Those were his eyes in the old days. For the last ten years, John had worn round spectacles, twin clear moons. The spectacles had changed the eyes. You could no longer tell the color. Now, the two of them sat at a bright table amid a mass of sleeping shadows—figures at the other tables cut about with shade—and Lucifer noticed something new in John’s eyes. A good deal more in the eyes than had been there last Christmas, and even more than last Thanksgiving.
How’s the cab business? Lucifer said.
John’s eyes flew to Lucifer’s face. Lucifer had last seen John about a month ago when John had paid him an unexpected night visit.
Lucifer, remember how I was tellin you bout the cab business?
Yeah. Lucifer couldn’t forget. All John had talked about since Thanksgiving.
Well, it’s rollin. I jus need some capital.
Don’t we all.
The bank turned down my loan request.
Lucifer said nothing. Night made mirrors of the windows. He looked in these mirrors, gaining time for thought. Sorry to hear that.
But, guess what.
Lucifer was afraid to ask.
This guy at the dispatch bought a car for sixty bucks at one of those government auctions. He sold it for six hundred dollars. Six hundred dollars. Can you believe that? Now, if I could buy six cars a month and sell those six, I could pull in six thousand dollars. Six thousand dollars a month.
It can’t be that easy.
And in a few months, I could buy a whole fleet of cabs. It jus can’t be that easy.
It is.
Lucifer thought a moment. So you came here to tell me that?
What you mean? Man, we brothers.
It’s just that—
You think Porsha might want to get in on this? She has money.
She’s got a little saved. But her condo costs a fortune. Her car note. Clothes. Plane tickets. And she gives a lot of her money to that church.
That’s why I didn’t call her. John stretched forward the length of his neck to bring his mouth closer to Lucifer and give his words more force. You should get in on this!
Me?
See—John worked his smile—if you invest four or five thousand—
I ain’t got no money. Sorry.
John’s expression did not change.
Why don’t you ask Spin? Or Spokesman?
John said nothing.
Or the Sterns? The Shipcos?
Them tightfisted Jews?
Don’t hurt to ask.
Depends on how you look at it.
Well, I wish I could help.
Don’t worry about it.
LUCIFER HAD NOT SEEN or spoken to John since that night. John had stopped attending the Saturday basketball games where he and Lucifer had officiated together at Red Hook. Lucifer called John’s home, but John never answered the phone. Lucifer left messages with the dispatcher and Gracie and (even) with Inez. John never responded.
Junior, why ain’t you called?
Inez, this Lucifer.
Why you ain’t been to see me?
I’m comin soon. How you doin? You heard from John?
Junior, when you comin to see me?
Lucifer took the long train ride to Eddyland—dusty trees and dense foliage hiding faded bungalows and crumbling courtyard buildings; backyards crammed with chickens moving in small crooked shapes of white and yellow; auto yards and factories gift-wrapped in concertina wire—where John lived. His keys—one of John’s extra sets—couldn’t turn the locks. Lucifer tried the next day and the next. John never answered the door.
SLOW JOHN SAID. Business is real slow. He laughed. He didn’t stop. The drinks were starting to work, Lucifer’s gin and tonic, and John’s Jack Daniel’s with water. John’s third? fourth? It was to his taste today, though the old fire in John’s blood had cooled. His heart no longer burned for firewater, the strong cheap stuff.
The drinking made Lucifer remember Sam’s funeral, with John and Dave leading Beulah up to Sam’s casket, each holding on to one frail arm, holding her up, Beulah weightless under her heavy, gravity-commanding black hat. Sam, I wish I had been there with you. If I could trade places with you. Mamma told me to keep watch. Be yo brother’s keeper and yo sister’s keeper. And keep watch. Pallbearers Lucifer, John, Dave, and Dallas lowered the silver-railed coffin into the ready grave. They purchased a few pints of 40 Acres Gin (John’s favorite that night because it was Dave’s favorite) and looked right into the night, moving. They stooped in the mouth of a rotten building, tasting smoky piss.
Let’s drive down to Decatur, Dave said.
Why? Ain’t nobody down there. Beulah here. You blind? Didn’t we jus leave her at—
Let’s drive down for ourselves.
Good idea, John said, agreeing to what he had disagreed with the moment before. Let Lucifer drive.
Lucifer took the wheel, though it was John’s car (the red Eldorado?), using both hands, driving slowly and carefully, eyes tuned to the road’s music. The music was smooth and slow and allowed his eyes relaxed sights. Manteno State Mental Hospital, a white castle in the distance, where many bloods rested their rusted armor after rotating back to the world. The old dog-food factory where many bloods found jobs. Cornfields, yellow-green arms stretching for the yawning sky. A rooster red-spinning on a farmhouse roof. His inner eyes kept returning him to Sam’s coffin—his inner eyes penetrated metal, flesh and time—Pappa Simmons’s bronze coffin blanketed with pink carnations and fully guaranteed not to let in any moisture for at least fifty years. Inez had spent a good penny. He felt the double weight on his foot, pressing down hard on the accelerator, strength he never knew he had, squashing it, a bug under his heel. He sunk out of himself. Drove the Dave-John way. Fast and dangerous. The car rocked in a loud rush of air. Allowed him quick spotted looks. His hands grew slippery on the wheel and every curve in the road slowed him down. He stopped the car, tires crying. Turned the wheel over to Dave or John. He didn’t remember which. Dave and John took naturally to fast driving. That’s why Dave can turn the bottle cap on a wine bottle so easy, Beulah said. John pulled off the highway, taking the back roads safe from observation, the car red-flying—swaying with only the loosest connection to the road—past instants of trees, quick spaces of yellow fields, black-spinning shapes, pieces of white moon scattered on the Kankakee River, and a motionless sky. The four tossed gin, talk, and song, back and forth like a volleyball.
I float like gravity.
Got thirty-six babies that call me daddy.
I’m the man to be.
The man to see.
That nigga was a lion, John growled. A lion. Them Muslims popped him. You dig? He was startin to steal they fire.
That’s crazy. They need to put you in Manteno. John, turn the car around.
I know it’s crazy cause I popped him.
Nigga, you couldn pop a piece of toast.
What you know bout poppin?
Know more than you and yo mamma too.
Still don’t mean you know who popped the pretzel. So what you talkin bout?
Look, the three workers who fingered the Wizard were black.
So? Ain’t no Muslims in—
Hell if they ain’t. They be in all sorts of places, jus like yo mamma’s stanky draws.
Yeah. On yo mamma’s teeth.
Damn. That’s cold.
It was a setup. They fingered Oz.
Like a bulldog finger a cat.
Nawl, like a bird dog rub his whiskers.
Dallas, you must be one of those dumb creatures God peopled the earth with.
Yeah. Daddy dumb. Yo daddy.
Well, nobody know who popped the pretzel cause that ginny popped ole Oz.
I’ll taste to that.
Bet the Reverend be gettin his taste. And I don’t mean this. Dallas raised the bottle.
He sho preached a good funeral.
Yeah. I always be smellin hellfire on the Reverend Sparrow’s breath.
That ain’t the kind of tast
e he talkin bout, Lucifer said.
Bout time that nigga said something. Nigga always be standin round quiet. Cat got yo tongue?
Nawl. He left it in yo mamma’s pussy.
How you gon talk bout my mammy? We got the same mammy.
Shit. Lucifer went silent, amused at how he had entangled himself.
Any dog would snarl over the fine brown bones in his church, Dallas said. Hear Rivers and Sparrow double-team the bitches.
John looked at him, eyes blinking hate. Nigga, who asked you?
Moonlight lay thick on the thick cornfields.
Pull over, Dave said.
What?
Nigga, you deaf. I said pull over.
John curved the car onto the road’s shoulder—gravel fled from the fast tires (you could hear it, feel it tap like drizzle against the windows)—and stopped. Dave took off his shoes.
Nigga, what you doin?
You that drunk?
Corn arms pulled Dave from the car. The three men followed him barefoot into the yellow fields.
HOW’S GRACIE? Lucifer asked.
You gon do what?
Get married.
Why?
Man, I’m pussied out.
I understand that but why her? Kinda ugly ain’t she?
John took a huge ice cube into his mouth. Same ole same ole. His breath winged its way past Lucifer’s nostrils.
You still keep yo keys under her doormat?
Where else I’m gon leave them?
Lucifer wanted to say, Yall been separated what ten years now and still ain’t divorced. Why yall still married? Shit. Don’t see why you married her in the first place. But he left it there. Years ago, Pappa Simmons had advised him and John, Marry a widow or a lady wit kids. She be thankful the rest of her life. But neither had followed his advice. Lucifer married pretty, John married ugly.
What you lookin at? he asked Dallas.
Looking for that nametag on yo collar. Taken.
Man, I’m still free, dick blowing in the wind.
Ain’t what I heard.
What you hear?
You boppin Gracie.
Gracie?
Yeah.
No way, Dallas said.
Where you hear that?
Through the grapevine.
Well, I ain’t gettin it, but I plans to.
Gracie? Dallas said. Aw man you can’t get them draws. She saved.
Yeah, savin it for me.
What you want wit that old stuff?
Ain’t you heard, pussy sweetens wit time.
The overhead fan hummed waves of cool air. John fingered something in his blazer pocket. His lighter? He pulled a box of matches from his pocket, pulled a cigarette, without producing the pack—New Life, still his favorite after all the years—scratched a match on the roughened side of the box, conjured a flame, studied the flame, and finally touched it to his cigarette. He closed his eyes and breathed the smoke in, then smoked the cigarette down without once touching it with his hand. Fired up another. For years, he had been trying to stop smoking. Or so he promised and claimed. Gracie would leave the room whenever he fired up a square. Apparently, his failing eyesight had not curbed his habit. Lucifer recalled hearing that blind people don’t smoke. Seeing the smoke was part of the thrill.
Smoke drifted in the morning light and hung bright and heavy as silk. Lucifer fought a sneeze. He let his gaze drift through the huge room. A good deal of people moving across the thick carpet, wood buckling underfoot, soaked with alcohol. People drinking, laughing, and talking, around a bench-long damask-covered table, light-ringed, sampling plates of canapés, calamari, cheeses and crackers, spinach dip, shrimp and seaweed. Never eat none that shit. They let it sit around for weeks. Get old. Get contaminated. Make you sick. The place was elegant, more in line with top-of-the-line airport bars. A sparkling chandelier, wall scones, tulip-shaped lamps, gilt-framed mirrors and paintings, pastoral scenes quiet and bright with flowers, lakes, and trees, abstracts with lines, dots, and colors. He hated the art, the lack of definition. Like grease stains.
Heard from Jesus? Lucifer heard the boy’s birth, noises like an angry cat.
Jesus is Jesus.
Lucifer didn’t say what he thought. Jesus. All bone. Long and skinny, a red river. Red curse of a son.
How’s Hatch? John asked.
Lucifer pictured Hatch and Jesus in the back of John’s gold Park Avenue, both boys hunched forward as if to hurry the car along. Lucifer, John, Hatch, Jesus—when had they last been together? Lucifer said, You ain’t talked to him?
Sorry I ain’t called. Been busy with the cab project.
How’s that going?
Fine. John let the silence work for him.
How long is the ride to Washington?
Ten hours. Quick. Express.
Lucifer saw his reflection in the window and, looking through the glass, saw a pigeon rise in flight from the pavement, pulsing its wings in the sunlight. You shoulda told me. I woulda made plans to go. Lucifer followed the slow circles of two silent birds revolving high in the air.
Spokesman jus called me. No warning. John’s spectacles followed the bird’s movement. Last night. John leaned his cheek against the greasy windowpane. A fresh shave. Yes, a graying in the lower part of his face.
Why didn’t he call me?
John bright-watched him. Thought he had. Thought you’d be all packed and ready to go.
Why didn’t you call me to be sure?
John slipped past Lucifer’s voice. After Washington, I’m gon spend a few days with Spokesman in New York.
Good.
And Spin.
Lucifer’s heart generated a haze in his chest. Spin?
John grinned.
The shadows in the lounge swam fish shapes. Lucifer peered closely at a painting, black lines crossing into broken planes of violent color. Spin too?
John nodded.
Lucifer gave the painting another look. Somebody actually paid money for that? White folks. What about Webb? And Lipton? You meetin them too? Lucifer was shocked at the violence of his words. He could taste it.
Lipton? That crazy motherfucker? John shook his head. No. A bit of cigarette paper stuck to his lip. He lifted it off with a fingernail, rolled it into a ball between his fingertips and flipped it away. Jus me, Spokesman, and Spin.
FIVE YEARS BEFORE, after they had both been back in the world for twenty years, Lucifer and John shared parallel seats on a train headed for Washington. Seats close enough for them to exchange breaths. Cramped distance. Crumpled sleeping. The slanted seat slanted dreams. Bums lined the tracks like milestones as the train neared its destination, tossing their bottles at the speeding windows. Spin met them at the station in full uniform. He moved easy under a weight of medals. Rallied a detachment, skillfully conducted a running fight of three or four hours, and by his coolness, bravery, and unflinching devotion to duty in standing by his commanding officer, in an exposed position under heavy fire, saved the lives of at least two of them. Squeezed John in a choking hug. Then he hugged Lucifer with equal feeling. John’s stories had failed to capture the lineaments of Spin’s torso; the stories had never risen to his full height or lowered to his full weight. He was too large. No room for him in John’s memory and imagination. The blackness of his beard made his lips look red. This was the man who had once bent over a mine with the ease of a shoe clerk over a foot. At last we meet, he said. Lucifer’s feelings exactly. Spin was forever coming or going. He and John would pass without touching, two stars, an eclipse effect. With a toast that topped the music charts, Spin had pushed himself to another level of life and roamed the world from end to end.
I heard a lot about you.
All of it is true.
There it is.
They had loaded their baggage into Spin’s BMW—the license plate read FNG, short for Fucking New Guy, Spin’s band—and rushed to the demonstration, changing out of their civilian clothes into their neatly kept uniforms.
So th
is is Chocolate City, John said.
Yeah, Spin said. Niggas melting in the sun.
Spokesman met them there. He was as Lucifer remembered him from the old days, face-wise at least. Doofus-lookin motherfucker. Dark and fat like a church deacon. His well-paying job at Symmes Electronics had put some flesh on him. His eyes—large and black—lent the illusion of size. And his teeth sharpened the illusion. Two front teeth, a black gap of space between them, like walrus tusks, crooked, jagged. And he was still wearing those heavy brown shoes of brokerage, the kind where the heels never wear out.
Lucifer’s feelings filled with light. He was part. John, Spokesman, and Spin were famous bloods once. (Perhaps they are famous still.) The Hairtrigger Boys. Drawn to trouble as much as to the trigger. Sharpshooters who ran night missions. Twenty-five years ago when Lucifer was in the shit, word wafted that the Hairtrigger Boys had returned to their base, mission-worn, and requested water, buckets and buckets of it. Jim, we was ready to swim. The lifers flew in three choppers that dropped three pails, trailing from three parachutes white in the night. With his buckknife, Spin opened the first pail. John and Spokesman—using his buckteeth—opened the others. White eyes, cold and paint-thick, watched them from the pails. Steaming vanilla ice cream! Son of a bitch. Spin removed his jungle-logged boots. Fuck those lifers! Spokesman and John removed theirs. Motherfuck them lifers! Spin hailed a starting distance. Spokesman and John followed suit. The three set off like javelins. Sailed through the night, straight, precise, arching high, then falling, falling, dead center. Swish! The Hairtrigger Boys stabbed and jabbed their boots in the ice-cream pails, stomping around, marching in place, cold-swishing. Singing. I don’t know but I been told. Artic pussy mighty cold. There it is.
And here he, Lucifer, was, with the three of them, the Hairtrigger Boys. He was part.
Uncle Sam led the demonstration, a poster replica—Day-Glo makeup, red lipstick, Pinocchio nose—who rose above the crowd on oak stilts, tooting a party bugle that sounded with the thick power of a foghorn. The vets followed Uncle Sam, all armed with serious frowns and heavy flags hard to keep steady in the wind. Spin walked point—he always did, if you believed John’s stories—his solid body swaying side to side, his voice carrying—If shit did not exist, man would invent it—and holding in the air like an extended tree limb.
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