“It ain’t bullshit,” Vanessa snapped. “You’re goin’, ain’t you?”
Brown sighed. “Yes. I’m going. I’m going to a cocktail party. You want to come?”
“No,” Vanessa said. “I just want to know why you have to go.”
“I don’t have to go,” Brown said.
“You want to go.”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what the hell you goin’ for?”
Brown looked at her for a minute, looked down at his plate, pushed it away. “To get a decent meal.”
“You’re full a shit,” Vanessa said.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Tough shit, babycakes,” Vanessa said. “I want to talk about it.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“But I do.”
“Well then, you just go ahead an’ talk about it,” Brown snapped. “I ain’t figured out how to shut you up anyways.”
“You ain’t hardly taken the time. Shit, I don’t know why I want to bother. You know, nigger, you’re beginnin’ to make me mad. Who the hell you think you are? You know what you are? You’re one a them outside agitators—”
“Oh, Lord.”
“—come down here stirrin’ up people’s lives—”
“I didn’t do nothin’.”
“You done somethin’ to me.”
“Yeah,” Brown said, “an’ you even got so you liked it.”
“Yeah,” Vanessa said. “An’ don’t that make your ass proud? Makes you the best cocksmith on South Street, man that finally made ’Nessa come. You gonna be a fuckin’ legend, Brown. You can write it yourself, you’d like that. You go on up there an’ do that, Brown, now that you finished your goddamn research.”
Brown got up and went over to her. He took her by the shoulders. Vanessa turned her head away. Brown caught her chin, tried to turn her head. She twisted away. “Look at me,” Brown said. Vanessa glared at him, her nostrils flared. “Is that what you think?”
“I don’t know,” Vanessa said. She swallowed, lowered her eyes. “I don’t know. All I know is, you started somethin’ an’ you ain’t hardly finished it. You walked in one end a somethin’, an’ now you wanna walk right out again. Ain’t gonna let it touch you.”
“I’ll be back,” Brown said. “I told you that.”
“You’re lyin’. I know when a man’s lyin’.”
“Damn, you act like I was goin’ to the other side a the moon.”
“That’s where you are goin’.”
“Well, I’ll be back this evenin’.”
“How come you got to go in the first place?” Brown sighed. “I’ll wait,” Vanessa said. “I’ll wait until tomorrow mornin’. You ain’t back by then—”
“I’ll be back.”
“If you’re worried about Leroy, I’ll handle Leroy.”
“You’re the one worried about Leroy.”
“You started somethin’ with Leroy, too,” Vanessa said.
“It wasn’t nothin’ important.”
Vanessa stepped back away from him. “Dammit, there you go again. It is important. It’s important to Leroy. You scared him. Man like Leroy can’t afford that.”
“Lord,” Brown said.
Vanessa turned away. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”
“Right,” Brown said. He got up and stomped into the bedroom.
Vanessa took his cup and plate from the table. She scraped the cold eggs into the garbage, washed the cups and dishes, filled the skillet with water and left it to soak. Brown came out of the bedroom dressed in tan slacks, a white shirt open at the neck. Vanessa glanced up. “You look good. You can have any woman you want up to that party.”
Brown smiled faintly. He went over and laid his arm around her shoulders. She pushed him away. Brown went over and looked out the window. “Wonder who sleeps down there now?”
“Brown?”
“What?”
“You ever write a poem ’bout Jake?”
“No,” Brown said.
“Why don’t you? Jake woulda liked it. Or just write one with him in it.”
“You don’t write poems about people,” Brown said. “You write poems about rats and roaches and garbage. Sometimes you write poems for people. But mostly you write poems because of people. Jake’ll be in every poem I write from now on.” He turned. “So will you.”
Cotton lounged in the deserted barroom of the Elysium Hotel, his stubby legs propped up on a chair, the air-conditioning turned up high, the latest issue of Playboy magazine lying unopened on his knee, a frosty beer in his hand. Cotton sighed his contentment and sipped the beer. He opened the magazine and flipped through it, glancing disinterestedly at the pictures. The door to the office opened and Leroy emerged like a reluctant dragon, jowls unshaven and sagging, shirt stained and aromatic, eyes red and unfocused. Cotton looked up in astonishment. “Leroy?”
“Yeah,” Leroy growled in a gravelly voice.
“I ain’t seen you up this early on a Sunday in a long time. Never. Monday, neither, for that matter.”
“That’s true,” Leroy allowed, taking a chair. “I always figured if God needed one day’s rest I was entitled to at least two. Maybe three.”
Cotton looked at him suspiciously. “You gettin’ religion or somethin’?”
“What? Hell, no.”
“Just wonderin’, just wonderin’,” Cotton said.
“Well, quit wonderin’. What’s that you got?”
“Beer.”
“Think I’ll have me one,” Leroy said. Cotton stared as Leroy got up and went behind the bar.
“Opener’s there on the left,” Cotton said.
Leroy grunted. The bottle hissed. Leroy came back and dropped into the chair. He took a long, loud swig. “That’s pretty good. That’s pretty damn good. You know, Cotton, I ain’t had me a beer in a long damn time. Real long time.” He took another swig, then held the bottle up, examining it carefully in the dim light. “A man oughta drink beer,” Leroy said. “Somethin’s wrong with a man if he don’t drink nothin’. Somethin’ wrong with him if he drinks too damn much. Or messes around with them pills an’ dope an’ dust an’ all that shit.”
“Humph,” Cotton said. “You’d be in pretty bad shape if all them junkies decided to guzzle beer. You wouldn’t have a Volkswagen, let alone a goddamn Cadillac.”
“Well, I ain’t talkin’ about junkies. I ain’t no junkie. I ain’t no pill freak, neither. Not no more.” He looked at Cotton. “You know I been takin’ pills? Pills to get up, pills to get down, pills for every fuckin’ thing. Ruins your goddamn appetite. Shit.” He sucked disgustedly on his beer.
“You, ah, been ‘up’ all night?” Cotton inquired delicately.
Leroy looked at him. “I been awake all night. I ain’t been up. I’m finished with that shit. That’s all right for them fools out in the street.” Leroy raised his beer again, but stopped with the bottle only halfway to his lips. “You know how old I am, Cotton?”
Cotton lied with an exaggerated shrug. “What’s the difference?”
Leroy lowered the bottle. “There’s lotsa difference. I’m too damn old—”
“Oh, damn, you ain’t startin’ in with that retirement shit again, are you, ’cause if you are I’ma look at ma magazine here.”
Leroy glanced over. “I didn’t know you was into starin’ at white pussy.”
“I ain’t,” Cotton said. “There’s supposed to be a black girl in here somewheres, only I can’t see her noplace. They probly got the whitest-lookin’ black woman they could find.”
“Well, hell,” Leroy said, “it’s hard to tell the difference when you’re lookin’ up at it.”
“Yeah,” Cotton said. He examined the front cover. “Damn if I’d want me a woman done had her ass on every newsstand in the damn country.”
“What the hell,” Leroy said. “Get right down to it, it don’t hardly make no difference what she done. Onliest thing that matters is what she’s doin’.”
“Or what she ain’t doin’,” Cotton said.
Leroy looked at him sharply. Cotton did not drop his eyes. “Yeah,” Leroy said, “or what she ain’t doin’. Now gettin’ back to what I was sayin’—”
“Not killin’ somebody don’t make you ready for the boneyard, Leroy,” Cotton said.
“I know that, Cotton,” Leroy said. “I ain’t ready for the boneyard, but if you interrupts me one more time, you will be.”
“Sorry,” Cotton said.
“Umph,” Leroy said. He drained his bottle, rose, and went back behind the bar. When he returned he had a fresh bottle for Cotton, too. Cotton stared at him. “What’s the matter with you?” Leroy demanded.
“Nothin’,” Cotton said, accepting the bottle. “Not one thing.”
“Keep it that way,” Leroy said. He sat down and stared thoughtfully at the wall. “Cotton, I been livin’ a long time.” Cotton made a large production of drinking his beer and did not reply. “Yeah,” Leroy said, “I’ve been livin’ a long time, an’ every minute of it I been a nigger. I’m gettin’ tired of it.”
“What?” Cotton said. “Maybe you’d better talk that retirement shit. Lest I’ll know what kind a shit it is.”
“This ain’t shit,” Leroy said. “I’m talkin’ about bein’ a nigger. I been a nigger all ma life. Ain’t no accident rats an’ niggers go together. They both live on crumbs.”
“Shit—”
“It ain’t shit. It’s true.”
“You run this whole damn street,” Cotton protested. “Every nigger—”
“Every nigger!” Leroy exploded. “That’s right. That’s just exactly right. Every nigger. Every black face had better be smilin’ at me. Damn right. I run South Street. Amen. I’m the biggest nigger around. Only just let me step on Market Street, you let me try an’ send one a ma girls up to the Sheraton, or the goddamn Ben Franklin. Then you wait an’ see how long that shit is gonna last.”
“That’s life,” Cotton said. “You only get what Charlie wants you to have.”
“Shit if you do. You only get what the muthafucka don’t even care about. Or what he don’t know about. An’ you only get to keep it so long as he don’t start wantin’ it, or don’t find out about it. You got to lose sleep for fear the muthafucka’s gonna find out you got a little piece of gold somewhere. An’ I’m tellin’ you, Cotton, I am through with that kinda shit. I’ma buy me a congressman.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me. A congressman. Senators is too expensive. We get us a congressman, an’ then we get it together an’ go on up an’ pay a call on Gino, ’cause the way I hear it, that muthafucka buys Christmas turkeys for half the city government. I’m talkin’ ’bout power, baby.”
“A week ago we was scared a Gino. Now how the hell we gonna talk to him?”
“Brown,” Leroy said. “You say he’s buddy-buddy with Gino? Good. We be buddy-buddy with Mr. Brown. We’ll kiss that sucker’s ass so much he’s gonna save a cool million on toilet paper. We gonna send him presents. He wants a piece a the Street? Sure, baby. He gets some a ma asphalt crumbs an’ I’ma get some a his fuckin’ soul. He wants ’Nessa? Sure, Mr. Brown. When he pulls his pecker out we slip some handcuffs on his balls. An’ when we’re real good friends an’ I got ma congressman, we go see Gino.”
“But what about—”
“What about nothin’. Go get me a beer. Have one yourself.”
“I don’t want no more,” Cotton said, getting up.
“I don’t recall astin’,” Leroy snapped. Cotton grinned to himself, and went to get the beer.
Vanessa waited in the kitchen, nervously sipping at an unwanted cup of instant coffee and watching a cigarette, untouched since the first puff, burn itself to white ash. When she was sure Brown would be well on his way she stood up and looked around her. The room seemed empty, barren. She went to the door and stood with one hand on the knob, the other grasping the doorjamb as if the door were a hole she was trying not to fall through while she looked around once more. She took a deep breath and stepped into the hall, closed the door carefully, and went down the stairs.
The street was hot, bright; she paused to take out her shades and slip them on her nose. The hard white glare softened and darkened. Beneath the brightness, shadows lurked. Her feet carried her away from Brown’s door. She walked slowly in the heat, smelling the odor of the street mingled with her own perfume-sweetened sweat. The heat made her head itch, as if tiny sparks arched at the roots of her hair. She felt tired as she pushed open the door to the Elysium’s lobby. The lobby was deserted. Vanessa looked around it with distaste, moving on to the door that led to the barroom with the exaggerated care of a whole man running a gauntlet of lepers. She pushed the door open, stepped inside. The barroom was dark, except for the whisper of an air-conditioning unit. She went to the office door. Through it she heard muffled curses, the click of billiard balls. She pushed the door open. Leroy and Cotton looked up from the game, straightened quickly. “I wanna talk to you,” Vanessa said.
Leroy smiled broadly. “Why, ’Nessa! Good to see you, sugah. I believe you know Cotton, here, an’ Wilbert Tatum.” Leroy gestured expansively at Willie T., who was seated behind the desk devouring Cotton’s Playboy with voracious eyes. Leroy glared at him. “Get to your feet, nigger, an’ put that honky shit away. There’s a lady present.”
Willie T. stood up in amazement. “What kinda shit—”
“An’ mind your tongue, fool.” Leroy turned back to Vanessa and shrugged apologetically as Willie T. knocked the chair over getting to his feet. “Some of us just ain’t ready,” Leroy observed sadly. “Now what can I do for you?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“Why a course. What about?” Vanessa glanced at Willie T. and Cotton. “Take a walk,” Leroy said. Cotton put his cue down and left with the ponderous dignity of an obese undertaker. Willie T. stumbled all over himself as he tried to accomplish the near-impossible task of keeping the Playboy out of sight of both Leroy and Vanessa. “Now,” Leroy said, when Willie T. had managed, not without considerable difficulty, to close the door, “what can I do for you?”
Vanessa smiled sweetly and stepped close to him, insinuating her hand between the third and fourth buttons of his shirt. “What can I do for you?”
Leroy looked down at her hand. “How’s your gentleman friend?” Leroy inquired.
“Fine,” Vanessa said. “An’ I’d do damn near anything to keep him that way.”
“I’m sure you would,” Leroy said.
“I’d do just about anything to make sure nothin’ happened to him,” Vanessa said.
Leroy looked puzzled. “Is somethin’ gonna happen to him?”
“Oh, well, you never know,” Vanessa said. “Accidents do happen. He might be walkin’ down the street an’ slip an’ cut his throat on a busted switchblade. He might be in the wrong place when somebody was cleanin’ their gun an’ get shot right between the eyes.”
Leroy looked shocked. “Are you trying to tell me that somebody might have it in for Mr. Brown?”
“I’ve heard whispers,” Vanessa said drily.
“Who?” thundered Leroy.
“Shit, Leroy,” Vanessa said, “I don’t know what kinda game—”
“Me?” said Leroy, in tones of outraged innocence. “You think that I—’Nessa, I am shocked.”
“Shocked, shit. Now listen, Leroy, I come down here to tell you you can do anything you want with me, but you just let Brown be, you hear? You want me to stay away from him, fine, we’ll both stay away from him.”
“Vanessa, I surely don’t understand you. I would never want to come between you an’ Mr. Brown. I was hopin’ you could introduce us. We’ve met, but not formally.”
“What kinda shit—Leroy, all I want you to do is to let the man be. He ain’t nobody gonna do you no harm, I can guarantee that, so why can’t you just let him be?”
“I’m tryin’ to tell you—”
“You’re tryin’ to sell me a w
hole truckload a cat shit, an’ I ain’t hardly buyin’.”
Leroy spread his hands. “Vanessa, you have got to believe me. I’m as concerned with Mr. Brown’s health as you are. I done give the word. Ask anybody. Won’t none a my people lay hand number one on him. They won’t rob him, they won’t cheat him, they won’t shortchange him, hell, half the time they won’t even charge him. An’ if any nigger so much as looks at him sideways, that black-assed bastard is gonna have me to deal with, an’ I’ma be doin’ ma own light work.” Leroy looked at the suspicious expression on Vanessa’s face and sighed. “Front!” he shouted. The door burst open and Willie T. sprang in like an eager recruit. “Now,” Leroy said. “Will you please tell this lady what our policy is with regards to Mr. Brown?”
“Mr. Brown gets whatever Mr. Brown wants,” Willie T. chanted. “Free protection. He wants to play, he wins three times outa eleven. Free girls—”
“That’s fine,” Leroy said quickly. “You see, ’Nessa? Any friend a Gino’s is a friend a mine.”
“Gino,” Vanessa said.
“Oh, but that’s not important,” Leroy said. “We just want to be sure that Mr. Brown is happy. You tell him if there’s anything he needs, we’ll be happy to supply it.”
“Yeah, well,” Vanessa said. “He ain’t gonna be needin’ no girls.”
“Of course not,” said Leroy, shooting a glare at Willie T. “But you tell him the bar at the Elysium is always open to him. Does he play pool?”
“No,” Vanessa said, “he don’t play pool.”
“Pity,” Leroy said. “Anyway, as I was sayin’, if he needs anything, furniture, stereo, you tell him I got some a the baddest boosters in the world, an’ I’d be honored to get him anything, even if I got to send somebody out to Mount Airy to steal somethin’ special. You too. Willie, you take down ’Nessa’s size. I got me a line on some mink, ’Nessa, truck ain’t even got a tailgate.”
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