* * *
Washington, D.C.
1949
Chapter 16
Lola Florek felt the plump hand of Lydia Fortune pushing on her shoulder, shaking her awake. If she could just keep her eyes closed, pretend she was asleep…maybe Lydia would go away. When Lola felt like this, so good and right, all she wanted was to lie there, curl up like her mama’s baby girl, fly on it for a while, be left alone.
“Cmon, honey,” said Lydia. “I can see that smile on your face.”
The smile. Lola always forgot about the smile. She couldn’t help but smile, the way it felt. Just so good and right.
“Cmon,” said Lydia.
Lola opened her eyes. “Now?”
“Mr. Morgan’s got a date for you, honey. You don’t want to keep him waiting.”
Lola looked up at Lydia. The woman had a truly beautiful face: baby-doll eyes, shining, wavy black hair, a full mouth that snaked around suggestively when she smiled. Most folks would never recognize her beauty straight off, as they couldn’t get past the first impression of Lydia’s size. It was true that Lydia was an awfully big woman, what most folks would call fat. Lydia, she probably weighed upwards of two hundred pounds. Well, some men liked them big. Men had funny tastes, all right. Which is why Mr. Morgan kept all kinds around.
“Cmon, Lola, get on up.”
Lydia got a hand underneath Lola’s armpit, raised her so she sat upright on the bed. Lola watched the flicker of the flame from the candle on the nightstand. Shadows did the rhumba on the burgundy lace curtains of the bedroom window. It reminded Lola of a Warner Brothers’ cartoon she had seen before the feature at the Capitol once, back in Farrell. Lola laughed.
“Now, you don’t want to get old Lydia in trouble with Mr. Morgan, do you? You gotta help me out here, baby. Like I helped you out, just a little while ago.”
It was true, all right. Lydia had given her the sweet shot just a half hour before. She had always given it to Lola when she asked. Lola loved what the sweet shot did for her, but could not bear to put the needle in her own skin. On those nights when Lydia had a date of her own, she had showed Lola how to snort the brown powder up her nose, or heat it up in foil and inhale the smoke. Those ways worked just fine, but not like the needle. With the needle, it was like an ocean of warmth was crashing through her, sending her down to the liquid softness of her bed where she could just curl up and close her eyes and let it move her back and forth. So good and right…and Lydia had always helped.
“All right, Lydia. Here we go.”
Lola managed to get off the bed. She went to the makeup stand with the scrolled legs, had a seat on the miniature davenport, looked in the mirror. The dress she wore was sheer, a mocha color decorated with small, blood-red roses, with long sleeves that covered the marks on her arms. Her slip showed black beneath the dress. Lola fluffed the sides of her blonde hair, then brushed away a fork of bangs that tickled her forehead. She scratched her forehead at the tickle and saw that she had made it red.
“Put on a little lipstick, honey.”
Lola found a tube whose color seemed to match the roses on her dress. It was hard to tell in the light. She smeared some on her lips, laughed a little because she saw that she was missing the line by a wide mark.
“Let me get that for you,” said Lydia. She took a tissue and wiped away the excess, got the detail by running one finger along the top of Lola’s lip. Then she bent in and kissed Lola on the side of her mouth. Lydia watched Lola’s eyes in the mirror for a moment, looked away. “C’mon, baby, let’s go downstairs.”
And so they were down the stairs. They were in the bedroom one moment and in another were down th
e stairs. They were in a living room of sorts, where several women sat around listening to 78s coming from a Victrola set on a stand in the center of the room. There were plants in the room and a couple of cushiony sofas, with a small cart on wheels against the wall holding three varieties of liquor and one or two mixers and a bucket of ice. A set of tongs with clawed ends leaned upright in the ice.
A horn sounded from outside. Lola turned suddenly at the sound of it, her hand fluttering up to touch her face.
Mr. Morgan said, “That would be them.”
“Them?” said Lydia, giving Mr. Morgan the eye as she draped Lola’s coat around her shoulders.
“One man,” said Morgan tiredly. “A conventioneer. A gentleman, Lola. You’ll be fine.”
“Sure, Mr. Morgan,” and she began to scratch at her forehead. Lydia took Lola’s hand away from her forehead and placed it at her side.
Mr. Morgan leaned in. He was a small man with a soft build, completely bald on top with patches of brown over each ear. To Lola he looked like a science teacher she had known years ago. The thought of Mr. Morgan standing at the head of a classroom made her smile.
“This one is all me,” said Morgan, lowering his voice. “You owe it all to me for tonight’s kick.”
“Yes, Mr. Morgan.”
“Go on, honey,” said Lydia. “I’ll wait up for you, hear?”
“Sure,” said Lola. She walked out of the room, through the foyer and out the front door.
The wind stung at Lola’s face. She drew the lapels of her coat tightly to her chest. From up on the steps she could see New York Avenue. Mr. Morgan’s rowhouse sat on a side street, one block off New York. She had never bothered to learn the address, as the cabbies picked her up and dropped her off, and always knew where to go.
The cab driver gave his horn a short blast. Lola went down the concrete steps to the street, the concrete pillowy beneath her feet. There had been a boy once, back in Farrell, who picked her up at her house and blew the horn on his little coupe to let her know he had arrived. He’d honk his horn, try to get her to speed things up so they wouldn’t miss the show. They were in a hurry then, to be together and get away from their parents and go out and have some fun. Like the man in the cab was in a hurry. In a big hurry to have a little fun.
Just like on a date.
Chapter 17
Mike Florek cupped his hands around his eyes, sealed his tunnel of vision as he peered inside the plate-glass window of Nick’s at 14th and S. His breath fogged the glass. Behind the glass, several Negro men sat drinking bottles of beer, talking and laughing and having something to eat, while a couple of dark-haired, olive-skinned white men went about their business behind the counter, preparing dishes, capping bottles drawn from the cooler, serving the Negroes their food and drink.
It was mighty odd, that—white men, serving colored men food. But then, Florek had thought many things odd since his arrival in the city two months back. This thing going on in Nick’s was just another to be added to the list.
Florek had a room next door on a month-to-month, three floors up. He had passed by Nick’s every evening on the walk downtown to his night job behind the soda bar at the People’s Drug. Tonight’s walk would be another cold one, what with the freeze dropped down from Canada. Florek reckoned he could use a cup of hot coffee before the hike. He had the nickel in his pocket, after all, and it did look awfully warm inside. He passed beneath the oblong blue sign encircled with white bulbs and pushed on the glass front door of Nick’s.
A chime sounded as he stepped inside. Inside the door, a huge Negro sat on a stool, perhaps the largest man Florek had ever seen, his arms folded across his broad high chest. From the first, Florek noticed the flatness of the man’s head, the flatness exaggerated by his hair shaved close on the sides. The head looked like an anvil atop the bunched mountain of shoulders. But, aside from the size, this was not a man with meanness in his eyes.
This man’s eyes were alive with amusement, curiously gentle. Florek guessed that a man that size could look at the world in any way he chose, with absolutely nothing to prove. The bouncer didn’t even give Florek so much as a glance as he passed.
A couple of the Negroes turned their heads sharply as Florek walked across the wood floor. Just as quickly they went back to their conversations. Florek chose a stool at the end of the counter and had a seat.
A record spun on a nearby phonograph, a blues number sung by a lady. One of the Negroes down along the counter had a crate full of 78s on the floor by his side. The radio mounted on the wall was shut off, as was the television set which sat on a wood platform nearby. The lady on the record was singing about how she had changed the lock on her man’s front door. The Negro man closest to Florek softly sang along.
“What you gonna have?” said the larger of the two white mento Florek, stepping up to the counter. He was a big man with thinning black hair and a small, raised pink scar on the right cheek of his wide, open face. Face wiped his hands across a blood-stained apron.
“Just a cup of coffee,” said Florek. “That’ll do it for me.”
“Costa!” said the big man, turning to the stocky one with the wild head of hair and the thick moustache. “Ena cafe yia to aspros!”
Costa went to the urn, drew a cup, put the cup together with a saucer, placed it on the counter in front of Florek. “Here ya go, boss,” he said.
“I’m gettin’ gray waitin’ on those ribs, Nick,” said a young Negro to the big white man.
“Check on those ribs,” said Nick.
Costa stood at the swinging doors that led to the kitchen, yelled over the top of them. “Pou eine ta ribs mou, vre?”
A voice replied from behind the doors: “Hold on to your shirt, Costa. The ribs are workin’.”
Florek looked down the counter past the bottles of hot sauce butted against the napkin dispensers and salt-and-pepper shakers to the plates of food in front of the men. He had never seen food like this. Well, he was in the South. This must be what they called a Southern Style place. But he had never seen food like this for himself.
“The goddamn ribs!” said Costa. “Grigora!”
Florek sipped at his coffee. The coffee was rich and good.
“Hey, Six,” said the young Negro to the huge bouncer. “Who you got that money of yours on tonight?”
The bouncer just shrugged. Costa paced like a cat in front of the kitchen doors.
“How ‘bout you, Nick?” said the young Negro. “Who you think’s gon’ win that fight tonight?”
“The Cuban,” said Nick. “What the hell’s his name again?”
“Kid Gavilan. You think he’ll take Ike Williams? Williams beat him good in the Garden last year. And don’t forget, the Kid’s a bleeder.”
“Ah,” said Nick. “That Williams guy, he’s too heavy. Look at ‘im: He let himself get soft. I read in the Star how he weighed in at one-forty today. That’s too heavy for that guy. And Gavilan’s got them uppercuts. Whad’ya call them things?”
“You talkin’ bout those ‘bolos’ of his,” said the young Negro.
“Yeah,” said Nick. “That.”
“Don’t matter no how anyway. The winner of this one’s gotta go up against Sugar Ray. And you know what’s gon’ happen then.”
“Hey, Costa,” said the Negro with all the records, gently elbowing the man next to him. “Who you think’s gonna do it tonight? The Cuban or the colored?”
“Cuban, hell,” said Costa. “You call him what you want, they both look plenty colored to me, goddamn.”
The men at the counter laughed.
Costa walked hurriedly over to Florek, nodded at his cup. “You ready for a refill?”
“No thanks, I’m okay.”
“Refill’s free.”
“I’m just gonna have one tonight, thanks.”
“Refill’s free.”
“I gotta get on my way.”
“Hokay, boss. Suit yourself.”
“Ribs up!” said the voice behind the door.
Costa spun on his heels, pushed in on the swinging doors, motored back to the kitchen. Florek heard Costa’s voice then, speaking to the cook excitedly in that strange, jumbled language.
“How much I owe you?” said Florek to Nick.
“Nickel.”
Florek put it on the counter. “Thanks.”
“Coffee okay?”
“Yeah, fine. I’d stay for another, but I gotta get off to work.”
“Yeah? Where you work?”
“People’s, downtown.”
“Doin’ what?”
“Soda jerk.”
“Uh,” said Nick.
“I’ll be back. I only live two doors down.”
“In those rooms Mrs. Roberts keeps?”
“Yeah, those.”
The large man in the apron put out his hand. “Nick Stefanos. That’s my name on the sign out front.”
Florek shook Stefanos’s hand. “Mike Florek.”
“Florek. What kinda name’s that?”
“Polish.”
“Me, I’m Greek.” Stefanos smiled. “Hokay, boy. You come back soon, hokay?”
“Sure. I’ll see you around.”
Costa came bursting through the doors, running the ribs to the man who had ordered them. He put the plate down with a flourish, slid a bottle of hot sauce next to the plate. The man with the records held one out to Costa, who took it and placed it on the phonograph’s platter. Florek walked across the wood floor. The young Negro, who was dressed stylishly in a suit and tie and velvet-banded hat, gave him a quick glance and a tight nod as he passed. Florek went by the bouncer named Six, heard the rolling piano intro to the song as the new record began to spin. A guy could really tap his foot to a record like that.
Florek pushed on the door, zipped his mackinaw up to the neck as he hit the sidewalk. He found himself smiling as he walked south. He was plenty glad he had stepped into Nick’s.
* * *
Florek had hit town in late November. He phoned his mother first off to let her know he had arrived, then went straight to the YMCA where he found a cot and place to wash his face. His first night was virtually sleepless, as he felt the need to protect his hundred dollars from the vagrants, drunks, and drifters with whom he shared the space. He spent the first couple of days looking for a room of his own; he needed work right away, and he knew he’d have difficulty getting it without a local address.
01 The Big Blowdown Page 13