by Jack Cady
But it couldn't be Indiana. Indiana was Ku Klux and white-bread all the way. Muncie, Indiana had a reputation among colored like even Chicago didn't. When Mr. Joe Louis won a prize fight, and when colored folks gathered around the radio cheering, folks knew they were defying. And if Mr. Joe Louis beat a white fighter, the cops of Muncie busted colored heads. Happened every damn fight.
So it wasn't Indiana or Kentucky. And, it wasn't religion, because Wade wasn't worth shucks at that. Maybe it was because Wade learned stuff. When Lester and Zeke and Alfonzo worked the furniture factory, Wade acted embarrassed but polite. The sonovabitch was trying.
Or maybe it was business. Business was like being in a band, and not like dancing. A man could dance all by himself, but with jazz you gotta play together, or forget it. There had been some cooperation-feeling in the army, but not as much.
So, when men knew what they were doing, and did it good, they naturally had to make room for each other. "Which is why," he admitted to the truck, "I gotta say that Mr. Country-Wade ain't as awful as most." The truck, having no opinion, chugged.
When he arrived at the auction and parked, a '38 Chev and a '41 Hudson consigned by the Shell station, sat at the curb. The Chev was one of those things that would heave itself slowly out of the gutter, proceed at a washerwoman's pace, then stop easy enough, since it wasn't goin' anywhere, anyway. The Hudson, on the other hand, would hang 60 in second gear; and only the good Lord knew where its top end lay.
"Nothin' but trouble," Lester told the parked truck, and he talked about the Hudson. Still, a bitty-bit of desire couldn't stay out of his voice.
When he got to the sidewalk he looked at Mrs. Samuels' house. If anything, it was even deader than the Chevrolet. Along the peak of the house you could see a sag in the roof line. Shingles showed themselves missing in spots. The house looked deserted.
The sun porch still held those ratty stuffed chairs. Rusty screens still kept out flies. If you squinted you could see through the screens, though sunlight glinted off the rust.
* * *
"The wife will be along later," Wade told Lester. "You hold down the fort. I got an appraisal."
"Which kind?"
"Heirs," Wade said, and was so blamed pleased with himself he couldn't hardly stand it. He told himself that a stupid bastard would have fired Lester. Instead, Wade had himself a man who knew the business. In an heirs' appraisal, the auctioneer appraises low because the family wants to buy stuff from the court. That, and sometimes a judge or lawyer wants to buy stuff; all more-or-less-barely legal. When no interested party wants to buy, the auctioneer appraises at actual value.
"If you have to move those shit-boxes," Wade said about the cars, "the keys are on the desk." He looked around. "Might give the windows a lick or two. When my kid comes in, tell him he can go to Lucky's, and come to the sale with Lucky."
When Wade disappeared Lester stood to-tally pleased. He was, by God, the man in charge. If the phone rang, he would answer. If a customer came in, that customer would deal with Lester. It was like having your own auction. It was a taste of what he had always known he was gonna be; because he had always known himself cut out for higher things. And, it is fair to say that nowhere in the entire sovereign state of Kentucky, was a store better run than was the auction on that morning.
* * *
Lucky, on the other hand, was having a miserable morning.
Trouble infested the air, and if a man was thoughtful he could see how ugliness lay just over Louisville's horizon. If that same man was a Jew, he could feel malaise of spirit sail across the entire country; sailing, as usual, under the banner of the Lord of Hosts. The morning paper still told of the House UnAmerican Activities Committee. It read like the approach of storm.
Lucky sat in his store before opening, and regretted his early morning silence. At breakfast, and reading the newspaper, he felt the malaise. When Rachel asked what was wrong, he couldn't say, so didn't say; but should have come up with something. No reason to trouble the woman.
Beyond the windows of his store Jackson St. lay light gray under mist from the river, silver when sun poured through the mist. Later, when open for business, the store would fill with more jazz, more jive, more sass. Jackson St. was a fine place in plenty of ways, but Jackson St. thought that 'long range' meant tomorrow, supper time. The folks of Jackson St. never heard of malaise, and thought of storm only when it began to thunder. In that way, they were like most whites.
He asked himself what he felt, and answered that he was feeling 'pogrom'. In the mid-'30s in Germany, Hitler rose through denunciation of communism and Jews. Hitler welded a government, a police force, and an army out of the lowest clay. In Nazi Germany that dead Corbin goon would have been a standard-issue hero.
Because of Hitler, death had ruled the world. Extermination. Before Hitler, the word 'extermination' meant something you did to bugs.
Evil seemed to cover the street, and Lucky could not figure whether it was new, or leftovers of the war, or both. He watched colored neighbors early-to-work, walking Jackson St. They walked innocent, not knowing an umbrella of hate was opening. Most of them encountered minor kinds of hate every day, but they had no idea, none a-tall about what could happen.
The only thing needed for a pogrom was a man on a white horse, a hater with spellbinding personality. Colored would sink with Jews.
He tried to feel something and almost succeeded. It had been one year, almost to the day, since trouble began. House UnAmerican sent ten Hollywood folks, some Jews, to prison for pleading the First Amendment. Those people claimed they had a right to their own opinions and beliefs. The committee hollered Communist loud and long. The committee didn't know a thing, because it didn't want to know.
Out there on the street some of those colored called themselves communists. To them communism meant a steady job and everybody equal. One or two might have understood more. To most of them, communism was like being accepted into a labor union.
In the '30s, back during the depression, communism was an idea and not a fact. Lots of people, hundreds of thousands, belonged to the party. Lots of others belonged to liberal groups that were not communist. Not communist, that is, until House UnAmerican started redefining. With House UnAmerican it was nearly dangerous to be a Democrat, certainly dangerous to be a liberal.
Which, of course, Lucky was, had been, would be.
He was also a guy who felt guilty, and couldn't quite say why. On some days, like today, he felt guilty because he was alive and successful when so many millions were dead. On days like today, he felt that his success rose from among piles of the dead. He knew enough to know that he wasn't being logical.
He watched Miz Hattie gimp past, an old, old lady with a busted hip that had healed wrong . . . Hattie almost always cheerful, headed for the bus, traveling to housecleaning up in the Highlands. Hattie going day-to-day, thanking Jesus, living life. He thought how terrible it would be, Hattie stripped naked amongst hundreds the same; being herded to a gas chamber. Praying to sweet Jesus.
He thought of Howard, skinny and serious and ambitious. When he thought of Howard, who was like one of his own, he thought that he'd better stop thinking, because he was finally feeling something awful. Break the train of thought. He told himself Jews loved to make themselves miserable, or was that true? Maybe 'thinking' did it.
Jews surely loved to make themselves feel guilty. Otherwise, they wouldn't do it so much. Of course, hope was even more powerful. Otherwise, they wouldn't send so many millions of dollars to aid refugees. They wouldn't send so many more millions to build Israel.
Thinking about guilt, he wondered could he have done something to prevent that suicide last month?
Then, as he headed to unlock the front door, and thinking further, he realized it had not been suicide.
September 17th
Sleepy Time Down South
Jackson St. ran quiet as the river at low stage. Jim got off the bus, walked toward Lucky's and felt scary. He heard hardly any
sound. The old, old lady, Miz Sally, still sat on her porch and raised a kerchief. Mr. Rufus James Whiteman still sat trembling and gaptoothed. Except for them, hardly a soul stirred.
The door to Sapphire Top Spot, which always stood open, was now closed. No lights shone. The street corner, where men always stood, sat empty. Jim feared the ghost of the country boy might come drifting through afternoon sunlight.
Because, by then, Jim knew as much of the story as Lester would tell. Jim knew the country boy got killed and Ozzie did it. Jim did not know about all the blood, or about Blue screaming, or about cops banging heads. Lester only said the country boy got shot.
When he stepped inside Lucky's store things looked more lively. Lola the guinea hen, contented, seemed ready to cluck. Thomas, the Plymouth Rock rooster, looked, today, to-tally critical; though nuts. Thomas disapproved of everything he saw (through glassy eyes) that was happening on Jackson St.
A light-skin lady leaned elbows on the front counter, while behind the counter Howard stood and practiced patience. There was gonna be a time, just the right moment, when Howard would need to speak. He looked at Jim, turned his mouth down signaling for quiet and watched his customer. The lady looked at stickpins, some of them diamonds, and some glass. "These come with a little box? Don't look right without no box."
"I have two kinds," Howard told her. "A plain one like this . . . ." he placed a small cardboard box with cotton liner on the counter, " . . .and for fine items I have this kind that snaps open . . . ." He placed a velvet lined box, snazzy (wholesale cost 12 1/2 cents) beside the cardboard.
The lady eyed the snap-open box with pure desire. "Don't know 'bout fine items."
"I have a bit of leeway," Howard told her. "Which pin would you like?" He brushed the cardboard box aside like it was nothing. From beneath the counter he pulled a small square of plywood covered with padded, ivory-colored velvet. He placed a ten dollar zircon on the velvet. He left the snap-open box, open. Then he chose a six dollar pin, a flashy ruby. "I can fit this one to the nicer box." He laid it beside the ten dollar. On the ivory velvet, the ruby outshone the zircon.
"That man," said the lady, "is my man, and he is gonna love that." She reached in her purse.
Toward the back, but within earshot, Lucky piddled around, arranging merchandise. He kept an eye on a flashy looking gent who kept an eye on him. Mr. Flashy hovered around the suits, some of them double-breasted and with vests.
"This time I'll get him," Lucky whispered to Jim. "Cincy's on his way to grabbing something."
"Hard to shop lift a hockshop."
"You'd be surprised," Lucky told him. "Some guys could lift grease out of a skillet."
To Jim, Lucky looked tired. He looked the way Wade looked after a long sale. He looked like men look when pressure has been on since just-forever. Lucky, who didn't drink, looked like he needed a drink.
"Lester told me," Jim said, as if that explained something.
"What happened to that man's truck?"
"Police took it somewhere." Then Lucky whispered. "I'm going to turn my head. You turn away, but just enough. Keep an eye on Cincy."
Quick as a-mouse-down-a-mouse-hole, a satin vest went smoothly beneath Cincy's jacket. There wasn't even a lump. Magicians couldn't pull up rabbits as fast as Cincy worked.
"Vest under his jacket," Jim whispered.
"Five bucks," Lucky said in the direction of Cincy. "Top of the line vest. Impress the womens."
"I change my mind," Cincy said. He was a small, dark man, and he wore a blue suit and knit red tie. "It seem a little large." He laid the vest on a counter and walked.
"Shop elsewhere," Lucky said. "Next time gets worse." He watched Howard, who was watching Cincy. "No sense making enemies," Lucky said to Jim. "Where possible, keep it friendly." When Howard joined them, Lucky said, "You kids take a lesson about keeping records. I've had cops in here like the plagues of Egypt. It wears on a man."
"The fire department washed the street," Howard said to Jim, and maybe Howard bragged a little. Then he remembered that the fire department had washed the alley after Jolly got killed. Howard shivered. "You can still see dark spots between the bricks." He looked toward the front of the store. His customer had long gone. Then Howard looked to Lucky, waiting and anticipating.
"Good job," Lucky said. "You listened to your customer and gave what she wanted. She's happy, and not feeling forced into something."
Howard couldn't help showing off just a tad. He clapped his hands, then clasped them prayerful and put them to his mouth.
"Basic stuff," Lucky said. "Next time, if you want to move the higher-priced item, pull out three; one of them real high-priced. Treat that one like it isn't much, but work the middle one."
"Washed the street?"
"With fire hoses."
"The man bled to death," Lucky said. "And Mussolini didn't run Italy any meaner than the police are running Jackson St."
"Police have the man's invoices," Howard explained. "They figure Ozzie is still around hocking merchandise."
"That," said Lucky, "is an excuse. They know Ozzie went south."
"South?"
"Folks most often trust each other in the south," Lucky said. "That doesn't happen as much in Chicago. White men generally run south or west. Colored men almost always run south."
"What happens when they catch him?"
"They won't catch him," Lucky said, and he was a tired, tired man. "He'll catch himself. With the kind of temper Ozzie owns, it's a wonder he's lived this long."
Bled to death. Bled to death. Lester hadn't said anything about that. Lots of people dying this summer. Lots of barbershop men talking filthy. Plus, the preacher, Reverend Mr. Robertson turned out to be as full of crap as an elephant with the trots. Communists, him and Howard.
"It's gonna be a pretty good sale tonight," Jim told Lucky.
"Today, you guys wash windows," Lucky told him. "Use ammonia. I wanta hear those washrags squeak." He looked to the front of the store where an old, old white lady just entered. "Miz Janey," Lucky said in a low voice. "Come to hock a wedding ring." He moved away.
"She has three," Howard whispered, his voice sounding real important. "Buried three husbands. Hocks a ring at the end of each month, until the old folk's check arrives. Always redeems it."
* * *
Washing windows. No help for it. If he didn't wash 'em in one place, he washed 'em in the other. Jim rubbed and scrubbed. Howard squeegeed and tsked.
"Lester never said about bleeding."
"It was surely awful," Howard said. "Ozzie must have cut him all over."
"Lester said 'shot'."
"That too." Howard drew his squeegee, wiped its edge, looked at a streak. Tsked. "Hopeless."
"Dry rag. Follow up with a dry rag."
"My mother defends Lester," Howard said. "A great many ladies say Lester carries blame."
"Not fair. Not fair."
"Men folk hold nothing against him."
"We're selling two cars tonight. One ain't worth a split dime."
"My mother says Lester is a credit to the race, even though not churched." Howard rubbed a dry rag at a streak. Looked at the result, real sorrowful.
"You wash," Jim told him. "I'll polish."
Working together. They kept quiet when a cop came in, looked around, stepped back out. They kept quiet when a cop stopped a brown man outside Lucky's. The man carried a small adding machine, hand-operated. The cop checked the adding machine against a handful of invoices. He spoke quietly to the brown man, the man fearful. The cop gave the man a shove, and the man headed on down Jackson St.
"Roughing people up," Lucky said, as he approached the boys. "That was Prester, and that was Prester's adding machine. He's hocked it before."
"Explain to the cop?"
"And get Prester beat bad? When cops get caught up wrong, they take it out on somebody." Lucky looked upward, toward Thomas, the crazy rooster. "That chicken has more brains than all of Jackson St. combined, cops included; t
hem especially."
Wednesday Night, September 17th
Auction
During Which A Mountain is Climbed
Supper was a sack of burgers. Jim and Howard sat out back, in the alley behind the auction where declining autumn sun lay orange and silver on old garages. The brick alley ran straight ahead, down to Tyler Park where white kids played peggie in diminishing light.
"Lucky has something on his mind," Howard said. "I don't know what."
"Maybe he's gotta learn fractions."
"Be serious."
"That dead guy. You sorry he's dead? Maybe I ain't."
"And perhaps you are," Howard said. "My mother mourns. She says Ozzie will be destroyed. Then the man who kills Ozzie will run. It keeps adding up." Howard looked down the red brick alley like a man staring into space. "Lucky is fretful."
"That other guy, the one that killed himself . . . I got something spooky to show you."
When they looked through the crack in the garage, the bed of flowers, shaped like a man, lay dead and dry except for a couple of wilting mums. Slanting sun did not cause little spotlights of sun. The mums glowed white in the gloom.
The picture of a man in gold and red, framed in black, hung in shadow; the jacket with the medal, the same. "He was a soldier," Howard whispered about the dead man. "A foreign soldier. Is that his picture?"
"Maybe," Jim said. "The killed man was real skinny, sick-like."
"Someone still attends him," Howard whispered. "Those flowers were picked within the week." Howard turned away. "Someone must be very sad. But, we have work." He turned back to the auction.
* * *
Laryngitis in the mouth of a politician is lovely, but in an auctioneer it borders on tragic. Wade stood with Daniels as the crowd assembled. "I'm gonna make it," Wade told Daniels, "but it's gonna be close. Last Saturday was a double-dip-butt-wipe." Wade did not sound good, and he did sound worried.
In the crowd, the antique dealer, Gloria, red-haired and Irish, drifted slow, like ball lightning. The junk dealer, Fudd, stood at the edge of the crowd and groused at Lucky. Lucky pretended to listen, then, excusing himself, stepped outside into declining light where Lester stood. The windows of Mrs. Samuels' house were dark.