South Street

by David Bradley

  “Why, all right,” said Jake, “I don’t mind if I do.”

  He pulled the cork out of the bottle and poured both glasses full to the brim, first Leo’s, then his own. Leo lifted his glass slowly and sipped. Jake downed his in one shot. “Have another?” Jake said.

  “I’m fine,” Leo said, “but you go ahead.” Jake nodded and poured again, drinking more slowly this time. “Woulda been here sooner,” Leo said, “only I got cornered by the preacher.”

  “Sloan?” growled Jake. Leo nodded. “That sonofabitch.”

  “Now, Jake,” Leo admonished, “you gotta show more respect.”

  “Shit,” said Jake. “You know what the sonofabitch done? I’ll tell you what he done. Useta be churches was open. Anytime you got to feelin’ the spirit you could go in an’ pray a while, long as you wanted. I tell you, I done prayed maself the night away many a time, ’specially in the winter. But then ’long comes this Sloan an’ he says, ‘We can’t be havin’ this riff-raft sleepin’ in the church. It don’t look good.’ Guess Jesus wouldn’t like it. Anyways, he locked the place right up. No warnin’ an’ in the dead a winter. Sloan! Piece a goddamn shit, if you ast me.” Jake tossed off the rest of his wine and slammed his glass down on the bar. Leo reached out calmly and poured it full again. “You know what you oughta do?” Jake said. “You oughta open up on Sundays an’ get every one a that bastard’s deacons so blind drunk they’ll shit in the collection plate.”

  “Yeah, well,” said Leo, trying not to grin.

  Jake finished off his third glass of wine and smiled. “Real nice stuff.”

  “Same as always,” Leo said absentmindedly. “Jake, I wants you to do me a favor.”

  “Sure,” said Jake.

  “You recall the fella was in here last night? One talkin’ to Betsy?”

  “I remember anybody can stand talkin’ to Betsy,” Jake said.

  “I want you to ast around. Find out who he is.”

  “Okay.”

  “Name’s Brown,” Leo said. “I ain’t seen him before, but somebody musta. He’s gotta come from somewheres.”

  “Leroy Briggs is sure gonna take somethin’ outa that nigger’s hide,” Jake predicted. “What you want him for?”

  “I don’t want him,” Leo said, “I just want to know where he is so I can stay the hell outa the way. Fool’s got to be crazy.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  Leo nodded grimly. “You want some money for, uh, expenses?”

  “Naw,” said Jake, “I don’t need money. There’s enough niggers that owes me a favor. ’Bout time I started collectin’. Course …”

  “Course, what?” Leo said.

  “It might be helpful,” Jake said, “if I could kinda bring somebody in an’ buy ’em a drink. While I was remindin’ them a all the favors they owed me.”

  “Sure,” said Leo.

  “Okay,” said Jake. “Now I better be gettin’ ma ass to work.”

  “You still shinin’ shoes over to the train station?”

  Jake nodded. “Tips is gettin’ to be pretty good, with them startin’ that Metroliner thing.”

  “Guess they ain’t payin’ you much.”

  Jake didn’t answer.

  Leo looked at him. “They payin’ you anything?”

  Jake remained silent.

  “What you do it for, Jake?”

  Jake shrugged. “Man’s gotta be doin’ somethin’ ’sides drink. I shines shoes.” He looked at Leo for a minute, smiled, and shuffled out. Leo watched him totter through the door, then picked up his glass and washed it. Then he picked up his own, sniffed it, wrinkled his nose, and poured the wine back into the bottle.

  The Reverend Mr. Sloan looked down with great satisfaction upon the sanctuary of The Word of Life Church. The theater seats were three-quarters full, and the seating capacity was one thousand. Mr. Sloan mentally converted the attendance figures into dollar signs and sighed blissfully. On stage one of the assistant ministers was doing a wild Watusi, while the elders, deacons, and trustees, seated on the right side of the aisle in the first five rows, stamped their feet and shouted amen. The congregation was waking from its lethargy and beginning to shout, too. As Mr. Sloan watched, Sister Fundidia Larson rose from her seat in the choir and let loose a long, pious wail, while clasping her hands above her head and rotating her body in ecstasy. The dancing minister stared openly at her bouncing bosom without missing a single beat and allowed attention to wander to Sister Fundidia’s glorious example of Christian fervor. Then, as Sister Fundidia began to tire, he deftly drew the focus of the service back to himself with a couple of loud shouts and a few slaps on his tambourine. The Reverend Mr. Sloan made mental notes to commend the assistant for his handling of the service and to have him warned to keep his hands off Sister Fundidia.

  Mr. Sloan’s vantage point was what had once been the projection booth at the rear of the theater. He had had it transformed into a rather cozy office: air-conditioned, carpeted, wood paneled. A massive ebony-finished desk occupied one corner. The desk chair had been carefully constructed to make the occupant—and Mr. Sloan made sure there was never any occupant but himself—look like a giant. In fact, the dimensions of the entire room tapered slightly, so that Mr. Sloan, when seated behind the desk, looked slightly larger than life.

  The intercom buzzed, and Mr. Sloan bent to speak into it. His eyes glinted with anticipation, but he was careful to keep his voice calm and even. “Yes?” The intercom buzzed and squawked. “Of course,” said the Reverend Mr. Sloan, “send him right up.” The intercom squawked once. Mr. Sloan flipped it off and looked around, giving careful thought as to the most advantageous pose in which to receive his visitor. He straightened the frames of the certificates that hung on the wall, above his trophy shelf, his hands lingering lovingly over his D.D. diploma, of which he was quite proud. The Reverend Mr. Sloan had, so he told everyone who inquired, received his doctorate from Berkeley. He never found it necessary to add that the campus was a post-office box, and tuition was always remitted in cashier’s checks or money orders or, occasionally, in stamps. He tried posing with a hand on the diploma but changed his mind and leaped into his chair. He reached out to the complex control panel set into a drawer of his desk and activated an amplifier circuit; sound from the sanctuary flowed into the room through concealed speakers—the mellow voice of the first assistant minister issuing the call to worship. Mr. Sloan spun the chair around so that he faced the wall, the chair’s high back rising behind him. When the door opened, nothing of Mr. Sloan was at all visible.

  Mr. Sloan listened in excitement, hearing the footsteps hesitate. Mr. Sloan imagined, with great satisfaction, his visitor looking around the empty room, peering into corners, shrugging with self-conscious nonchalance for the benefit of a hidden observer and, when the eeriness of the assistant minister’s disembodied voice began to have its effect, shivering a little. At that point the Reverend Mr. Sloan spun his chair around and smiled broadly. “Why, Brother Leroy,” said the Reverend Mr. Sloan, “it’s so nice to see you.”

  Leroy turned quickly from examining the display of Mr. Sloan’s certificates, awards, and trophies. “Huh?” he said.

  “Oh,” said Mr. Sloan, spreading his hands and putting a look of horrified contrition on his face, “did I startle you? I’s so sorry.”

  “Nope,” said Leroy, adjusting his purple-and-gold-checked silk tie, “I was just lookin’.”

  “Yes,” said the Reverend Mr. Sloan, rising, smiling, and coming out from behind the desk. Leroy gave ground. Mr. Sloan’s smile broadened. “Let me point a few of them out for you,” Mr. Sloan offered. “This is the loving cup given me by the North American Racial Congress for my work in combatting the drug problem. This certificate was presented to me at a testimonial given in my honor by the Federation of Biblical Interpreters for my translation of Saint Paul’s letter to the church at Milkigaarde. That’s Constantinople, you know. Very difficult translation. I expect an honorary degree from my alma mater for it
, possibly from Harvard as well. Well. This next one is the certificate from the Council of Introspective Atheists, and, last but not least, the big gold plaque is the Centennial Award from the double-A triple-E N.

  “Da who?” said Leroy, looking at the plaque.

  “You know,” said Mr. Sloan modestly, “the American Association for the Enlightenment, Education, and Elevation of Negroes.”

  “Well,” said Leroy, “them enlightened, educated, elevated niggers done gypped you. That there’s brass.”

  Mr. Sloan’s face clouded but he kept himself from looking at the plaque. “It’s the thought that counts,” Mr. Sloan said stiffly. He turned and stepped back behind the desk, seating himself precisely in his chair. “Won’t you have a seat?”

  Leroy nodded amiably and lowered himself into the visitor’s chair, which was cunningly designed to sink until the head of the occupant was on a level well below that of the exalted pate of the Reverend Mr. Sloan. The air wheezed out of the cushion, and Leroy saw Mr. Sloan’s head rear above him like the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro. Leroy pushed himself out of the chair. “I think I’ll just stand,” he said.

  The Reverend Mr. Sloan sat helplessly looking up at Leroy. “Is the chair that uncomfortable?” Mr. Sloan demanded testily.

  “Ain’t that,” Leroy said.

  “Well,” said Mr. Sloan, bouncing to his feet, “I’ve been sitting all morning.” His nose was on the same level as the intricate knotting of Leroy’s tie. Staring at it, the Reverend Mr. Sloan felt a little ill. “Now then, Brother Leroy—” he began.

  “Mr. Briggs,” said Leroy.

  “Ah, Brother Briggs,” said Mr. Sloan.

  “Mr. Briggs,” said Leroy.

  “Mr. Briggs,” said Reverend Sloan. “I hope this is only the first in a long series of transactions between us.” He smiled winningly.

  “I hope so, too,” said Leroy.

  Mr. Sloan’s smile faded slightly. “You do?”

  “Why shore,” said Leroy, grinning broadly. “Oh, I know what you been thinkin’. You was thinkin’, ‘That there Leroy Briggs, he ain’t gonna like payin’ off all that there money.’ But you know what?”

  “No,” said the Reverend Mr. Sloan, feeling slightly sicker, “what?”

  “You,” said Leroy, “was wrong. See, I look at it from a business point a view. Get the big picture, you dig? Now I runs a game. The more folks plays, the more money I makes. An’ folks only plays to win. Ain’t nobody gonna play if nobody never wins nothin’. After a while they gonna say, ‘We ain’t never won shit playin’ along, we better get us a new deal.’ A man ain’t gonna keep on puttin’ out his quarter every day if he ain’t never won nothin’ an’ if he don’t know nobody who ever won nothin’. So somebody has to win. Now, truth is folks don’t win all that often. So sometimes I has to go an’ pay somebody to tell folks that they done won. Ain’t that a bitch? Course, every once in a while some lucky jackass does hit, but that can cause all kinds a trouble. I mean the man has to be a fool, otherwise he wouldn’t be playin’ in the first damn place, an’ so he takes the money an’ goes out an’ buys a lot a crap, or worse, he puts it in the bank. Now if he buys stuff with it, sooner or later somebody’s gonna want to know where this poor nigger got his eight-track stereo an’ his color TV an’ that starts a whole mess a shit with the po-lice comin’ around astin’ questions an’ sometimes you gotta do things that ain’t—businesslike. An’ if the fool goes an’ puts the money in the bank, come income tax time he’s gotta report it or else the guvment computer’s gonna blow a fuse or somethin’, an’ either way you get Tres’ry people runnin’ aroun’, astin’ more questions, causin’ more trouble. Once ain’t too bad, but it just keeps on happenin’ every time some fool hits big. I mean, cops is hard to get rid of, but them federal agents is runnin’ the market sky high. I can’t afford to be buyin’ one or two every damn year, an’ you don’t dare kill ’em. That’s where you comes in, Rev.”

  Reverend Sloan grimaced. Leroy didn’t seem to notice. “This here’s a church,” Leroy said. “Churches ain’t got to pay taxes an’ they don’t got to report shit to nobody.” Leroy paused to grin. The Reverend Mr. Sloan did not grin. “I must say, Rev,” Leroy continued, “the idea was a dandy. Get the horses from that fool out to the track, figure out the number, an’ get all the deacons to hit for a dollar. But it musta cost you some bread, gettin’ to the man who knows an’ all. You ain’t got to be goin’ through all that shit. You wants to hit, just call on Leroy, he’ll ’range everything. All you got to do is to make sure folks finds out where you got the money. You don’t have to let on like you was playin’; just tell ’em Leroy Briggs done made a contribution to the cause, they’ll know what you mean.”

  The Reverend Mr. Sloan had sunk slowly into his chair, a flabbergasted look on his face. “You don’t mind about the—”

  “Five thou? Hell, no. Like I said, somebody’s got to win, best if it’s you. After the word gets around you Christians done hit for number one every nigger in the world’s gonna be throwin’ away his dream book an’ readin’ the Bible an’ puttin’ a quarter on the Twenty-third Psalm or some such shit. They gonna be thinkin’ all they got to do is pray an’ the number’ll come to ’em in a dream, like you tole them deacons a yours.” Leroy reached into an inner pocket and produced two thick envelopes, tossed them on the desk. “Here’s the jack, Jack. I woulda give you a check, but I figured you might wanna make it look like it come in the collection plate. Just for appearances, you dig?”

  Mr. Sloan sat silently in his chair, beads of frustrated perspiration dribbled off his head, through his eyebrows, and into his eyes.

  “Ain’t you gonna count it?” Leroy said gently.

  “You wouldn’t cheat,” Mr. Sloan sighed.

  Leroy smiled. “Always pays in full. Only way to do business. Now, in a few months when things cools off, we’ll just pump you out a little more cash. After you done had one a your di-vine dreams, a course. That’ll make the market go up like a shot. Course, you ain’t gonna be gettin’ no five thou, but I ain’t gonna be cheap.” He smiled toothily. “It’s been a pleasure, Rev, but now I got to be goin’. I got some other business that needs tendin’ to.”

  Mr. Sloan raised his head. “Having a meeting with Gino, Brother Leroy?” he said, smiling.

  Leroy stopped short. “Mr. Briggs,” he said automatically. “What about Gino?”

  “Oh, nothing,” said Mr. Sloan. “The acquaintance you mentioned, at the track. He said perhaps you had some dealings with a friend of his named Gino. I just thought it might be he you were going to see.”

  “No,” said Leroy. “No, it ain’t ‘he.’ It ain’t none a your damn business who it is.” He glared at Mr. Sloan for a moment, then his features relaxed. “But, speakin’ of acquaintances, I met somebody who says he knew you a few years ago when you had an, ah, position in California? I believe he said you were involved with the California state penal system in some, ah, capacity?”

  “Chaplain,” said Mr. Sloan.

  “Of course,” said Leroy. “What else would a preacher be doin’ in San Q.” Leroy smiled and adjusted his belt over his ample belly. “You take it easy now, Rev, you hear?” He winked and turned for the door. Mr. Sloan watched it close after him, reached out and opened one of the envelopes, stared listlessly at the wad of bills, let the envelope drop.

  “Now, Brothers and Sisters,” came the voice of Brother Fletcher, the assistant, from the hidden speakers, “the time has come for us to worship with our tithes and offerings….” Mr. Sloan snapped his head up as the door opened and Leroy’s big head showed around the jamb.

  “One more thing,” Leroy said. “I was talkin’ to this associate a mine an’ he said he might be comin’ around to talk to you pretty soon. Somethin’ about you havin’ a pretty big operation here an’ gonna be needin’ some insurance. Fire, theft, vandalism, you know what I mean. I tell you, Rev, these vandals is gettin’ to be a real pain in the ass. I don’t know what these kids is comin�
�� to. Gettin’ to be actin’ like a regular bunch a hoodlums. Anyways, don’t you forget about that insurance. The fella’ll be around. Name’s Willie T. You all oughta get along real good, you both bein’ so intellectual. Willie T.’s been to night school, took all kinds a correspondence courses.” He winked again, retracted his head, and closed the door with a soft click.

  “Lay not up for yourselves—,” said the speaker, but the sound of Brother Fletcher’s voice ceased abruptly as the Reverend Mr. J. Peter Sloan turned off the amplifier, using, instead of the switch on his control panel, a heavy lead paper weight that had been given to him by the Association of Organized Pacifists.

  “Goddamn your lazy ass! Why can’t I have it?”

  “We ain’t got the money for it.”

  “We would if you wasn’t some simple ass-kissin’ janitor.”

  “We ain’t got the money,” Rayburn said again.

  “All I know is, Charlene’s walkin’ around in a brand new dress, an’ I’ll be goddamned if I’ma let her be turnin’ her nose up at me just ’cause you ain’t got no better sense than to clean toilets for a livin’.”

  Rayburn sighed. “I does what I does.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what you better be doin’. You better be findin’ some money from someplace, or I’ma get it maself.”

  “You ain’t gonna do nothin’ like that,” said Rayburn, wishing he believed it.

  “You don’t tell me what to do. I got along just fine without—”

  “Damn straight,” Rayburn snarled. He slammed his beer can down on the kitchen counter, and the Formica strip around the edges burst from the restraint of the cheap glue, exposing termite-infested wood. “Damn straight. You was doin’ fine, drinkin’ like a goddamn wino, shootin’ shit into your arms, noddin’ out in doorways, cryin’ an’ screamin’ in some damn alley where some damn pusher left you after you tried to suck his cock for a hit. Yeah, you was doin’ fine. You was in great shape.”

  “Fuck you,” Leslie said.

  Rayburn picked up his beer and went into the living room. He reached over and snapped on a small transistor radio, turned it up as loud as it would go. Tinny soul music sliced into his ears, and then the self-consciously black hip voice of the deejay. Rayburn kicked at the wall.