South Street

by David Bradley

“Umph,” said Vanessa. “That’s what I love about you, Leo, you’re a prince among old maids. I ain’t hustlin’ because Leroy pays me not to hustle.”

  “Uh huh,” Leo said, “an’ in the off-season he pays you to take care a his baseball cards. You really expect me to believe that Leroy pays you not to hustle? Whad I ever do to make you think ma head was stuck on with Scotch tape?”

  “Now listen, Leo, you know Leroy. Nothin’ but the best for Leroy. He don’t have no truck with whores. So even if he don’t want me, he don’t want nobody sayin’ Leroy’s ex is out there walkin’ the street. So he pays me.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Leo said.

  Vanessa grinned. “I get ma stool reserved?”

  “That’s the damnedest piece a shit I ever heard,” Leo said. “Leroy pays you … I’ll be damned. I swear, I thought I’d heard everything but … why, damn, ’Nessa, have a drink.”

  “I got one, Leo,” Vanessa said.

  “Oh,” said Leo. “Yeah.” He grinned broadly. “Leroy pays. …” He chuckled.

  “Tell me one thing,” Vanessa said.

  “Sure,” said Leo.

  “’Member when I said I was waitin’ for somebody? Well I am, only he don’t know it. I just heard from this dude that I could find this other dude in here, you know? Well this dude I’m lookin’ for, I don’t know him too good, truth is I ain’t never seen him before, but it ain’t like you’re thinkin’, Leo. Anyway, I ain’t never seen him, so when he comes in you gotta tell me.” She took a gasp of breath.

  “An’ you ain’t hustlin’?” Leo demanded.

  Vanessa shook her head. “Leroy’d turn purple.”

  Leo looked up at the ceiling. “I’m crazy,” he said. “All right, who you lookin’ for?”

  “Name’s Brown,” Vanessa said.

  “Oh,” Leo said. “Brown.”

  “You know him, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” said Leo. “Oh yeah, I know him. I know him all right. Brown. He’s that crazy fool was in here last week, an’ I ain’t seen him since, an’ I hope to Jesus I never do see him again, because that is one crazy nigger.”

  “Betsy said he hung around here.”

  “Betsy says lots a things. Betsy files a tax return so the guvment’ll think she’s still trickin’.”

  “Great,” said Vanessa. Just then Big Betsy waddled into Lightnin’ Ed’s. She caught sight of Vanessa and tried to put it into reverse, but her momentum carried her six feet inside the bar. “Anybody ever tell you you was a fat-cunted liar?” Vanessa inquired.

  “Leo,” said Big Betsy, “ain’t you gonna tell this bitch to watch her mouth?”

  “Nope,” Leo said. “An’ don’t worry ’bout gettin’ blood on the floor ’cause Jake’ll be in tonight to clean up.”

  Big Betsy turned to Vanessa. “Don’t you talk to me that way. I’m oldern you an’ you oughta treat me with some kinda respect.” Glaring, Big Betsy lowered herself onto a stool.

  “I oughta lay a bottle upside your head,” Vanessa told her. “You told me Brown hung out in here an’ now Leo says he ain’t been in but that one time.”

  “He’ll be back,” Big Betsy said. “They may go far, but they always come back to their sweet mama.”

  “Uh, huh,” said Vanessa. “That, ah, sweet mama, that’d be you?”

  “Who else?”

  “Jesus,” Vanessa said. “I hope he forgets all about you, ’cause if he don’t he won’t never be back here till they start sendin’ niggers to the moon.”

  “Course he’ll be back,” snapped Big Betsy. “He needs somebody like me.” Leo pulled his handkerchief from his hip pocket and held it over his face. Big Betsy looked at him in annoyance. “He does,” she insisted. Sounds halfway between chokes and sobs issued from behind Leo’s handkerchief. “You sick or somethin’, Leo?” Big Betsy demanded.

  Leo took the handkerchief away from his face. “No,” he said, wiping his eyes. “I ain’t sick.”

  “Well, you sound sick,” Big Betsy informed him acidly, “an’ you looks sick, an’ you must be catchin’, ’cause you’re makin’ me sick.”

  “That’s too bad,” Vanessa said. “Brown’s gonna come in here with the hots for Betsy, only she’s gonna have to tell him she’s sick.”

  “You’ll see,” vowed Big Betsy. “That Brown, he’s a real man. He knows what he wants. He ain’t out after some little semipro piece, he wants a woman that can understand him, somebody knows their way around.”

  “Right,” Vanessa said, “an’ that’s why he wants to get in bed with you.”

  Big Betsy regarded her haughtily. “The trouble with you, ’Nessa, is you got a one-rut mind. Me an’ Brown, we ain’t into that stuff. We got us a more mature thing. We talk ’bout life an’ … well, you know, that kinda stuff. Brown, he’s an educated dude, you know. Our thing—”

  “Shit,” said Leo, “the dude wasn’t in here but one night.”

  Big Betsy shook her head sagely. “Leo, there’s some men you never know, an’ then there’s some you can talk to for three minutes an’ it’s like you knowed ’em all your life.”

  “You mean two minutes, don’t you?” Vanessa said.

  Leo was staring at Big Betsy. “Oh my God,” he said, an expression of disgust on his face, “now I am sick. I useta have me a nice bar. Now I got whores that wants to be preachers an’ preachers that wants to be winos an’ next thing you know Jake’ll be in here tellin’ me he’s decided to take up hustlin’.”

  “You got a hard life, Leo,” Vanessa said.

  “An’ I ain’t even mentioned the nuts tryin’ to be gangsters an’ the pensioned-off hookers.”

  “That’s what you get for openin’ a bar,” Big Betsy told him. “You shoulda stuck to bein’ the Goodyear blimp.”

  “Nah,” Leo said, “there was too many ups an’ downs, an’ if you fart once you’d crash.”

  “You’re full a hot air anyways,” Big Betsy said.

  “An’ you’re full a shit,” Vanessa told her.

  “An’ you’re full a nothin’,” said Big Betsy. “You’re just one big hole.”

  “If you wasn’t so old an’ fat an’ ugly, you might bother me,” Vanessa said.

  “Sure I’m old an’ fat an’ ugly. You can’t do nothin’ about gettin’ old an’ ugly, so you might as well eat. Least I ain’t useless. I talk to folks. I spread joy an’ womanly understandin’.”

  “You couldn’t spread a dose a clap,” Vanessa said. “Who told you all that bullshit?”

  “Ain’t bullshit,” declared Big Betsy. “It was him. That’s what he said. Said I was full a ancient wisdom an’ womanly understandin’. Nicest thing anybody ever said to me.”

  “That I can believe,” Leo said. “When’d he say all this, before or after he tried to commit suicide?”

  “What?”

  “Leroy.”

  “Oh,” said Big Betsy. “After.”

  “That explains it,” Leo said. “Anybody who’s been that close to death is bound to say some pretty weird things.”

  “You leave him be,” said Big Betsy. She got up and went down to the far end of the bar. “An’ leave me be. An’ if he comes in, don’t you try to steal him, ’Nessa.”

  “My God,” Leo said, “I think she’s jealous.”

  “Am not,” snarled Big Betsy.

  Vanessa sighed. “Gimme another drink, huh, Leo?”

  “Okay,” Leo said. “But I don’t figure he’s gonna show up.”

  “I know,” Vanessa said. She looked out the doorway at the darkening street. “I just want to sit someplace. Someplace quiet.” She turned her head to look at him. “That’s all right, ain’t it, Leo? To stay here, I mean?”

  Leo set her drink up on the bar. “Sure,” he said. “That’s just fine.”

  “Haw, haw, haw,” laughed Big Betsy the whore. Leo watched the TV with calm impassivity, his jaws making circular motions as he devoured his after-dinner snack. Vanessa did not look up from her drink. Big Betsy laughed again.
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  “Shup,” said Leo, without turning away from the TV. He reached out and grasped a large mug of beer, raised it to his mouth. His lips poked out as if he were getting ready to kiss someone, and he drew off the head in quick, audible slurps.

  “Say what?” demanded Big Betsy.

  “Said shup,” said Leo. “I wants to listen at ma ball game.”

  “That’s all you do all goddamn day is listen at the goddamn TV. It’s goddamn sinful, that’s what it is.”

  Leo took a bite of his sandwich.

  “Leo, you black bastard, are you listenin’ to me?”

  Leo sighed and finished chewing, swallowing slowly and carefully. He paused a moment, nodded to himself, raised the beer, took a pull, lowered the glass, swished the beer around inside his mouth, swallowed, nodded again, looked up at the ceiling, burped, and nodded a third time Finally he turned his head to regard Big Betsy. “If I was to listen to everythin’ you says, I wouldn’t never have time to piss, let alone eat, sleep, shit, or make any money.” He took another bite of sandwich.

  Big Betsy’s eyes, nestled deeply inside mascara and wrinkles, smoldered. “Leo,” she said, “sometimes you go too far.”

  “Betsy,” said Leo, “you never go quite far enough.” He rose ponderously and went to turn up the volume, then returned to his stool.

  Big Betsy opened her mouth, then shut it with a clacking of dentures. She rooted around in her handbag and found a quarter, went over and dropped it into the jukebox. She punched buttons at random, her finger falling savagely. Her jaws were clenched. The strains of “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling,” sung by Perry Como, echoed in Lightnin’ Ed’s, and the walls, used to the Motown sound, shuddered. Big Betsy returned to her stool, a smile of triumph on her face. Leo looked at her mildly, reached up and connected his earplug to the TV. Big Betsy stared at the “flesh-colored” earplug shining in Leo’s dark ear, her face reflecting utter frustration. She got up and walked around to the other ear and began singing along with Perry Como. Leo looked at her, shrugged, rose, and disconnected the earplug. Big Betsy smiled triumphantly until Leo turned the volume of the TV all the way down and returned to his seat. He cheered softly as he munched his sandwich and slurped his beer. Big Betsy stared at the screen. Names, batting averages, counts of balls and strikes were being flashed in white letters. Periodic shots of the scoreboard gave all the information needed. Big Betsy sagged in defeat just as her money ran out and Perry Como escaped from South Street. The only sound was the crunch of Leo’s jaw and his periodic cheers. Big Betsy flounced off to the ladies’ room. Leo grinned and got up to turn up the sound, but before he reached the TV set the door opened. Leo stared. “Jesus! What happened to you?”

  Rayburn Wallace stood in the doorway. His clothes, dirty and torn, were soaked with perspiration. Sweat ran down his face and neck, came welling out of his hair like water out of a sponge. His eyes were wild. “She’s gone,” Rayburn said. “I been everywhere, lookin’.”

  “Oh,” said Leo. He stepped toward Rayburn, but Rayburn was already in motion, doing a jerky-robot walk toward the nearest bar stool, stopping, when he reached it, with a wobbly jiggle, as if in response to some electrical command delivered through an invisible wire. He dropped onto the stool. His head sank and hung on his neck like a pendulum weight. “What you need,” Leo said, “is a good stiff drink.” Rayburn did not reply, but his head seemed to swing slightly. Leo poured a highball glass half full of gin, and filled a mug with beer. “Here you go.” Rayburn’s right eyelid blinked slowly, showing the eye behind it dim and red, like that of an ill-tempered dragon roused from a deep sleep. Rayburn gazed at Leo for a moment with the single red eye, then reached out and took hold of the gin glass. He stuck out his lips, opened his mouth, and belted the whole thing in one gulp. He slammed the glass back onto the bar, sniffed, looked at Leo with his one eye, sniffed again, then grabbed wildly for the beer and poured it down his throat. He gasped. Leo smiled.

  Big Betsy waddled out of the ladies’ room, hitching her girdle up around where her hips had once been. “Damn,” she muttered, “these things is sposed to be livin’, but this one’s close to death.”

  “No wonder,” Leo said under his breath.

  Big Betsy sat down at the bar and looked at Rayburn, who, having extinguished with beer the fire the gin had kindled, sat swaying back and forth. “Leo, man,” said Rayburn, “be a pal an’ get this po’ nigger a drink.”

  “What the hell happened to him?” said Big Betsy.

  “Wife left him,” said Leo, pouring out a more conventional slug of gin.

  “When’d it happen?”

  “He just got here, Betsy,” said Leo patiently.

  “I was just astin’, Leo.”

  Leo looked up at the TV. Rayburn downed his gin. “Shit,” said Big Betsy, “there ain’t gonna be no business tonight. Too much competition.” She shot an angry glance down the bar at Vanessa, who was paying no attention. Big Betsy turned a sour eye on Rayburn. “Serves the bastard right,” said Big Betsy. “He shoulda knowed that light-skinned gal wasn’t nothin’ but a gutter whore.” She said it loud enough for the world to hear, and Vanessa looked up for a minute, then looked away. Rayburn sat stoically, not batting an eyelash. Leo stared at her.

  “I’ll be goddamned, if that ain’t the spic callin’ the wop a greaseball.”

  “Is not,” said Big Betsy. “I ain’t never tricked no good man into marryin’ me.”

  “That,” Leo told her, “would take the best damn witch doctor in the world. There’s dumb men, but there ain’t any that dumb.”

  “I had ma share a offers,” snarled Big Betsy.

  Leo snorted. “Goddamn. He struck out. Three on, one out, an’ the fucker strikes out. I don’t know why the hell I don’t move someplace where they got a team that can at least hit a goddamn fly ball.”

  “You better believe I had offers,” Big Betsy said.

  Leo looked at Rayburn. “How you doin’, Rayburn?”

  “Ain’t doin’ shit,” said Rayburn. Both his eyes were open now. “How ’bout another drink?” Leo looked at him doubtfully. “Goddamn you black Jew!” Rayburn snarled. He pulled money out of his pocket, bills, all ones. “I can pay, by Jesus!”

  “I know you can pay,” Leo said easily. “I just ain’t sure—”

  “Goddamn you!” shouted Rayburn. He half rose from the stool, his body shaking. His face was twisted into a mask of anger, but tears leaked from his eyes. He sat down again. “Please, Leo, man. Ma woman lef me. If ma bartender won’t gimme a drink, what I’ma do?”

  “Try soberin’ up,” suggested Big Betsy.

  “You try shuttin’ up,” said Leo.

  Rayburn slowly turned his head until his eyes were trained on Big Betsy. He looked at her steadily, unblinking. Big Betsy met his gaze for a moment, then looked away, her eyes jerking around as if the walls, the floor, the ceiling, everything in the room were too hot to look at; then she looked back at Rayburn, meeting his eyes for one defiant instant before she spun on the bar stool with surprising quickness, like a basketball on the nose of a seal, and looked toward the other end of the bar. Rayburn’s gaze remained fixed on the hump of fat behind Big Betsy’s shoulders. She wiggled uneasily, as if feeling his eyes on her. Leo, moving slowly and silently, poured a slug of gin and a glass of beer and held them ready on the inner rail of the bar. Rayburn stared at Big Betsy’s back, and as if in response to the heat and pressure of his eyes she began to move again, slowly this time, in a ponderous half-revolution clockwise, until her face was once again visible. Her eyes met Rayburn’s and she looked away, but her body continued its slow turning. She looked at his face again.

  “Ma wife done run off,” Rayburn said.

  “You want some scotch an’ milk?” asked Leo.

  Big Betsy shook her head. “This here’s talkin’ business.” Her jowls sagged dejectedly, but her eyes were soft and serene. She looked at Rayburn. “Gimme gin.”

  Leo wordlessly poured her gin and set it in fron
t of her. He moved away, retrieving his earplug and attaching it to the TV set. He started to sit down but stopped, shrugged, and went down to the end of the bar. Rayburn and Betsy were sunk in shadow. Betsy patted Rayburn’s arm. Rayburn grabbed her hand. Leo placed a full bottle of gin on the bar. Big Betsy looked up at Leo, then at the bottle, then glanced at the pile of money in front of Rayburn. Leo shook his head, waved a hand, and went back to his ball game.

  It was near to closing time, and Leo stood leaning against the bar, thinking how depressing it got, six days a week watching glasses being lifted to mouths, a Saturday night with few customers, all of them unhappy. Leo drew himself a short beer and looked around the room at the handful of dark shapes. At the far end of the bar, merged into a lumpy blob of shadow, were Big Betsy and Rayburn, swaying slowly out of time with the juke. All night long Rayburn had been feeding the machine quarters, and Leo had sworn he was going to use his shotgun on the thing if he had to listen to “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” one more time. Around the bar, tucked back in the corner where the wood met the cinderblock wall, half obscured by smoke and dimness, sat Vanessa. She had been sitting there all night long, sipping Singapore Slings and watching the door. She had consumed ten drinks, and Leo speculated as to whether she had not moved because she didn’t want to or because she couldn’t. Leo didn’t see Jake until he heard the wino’s voice at his elbow. Leo turned his head slowly, he was too tired to move fast. Jake shoveled a handful of coins onto the bar, and Leo poured him a glass of wine. Jake raised it. “Seen him again,” Jake said.

  “Huh?” said Leo.

  “I seen him. Walkin’ around like—what you call them things that walks around? I seen one in a movie one time.”

  “Zombies?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. He was walkin’ around like one a them there. Talkin’ to hisself.”

  “How come you can hear what folks is sayin’ to theyselves bettern you can hear what they says to you?” Leo said.

  Jake grinned. “Now, Leo, you know half a bein’ hard a hearin’ is bein’ hard a listenin’. ’Sides, I. didn’t say I heard what he was sayin’, I just heard he was sayin’ it. Ain’t he been in here?”