“Not with the safety off. ’Nessa, you think maybe Leroy might be goin’ a little bit crazy?”
Vanessa stared at her for a half a minute, then burst out laughing. “What’s so funny?” Charlene demanded, depositing herself on her chair.
“Nothin’,” Leslie mumbled.
“Honey,” Vanessa chuckled, “honey, where in Jesus have you been? Everybody on the whole damn street knows Leroy’s crazy. Been crazy. For years. Ain’t that right, Charlene?”
Charlene’s eyes were fixed on a point somewhere above and behind Vanessa’s head. “Oh, I don’t know. He seems fine to me.”
“Well he don’t seem fine to nobody got no sense. You ask him, Les. Ask him how come he don’t never get offa the Street. All he does is get in that damn Cadillac an’ drive down to the river, then roll on over to Bainbridge an’ come right back up. He don’t never go north a Naudain Street. He don’t never go west a Twenty-fourth. Ask him how come. Ask him how come he shits every time he sees a white man.”
“Why don’t you ask him, ’Nessa?” Charlene said carefully.
“Yeah,” Leroy boomed, “why don’t you ask me?”
Vanessa turned around slowly. “Evenin’, Leroy. I don’t have to ask, I already know.”
“I don’t leave South Street ’cause there ain’t no other place to go that’s worth the trouble a gettin’ there. An’ I shit every time I see a white man from holdin’ maself back from tearin’ the pasty muthafucka’s head off. That’s why.”
“Uh huh?” said Vanessa.
“Uh huh,” confirmed Leroy.
“Wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with pizza pie, would it?”
“No,” Leroy said.
“Ma mistake,” Vanessa said.
“Yeah, bitch,” Leroy said, “an’ you been makin’ quite a few a them lately. Now I ain’t gonna be makin’ no gang bang outa one little blowjob. An’ I’ma forgive you. I’m even gonna keep you on the payroll. Leroy gonna take good care a you.”
“Somebody else is takin’ good care of me,” Vanessa snapped.
“At the moment.”
“What are you gettin’ at, Leroy?” Vanessa said tiredly.
“Oh, nothin’. I just wouldn’t be plannin’ no long love affairs.”
“You touch him, I’ll kill you,” Vanessa said flatly.
“Touch him? I ain’t gonna touch him. I ain’t even gonna get close to him. Les,” he said, without takin’ his eyes off Vanessa, “did you tell your sister here ’bout the bang-up time we had this afternoon?” Leslie said nothing, just dropped her eyes. Leroy didn’t bother to look at her. “Uh huh, I figured you would.” He smiled at Vanessa and turned away.
“Leroy,” Vanessa said, “how do you say ‘sir’ in Italian?”
Leroy grinned amiably and disappeared through the door to the office.
“He’s bluffin’,” Vanessa said softly, mostly to herself.
“I don’t think—” Charlene began.
“That’s for sure,” Vanessa snapped. She picked up her purse and rose. “Les.”
“What?” said Leslie.
“You find out where some a them bodies is buried, an’ you put some money away that he don’t know about, an’ you do it now.” Leslie nodded. “You need help, you let me know.”
“Okay,” Leslie said. “But what about—”
“He’s bluffin’,” Vanessa said, without conviction. “You watch yourself.” She turned and stepped toward the door. Just as she reached it Leroy emerged from the office and intercepted her.
“Off to kiss your boyfriend good-bye?” Leroy said, and grinned.
“You try—”
“You be nice to me now,” Leroy advised. “I might not kill him. I might just run him off.”
“I’ll go with him,” Vanessa said.
“Well, now,” Leroy said. “Maybe he ain’t gonna be wantin’ no half-dead whore can’t even fuck right. Course, maybe you don’t fuck. I hear he’s an educated fool. Been to college. Maybe he talks philosophy to you like he does with that fat old cunt down to Lightnin’ Ed’s. You get off on that jazz, ’Nessa?”
“We don’t talk no philosophy,” Vanessa said.
“No? Then what’s a man like that gonna be doin’ with a bitch like you?”
“Love me, maybe.”
“After I run him off, maybe you just better forget about him. He ain’t gonna be wantin’ you.”
“I’ll go anyway,” Vanessa said.
Leroy smiled coldly. “You just killed him,” he said, and turned away.
In the dark comfort of Lightnin’ Ed’s, Brown sat sipping beer. It had been a hard day for him behind the bar at Frankie’s—too many bright-eyed secretaries and young stockbrokers in sharkskin suits. Brown had begun to hate drinkers of mixed drinks. Straight whiskeys with water or ice or even soda were all right, but gin and tonics, vodka martinis, gin and bitter lemons he had no use for. He despised Manhattans. He sneered at whiskey sours. Seven-and-Sevens made him retch, and Brandy Alexanders were anathema. His feelings had quickly carried over from the drinks to the white-faced drinkers thereof, and now he rejoiced to sit on the customers’ side of the bar, rubbing elbows with imbibers of beer and consumers of wine whose idea of vintage was a bottle of Thunderbird that had been sitting around for a week.
Behind the bar Leo rambled up and down, one eye on the needs of his customers, the other cemented to the TV screen. The Phillies were beating the Atlanta Braves by a score of seven to one, which pleased Leo no end. He had viewed each of the seven runs as a sword piercing into the vitals of the knights of the Ku Klux Klan. He was in an expansive mood, and he could even find it in his heart to forgive Hank Aaron for hitting a bases-empty home run. But Leo could not forgive the storm clouds which by their ominous gathering threatened to erase the Phillies’ efforts. A rain-out in this situation would, Leo felt, be incontrovertible proof that God was a cracker.
“Damn,” Leo said, as an Atlanta Brave, batting in the top of the third, stepped out of the box. “Can’t that ump see what the fucker’s tryin’ to do? Make ’em play ball!” The batter stepped back in, fouled off a pitch, and stepped out again. “Shit,” said Leo. “What they oughta do is to get some niggers in there for umpowerin’, that’s what they oughta do.” He turned to Brown. “Ain’t that right?”
Brown shook his head. “Can’t have no black umpires.”
“Why the hell not? Call balls an’ strikes just as good as that Augie Whatshisname.”
“Yeah, but he couldn’t call folks out,” Brown said.
Leo glared at him. “What kinda shit you talkin’, fool?”
“Ain’t shit,” Brown said. “Can’t have no nigger callin’ folks out. Oh, I guess it might be all right if he was only callin’ Aaron, or Willie Mays, or Clemente out. But sposin’ he was to call that Staub fella out?”
“Well, what if he did?”
Brown sighed. “Leo,” Brown said patiently, “baseball’s the national game, right?”
“Right.”
“Right. Now what that means is that what happens on the field is sorta like what happens all over, right?”
Leo nodded slowly.
Brown leaned forward, gesturing to emphasize his point. “Now you tell me, Leo, where’d you ever see a nigger callin’ a white man out an’ gettin’ away with it?”
Leo swallowed and thought about it. “All right, but that’s changin’. I mean, you’re right, but I can remember when they wouldn’t even let a colored man on the field.”
“Sure,” Brown said. “An’ the first one they did let on damn near ran down every honky they had.”
“Right. An’ they loved him. Wasn’t no damn prejudice; everybody loved Jackie Robinson.”
“Sure they loved him. You know why?”
“’Cause he was good.”
“There was lotsa good niggers around, Leo, an’ they never let ’em play. You know why they loved Jackie Robinson? ’Cause he stole bases. Now everybody knows niggers steal, so all they did was send Jackie out
there an’ let him do what they figured come natural. Now, Satch Paige, he wasn’t lucky. Satch was a pitcher, an’ there wasn’t nobody could get a hit offa him. Couldn’t let him play, he’d a made Ted Williams look like a ’lectric fan. An’ the worst part of all was they say the pitcher wins the game, or loses it, don’t make no difference. Point is they couldn’t let no niggers be that important. When they finally do let a nigger pitch, it’s some dude with a name like Alvin O’Neal McBean or fuckin’ Mudcat Grant, an’ they make him pitch in Pittsburgh, or in goddamn Minneapolis.”
“That,” said Leo, “is a lot a jive.” The TV set roared. Leo spun around, but it was just another long foul ball. The storm clouds were thicker. “Damn,” Leo said, “we can’t win nothin’.”
“Like I said,” Brown told him. “It’s that national game. Everybody plays. You gotta play to win. Only you never get to win.”
Leo stared at him. “You scare me, you know that?” Leo said. Brown grinned. “No, I mean it,” Leo said. “You really scare me. Half the time you seem like you as normal as anybody. Rest a the time …” Leo’s voice trailed off.
“Rest a the time I act like I was crazy. You know what the difference between normal folks an’ crazy folks is?”
Leo sighed.
“Normal folks acts half-crazy all the time. Crazy folks acts all crazy half the time an’ all sane the rest a the time. In other words, they ain’t never normal.” Leo stared at him. Brown grinned.
“Haw, haw, haw,” laughed Big Betsy the whore, who had been following the conversation with much interest and little comprehension. “He got you there, Leo.”
Leo checked the progress of the ball game, which was not progressing noticeably at all, then turned to Big Betsy. “What I wants to know is, how come you acts crazy all the time?”
“I don’t never act crazy,” Big Betsy snapped. “’Cept,” she added coyly, “at that time a the month.”
Leo snorted. “Which time is that, when they send out the welfare checks, or when there’s a full moon?”
“You know what I mean,” Big Betsy snapped.
“Betsy, the last time you had to worry ’bout gettin’ knocked up was durin’ the postwar baby boom. That’s the Civil War, now.”
Big Betsy’s eyes narrowed. “Leo, it’s a good thing you wasn’t born a cat, or they’d a drowned you.”
“I hear they tried to drown you, an’ that’s where all this water pollution come from.”
Big Betsy made a noise like a loaded semitrailer grinding up Pikes Peak.
“See what I mean?” Brown said, grinning impishly.
Leo glared at him, turned back to the TV. The teams were changing. “Couple more innin’s,” Leo said, “an’ it’s in the books.”
“Speakin’ a craziness,” said Big Betsy, “don’t you think it’s ’bout time you quit watchin’ that game? Man your age oughta know there’s things more important than games.”
“I know it,” Leroy said. “There’s money. There’s politics. There’s women.” Big Betsy smiled. “They may be more important,” Leo went on, “but they sure as hell ain’t no more fun.”
“Fun,” snorted Big Betsy. “That’s all y’all men think about. All ma damn life I had some man climbin’ on top a me for fun.”
“I never went in for mountain climbin’, did you, Brown?” Leo said. Brown covered his face with both hands.
“What you laughin’ at, you simple-ass nigger?” Big Betsy demanded.
“Nothin’,” Brown said quickly.
“You can say that again,” Leo said. “Damn!” The image on the TV screen underwent violent convulsions and the rumble of thunder rolled in through the door of Lightnin’ Ed’s. “Shit! Seven to one an’ it’s gonna rain.” As if in answer the Philadelphia batter connected solidly with the next pitch, sending the ball far over the wall in left field. “Not now, you asshole!” Leo roared. “Save it, save it.” As the batter rounded third base the plate umpire waved the groundskeepers out to cover the infield. “Goddamn,” Leo said, “if this kinda shit keeps up, we gonna be havin’ George Wallace for President. You wait an’ see.”
The storm rolled in from the east—heavy black clouds, their soft underbellies tinted pink by the setting sun, banging in off the Delaware. From the window Brother Fletcher watched them advancing in confusion, tumbling over themselves, occasionally dropping so low they seemed to rip their guts out on the spires of Center City, but rolling on, wounds miraculously closing. The meek evening sky fell back, unprotesting. The rain came after the clouds—Brother Fletcher could detect its advance by the closing of windows, the sudden darkening of the sidewalk, the sudden shininess of the street. The white-lace curtain billowed in the gritty breeze, slapped at his face. Raindrops darkened it. Brother Fletcher closed the window.
“You’re not going to watch the ball game?” asked Mrs. Fletcher.
Brother Fletcher shook his head. “It’ll be rained out.”
“Isn’t there something about if they’ve already started—”
“It has to go four and a half innings. It’s too soon.”
“Sometimes games go fast.”
Brother Fletcher turned to look at her. “Only if we’re losing. If we’re winning, it’ll be rained out.” The rain struck the window like machine-gun fire. The thunder boomed.
“I guess you were winning,” Mrs. Fletcher said.
“God’s an Atlanta fan,” Brother Fletcher said.
Mrs. Fletcher looked up at him sharply. “You never used to talk about God like that,” she said.
“No, I suppose I didn’t. But I don’t think He’ll mind.”
“I don’t think it’s right for a minister to talk about God like that. It’s like you thought He was human.”
“Oh no,” Brother Fletcher said. “God’s not human. If He were human He’d let us win once in a while.” He smiled sadly, crossed the room and sat down. “Do you think I’m changing?”
“What?”
“Changing,” Brother Fletcher said. “Do you think I’m changing?”
“Of course not,” said Mrs. Fletcher. “What are you going to change to at your age, a frog?”
“I don’t know,” Brother Fletcher said. He sat silently for a few minutes, watching Mrs. Fletcher’s fingers move over her sewing. “I used to raise puppies,” Brother Fletcher said suddenly.
“What?”
“Puppies,” said Brother Fletcher. “Baby dogs. What the hell are you, deaf?” Mrs. Fletcher’s face registered total shock. Brother Fletcher realized what he had said, and he felt his face grow warm. “’Scuse me,” he said lamely.
“My God,” Mrs. Fletcher said. “My God, it’s true. It’s all true. You been stolen by the Devil. What’s her name? I’ll scratch her eyes out!”
“Huh?” said Brother Fletcher.
Mrs. Fletcher slammed her sewing down. “I knew it. But I couldn’t bring maself to believe it! Oh, Fletcher, how could you?”
“All I said was ‘hell,’” protested Brother Fletcher. “I must say hell ten times every Sunday. I have to; nobody around here knows anything about heaven.”
“This isn’t Sunday. Hell is only the name of a place on Sunday. The rest of the week it’s a bad word. Where did you learn words like that, Fletcher? Where do you g—no, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. If I know, I’ll kill her.”
“Her who?”
“You know who. Whoever she is, that’s who. And at your age. Think you’d be over that by now.” Mrs. Fletcher shook her head sadly, glared at Brother Fletcher angrily, then suddenly burst into tears. Brother Fletcher jumped up and put his arms around her. “Get your sinful hands off me,” Mrs. Fletcher sobbed, wrapping her arms tightly around Brother Fletcher’s head and twisting it back and forth. “Leave me be. If I ain’t enough for you after all these years—”
“What are you talkin’ about, woman,” Brother Fletcher demanded, trying to extract his head from the hammerlock.
“I tried ma best,” Mrs. Fletcher wailed.
Br
other Fletcher gave up the thought of escape and concentrated instead on squeezing her harder than she was squeezing him. Mrs. Fletcher, failing to get the message, tightened her grasp around his head. “I loved you as good as I was able,” Mrs. Fletcher cried, “an’ maybe it wasn’t all that fancy, an’ maybe I am gettin’ old, but the Lord knows I tried.”
“Umphgh,” said Brother Fletcher, who now, in addition to being strangled, was being smothered as Mrs. Fletcher pulled his face against her bosom. “Umph.”
“Yes, the Lord knows,” Mrs. Fletcher said, looking down fondly on Brother Fletcher’s head. Suddenly her features hardened and she thrust him away. “So where you think you get off, cheatin’ on me for some old fried chicken?”
Brother Fletcher shook his head and gasped for air. “But—I don’t like fried chicken,” he protested weakly. Then he stared at her. “You mean—you thought—my Lord! Was I acting that strange?”
Mrs. Fletcher smiled tearfully. “You kept going out. And you did act strange. But I should have known it was just the beer.”
Brother Fletcher gaped. “You know about the beer?”
“Let’s just say I knew you weren’t satisfied with the iced tea. And for a while I thought maybe you weren’t satisfied with me, either.” Brother Fletcher hung his head. “Fletch?” said Mrs. Fletcher.
“I’m sorry I let you think it. I’m ashamed I let you think it.”
“How are you supposed to know what I’m thinking?”
“I should have told you everything.” He sighed, sank down on the couch. “I guess I was afraid.”
“Afraid? Fletch, I ain’t crazy enough to get upset about a little beer.”
Brother Fletcher’s eyes twinkled. “Fried chicken, beer, what’s the difference?” Mrs. Fletcher glared at him, then smiled. “But I wasn’t talking about beer. I was talking about God.”
“What?”
“God,” Brother Fletcher said. “Remember Him? He plays for Atlanta. As if Aaron wasn’t enough.”
“What about God?” Mrs. Fletcher demanded. “Fletcher, what are you talking about?”
“It’s called a crisis of faith,” Brother Fletcher explained grimly. “It’s a childhood disease, like mumps and measles, which can be very dangerous if you get them late in life. It’s common in young men between the ages of fifteen and twenty-seven. Preachers are supposed to be immune.” He looked at Mrs. Fletcher and smiled tightly. “I forgot to take my booster shots.”
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