“GO!” screamed the weird John. Big Betsy beamed. She felt the warm glow of fulfillment burst like a small explosion somewhere in her belly, below the layers of girdle-encased fat. And then she suddenly realized that all the other men were shouting too. She looked at the weird John, discovered that his eyes had never left the TV screen, and glanced up in time to see the instant replay of a Philadelphia player climbing to his feet and dusting off his pants after sliding into third base with a triple. Big Betsy backed away in embarrassment, retreated hastily to the far end of the bar, mounted her stool, stared despondently at the wall. One fat tear of rage and frustration escaped from her eye and trailed down the side of her nose before vanishing into a gaping pore at the base of her left nostril. She sighed.
It was the first time in forty-five years that Big Betsy had confused an erection with a three-two pitch.
Willie T. was having a hate affair with everyone in the city named Brown, which, so Willie T. had discovered, was a considerable number of people to try to hate. That was precisely the reason that Willie T. hated them. There were so many Browns that Willie T. had no way of knowing which one of all the Browns he had discovered was the Brown he was looking for. He wasn’t even sure that while he was busy finding all the Browns he wasn’t looking for he had found the Brown he was looking for. Willie T. didn’t know if he had been totally unsuccessful or far too successful, but they both amounted to the same thing: he couldn’t give Leroy the Brown Leroy wanted, and Leroy was going to be unhappy, and when Leroy was unhappy everybody was unhappy, and when Leroy was unhappy with somebody in particular, that particular somebody became particularly unhappy. In the past such somebodies had been known to become so particularly unhappy that they had broken their own arms. Willie T. started getting unhappy.
He picked up the phone book, snorted, cursed, put the book down, picked up the phone, snorted, cursed, put the phone down, snorted, cursed, paced the length of the room, snorted, cursed, opened the door, went out to the bar and appropriated a full bottle of whiskey, snorted, cursed, returned to the office, bottle in one hand, shot glass in the other. He poured a shot, made a face, swallowed the’ whiskey, snorted, cursed and was reaching for the bottle again when somebody threw a bucketful of hot tar against the inside of his stomach. Willie T. gasped and sank down on the edge of the pool table. He felt marginally less unhappy. He regarded the bottle with a look of great respect.
Thirty minutes later, when Leroy made his entrance and sat down behind his desk, the bottle was one-third empty, and Willie T. was perched on the edge of the pool table, swaying gently and feeling far from unhappy. Leroy watched calmly as Willie T., no longer bothering with the glass, raised the bottle to the light, examined it, put it to his lips, took two large swallows, lowered the bottle, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Well?” said Leroy.
Willie T. jiggled and joggled and managed to turn without falling. “Fine, thank you. And yourself?”
Leroy smiled a shark smile. “Now don’t you be playin’ Chinese tag with ma ass, nigger,” he said sweetly. The smile left his face and his lower lip protruded. “Didja find him?”
“Find who?” said Willie T. Leroy turned slightly darker. “Oh, yeah, I ’member now. Nah, man, I checked everywheres but there wasn’t no sign of the ecgheckt,” said Willie T. as Leroy reached across the desk, grasped him firmly by the throat, and elevated him two feet off the edge of the pool table.
“Don’t you sit on your ass while you tellin’ me what a muthafuckin’ jackass you is; you stand up an’ tell me.”
“Ecgheckt,” said Willie T. Leroy dropped him onto the pool table. Willie T. bounced quickly to his feet. “Jesus, boss …”
“Say it!” thundered Leroy. “Tell me what a muthafuckin’ jackass you is. An’ an idiot. I almost forgot the idiot.”
“Just because I can’t find one goddamn nigger in a whole goddamn city full a niggers don’t make me a goddamn idiot,” said Willie T. in a fit of drunken defiance. Willie T. was unaccustomed to neat whiskey.
Leroy smiled. “I done give up tryin’ to figure out what does make you an idiot.” He resumed his seat. “Well, maybe I didn’t give you enough time. You got till tomorrow.”
The whiskey had a dangerous effect on several portions of Willie T.’s anatomy. It had caused his brain to soften, his mouth to loosen, and his backbone to stiffen. “You can give till next Juvember,” he snapped. “There ain’t noplace left to look.”
“You looked in the bars?”
“That, fool, was the first place I looked.”
Leroy stared at him. “Whad you say?”
“I said the bars was the first place I looked.”
“That’s what I thought you said. Where else?”
“Where else? Everywhere else. I checked the hospitals, the phone company, the ’lectric company, the gas company, the welfare board, the Post Office, the churches, the runners, the pushers, the hookers, the pawnshops, and the goddamn po-lice, not to mention the Democratic party and the N double Ass CP. Honest to Jesus, Leroy, this nigger ain’t human. He don’t call nobody, he don’t get no mail, he don’t cook nothin’, he don’t pray for nothin’. He don’t buy nothin’, sell nothin’, play nothin’, snort nothin’, shoot nothin’, smoke nothin’, fuck nothin’ … I mean he don’t do nothin’.”
“He bothers me,” snapped Leroy, “an’ when I finds him I’m gonna kick shit outa him. An’ if you don’t find him pretty damn quick you gonna start botherin’ me. An’ I knows where you are to start with.”
Willie T. felt the warm embers the whiskey had left glowing in his gullet turn, one by one, into ashes. He started to sink down on the edge of the pool table, caught himself, and began to ease away from Leroy. “Get me some dinner,” Leroy commanded.
“Sure, boss, sure,” stammered Willie T., trying to remember how to walk, “uh, what brand?”
“The usual,” Leroy growled.
Willie T. nodded spastically and stumbled toward the door. Just as he got there it swung inward and caught him on the forehead. “Ugpumph,” said Willie T., rebounding into the center of the room, where he fetched up against the pool table and then collapsed onto the floor. Cotton, his inertia undiminished by the resistance of Willie T.’s mass, continued through the door. He closed it softly behind him.
“Hope I ain’t interruptin’ nothin’,” Cotton said.
“Nope,” Leroy replied, “nothin’ ’cept Willie T. fetchin’ me a drink. Willie, you black-assed fuck-up, get up an’ get me a goddamn drink. If you can find the bar. Then you get your tail on outa here. I want every bar on the street checked seven times tonight.”
“Umph,” said Willie T., twitching slightly.
“What for?” said Cotton. He walked casually over to the pool table, stepping carefully over the prostrate Willie T., and started to rack the balls.
“’Cause I said so,” snapped Leroy. “Who the hell’s givin’ orders around here?”
“I was just wonderin’,” Cotton said soothingly, with a shrug of his massive shoulders. He finished racking the balls, selected a cue, picked up the chalk. “You ah, lookin’ for somethin’ special, Willie, or you just throwin’ your little shit around?”
“Ahumpaha,” said Willie T.
“He’s lookin’ for somethin’ special,” said Leroy impatiently. “What is this?”
“Just a little curiosity,” said Cotton, smiling innocently and chalking his cue. He inspected the tip with a critical eye, added a touch of chalk, blew away the excess.
Willie T. rose to his knees, shaking his head groggily. Leroy glared at him. “He’s still lookin’ for Brown.”
Cotton bent over the pool table, adjusted the cue ball with exaggerated care, using only the tip of the cue. “Oh,” he drawled. “Course, this fool here couldn’t find a pile a shit in a perfume plant.” He straightened up and beamed benevolently on Willie T., then bent back to the table.
“Fuck you,” mumbled Willie T. “I’ma find him. You just gotta be givin’ me a lit
tle space. It ain’t gonna take moren a minute.” Cotton snorted without looking up. “You couldn’t find him,” Willie T said. “You can’t look through no phone book, ’cause you can’t read. Hell, you can’t hardly talk good, even.”
Cotton smiled and made a minute adjustment to the position of the cue ball. “You does enough talkin’ for everybody. An’ as for readin’, readin’ ain’t everythin’.” He made a minor change in the position of his feet and took a few experimental pokes with the cue.
Willie T. struggled to his feet. “Yeah, fatso? Then you find him.”
Cotton looked at Willie T. and grinned. He turned his head back to the table and, without appearing to take aim, sent the cue ball rolling down the velvet to strike the massed balls at the far end of the table with a solid crack. “Already did,” Cotton said, his eyes on the balls as they rolled here and there, striking each other with tiny clicks, bouncing off cushions, veering toward pockets, and dropping out of sight; first the fifteen, then the one, and finally the eight. Cotton looked up into Willie T’s stricken face and chuckled. “Yes, sir. I done found the nigger.” Leroy stood in silence while Cotton circumnavigated the pool table, deciding on his next shot. He settled on the five ball and bent his head in concentration, but just as he began the stroke Leroy’s hand shot out and grasped the cue. The tip of it struck the cue ball a glancing blow and the ball spun madly for a few seconds without moving an inch. When it had stopped completely, Cotton allowed his eyes to travel back along the cue until his glance reached Leroy’s hand, then on up his arm to look finally into Leroy’s congested face. “I wish you wouldn’t do things like that,” Cotton said mildly.
“You play durin’ recess,” Leroy snarled, “an’ I say when recess is. Right now school’s in. Where is this muthafucka?”
Cotton smiled easily and looked pointedly at Leroy’s hand. Leroy gritted his teeth but released the cue. Cotton smiled again and began to line up his shot. “Well,” he said, bending over the table, “he was right outside.”
“On the street?” demanded Leroy. “Muthafucka’s got his nerve walkin’ ma street again.”
“He wasn’t on the street,” Cotton said.
“Humph,” Leroy said. “Better not be.”
“He was in the bar.”
“In the bar?” said Willie T. “The Elysium bar?”
“Shut up, Willie,” said Cotton.
“Boss, can he tell me to shut up?”
“No,” said Leroy. “I’m the only one can tell you to shut up. Now shut up. Cotton, you mean to tell me he was settin’ right out there an’ you left him get away?”
“Sure,” Cotton said. He sent the cue ball bouncing off the cushion to cut the five ball into the side pocket. “He was gettin’ a six to go. I figured by the time I called you he’d be gone, so I followed him instead.”
There was a long heavy silence while Cotton lined up a bank shot on the eleven. “Well, I don’t believe it,” said Willie T. suddenly. “I don’t believe a single goddamn word. Cotton, how long did you follow this cat? An hour? Two?”
“I followed him home. Figured that was far enough.”
“You mean to tell me you followed this cat all the way home. …”
“Easy as apple pie,” Cotton said.
“Yeah. Too damn easy,” said Willie T. “You know what I think?”
“I’m still tryin’ to figure out if you think,” Cotton said.
“I think it’s a setup,” said Willie T. “How come this big bad dude who’s supposed to be movin’ in an’ takin’ over don’t even know if he’s tailed?”
Cotton sighed and shot the four ball. “Well, Willie, I guess maybe he just didn’t notice me.”
“Guess not,” snapped Willie T. “Guess I wouldn’t notice neither if a fuckin’ hippopotamus was to follow me home.”
Cotton looked up, his broad features crowding themselves into a much smaller space. “If I was you, Willie, I’d watch that little shit, ’fore I put ma foot right through your contraption.”
“Damn,” said Leroy, low and dirty in the back of his throat. Cotton and Willie T. stared at the clenched fists, the scowl of hate on Leroy’s face. “Damn. Cat goes walkin’ in ma streets in the broad daylight. Cat goes prowlin’ in ma space an’ don’t even take the time to look around. Cat goes prancin’ into ma bars tellin’ folks what to do. Cat goes an’ does all that, I say the cat goes. Period.”
“But what if he does work for Gino?” said Willie T. softly.
“I don’t care if the nigger’s on the board a directors in hell. Cotton, where—”
“Upstairs from Rayburn Wallace,” Cotton said. He raised his eyes and looked directly at Leroy. “An’ upstairs from Mrs. Wallace, too, a course.”
Leroy’s expression of hate was tempered by bewilderment. “Jesus, he’s after ma women, too.” He spun on his heels and charged out of the room. Cotton chuckled softly, snorted, and turned back to the pool table.
“Phew,” said Willie T. “I sure hope that cat don’t work for Gino.”
“What if he does,” said Cotton.
“What if he does?” screamed Willie T. “When Leroy pounds him Gino pounds us, that’s what if he does.” Willie T. began to gibber.
“Shut the shit up,” said Cotton. He put the pool cue down, walked over and slapped Willie T. Willie T. fell to the floor. Cotton hauled him back to his feet, dusted him off. “Take it easy now, Willie,” Cotton said. “Leroy ain’t gonna pound that dude. Leroy ain’t gonna pound nobody. Leroy’s turnin’ into the biggest, softest piece a chicken dirt since the Little Red Hen had a shit fit. Hell, he keeps you around just so he don’t have to go too far to find somebody he don’t have to be scared of.” Cotton grinned and slapped Willie T. on the back. Laughing uproariously, he sauntered out. A stunned Willie T. started to sink to the edge of the pool table but checked himself, out of habit, and peered over his shoulder at the door.
Brown was on his hands and knees, using a screwdriver to chisel away at the hardened accumulation of dirt, mucus, and chewing gum adhering to the underside of the rickety wooden table. With each thrust the table gave an outraged squeak and rocked back and forth on uneven legs. The room, a kitchen, was clean but bare, containing only an ancient gas stove, a dilapidated refrigerator, a stained porcelain sink, a few sagging cabinets, two chairs, the table, and Brown, who smiled in grim contentment as he chipped away at the rocklike mass. Brown had, with some difficulty, levered the window open, and a breeze blew through it bringing a teasing eddy of relative coolness into the room’s humid oppression, and, along with it, the sounds of traffic and a crying baby and the too-sweet smell of garbage rotting unprotestingly in the alley.
Brown paused and leaned back against the wall and sighed. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a long streak of dirt which turned instantly to mud as it encountered the sweat on his forehead. Brown examined the back of his hand, shrugged, and wiped it on his once-white shirt, picked up the screwdriver, and again attacked the residue beneath the table. He worked away for a few minutes, grunting and grimacing from the effort, stopping suddenly when he heard someone coming up the stairs.
Brown got quickly to his feet, moved silently toward the door. It rattled slightly as someone touched the knob. Brown flattened himself against the wall, grasped the screwdriver tightly. There was a soft, hesitant knock on the door. Brown relaxed slightly. “Come in,” he said. Nothing happened. Brown swallowed and worked his fingers on the handle of the screwdriver. He held his breath, reached out and grasped the door handle, and jerked the door open, springing back against the wall as it swung.
“Adlai?”
Brown relaxed completely, moved away from the wall, and faced the still-empty doorway. “Do come in,” he said.
She stepped gingerly across the threshold, stopped just inside the door, glanced at the peeling walls, then looked at Brown. “Hello, Adlai,” she said.
“Hi,” Brown said.
Her glance traveled around the room, lingering on each example of
unsavory deterioration, settling finally on the chairs. “May I sit down?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure, sit down. Over here.” Brown held the rickety chair as she slid onto it, crossing her legs with a light screech of nylon. “Do you want something to drink? I’ve got instant coffee and some iced-tea mix. There’s nothing else except tap water and beer and the water’s awful and I know you hate beer.”
“I’ll have a beer,” she said precisely.
“A beer,” Brown said. “Right.” He took a can of beer from the refrigerator, pulled off the tab, and poured the contents into an empty jelly jar. “I don’t have any real glasses yet,” Brown said apologetically.
She looked at him, took a sip, made a face, took three or four deep swallows, and lowered the jar. “Now,” she said, “will you please tell me why you’re hiding from me or running from me or whatever it is you think you’re doing?”
Brown got another beer out of the refrigerator, taking his time about it. “Do you expect me to answer that?” he said finally. “If you do you’ll have to rephrase the question.”
She raised the jar and took a few more swallows. Brown watched her move and realized that she hadn’t started drinking with the beer. It made him feel a little stronger. She placed the jar on the table with a jerky movement of arm and hand. The liquid sloshed against the glass, fizzed angrily, subsided. “Are you coming back?” she asked.
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