“Don’t talk about it,” said Brother Fletcher.
Jake stared at his wine for a while, then slowly raised his head. “Don’t it say somethin’ somewhere about helpin’ your brother?”
“It says something everywhere about helping your brother,” said Brother Fletcher listlessly.
“Well now,” Jake said. “If you was to do somethin’ wrong, only it was to help somebody else, even if it was still wrong, it wouldn’t be as much wrong, would it?”
“No,” said Brother Fletcher, “I guess not.”
Jake grinned and punched him on the arm. “Don’t worry, Rev. You still got a hotline to Jesus, an’ I’m gonna buy you a drink. Leo!”
“Shup,” Leo said.
Rayburn basked in the dying light that penetrated the boardroom’s browntinted windows, his work shoes, the once-brown leather dulled and discolored by years of foot-sweat and disinfectant, propped audaciously on the polished tabletop, the rubber heels making dull marks on the wood. He leaned back in the big swivel chair. “Fellow board members,” he said. His voice did not carry far or echo—the feeble vibrations were swallowed up by the ranks of leather chairs drawn up along the length of the table, by the heavy, rich curtains, by the thick pile of the carpet. Rayburn frowned at the deadness of the sound, leaned forward, cleared his throat. “Fellow board members,” he said again, more loudly. The echoes still died, sucked up by the ponderous softness of chairs and curtains and carpet. Rayburn sighed, and allowed himself to sink back into the chair.
It was an evening of anniversary. Rayburn Wallace had been working at the bank for precisely fifteen years. Rayburn shrugged himself still deeper in the chair and reflected back on his long career in the towers of finance. His rise, while not exactly meteoric, had at least been steady. He had begun in the nether regions, wiping grease and oil from cement floors, and had risen through the spilled ink of central duplicating, the empty lipstick containers and discarded chewing-gum wrappers of the typing pool, through the reams of obsolete computer print-out in auditing, and finally, to the cigar ash and balled memoranda of the executive suite. He had been given his key to the executive washroom. High above the blaze of street lights, Rayburn had knelt, scrubbing, before the thrones of power. It took him half of his eight-hour shift to clean the rest rooms and the rugs. The rest of the time he spent in promoting himself through the offices of the vice-presidents to the office of the president and now, after fifteen years of faithful service, to the Chair.
“This meeting,” Rayburn intoned, “will now come to order.” The sound of his voice was still not right. It was lacking in the harmonics of authority, the subtle resonances of power. Rayburn frowned, shrugged; it was his first night as chairman; perfection could hardly be expected. The chairman turned in his leather chair and gazed out at the sunset bloodying the sky over West Philadelphia. The sun hurt his eyes, and he squinted. The door opened and Victoria Bender, his secretary who had been at his side throughout his steady rise to the utmost pinnacles of success entered, smiling deferentially. “Mr. Wallace?”
“Yes, Miss Bender.”
“There’s a man here. A Mr. Briggs. He doesn’t have an appointment but I thought—”
“Miss Bender,” Rayburn said sternly, “you should know that the attention of the chairman is not needed every time some silly-ass pimp wants a loan to buy a new Cadillac.”
“Yes, sir,” said Victoria, “but I thought maybe this might be special on account of there’s a lady with him who says she’s Mrs. Wallace.”
“Hell,” Rayburn roared, “that’s no lady, that’s ma slippery-ass wife. Throw the bitch out the window. Maybe fallin’ twenty stories’ll cool down her britches.”
“Are you serious, Mr. Wallace?” Victoria, awed at his tough-mindedness, stared at him.
“Nah,” Rayburn said languidly, “we’d get into trouble. There’s a law against dumpin’ garbage on the street.” He chuckled and sighed. “Send ’em on in.”
“We wants to see the man,” Leroy Briggs protested, “not some damn janitor.”
“That’s Mr. Wallace,” Victoria Bender said coldly. “Now, who are you?”
“I’m Leroy Briggs,” said Leroy Briggs.
“Do you have any identification?”
“Rayburn, honey, I been missin’ you,” Leslie said.
“Ain’t suprisin’,” Rayburn said, buffing his manicured nails against his monogrammed shirt.
“Well, where you been, baby?”
“Oh I comes an’ I goes. That’s why you been missin’ me—all you ever wanted to do was come.”
“Ain’t that enough?” snarled Leroy Briggs.
“What’s the problem, Miss Bender?” Rayburn inquired.
“This gentleman cannot produce three pieces of identification.”
“Why, Miss Bender!” Rayburn said in shocked tones. “Why, don’t you know this here is Mr. Leroy Muthafuckin’ Cocksuckin’ Shiteatin’ Asslickin’ Briggs. Ain’t that right, Leroy?”
Leroy Briggs glared at him impotently.
“You best say somethin’,” Rayburn advised. “If you ain’t who I think you is, we gonna have to get the po-lice up here to make sure you ain’t up to nothin’ suspicious.”
“I’m Leroy Briggs.”
“Miss Bender, get that man’s name down on a form ninety-six. Could be a form sixty-nine,” Rayburn explained to Leroy, “but you too damn fat for that.”
“Name, please,” said Victoria crisply, seating herself at the typewriter.
“Leroy Briggs.”
“Full name,” snapped Victoria.
“That’s it.”
“Ah, Mr. Wallace, this gentleman says his full name is Leroy Briggs.”
“Don’t forget your middle names, Leroy,” Rayburn advised. “Victoria loves her rules.”
Leroy gritted his teeth.
“Name, please?”
“Leroy …”
“Name, please?”
“Leroy Muthafuckin’ Cocksuckin’ Asslickin’ Briggs.”
“Well, you forgot Shiteatin’, but then that’s obvious,” Rayburn said. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“You can’t do shit for a mosquito,” Leroy Briggs said. “I wants to see the president a this bank, an’ that sure as hell ain’t you.”
“That’s right,” Rayburn said. “I’m the chairman of the board.”
“I thought you was a janitor,” Leslie wailed.
“Well, I was,” Rayburn said. “But honesty and hard work will always be rewarded.”
Victoria Bender smiled at Leslie. “I always knowed Mr. Wallace was gonna go far. Why, even when he wasn’t nothin’ but a night-shift janitor he saved his money an’ he was dependable. I just knowed he was gonna go places. An’ speakin’ a goin’ places, you better hurry or you’ll miss your plane.”
“Plane?” said Leslie.
“A little vacation,” Rayburn said. “Mexico. Three months. An’ Victoria?”
“Yes, Mr. Wallace?”
“Rayburn,” Rayburn said.
“Rayburn,” Victoria said reverently.
“If you knowed I was gonna be goin’ far, you musta knowed I was gonna be takin’ the one person in the whole damn world that stayed in ma corner all these years.”
“You mean … me?”
“Well, I sho’ as hell don’t mean her. Now, right here I got the plane tickets for both a us.”
“But I’ve got to pack,” Victoria protested.
“Shit,” Rayburn said. “You got me, baby, an’ I got you. Anything else we get when we need it. All right, baby?”
“All right, darlin’,” Victoria sighed, her eyes shining.
“But what about ma business?” Leroy Briggs said.
“Mind it,” Victoria snapped.
“Now, now,” Rayburn said gently. “Leroy, on account a your, ah, association with ma wife here, I’ma make sure you gets special treatment. Victoria, get me the president. George, I’ma send a man over to you, his name’s Briggs. You find out exactly what
he wants. Then you tell him to go fish. Thanks.” Rayburn slammed the phone down. “George handles all ma light work,” he explained. Rising, he offered Victoria his arm.
With a cry of rage Leroy Briggs grabbed Leslie and slung her off the top of the building. “I knowed he was gonna throw her over sooner or later,” Victoria confided.
There was a short wail followed by a meaty thunk. “Damn!” said Leroy, peering over the edge. “The bitch landed right on ma car.”
“You need a car loan, Leroy,” Rayburn said, “you come right here. You just saved me the price of a divorce lawyer.”
“What’s it like in Mexico, baby?” Victoria said.
“It’s all gold and silver, baby, all gold and silver.”
Below, in the street, sirens wailed.
“A what?” roared Big Betsy the whore.
“You heard me,” Leo said.
“Well, what the hell is a goddamn preacher doin’ in a goddamn bar?”
“Most likely he’s drinkin’ a little beer an’ watchin’ the ball game an’ not botherin’ nobody with a lot a bullshit, which is a lot moren I can say for some folks.”
“Drinkin’ beer? Damn, Leo, everybody knows preachers don’t drink beer.”
“Now, how’d you find out so much about preachers? I’d say you been tryin’ to whore your way into heaven, but even preachers don’t got that much charity.”
“I learned ’bout preachers the same way you learned ’bout women,” Big Betsy informed him. “Somebody told me. Damn, Leo, you can’t start havin’ a bunch a preachers hangin’ out in here. The place’ll go to the damn dogs.”
Leo regarded her sourly. “There’s a rumor goin’ round that I’m already runnin’ a kennel, ’cause you spend so much time in here.”
“Kiss ma ass,” Big Betsy said. “You ain’t got no respect for your old customers. You gonna have a bunch a preachers in here eatin’ fried chicken an’ scarin’ the tricks away.”
“Betsy,” Leo told her, “you wouldn’t have no more customers if they was to line up every damn preacher in South Philly an’ blow his damfool head off. Only way you gonna get more business is if they make it illegal to screw a woman that ain’t got a senior citizen’s card.”
Big Betsy’s sagging jowls sagged further. “That, Leo, was cold.”
“Well if you don’t wanna get froze,” Leo said, “then you get up offa ma case. The man is a preacher, just like I’m a bartender an’ you’re a whore. Everybody’s got to get along the best they can doin’ the best they knows how. Preacher’s got a right to have a quiet drink if he wants one without everybody forkin’ shit on him just ’cause he peddles Bibles instead a peddlin’ his ass or somebody else’s. He’s a nice dude, an’ he don’t make no trouble, an’ he don’t bother nobody, an’ he knows more about the Phillies than Dizzy Dean an’ the damn TV computer put together, an’ he don’t try to tell me who I can have in ma bar an’ who I can’t, so you can just shut your goddamn mouth an’ fuck off.”
Big Betsy stared at Leo, her mouth open. “Damn, Leo. You queer for the dude or somethin’?”
Leo gave her a long, hard look, then he leaned over and whispered in her ear. “You cool it, fat stuff, or I’ma tell everybody ’bout the time you tried to make it with the beer bottle.”
“That was a long time ago,” Big Betsy protested.
“It had to be,” Leo snapped, “’cause even a beer bottle couldn’t keep it up over you any more.”
“Damn, Leo,” said Big Betsy.
“You just let him be if he comes in. You hear?”
“I hear you talkin’,” Big Betsy said.
“You best quit hearin’ me talkin’ an’ commence to listenin’ to what I’m sayin’.”
“I am, I am,” Big Betsy said. “You say he’s okay, then he’s okay. After all, it’s your bar, Leo. You got a right to have anybody in it you wants. You wants a preacher, you gets a preacher. You wants a honky, you can get one a them, too.”
“Ain’t nobody said nothin’ ’bout no honkies,” Leo snapped.
“Well, it’s the next step, Leo,” Big Betsy said. “You get a couple preachers, the next step is to have a bunch a honky social workers. Next thing you know they done fixed the street, put in new sewers, built a new school, an’ raised the taxes. There goes the damn neighborhood.”
Leo uneasily examined her logic for a moment, then gave up and stuck to his guns. “All I got, an’ all I’m gonna have, is one damn preacher. I ain’t no preacher-lover, but he’s a nice fella. There’s gotta be some nice preachers somewheres.”
“I ain’t never met one,” said Big Betsy.
“Well, you oughta meet this one.”
“What the hell …” Big Betsy stopped suddenly and her face assumed an expression that screamed of calculation. “Well, now,” she said slowly, “maybe I should. I mean, if the man drinks beer maybe he’s up for a little action.” Leo put down the glass he had been polishing and stared at her. “W’hell,” said Big Betsy defensively, “maybe I’m just what he’s been lookin’ for.”
“I doubt it,” Leo said. “He sure musta seen you by now. You’re too damn big t’overlook.”
“Maybe he’s shy,” snapped Big Betsy. “We ain’t been introduced. You gotta introduce us, Leo.”
“Oh, God,” Leo muttered. “Betsy, I got better things to do than play pimp to a preacher.”
“Humph,” said Big Betsy. “Trouble with you, Leo, is you don’t change your Kotex real reglar.”
“You remember what them things is for, do you?” Leo said. “You not only look like one, you got a mem’ry like one.” He grinned at Big Betsy, who ignored him pointedly for a few moments, then sighed.
“All right, Leo. Like what?”
“A snaggle-toothed elephant,” Leo said.
“Fuck off,” said Big Betsy, and marched off toward the ladies’ room. Leo grinned and went back to polishing glasses.
It was shaping up to be a quiet night, one of the nights when Leo loved his job, a night free from drawn knives, squabbling couples, sick drunks, maudlin whores, irate wives, henpecked husbands, and idiots who insisted on playing Russian roulette with Leroy Briggs. Such nights had been rare of late—the hot summer seemed to be drawing the sweat and blood and ornery out of everybody. Leo had felt the change in himself as the August heat had taken its toll. He had begun to notice the hard edges of things, instead of sensing the softer interiors: when he looked at Big Betsy he saw her bitchiness before he saw her loneliness, he saw Rayburn Wallace as weak rather than meek, as powerless more than as gentle. Leo realized suddenly that over the long hot weeks he had been withdrawing into himself, spending more time with the TV. Leo drew himself a long, cold beer and took a thoughtful swallow. Then he leaned over and unplugged the set. Tonight, Leo decided, the bar would get his full attention. He would dedicate the evening to breaking out of the crust that the summer had baked onto him. He stretched, expanding his beer-and-sweat-stained shirt past all reasonable expectation. He slurped his beer and trundled down to make amends with Big Betsy, who was now sitting and smoldering at the far end of the bar. Impulsively, Leo poured a shot glass full of gin and placed it before her. Big Betsy eyed it with suspicion.
“What the hell’s that?” Big Betsy demanded.
“It’s a slug a gin,” Leo said. “Beefeater.”
“I can see that, Leo,” Big Betsy snarled. “What the hell’s it doin’ there?”
Leo regarded the shot glass appraisingly. “Not much,” he admitted.
“Well what the hell’s it for, Leo?” said Big Betsy with exaggerated patience.
“It’s for you.”
“For me?”
“That’s right,” Leo said. “That there gin is a peace offerin’.”
Big Betsy stared at him for a moment, and then her face burst into a jack-o’-lantern grin. “Damn, Leo, I knowed you’d come around. You might almost be human.” Big Betsy reached out and grasped the glass. She leered at Leo, but in an instant the leer turned into a scowl, and sh
e flung the gin straight into Leo’s face. “Only trouble with your thinkin’,” she continued without noticeable rancor, “is that I ain’t hardly desperate enough to be givin’ no pieces away for one lousy slug a gin.”
Leo stood with gin running out of his sparse hair and onto his face, dripping off his nose and onto his thick lips, off his chin and onto his broad chest. He made no motion. Leo appeared to be in shock.
“Haw, haw, haw,” laughed Big Betsy. “You sure do look like a goddamn fool, Leo. Shame to waste good gin, but it’s worth it. Haw, haw, haw.” Leo remained catatonic. His tongue flicked out and, ever so gently, absorbed the liquid that had dripped down to within its range. His eyes blinked as a few drops of gin trickled into them, then closed. Big Betsy stopped laughing. “Leo?” said Big Betsy. Leo did not move. “Leo!” Leo remained motionless, like a lumpy carving in dark wood. “Omigod,” said Big Betsy. “Omigod.”
Brother Fletcher entered Lightnin’ Ed’s just as Big Betsy reached out a crooked forefinger and jabbed her long fingernail into Leo’s protruding paunch. Leo rocked back on his heels, nearly toppling over backward before the counterweight of his pot belly swung him back into balance. Big Betsy emitted an anguished choke and tried to back away from Leo’s rigid form while still perched on the bar stool. As a direct result, Betsy and bar stool became a tangled mass on the floor, which Brother Fletcher eyed with some astonishment. Big Betsy bounced up like an overinflated volleyball, while the stool, two of its legs snapped neatly by the sudden application of Big Betsy’s full weight, remained on the floor. “Omigod,” whispered Big Betsy, her eyes on motionless Leo.
“What’s the matter?” asked Brother Fletcher.
Big Betsy pointed her finger at Leo, looked down at it, and quickly hid her hand behind her back. “Omigod,” said Big Betsy. “I done made poor Leo bust a goddamn blood vessel. I done give poor Leo a stroke, or he’s havin’ a fuckin’ fit, an’ it’s all ma fault. Omigod.”
To Brother Fletcher it appeared that it was Big Betsy who was having the fit. She jabbed Leo in the solar plexus with her forefinger; breath escaped burbling through Leo’s pursed lips, but his face remained immobile and his body rigid. “Omigod.” She tore her eyes away from Leo and focused them on Brother Fletcher. “I threw a whole glass a Beefeater in his face, an’ now he’s havin’ a fit. Poor Leo, I done done him in. I didn’t mean it.”
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