South Street

by David Bradley

  “Sometimes,” Vanessa said, “you sound like educational TV. I wish I could change the channel.”

  “What you want, a soap opera?”

  “Maybe I just want to turn you off altogether.”

  “Click,” Brown said. He slurped loudly at his coffee. Vanessa got up and went to look out the window. Brown rocked back in his chair. Vanessa walked into the bedroom, came back with a cigarette, and leaned out the window, smoking. Brown let the chair come down onto all four legs, went to the sink, and rinsed out the cups. Vanessa hummed softly. Brown turned off the water with a violent twist that rattled the plumbing. Vanessa looked over at him reproachfully, then turned her attention back to the window. Brown stalked through to the bathroom, slammed on the water, climbed beneath the iceberg coldness. He smiled grimly as he soaped himself, his face turned into the frigid spray. He felt Vanessa’s breasts against his back. He rinsed himself off and got out of the shower. She followed him. Brown made a large production of drying his face. Vanessa pulled the towel away.

  “Don’t you hide from me, muthafucka!”

  Brown looked at her. “Who,” he said carefully, “is hiding from whom?”

  “You is hidin’ from whommmm, dammit!”

  “No,” Brown said. “You are hiding from you. You want to just lay there like a goddamn whore.”

  “I am a goddamn whore!” Vanessa shouted. “I’m a goddamn H, O, R, E whore. I ain’t no college professor—”

  “Lotsa college professors are whores,” Brown said. “There’s more to bein’ a whore than not knowin’ how to spell it.”

  “Here we are, the world’s fuckin’ expert on fuckin’ whores—”

  “No,” Brown said, “actually, it’s a new thing for me. I never met a whore I wanted to fuck before.”

  “Shit,” Vanessa said. “Why can’t you just leave me be?”

  “I care about you,” Brown said.

  “Oh, yeah,” Vanessa said. “I knew that was comin’. What else is there to try?”

  “If I didn’t care about you, I wouldn’t care if you came or not.”

  “Onliest reason you do care is so you can think you’re big shit—Dr. Brown, who came on down to South Street an’ scared the shit out a the tough guys an’ taught the hookers the meanin’ a true love.”

  “That’s right,” Brown said. “Matter of fact, that’s the only reason I even touch you. You’re so ugly, if you was a dog I’d shave your ass an’ teach you to walk backward. That make you happy?”

  “Lemme outa here,” Vanessa said. She ran into the bedroom and began putting on her clothes. Brown stood watching. “Don’t you try an’ stop me,” Vanessa said dangerously.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Brown said.

  Vanessa stepped into her shoes. “You can forget all about me.”

  “Forget who?” Brown said. He turned to the basin and ran water, lathered his face, started shaving. A minute later he heard the door slam. Brown went on shaving, ignoring the blood that reddened the white lather where, in a moment of inattention, he had cut himself.

  Willie T. swaggered into the lobby of the Elysium Hotel, stopped just inside the door, and cleared his throat loudly. The Muslim desk clerk continued his diligent perusal of Mohammed Speaks. Willie T. glared at the lowered head, cleared his throat once again. The desk clerk looked up very slowly, glanced at Willie T. for the barest second, then wordlessly returned to his paper. Willie T. strutted over to the desk and banged on it. “What?” said the desk clerk without looking up.

  “What, what?” retorted Willie T.

  The desk clerk raised his head and examined Willie T., like a zoologist studying a strange new creature. “What you mean, what, what?”

  “I mean what, what?” Willie T. snapped. “Don’t you be givin’ me no plain what, nigger.”

  “Well, what you want on it, fried onions?”

  “I want a little respect around here,” Willie T. declared. “I don’t want to be walkin’ in an’ have some silly fool sayin’ ‘what,’ that’s what.”

  The desk clerk looked heavenward in a silent appeal to Almighty Allah. “All right, Willie,” he said patiently. “What can I do for you?”

  “What can I do for you, sir,” said Willie T.

  “You can’t be doin’ nothin’ for me, ’ceptin’ maybe get on outa here with your foolishness.”

  “Sir!” roared Willie T.

  “Leroy’s still asleep,” the desk clerk said mildly.

  “Sir,” repeated Willie T. in a hoarse whisper. “You call me sir.”

  “I don’t call nobody sir. An’ if I was gonna be callin’ anybody sir, it sure ain’t gonna be you.” Willie T. reached across the desk and grabbed the clerk by the front of his shirt. “The Prophet trains his men to resist the infidel,” the clerk said softly. “I am a ‘Fruit of Islam.’”

  Willie T. let go in a small hurry and retreated a step. “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout no Islam, but you is a fruit for sure.” The clerk smiled benignly. “You better show some respect, or your X is gonna get turned into an O.” The desk clerk snorted and went back to his paper. “X, shit,” said Willie T. “Your mama just didn’t know your daddy’s last name.” The desk clerk sighed. Willie T. reached out and plucked the corner of the paper. “Why don’t you fools ever change the back page a that paper? ‘What the Muslims Want.’ Shit.”

  “We ain’t changed it ’cause we ain’t got it yet,” the desk clerk said.

  “An’ you ain’t never gonna get it, neither. Only a crazy fool’d trade in pork chops an’ wine for a newspaper an’ a fuckin’ bean pie.” The clerk gave Willie T. a tolerant smile and went on with his reading. “Damn if I’d want a God that hung out in Chicago,” said Willie T.

  “The Prophet is in Chicago,” said the desk clerk. “Allah is everywhere.”

  “Um, humph,” said Willie T. “Y’all in great shape. You got a nigger Al Capone for a prophet, a bunch a fruits for followers, an’ a God that lays around everywhere like a pile a cat shit.”

  The desk clerk put the paper down. “We got somethin’ else, too. Only we just about run out of it.”

  “Oh yeah, what’s that?” said Willie T.

  “Patience, brother, patience.”

  “Uh huh,” said Willie T. “Well I guess it’s easy to wait when you can’t come anyways.”

  The desk clerk shook his head sadly. “Willie, please. It’s just too early in the mornin’ for your mouth to be out diggin’ your ass a grave.”

  “‘Ass!’” exclaimed Willie T. “I thought you fruits didn’t use bad words.”

  “Ass,” said the desk clerk, “is found often in the Koran. It is not a bad word. It is a noun indicatin’ a familiar beast of burden. This animal is usually brown in color, havin’ big ears, a big mouth, a big nose, small eyes, a particularly tiny brain, an’ no sense whatsoever. Asses usually live to the age of ten or eleven before bein’ beaten to death. How old are you now, Willie?”

  “If I was you—” Willie T. began. He was interrupted by a heavy thump on the ceiling. “What’s that?”

  “Sounds like Leroy’s gettin’ up,” the desk clerk said. Willie T. stared up at the ceiling. The desk clerk settled back with his paper. From above came a sound like a 747 on takeoff. “Yep,” said the desk clerk, “he’s up all right.”

  Footsteps banged across the ceiling, which bounced slightly with each heavy thud. A door slammed. There was a sound like a Mack truck revving up, followed by a series of cannon shots. “What’s that?” said Willie T., his voice trembling.

  “Sounds like Leroy’s takin’ a dump,” said the desk clerk without looking up from his paper. There was a metallic screech and rumble like Niagara Falls. “Yep,” said the desk clerk, “he’s takin’ a dump all right.”

  The footsteps pounded back across the ceiling. There was a moment of silence, followed by a sharp crack, a sound like a screeching cat, and a heavy thump. “What in Jesus’ name was that?” said Willie T.

  “Sounds like Leroy’s in a poor mood,
” the desk clerk said. Light footsteps pattered across the ceiling. Leslie appeared at the head of the stairs with blood all over her face. The desk clerk looked at her, sniffed, and returned his attention to the words of the Prophet. “Yep,” he said, “he’s in a bad mood all right.”

  “Lord,” said Willie T. He pulled out his handkerchief and extended it toward Leslie. She came down the stairs, took it, and held it to her face. “Lord,” said Willie T. again.

  The front door opened and Cotton strolled in. “Salam alaikum,” Cotton said. “What’s happenin’?”

  The desk clerk looked up. “Alaikum wa salam. Not much. Willie T. almost got hisself wasted, I almost got a medal for exterminatin’ a public nuisance, an’ Leroy, as you can see, is in a poor mood.”

  “In other words,” Cotton said, “not shit.”

  “Bismellahi,” said the desk clerk.

  “How come Leroy’s in a bad mood? Didn’t he get all his mean out yesterday?”

  “Brown,” said Leslie

  “He been around here again?”

  “Nah,” Leslie said. “Leroy went lookin’ for him.”

  Cotton chuckled humorlessly. “Leroy get his ass whipped or somethin’?”

  Leslie took the handkerchief away from her face. “Cotton, Leroy ain’t lookin’ for no rumble, he wants a shoot-out.”

  Cotton stared at her. “A shoot-out? You mean Leroy went lookin’ for Brown with a gun? With a fuckin’ gun?”

  “That’s exactly what you call it,” Leslie said, grinning sourly.

  “Oh, Jesus!” Cotton said.

  “Whatsa matter with you?” said Willie T. “He’s been gettin’ his shit together to go after Brown for two weeks.”

  “Yeah, sure. He was gonna kick the dude’s ass or beat him up, or bust his legs or somethin’. Gino might not get too upset about that, Gino ain’t fond a niggers anways. But even Gino can’t afford to be lettin’ people shoot his men down.”

  “You a worry-ass,” Willie T. said. “We don’t even know for sure the cat works for Gino.”

  “So when we gonna find out, after Leroy turns him into hamburger?” Cotton looked at Leslie. “How come Leroy didn’t kill him last night?”

  “Leroy didn’t say,” Leslie snapped. “But if he was in the same shape when he tried as he was when he come back, he’s lucky he didn’t shoot his own damn dick off.”

  “You shouldn’t be talkin’ about Leroy that way,” Willie T. said.

  Leslie regarded him sourly. “While he’s killin’ folks, I hope he gets you, too. An’ Rayburn, too,” she added. “Put the poor bastard out a his misery.”

  Cotton shook his head. “I’ll say this for Leroy, he don’t go pickin’ up no second-class cunts.” Leslie shot him a threatening look and opened her mouth.

  “If I was you,” said the desk clerk, “I’d just keep it closed.”

  Leslie kept it closed.

  “Leroy still upstairs?” Cotton asked.

  “Yep,” said the desk clerk, “he’s up there all right.”

  “All right, Willie, when he comes down, you tell him not to go killin’ nobody until I get back.” Cotton turned and trundled out the door.

  “This I have got to see,” said the desk clerk. “You tryin’ to tell Leroy he can’t kill somebody when he feels like it.”

  “I’ma tell him,” Willie T. snapped. “I ain’t afraid a no Leroy.”

  “Uh, huh.”

  “I will,” Willie T. insisted. “I’ll tell him.”

  “Tell who what?” asked Leroy from the top of the stairs.

  “Tell Cotton he can kiss his own damn rattlesnakes,” Willie T. said promptly.

  Leroy descended the stairs like a lowering storm. He stopped above the step where Leslie was sitting, tapped her spine with the toe of his shoe. “Move it,” Leroy said.

  “Walk around,” Leslie said.

  Leroy bent over and whispered something in her ear. Leslie moved it. Leroy continued his descent. “Now, Willie, what’s this shit about rattlesnakes?”

  “Oh, nothin’, boss, nothin’,” Willie T. said. The desk clerk snickered. “Boss, why don’t you get rid a this Arabian asshole?”

  “Well, I was gonna let him keep you in line, but it’s probably a bad idea. He won’t touch pork.”

  “In his case,” said the desk clerk, “I will make an exception.”

  “All right, now, we got us some work to do,” Leroy said. “Les, you go get cleaned up. You look like you fell off the roof on your face. Willie, T., you comin’ with me. We goin’ Brown huntin’.”

  “But …” said Willie T.

  “But what?”

  “But what if the character really do work for Gino? Ain’t Gino gonna be mad, you killin’ one a his men?”

  Leroy stuck out his lower lip and considered the proposition. “Most likely. But if he do get upset, I know what to do to calm him down.”

  “You do?” said Willie T. “What’s that?”

  “I’ll let Gino kill one a mine,” Leroy said. Smiling, he strode out the door.

  The banging had been so furious that Mrs. Fletcher half expected to see white-sheeted forms bearing burning crosses when she opened the door. But the only white she saw was in Sister Fundidia’s eyes. Sister Fundidia dropped to her knees and hugged Mrs. Fletcher’s legs for dear life. Sister Fundidia’s breasts formed a fulcrum, and Mrs. Fletcher was nearly levered to the sidewalk before she managed to grab the doorjamb to hold herself up. “Oh sweet Jesus!” wailed Sister Fundidia, “oh sweeeet Jesus!” She clung to Mrs. Fletcher like a boa constrictor. Mrs. Fletcher kicked at her, leaped away. Sister Fundidia pursued, still on her knees. Mrs. Fletcher retreated hurriedly. Sister Fundidia pursued doggedly. Mrs. Fletcher took refuge behind the coffee table. Sister Fundidia, in hot pursuit, lost her balance and fell on her face. She began to kick the floor. “Oh Jehoshaphat,” wailed Sister Fundidia.

  From down the hall came the sounds of a squeaking roller, a clanking belt buckle, a flushing toilet. Brother Fletcher came through the door buttoning his shirt. He took one look at Sister Fundidia and decided he’d better zip his fly first. Sister Fundidia looked up, saw Brother Fletcher, struggled to her knees, and charged, bellowing like a cow elephant in heat. Brother Fletcher, both hands on his zipper, backed away. Mrs. Fletcher intercepted Sister Fundidia with a passable open-field tackle, slapped on a half nelson, and had her pinned in seconds.

  “What—?”

  “Don’t ask me,” grunted Mrs. Fletcher. “She’s one a yours.”

  Brother Fletcher shrugged. He got down on his knees so he could look Sister Fundidia in the eye. “Now calm down, Sister,” Brother Fletcher said gently. Sister Fundidia’s deranged canary wails degenerated into sobs. Mrs. Fletcher cautiously released the chicken wing she had prudently slapped on Sister Fundidia’s left arm, but retained the half nelson. “Let her go,” Brother Fletcher said. Mrs. Fletcher looked doubtful, but she let go and rose to her feet, groaning. “Where did you learn that?” said Brother Fletcher.

  “I had seven brothers and four sisters,” Mrs. Fletcher reminded him. “I had to learn that.”

  Brother Fletcher returned his attention to Sister Fundidia, whose sobs had become hiccups. “Now, Sister,” said Brother Fletcher, “how can we help you?”

  Sister Fundidia raised her face from the floor. “It’s hic Je hic hoshaphat hic,” Sister Fundidia said. “He’s in his jail.” Sister Fundidia gave Brother Fletcher a pleading look. “Hic,” she added as an afterthought, before letting her head sink back to the floor.

  “Jehoshaphat,” breathed Brother Fletcher. “Who’s Jehoshaphat? I don’t know any Jehoshaphat.”

  “Looks like you’re gonna be gettin’ acquainted,” observed Mrs. Fletcher. “Come on, honey,” she said, reaching down and hauling Sister Fundidia to her feet and conveying her to the sofa. “Coffee?”

  “Hic,” said Sister Fundidia.

  “Coffee,” said Mrs. Fletcher, and went to make it.

  Brother Fletcher sat down next to Sister Fund
idia and patted her gently on the arm. “Now, Sister, I’ll certainly try to help your friend, ah, Jehoshaphat, but—”

  “Well, hic,” said Sister Fundidia, “I sup hic pose I shouldn’t really hic call hic him by his hic first hic name. But we are in hic love.” She looked at Brother Fletcher woefully. “Hic.”

  Brother Fletcher sighed. “Would you bring us a glass of water?” he called. The pipes banged briefly. Mrs. Fletcher appeared in the doorway holding a glass of water.

  “Hic,” said Sister Fundidia.

  “Water won’t help,” Mrs. Fletcher said.

  “Of course it will,” said Brother Fletcher, taking the glass. “Here you are, Sister, drink this, all at one time.” Sister Fundidia drank the water all at one time. They waited for a few minutes in expectant silence. “There you are,” said Brother Fletcher triumphantly. “Feel better now, Sister?”

  “Yes, thic you,” said Sister Fundidia. Mrs. Fletcher snorted and returned to the kitchen.

  Brother Fletcher cleared his throat. “Now, Sister, about your friend—”

  “I just don’t hic know hic what to hic do,” moaned Sister Fundidia “We were going to get hic married hic and he can’t hic marry hic me hic if he’s in hic jail, can hic he?”

  “No,” said Brother Fletcher gently, “I wouldn’t think so.”

  “An’ if he hic can’t hic marry hic me,” said Sister Fundidia, “I’m hic ruined!”

  “You mean—”

  “I hic raped him hic,” Sister Fundidia confessed.

  “I see,” Brother Fletcher said gravely.

  “Hic,” said Sister Fundidia.

  Mrs. Fletcher entered carrying sugar, milk, and three steaming mugs on a painted tray. Under one arm she held a brown paper bag.

  “What’s that for?” asked Brother Fletcher.

  Mrs. Fletcher set the tray down and looked at him haughtily. “Anybody with good sense knows there ain’t but one cure for the hiccups.”

  “A paper bag?” demanded Brother Fletcher scornfully. “Pshaw.”