South Street

by David Bradley

  “Of course not,” soothed Brother Fletcher. “But I really don’t think a glass of gin …” Brother Fletcher stopped suddenly, realizing that he had not the slightest notion as to the possible effects of a glass of gin administered externally, or internally, for that matter.

  “It wasn’t the goddamn gin,” Big Betsy wailed. “I shot Leo down. Shot him cold.”

  “You what?”

  Big Betsy nodded. “In flames. I burned him clean. You see”—she turned her wistful gaze on Leo—“me an’ Leo, we ain’t exactly in love or nothin’, but, well, we been together a long time, you know? An’ I guess Leo just couldn’t take it when he fin’ly got around to astin’ for some an’ I turned him down.” She turned back to Brother Fletcher. “Some men’s like that, you know. A girl says no, an’ they got to be takin’ it all personal.”

  “I’m sure he’ll … recover,” Brother Fletcher said.

  “I don’t know,” Big Betsy said doubtfully. “I shouldn’ta done like that t’old Leo.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “I mean, I always figured me an’ Leo’d, well, you know, sooner or later. Right now I got ma career, but …” Her voice trailed off. She regarded Leo sadly.

  Brother Fletcher looked down at Big Betsy’s plumb-bob breasts and congested face and repressed a shudder. He reached out and removed the side towel from Leo’s lax fingers. “Here,” he said, handing it to Big Betsy. “Why don’t you go run some cold water on this?”

  “What for?”

  “We’ll put it on his head.”

  “Oh.” Big Betsy looked pityingly at Leo for a moment, then waddled off to the rest room. As soon as the door had closed behind her Leo stuffed both hands in his mouth and fell across the bar, his big body shaking.

  “You all right?” asked Brother Fletcher.

  “No, no,” moaned Leo. “No, the damn bitch is killin’ me. I’m dyin’, Rev, I’m dyin’.” Leo wiped tears from his eyes and tried to push himself off the bar, which was creaking ominously from his weight.

  Big Betsy burst from the ladies’ room holding a soggy side towel in both hands. The water ran down her fat arms and dripped off her elbows. She stopped and stared. “He ain’t dead!”

  “You keep breathin’ in ma damn face an’ I will be dead,” growled Leo. He stopped laughing and managed to push himself off the bar.

  “I thought you was gone, Leo,” Big Betsy said.

  Leo looked at her calmly, snorted, picked up a fresh side towel and started polishing glasses.

  “I thought sure he was a gonner,” Big Betsy said to Brother Fletcher. She laid the wet side towel down on the bar.

  “I, ah, think you can stop worrying,” Brother Fletcher said.

  “Worrying?” snapped Big Betsy. “Me? ’bout Leo? Why the hell would I wanta worry about Leo? He ain’t good for nothin’ ’cept pourin’ gin. An’ beer,” Big Betsy added as Leo placed a frosty mug in front of Brother Fletcher. “An’,” Big Betsy continued, “there’s plenty bartenders can do that better. Leo can’t even pour a lady a glass a gin without gettin’ it all over his ugly face.”

  “But—” Brother Fletcher began.

  “What lady?” Leo cut in. “I don’t see no damn lady.”

  “He’s blind, too,” Big Betsy confided.

  “But you—” began Brother Fletcher.

  “If I wasn’t,” Leo said, “I sure as hell wouldn’t be able to stay in the same damn room as you. Every time you goes to take a piss I gotta buy a new mirror.”

  “What …” began Brother Fletcher. Then he closed his eyes, shook his head, and took a long swallow of his beer.

  “Don’t you pay no attention to Leo, Cutie-pie,” Big Betsy said, patting Brother Fletcher’s arm. “Leo don’t know if his mother was Lassie or Rin-Tin-Tin.” She turned to Leo and glowered. “You know somethin’, Leo? You think you’re hot shit an’ you go around puttin’ down your old friends. But hot shit don’t end up to be nothin’ but cold turd, Leo. You remember that.” She sneered at Leo and whirled on a mystified Brother Fletcher. “You know what Leo done?” she asked accusingly.

  “No,” said Brother Fletcher quickly.

  “Well, I’ll tell you,” Big Betsy said. “You oughta hear it. You oughta know what kinda fool you been buyin’ beer from. Leo’s tryin’ to turn this place into a fuckin’ Sunday School. How you like that?”

  “Uh, Betsy,” Leo said quickly, “I do believe it’s gettin’ to be time you shut your mouth or your ass or whatever you been makin’ noise with.”

  “You don’t know shit, Leo,” Big Betsy said. “You don’t even know the difference between your mouth an’ your asshole.”

  Leo looked up at the ceiling, his tongue jammed into his cheek. “Betsy, now, I know ma mouth from ma asshole, but in your case there just ain’t that much difference. Now why don’t you just close whichever—”

  “This here conversation,” Big Betsy said with frosty dignity, “is strictly between me an’ Cutie-pie here. Now quit bein’ jealous an’ go piss.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Leo obediently, his eyes still on the ceiling, “but I still think—”

  “I doubt it,” Big Betsy snapped. Leo shrugged, made a motion of washing his hands, and moved away, being careful to stay within earshot. “Don’t you mind him, Cutie-pie,” Big Betsy said, settling herself on the stool next to Brother Fletcher like a hen on a nest. “He just doesn’t want nobody to know he’s turnin’ this place into a damn church social. You ain’t gonna believe this, but he started lettin’ preachers in here.”

  Brother Fletcher choked convulsively and half-swallowed beer sprayed across the bar top. His features under rigid control, Leo moved in with his side towel and mopped up the mess, wordlessly refilled Brother Fletcher’s glass. Big Betsy was pounding Brother Fletcher on the back. Brother Fletcher clapped a hand over his mouth to hold his plate in. “You gonna be sick, Cutie-pie?” gasped Big Betsy between pounds. “Leo, see what you done with your damn foolishness? Cutie-pie’s fixin’ to heave.”

  “Maybe I made him sick,” Leo said, “but you’re the one beatin’ him to death. Let up on him, for God’s sake.”

  Big Betsy stopped pounding, permitting Brother Fletcher to reposition himself on the stool and his dentures in his mouth. “You all right, Cutie-pie?” Big Betsy asked urgently.

  “F-f-f-fine,” spluttered Brother Fletcher.

  “See, Leo?” accused Big Betsy. “The thought a havin’ preachers in here messes folks all up.”

  “Uh huh,” said Leo.

  Brother Fletcher reached out a shaking hand, picked up his beer glass, and drained it to the dregs.

  “You oughta pay more attention to the way folks feels, Leo,” Big Betsy said.

  “Uh huh,” Leo said. He drew Brother Fletcher another beer. Brother Fletcher looked at him gratefully.

  “Preachers is all right,” Big Betsy continued, “but only where they belongs. Same as everybody. Now a preacher ain’t got no more business in a bar than I does in a damn monastery. Ain’t that right, Cutie-pie?”

  Brother Fletcher reached for his glass.

  “It ain’t like I got nothin’ against preachers,” Big Betsy went on. “I like preachers. I even know a few can hold their end up in bed. Matter a fact, I knowed quite a few. But they didn’t hang around in no bars scarin’ the Johns away. Hell, no. They stayed home an’ ate fried chicken an’ fucked widders like preachers is supposed to.”

  Leo grinned wolfishly and set another beer in front of Brother Fletcher, who this time did not bother to look up.

  “Course now,” Big Betsy ruminated, “I did know a preacher one time that wasn’t satisfied with fuckin’ widders. He useta go over to this woman’s house in the afternoon an’ tear off a piece, an’ then he’d go on downstairs an’ eat up whatever was in the icebox ’fore her man come home. That sorry fool be comin’ home ’bout six o’clock after bustin’ his nuts all damn day an’ he say, ‘Hey, baby, what’s for dinner?’ an’ she say, ‘Well, we was gonna have fried chicken, but the preacher was over
an’ he done ate everythin’.’ Well, after this fool went hungry for about a week in a row he decides to come home early an’ see can he get in some greasin’ ’fore the preacher ate everythin’ up. Only when he comes in the kitchen door there ain’t no preacher. Ain’t no preacher in the dinin’ room neither. So he tiptoes on upstairs an’ there’s the preacher with his head down there ’tween that woman’s legs just chewin’ away. Well the dude hauls off an’ pulls the preacher outa there an’ knocks him over in the corner an’ says, ‘Damn, Rev, ain’t it bad enough you gotta be fuckin’ up ma eatin’, now you gotta be eatin’ up ma fuckin’, too?’ Haw, haw, haw.”

  Leo hugged himself, a formidable task. Brother Fletcher made a grab for his glass and downed the contents like a shot. “Haw, haw, haw,” roared Big Betsy. “Ain’t that a blowjob? Ain’t that a fuckin’ blowjob?” She slapped Brother Fletcher soundly on the back. Brother Fletcher felt his upper body accelerate rapidly in the direction of the wall until it was arrested sharply by his spine. Brother Fletcher choked. Leo slapped another glass of beer into Brother Fletcher’s feebly clutching fingers, and Brother Fletcher poured it down his throat. “Damn,” said Big Betsy in admiration, “you sure can put it away. That must be five you had since you got here, an’ that wasn’t but a minute ago.”

  “Is that all?” moaned Brother Fletcher. “It felt longer.”

  “You got it backwards, Cutie-pie,” Big Betsy informed him. “First you feel it, an’ then it gets longer. Haw, haw, haw.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” breathed Brother Fletcher. He hauled himself off the stool just in time to avoid the slap that Big Betsy had launched at his back, and tottered off to the men’s room.

  “Nice fella,” Big Betsy commented. “He ain’t no powerhouse, but he sure can soak up some suds.”

  “Uh huh,” Leo said.

  “I ain’t seen him before. He’s new, huh, Leo?”

  “Uh huh,” said Leo.

  “Can’t you say nothin’ but ‘uh huh’?” demanded Big Betsy. “You sound like a fuckin’ cow.”

  “I sound like a fuckin’ bull,” Leo said. “A fuckin’ bull goes ‘uh huh.’ A fuckin’ cow just goes ‘uh.’”

  Big Betsy gave Leo a look of complete disgust. “That,” she said, “is foul.”

  “Sorry,” Leo said meekly.

  Brother Fletcher returned from the men’s room, his’ face a trifle ashy. He walked carefully, like a septuagenarian strolling over hot eggs, and slid gingerly onto his stool. “Do you think I could have another beer, Leo?” he said softly.

  “Why sure, Re—ah, Cutie-pie,” Leo said.

  “Whatsa matter, Leo, can’t you remember the man’s name?” snapped Big Betsy. She turned and smiled seductively at Brother Fletcher. “Leo may look like a chocolate-covered elephant, but he’s got the mem’ry of a two-year-old M and M.” She turned her glare on Leo. “Only he ain’t gonna be meltin’ in ma mouth or in ma hand.”

  “Could I have another beer, Leo?” Brother Fletcher said.

  “You got one,” Leo said.

  “Oh,” said Brother Fletcher. He picked up the glass and emptied it. Leo refilled it wordlessly.

  “Don’t you pay no attention to Leo, Cutie-pie,” Big Betsy said. “Leo just don’t know what to do with hisself when there’s a real man around. All Leo knows is to talk some dirty fuckin’ shit an’ the rest of the time he hangs around with preachers. Next thing you know it’ll be choirboys, an’ Leo gonna sprout ten pair a wings.” Big Betsy grinned acidly and made flipping motions with her hands.

  Leo grinned at her. “Now, Betsy, I do seem to recall you was talkin’ about how you was gonna be slingin’ some action the preacher’s way soon as he showed up. Ain’t that right?”

  “That is true, baby,” said Big Betsy soothingly, while shooting thirty-eight caliber glares at Leo. “I did say that, but that was ’fore you got here. I mean, ’fore you come in onliest thing in sight even comin’ close to bein’ a man was Leo, an’ next to Leo any damn thing would look good. Small, but good. Even a preacher. But that don’t make no difference now I got you.”

  “Leo,” said Brother Fletcher, “another beer.” Leo complied, grinning happily. Brother Fletcher downed the whole thing.

  “Preachers ain’t nothin’ when you get right down to it,” Big Betsy said. “I’d rather be with you, Cutie-pie, than with any damn preacher.” Big Betsy reached out and stroked the back of Brother Fletcher’s neck.

  “Leo,” croaked Brother Fletcher. Leo filled the glass. Brother Fletcher took a swallow, turned to Big Betsy. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

  “Aw, now, Cutie-pie, don’t be that way,” whined Big Betsy. “I tell you, that preacher ain’t nothin’ to me. The last time I made it with a preacher he wasn’t even no good. Couldn’t get it up until I got him thinkin’ I was a plate a fried chicken an’ his pecker was a fork. An’ then he wanted to use his fingers. So then I told him it was ham an’ red-eye gravy, an’ then he ate for hours. Haw, haw, haw.”

  Brother Fletcher looked distinctly uncomfortable, and even Leo turned slightly gray. “You want another beer?” Leo asked.

  “You haven’t got anything stronger?” Brother Fletcher asked weakly. Leo nodded and poured out two glasses of scotch. He gave one to Brother Fletcher and lifted the other to his own lips. As he set the glass down Jake shuffled in.

  “You an’ me, Cutie-pie, we gonna have a time no preacher ain’t even thought about,” Big Betsy said.

  “Evenin’, Betsy. Evenin’, Leo. Evenin’, Reverend,” Jake said.

  “Evenin’, Jake,” Leo said.

  “Whad you say?” asked Big Betsy.

  “I said ‘evenin’,’” Leo said blandly.

  “Not you. You!”

  “I said evenin’, too,” Jake said. “What the hell?”

  “You said, ‘Evenin’, Reverend,’” Big Betsy accused.

  “That’s right,” Jake said. “That’s what I said. Good evenin’, Reverend.”

  “Good evening,” said Brother Fletcher solemnly.

  “Omigod,” said Big Betsy.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on?” demanded Jake.

  “Oh, nothin’,” said Leo. “We just been tryin’ to figure out which is bigger, Betsy’s foot or her mouth. Mouth won.”

  “Omigod,” said Big Betsy. “Omigod. I didn’t mean—lookahere, Cutie—I mean, Reverend, I’m sorry—”

  “It’s all right,” Brother Fletcher said gently. “No one could take offense from a lady as lovely as you.” He smiled. His eyes were a little glassy.

  “Wahuh?” said Big Betsy.

  Leo looked at Jake, held up eight fingers. Jake held up eight fingers with a questioning look on his face that quickly changed to an expression of disbelief. Leo nodded slowly. Jake shook his head. Leo shrugged. Brother Fletcher smiled happily and began to slide off the stool. Leo grabbed him by the collar, and Jake held him erect while Leo came around the bar. They deposited him gently in one of the booths along the wall. Brother Fletcher opened his eyes, smiled, said thank you, and went into a sound sleep. Big Betsy regarded him with a horrified look on her fat face. “Omigod,” said Big Betsy. “Omigod.”

  “Snap,” Leslie said, clicking her nails in Charlene’s face. “I got him just like that.”

  “For real?” said Charlene, impressed. “I’da thought there was more to Leroy than that.”

  “Oh yeah,” Leslie said, “but dig it; it’s like ridin’ a horse. When you wants the horse to turn, you don’t got to turn the whole damn horse, you just got to turn his head.”

  “Oh yeah,” Charlene giggled, “an’ you mean you got this here horse by the ears?”

  “Unh, unh,” Leslie corrected, “I got this here jackass by the balls.” She laughed merrily until Vanessa’s voice cut through from behind her.

  “What the shit you know about horses?”

  Leslie twisted around. “You shouldn’t sneak up like—”

  “I know you got jackasses figured out, you married one, but where’d you find out abo
ut horses?”

  “I watched you,” Leslie snapped. “That way I knew all the mistakes.”

  “You best be careful the horse don’t throw you.”

  “Horse don’t throw you ’less he gets restless,” Leslie said. “You got to keep him satisfied. Only time folks get thrown off is if they can’t ride.”

  “Let’s have a drink,” Charlene suggested. Vanessa moved around from behind Leslie, forcing her to twist the other way.

  “What you want, Big Sister?” Leslie said sweetly. “I guess I’m the hostess.”

  “Usual,” Vanessa said.

  “I’ll get it,” Charlene said. “Only I can’t remember what you call them things.”

  “Flyin’ Fucks,” Leslie said.

  “Singapore Slings,” Vanessa said.

  Charlene nodded, rose, went over to the bar. “Nemo, lemme have a Bud, a Seven-and-Seven, an’ a Singapore Fuck.”

  “You ain’t been around much lately, Big Sister,” Leslie said.

  “I been busy,” Vanessa said.

  “I heard you was turnin’ into a regular ole hustler,” Leslie chuckled, without smiling, “again.”

  “Smart-ass muthafucka,” Charlene grumbled as she slammed the drinks down on the table and glared over her shoulder at the grinning bartender. She flounced around the table and resumed her seat. “You know what that Nemo faggot-ass said to me?” She looked back and forth between Vanessa’s dark angry eyes and Leslie’s gray smiling ones.

  “Don’t you worry, Big Sister,” Leslie said. “I told Leroy to keep you on the payroll.”

  “Said if I didn’t get outa his face he’d give me a fast Philly fuck. Ain’t that awful?”

  “Your husband misses you,” Vanessa said.

  “Well,” Leslie said with a sigh, “poor Rayburn’s always been missin’ a lot. You been messin’ with ma Rayburn, Big Sister? You ought to go visit him. The two a you was just made for each other. See, he can’t—ride, neither.”