South Street

by David Bradley

  Brown slid off the stool. “You can’t go slicin’ pieces offa people an’ expect ’em to kiss your foot,” Brown said.

  Rayburn pushed himself to his feet, squinted, focusing on Brown. Brown moved away from the bar, stood with feet planted, arms swinging. Rayburn’s hand moved slowly, then plunged into his pocket, fumbled for the razor. Brown held it out. Rayburn stopped fumbling, stared at the razor, then at Brown. Brown flipped the razor to him. Rayburn caught it clumsily, opened it, looked at the blade, glanced at the red slice on Brown’s shirt. He closed the razor, sat down on a stool. Brown looked at Leo. Leo dropped his eyes. Brown stepped over to Rayburn. “I didn’t mean nothin’,” Brown said.

  “What do you want?” Rayburn said dully.

  “Nothing,” Brown said. He went back and sat down.

  9. Thursday

  LEROY BRIGGS SAT DAZEDLY dozing in the deserted darkened barroom of the Elysium Hotel, grasping a bottle of Beefeater gin from which he took occasional swigs of heroic proportion. A very few feet above him, Leslie lay waiting for him to finish the business he had said he had to take care of. “Business” was the Beefeater, and when that bottle was gone there were a few more behind the bar. Leroy had told Leslie he would be up soon, which was a patent lie—Leroy knew he would not be up for quite a while, and therefore he had absolutely no intention of mounting the stairs at any time in the foreseeable future. The thought of Leslie, lying quivering and voracious, with her juices flowing and her nervous system in high gear, filled Leroy with complete, total, utter, absolute dread. He shivered, stroked the bottle lovingly, then lifted it to his lips. The hardness of the glass pressing against his lips, and the flow of gin across his tongue, down his gullet, and into his fear-knotted stomach filled him with false warmth and imagined strength. Leroy resolved to finish this bottle and then one more, and then go upstairs. He was pleased with this decision, the self-confidence it implied. He took another pull on the bottle.

  Leslie was not Leroy’s only problem, but she represented them all. Leroy felt himself slipping, felt the stranglehold he had for years maintained over the comings and goings of half of South Street’s population slipping, and he knew that that was as good as saying he was finished, because Leroy had been ruthless with the competition, and there was no reason to suppose that the competition would be any less ruthless with him. It was very unfair, Leroy thought. He raised the bottle despondently, sucked at it, darting his tongue in and out of the opening to control the flow of the warming liquor. He relaxed and hummed softly to himself. Then he sat up suddenly as someone entered the dark bar. “Who zat?” Leroy demanded.

  “King Kong, lookin’ for a tree to hang his ass in.” Cotton maneuvered himself skillfully through the darkness to a berth next to Leroy. “You havin’ a private party, or can any fool come?”

  Leroy sniffed. “Man, at ma damn parties only fools can come.”

  Cotton chuckled and accepted the proffered bottle. He raised it, lowered it, sighed appreciatively. “I ’spected you’d be upstairs takin’ your ease,” Cotton said.

  Leroy slowly turned his head to glare at Cotton, but Cotton looked straight ahead. “I’ma take ma ease down here if that’s all right with you,” Leroy said.

  “Fine with me,” Cotton said. “I always did swear a man could sleep better in a chair with a bottle than in a bed with a buzz saw.” He raised the bottle, looked at it, drank, handed it back to Leroy, who accepted it somewhat ungraciously and drank in silence. “Sometime—” Cotton began.

  “You shut your goddamn mouth,” Leroy said. “I ain’t no goddamn Willie T. that you got to be shittin’ into ma ears.”

  “Well, it’s for sure somebody’s been shittin’ in your ears, or in your eyes, up your damn nose, or someplace, ’cause lately head’s sure be full of it an’ it sure has been comin’ outa your mouth.”

  “Shut up,” Leroy said dully.

  “Lately there’s been so much shit comin’ outa your damn mouth, it’s hard to tell which is your hind end. I don’t know if you use a napkin when you eat, or toilet paper.”

  “Didn’t I tell you to shut up?”

  “You losin’ your mem’ry along with everythin’ else?”

  Leroy growled briefly, then sighed and took another drink.

  “Time was you’d a killed me least three times by now,” Cotton said.

  “Time ain’t no more,” Leroy said softly.

  “What?”

  “Nothin’,” Leroy said. “Just some bullshit somebody tried to sell me one time.”

  “You buy it?” Cotton asked.

  “I don’t know,” Leroy said. He took another swig and handed the bottle over. “Didja ever think—?” he began, then stopped.

  “Oh,” Cotton said, “occasionally. Wouldn’t do to do it too often. Willie T. might find out what a fool he is.”

  “Willie T.,” Leroy said, and snorted.

  “Yeah, Willie T.,” Cotton said.

  “You drinkin’ that or parkin’ it?” Leroy said. Cotton took a quick drink and handed the bottle back. Leroy took it, looked at it, shrugged, upended it above his open mouth. The remaining gin trickled out. Leroy tossed the bottle aimlessly across the barroom. It landed without breaking, bounced away in the dimness. “Willie T.,” Leroy said with a derisive snort.

  “Yeah,” Cotton said. “Willie T.” He gave a short chuckle.

  “Willie T.,” Leroy said, laughing.

  “Willie T. says everybody on the street’s sayin’ you done lost it,” Cotton said.

  Leroy stopped laughing. “So what? Willie T. don’t know his prick from his pinky.”

  “Ain’t much difference,” Cotton said.

  “Yeah,” Leroy said, laughing again. “There’s another bottle—”

  “I know,” Cotton said. He levered his bulky body out of his chair, went behind the bar, fumbled briefly in the darkness, returned with another bottle of Beefeater. He twisted the cap off. “Leroy?”

  “What?” said Leroy, reaching for the bottle.

  “I been hearin’ it, too.”

  Leroy’s hand stopped in mid-motion. He drew it back slowly and deliberately. “An’ what you sayin’, Cotton? You think I’m losin’ it?”

  “Ain’t ma—” Cotton began, then stopped.

  “I ast you a question, nigger.”

  Cotton sighed. “I think you done already lost it, Leroy. Question in ma mind is, you gonna get it back?”

  Leroy sat very still for a minute. “Cotton, why don’t you just say that again. I think I heard you the first time, but I’d hate like hell to kill you by mistake.”

  Cotton shoved the bottle toward him. “Will you cut that shit, Leroy, you been watchin’ too much fuckin’ Gunsmoke. Man, that shit ain’t hardly necessary. You ast me a goddamn question an’ then you get an attitude about the damn answer. Damn, Leroy, you so full a shit.” Cotton hauled the bottle back and took a swig.

  “What you mean by sayin’ I lost it?” Leroy demanded.

  “I mean you lost it. Niggers backin’ you down in bars, niggers rippin’ your ass off in every damn deal, whores you sposed to be ownin’ runnin’ up one side a the damn street an’ down the other, an’ now some silly bitch has got you so fucked up you scared to sleep in your own damn bed. You know you lost somethin’, baby. I hate to tell you.”

  Leroy took the bottle back. “Siddown, Cotton.” Cotton sat down. “I’m that bad, huh?”

  “You been lookin’ that bad,” Cotton said, “an’ that’s the truth.”

  “Maybe I’m gettin’ old.”

  “You started that the day you was born,” Cotton said disgustedly.

  “Have a drink,” Leroy said.

  “No thanks.”

  “Then I will.”

  “Help yourself.”

  Leroy took a long pull. “Maybe I’ll retire,” Leroy said. Cotton stared at him in disbelief. “Yeah,” Leroy said. “That’s ’zactly what I’ma do. Retire. Gone down to Florida.”

  “Yeah,” Cotton said. “Eat shit with the
alligators.”

  “Go fishin’ every day. I ain’t never been fishin’ much.” He took the bottle back and sipped at it.

  “You better fish for catfish,” Cotton said sourly. “Old men don’t get no closern that to pussy.”

  “I’m tired a pussy,” Leroy said. He raised the bottle, missed his mouth, and hit himself on the nose. “Ow.”

  “Just as well,” Cotton said. “Old men don’t get none anyway. They can’t get it up but once a year, an’ they so damn excited when they do, they comes in their long Johns.”

  Leroy snorted and managed to get the bottle aimed right. “Ain’t always got to be gettin’ it up. You can always eat it.”

  “Only old men ain’t got no teeth.”

  “I’ll gum it then,” Leroy said.

  “If you can stand the smell.”

  “They don’t all smell,” Leroy said.

  “All the old ones do. You don’t think no young girl gonna be foolin’ around with no senior citizen don’t do nothin’ but catch fish?”

  “Ain’t never thought about it,” Leroy admitted. He raised the bottle up beside his ear, grunted, lowered it, managed to get it pointed right.

  “Well, you had enough anyways,” Cotton said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Ain’t interested no more.”

  “Nope,” Leroy said. He raised the bottle, paused, lowered it. “It don’t matter how old y’are, they still go down for a Cadillac.”

  “That’s true,” Cotton admitted. Leroy grunted in satisfaction, raised the bottle, and began to drink. “New ones,” Cotton said. “If you be retirin’ like an old man, you got to be drivin’ an old car. Ain’t no money for nothin’ else.” Leroy choked and spewed halfway across the barroom. “Course,” Cotton continued, “you’ll be savin’ money on booze.”

  “On booze?” Leroy said. He looked at the bottle. “Howma be savin’ money on booze?”

  “Old man can’t drink no booze,” Cotton said. “Old man, he be drinkin’ wine, or maybe beer, or maybe a little milk.”

  “Wine!” Leroy exploded. “Wine, shit, wine’s for winos.”

  “Yeah,” Cotton agreed. “You ever see a teen-age wino?”

  “An’ damn, beer, beer ain’t nothin’. There’s sposed to be a preacher goes into Lightnin’ Ed’s to drink beer.”

  “Uh huh,” Cotton said.

  “Well, hell, I can’t be drinkin’ no damn beer if even a damn preacher drinks it.”

  “Uh huh,” Cotton said.

  “An’ milk, damn, milk is for babies.”

  “Uh huh,” Cotton said. “An’ whores.”

  “That’s right,” Leroy said. “I forgot whores. Umph. I sho’ ain’t no who’.” He took another drink, lowered the bottle, stared at Cotton. “You been tryin’ to con me, muthafucka, ain’t you?”

  “Who, me?”

  “Yeah, you. All this shit about old men an’ shit. Only I’m too smart. I know ain’t every muthafucka gets retired gotta be drinkin’ wine an’ beer an’ goddamn milk.”

  “Oh yeah?” Cotton said. “Who you know that done retired?”

  “Well, there’s—humph,” Leroy said. He took a few more drinks while he thought about it. “There’s Jim Brown. He retired.”

  “Yeah,” Cotton said. “He retired all right. He quit gettin’ his brains beat out every damn Sunday so he could stand naked upside a Raquel Welch. Brother, if that’s what you call retirement, show me the way.”

  Leroy nodded thoughtfully. “I guess that might be just as hard as gettin’ your brains beat out. Well, how ’bout Joe Louis?”

  “How ’bout him?”

  “He retired.”

  “That’s right,” Cotton said flatly. “He retired.”

  Leroy sat in silence. “How ’bout that congressman?” he said, finally.

  “Powell? He died.”

  “That’s right,” Leroy said thoughtfully. “He did die.”

  “He wasn’t that old, neither,” Cotton said.

  “Now, you look,” Leroy said. “I know ain’t everybody retired ends up a wino or a whore drinkin’ milk or somethin’. How ’bout Lyndon Johnson? How ’bout Harry Truman?”

  “What about ’em?” Cotton asked. “You plannin’ on gettin’ elected President ’fore you retire, or you figure bein’ white’s gonna be enough?” Leroy stared at him. “Leroy,” Cotton said softly. “Leroy, niggers just don’t get to retire. They gets to get shot, or they gets to starve, or they gets to drink theyself to death, an’ if they lucky they gets to stop doin’ what they been doin’ an’ start doin’ somethin’ else, but we sure as hell don’t get to go to no Florida an’ lay around all day on some damn beach. Hell, you already got a suntan. All right, I spose there is some silly-ass sonofabitch somewhere, some damn janitor or car mechanic or some such shit, some fool that puts his money in the damn bank an’ pays his social security so when he gets to be sixty-five he can collect his sixty-five dollars an’ sixty-five cent on the sixty-fifth a the month, but Jesus Christ, Leroy, you ain’t gonna be happy with that. You want that kinda bullshit?”

  “No,” Leroy said.

  “Well, all right,” Cotton said. “You better get your ass back together.”

  “I got ma ass together,” Leroy said. He raised the bottle, drank the rest of the gin down, tossed it away into the darkness. “Tomorrow mornin’ we gonna go outa here an’ whip these simple niggers into line. Retire, shit. I ain’t no fool. I don’t know what got into you, simple ass, come around here tryin’ to tell me I got to retire.”

  “Sorry, Leroy,” Cotton said.

  “You come around peddlin’ that kinda shit again an’ you’ll be inventin’ a new kind of sorry.” He pushed himself out of the chair, stumbled against the bar, stayed upright by half lying across it.

  “You think you can make it to bed?” Cotton asked.

  “Sure,” Leroy said.

  “You don’t need no help?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “What ’bout Leslie?”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s up there waitin’ for you.”

  “So?”

  “She’s gonna want to fuck all night.”

  “With who?”

  “With you.”

  “I ain’t in the mood.”

  “Maybe you better sleep in ma room, then.”

  “Now what the hell kinda talk is that? You think I’ma get outa ma own damn bed just on account a some horny bitch? She can’t keep quiet an’ let me sleep, she can damn well sleep someplace else.” He sniffed, took a deep breath, and went staggering toward the doorway, banging into chairs and tables as he went. Cotton rose and moved easily to the bar, went behind it, got himself a beer, and opened it. He listened as Leroy’s fumbling footsteps faded on the stairs, then sounded on the floor above. Cotton moved out into the Elysium’s lobby, still listening. He heard the two thuds and clank as Leroy’s shoes and belt buckle hit the floor. He heard the creak of bedsprings, dull murmurings of voices. Suddenly there was a yowl, as if someone had stepped on a cat, followed by a boom as something heavy hit the floor. Grinning, Cotton finished his beer, belched, and began to mount the stairs.

  Jake hurried across the South Street Bridge, his baggy pockets ajangle with the loose change he had earned panhandling outside Thirtieth Street Station. Jake preferred to earn his money shining shoes, but it had been an exceptionally bad day and the only remedy for his personal liquidity crisis had been a vast infusion of nickels and dimes and, occasionally, quarters, extracted from the somewhat guilty-looking commuters rushing to catch the Paoli Local. Panhandling hurt Jake’s pride, his feet and, lately, his belly, but it was better to make small sacrifices than to go without wine, or to tap the emergency reserve bottle he kept hidden deep in a dark cranny of his favorite alley. With Jake it was a point of pride that he had always kept something put aside for a rainy day; it assured him that he was a cut above the average wino, who, Jake believed, never was successful because he never looked far enough ahead.
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  But as Jake hurried across the bridge he cursed himself for lacking foresight in another area; it had been a long day, and there was a frightening chance that he would not reach Lightnin’ Ed’s before closing time. He was so occupied with thinking about his destination that he failed to pay sufficient attention to where he was going; he stumbled over something and sprawled full length on the concrete. Hands reached down and helped him up. “Why don’t you watch where the hell you goin’?” Jake snapped, peering at the man in front of him. It was too dark to see much.

  “You were going. I was just sitting here.”

  Jake recognized the accent. “What you doin’ here, Brown?”

  “Settin’,” Brown said.

  “Humph,” Jake said, and started to move on. Then he stopped. His nose twitched like a rabbit’s. “You been drinkin’ a little beer, huh?”

  “No,” Brown said. “I have been drinkin’ a whole hell of a lot of beer. I have already drunk almost two six-packs.”

  “Uh huh,” Jake said encouragingly.

  “I might just drink a couple more ’fore I gets through.”

  “Uh huh,” Jake said skeptically. “You best hurry on then, or all the bars be closed.”

  “I ain’t sweatin’ none,” Brown said. “I always come prepared. Cuts down on unwanted pregnancy.”

  Jake peered at him. “Beer?”

  “That’s right,” Brown said.

  “You got this beer up here?” Jake said.

  “What you think, I goes someplace else to drink it? Course it’s here.”

  “Uh huh,” Jake said.

  “You wanna hear the poem I just wrote?” Brown asked.

  “I don’t hear too good sometimes,” Jake said.

  “You want a beer?” Brown said in a whisper.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Jake said.

  “I’m glad you’re so fond of poetry,” Brown said.