The Roaches Have No King

by Daniel Evan Weiss

  "In there. I didn't hear you."

  "Did you set the wire? Is the lock jammed?"

  She wiped her head, and her antennae sprang up in a victory V.

  I walked her back to our apartment. Then I returned to the hallway and climbed to the ceiling.

  OF THE FOUR who lived in apartments 3A and 3B, Ira was almost always home first. Today was no exception. Puffing from the climb up the stairs, he put down his vinyl briefcase beside the door. After inserting his key, he looked back at the stairway, and then at his watch. Why? Because Elizabeth Wainscott usually arrived second. He could have gone home, disencumbered, and then come to visit. But he never did. Why? An evening visit, just the two of them, was too close. Making their meeting seem coincidental buffered him from his desire for her.

  He waited, and soon she came up the stairs. "Hello, neighbor," he said, smiling.

  "Hi, Ira."

  "The trains are really getting bad."

  "Yeah. The platform was packed tonight. If they can put a man on the moon, I don't see why they can't make the trains run on time."

  "The media should report that the Russians run their trains on time," said Ira. "Then you'd see some results."

  "Do you think that would work?"

  "Oh, I don't know. I was kidding really."

  She opened her bag and fished for her keys. Ira was still looking at her. "Is that a new coat?" he said.

  She twirled. "Do you like it?"

  "Smashing." His bald spot flushed.

  "I'll tell Ollie. He doesn't like it." She put her key into the lock.

  "He's blind." With a pleased smile Ira entered his apartment. A moment later he was back. She was still at the door. "Won't open?"

  She pulled the key out, held it up to the light, and put it back in. "I can't seem to get it. Funny, I've never had any trouble before."

  Ira moved closer, into the sphere of her perfume. He made two aborted gestures in her direction, as if embroiled in a conflict between his chivalrous instinct, which wanted to come to her aid, and his feminism, which told him he shouldn't assume he was any better than a woman at achieving anything other than feats of brute strength. As Elizabeth struggled, her expression invited his help. Finally she asked for it.

  Ira tried the key gently, then forcefully, then violently, one way then the other, ignoring her suggestions that counterclockwise had always worked. His sweat soon covered the key.

  Elizabeth put her hands on his. "Let's get some help."

  "Maybe it's just gummed up with pollution." She gently moved between him and the key. Ira would not quit. He wrapped his arms around her from behind so all four hands were on the key. "We can get it. One hard tug. When I say three..."

  Though I was relying on the principles of human courtship and vanity, now I got plain lucky. I heard heavy lumbering steps on the stairs. Oliver, usually the third to appear in the evening, now did.

  Elizabeth and Ira were so intent that they did not hear him. He cleared his throat loudly. "Oh, have you two met?"

  They leaped apart. Simultaneously they began explanations, then stopped to defer to each other, then began again. They sounded flustered and guilty.

  Oliver held up his hand. "May I?" He stepped between them to the door. He tried the key, removed it and handed it to her, then tried his own. "This lock is broken. Ira, it was white of you to help us determine that. Good night."

  "Good night." Ira retreated to his apartment.

  Oliver said, "I'll get the super. This is exactly why I bribe him every Christmas."

  Elizabeth waited in the hall. Soon she began to shift her weight from foot to foot, and roll up on her toes. She could not sit down next door. She was already going to pay for her indiscretion.

  It must have been twenty minutes before Oliver returned with the super, a burly West Indian in his fifties, who exhaled spices from dinner. I liked this man because he shared my respect for forces beyond man's comprehension.

  The super wore at his side scores of keys on a ring that looked like a knocker on a mansion door. When he pulled it out the cable zipped. He tried a key, then another, and a third, and the cable zipped back in. "I don't know, mum. Maybe is cursed."

  "No, James. This is America. In America things get busted," said Oliver.

  "The keys say hello, but no answer inside." James shook his head.

  "My friend, we must get in our home. Can you help us?"

  James pondered. "I feel bad for you and your pretty, pretty wife, Mr. Wainscott." His face brightened. "You and Mrs. Wainscott, you come and spend the night with us. My wife be so proud."

  "That's very good of you, James. But we must get into our home." Oliver pulled out his wallet. "We want that very much."

  James smiled. He picked out another key on his ring. "Perhaps this get the spirit inside." He went up the stairs.

  Oliver and Elizabeth waited in the hall. He refused to talk.

  "Why are you standing out here?" said Ruth, who soon arrived. "Are you locked out? Isn't Ira home yet?"

  "James is about to save us via the fire escape," said Oliver. "I have to hold the cash here so he can follow the scent."

  "Why don't you come in and sit down. You both look so tired."

  "Thank you, Ruth, but we'll wait here."

  It probably startled Ruth to hear Oliver turn down an opportunity that could be converted into a free meal. "Let us know if we can help," she said, and let herself in.

  I could smell Oliver's fury in his sweat. "How damned long does it take to shuffle down a fire escape?"

  There was a soft tinkle from inside the apartment like porcelain breaking on carpet, then a loud crash. Oliver grabbed the door handle and yelled, "What the hell is going on in there, a demolition derby?"

  Finally the door opened and James's face appeared glowing from the dark. "Very, very black inside."

  "Yes," Oliver said, and handed a dollar to James, who held it up to the light to examine. Elizabeth and I followed Oliver into the apartment.

  Without taking off his coat, Oliver fixed himself a martini and slumped into the living room chair. Elizabeth rushed to the vase fragments beside the window. Making little tsk sounds, she fit several pieces together. "I think it can be fixed."

  He didn't look at her as she walked past him and into the kitchen. Some time later she called, "It's ready." He removed his coat and joined her.

  She watched him anxiously as he ate. He would not return the look, nor would he speak.

  Finally she said, "I think the vase can be fixed." He nodded, and continued to eat. "You never liked it anyway. You said it was fussy." He wouldn't respond. She could not eat. "What is it? The dollar?" She went for her purse and placed a bill in front of him on the table. He put it in his wallet.

  He soon finished enough food to sustain the colony for months. With a deep belch, he returned to the living room. Elizabeth threw her fork into the salad bowl. She put away the food, and washed the pots and dishes. Then she stood at the kitchen doorway, staring at her husband, who was still drinking and reading the paper.

  Finally he spoke. "I object to my wife in public display with my Semitic neighbor."

  "Oliver, for God's sake, what are you talking about? We were trying to open the door."

  "You are a liberated woman, and for be it from me to tell you how to live. All I ask is a tad of decorum. Take the man inside at least."

  "How can you say that about me, or Ira, your friend. You should be ashamed."

  "I have nothing more to say," he said, and raised his hand papally.

  She walked into the bedroom. After a while he followed. By the time I got there the lights were out and both were in bed, Elizabeth in fetal position, facing away from Oliver, who lay on his back, his butt buried in the mattress, his eyes open.

  What was it Oliver? Lying there behind that adorable woman, in the halo of her perfume, was your determination being undercut by your lust? Take her, man; it's your right. But no. It wouldn't do to give her the satisfaction of knowing you want
her, not after she betrayed you, in public yet! She'll have to do without you tonight.

  Elizabeth soon fell asleep. Oliver heard her regular breathing and looked over at her. He sighed loudly and gave the blanket a tug. He flopped over onto his side, but even the seismic movements of the mattress couldn't rouse her.

  I was quite sure just now Elizabeth had no intention of betraying her husband. That didn't matter. If I created steady friction between them Oliver would magnify whatever germ of affection she held for Ira into such an intention. Abuse would drive her toward a kinder, gender man—Ira—and perhaps Ira toward his money.

  I was so pleased with the night's results that I decided to try the same technique next door. I wondered if Ruth would cooperate and imagine that Elizabeth's comely face lay behind my deeds.

  I picked one of Elizabeth's loose hairs from her pillow and returned to my apartment.

  A Watermelon on the Ground Too Long

  AS IRA PUT HIS key in the door he looked furtively over his shoulder, but entered the apartment without delay. He sat down at the kitchen counter with his mail. The pile of heart-tugging, open-palmed tales spoke not only of diseased and deprived humans, but also of the plight of big, gaudy birds and mammals—all of them maladapted, marked for extinction. These pleas had come to the right address.

  The doorbell rang. Ira straightened his tie and went to answer.

  "What you smilin' at?" said the gravelly ghetto voice. It was Rufus.

  "Oh, come in. This is a surprise." Rufus always came on Friday night; it was Wednesday.

  Rufus was a tall anemic man of indeterminate middle age, wearing a full-length black leather coat and matching applejack, black leather pants, and exotically scaled boots. He always exuded the smell of cure.

  "A walking morgue," said Bismarck. He had gotten bored in the baseboard and was again doing his rounds.

  Rufus said, "Had to come by today, whitey. Trouble with my wheels. Some punk come by and rip off my brand new Seville and leave me some '64 boat, rusty piece of shit I be embarrass' drivin' to the junkyard."

  "He stole your Cadillac and left you another one?"

  Rufus stared at him. "Otherwise it ain't ethical. Lawyer suppose' to know that."

  Ira shook his head. "All these years and I never heard that one."

  "Friday I go shoppin'."

  There was a tap on the door. Ira opened it. "Hi, Ira. Hi, Rufus," said Elizabeth. "Just wanted to let you know the lock is fixed." She showed Ira her shiny new key.

  "That's great. Well, bye."

  "Well, good night."

  Ira locked the door. In the living room Rufus brushed off a small area of the coffee table, and, once seated, gently lowered his boots there. Elbows propped against the sofa back, he stretched his fingers and mated their pink tips.

  Ira hated shoes on his table. But he said only, "What are those boots made of?"

  "Somethin' dumb enough to get caught. Soft, though. Don't hurt my corns."

  It was time for the ritual cocaine purchase. Because he was caught by surprise, I hoped that Ira might be short of cash and need the stash in the cabinet. But he opened his wallet and counted out the money on the table with the demonstrable honesty of a casino dealer. Rufus removed a small white pouch from inside the sweatband of his hat.

  As they made the exchange, Rufus said, "This chump-change don't make no sense. A smart Jew like you know cost go down when volume go up. Today I got factory fresh material at big savin'."

  When he specified the quantity and price, Ira started. "I don't have that kind of money for recreation." He walked to the mantel and tapped a piece on the chessboard. He seemed confused, apologetic. Rufus let the silence hang.

  "This is uncomfortable," said Bismarck. "Rufus is good."

  Finally Rufus said, "Make me wonder. Why you have me comin' round so much when it cost extra green? Ain't right for a Jew like you. Like the prestige of a real live nigger in you' house?"

  Rufus rose and faced Ira from the other end of the chessboard. On it was the current position of a game Ira was conducting by mail with a refusenik in the Soviet Union. It represented a spiritual bond with his captive brethren, and Ira guarded the board fiercely.

  Knowing this well, Rufus picked up the white queen and turned it upside down, as if to look up her dress. Rufus said, "You grow up in the 'burbs? Big house with the lantern boy, little nigger on the lawn?"

  Rufus put the piece down. While Ira returned it to its proper square, Rufus seized the other inviolable object on the mantel, the menorah. He balanced as if in midstep, right leg up, holding the menorah in front of him, grinning with oily deference. "Like this? Rain or shine, ole Rufus light de way."

  "I'm a Legal Aid lawyer," Ira whined. "Why are you talking to me like I'm some land of ignorant bigot."

  Rufus laughed. The fillings in his teeth matched the gold bracelets around his wrists. His wide nose lay flat on his face, a sensible flap, not a pup tent like Ira's.

  "Why are you laughing?"

  "It's nothin', Slim, don't worry 'bout it." He wiped his eyes. "Hey, this thing use' nine candle every time you light up. No wonder you short on cash. No, wait, ain't this the special Jew light that tell God to keep the frog and locust and shit out you' house?"

  "Something like that."

  Rufus looked around the room and smiled. "No frog. No locust. Work pretty good. I got to get me one. They come in gold?"

  He brushed off the sofa and sat back down. Ira joined him. There was a small gift-wrapped box on one of the chairs.

  "For me?" said Rufus. "How nice."

  "It's for Elizabeth. It's a scarf. Her birthday is next week." He had the voice of a man just reprieved.

  "Why you leavin' it out? You' old lady gonna see it."

  "Of course she's going to see it. She bought it."

  "She lettin' you wipe you’ boot in her face?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Rufus pointed at the menorah. "That mean you follow the commandments. But you live with a bitch and fornicate."

  "The Bible was written thousands of years ago," Ira said. "Life has changed. I obey it in spirit."

  Rufus laughed. "I like that That right, officer, I be buying' a kilo off this nigger, but it be legal—in spirit'."

  "Look, when I work on the Sabbath it's for a client. I don't kill; I prevent my clients from being killed, and protect them from false witness. I don't commit adultery—that's right, neither of us is married. I don't steal. And everybody knows I honor my mother."

  "How about an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, life for life?"

  I would have loved to hear a straight answer to that, after Rosa and all the others. But he ducked it. "That's not a commandment. Anyway, it's misunderstood. When it was written it was intended to check barbarism—you could lose your life for stealing a chicken back then." He finally stopped talking, but then said, "How do you know so much about the Bible?"

  "Sunday school. My momma made me go ten year. But answer me this: how about diggin', I mean covetin', you' neighbor wife? That be a commandment."

  "What about it?"

  "Who you kiddin'? The bitch come by and you be smilin' at her like Howdy Doody."

  "Elizabeth?" Ira shrugged. "Sure, she's an attractive woman. I'm not an Arab. I don't have to avert my eyes."

  "Shit ain't them raghead somethin', coverin' up the only thing on the big green earth worth lookin' at." He rolled his eyes to the ceiling and shook his head. "But I got to tell you, whitey, who doin' all the powder if you ain't primin' the blonde? No way you up with the Pillsbury dough boy 'cept to poke his old lady."

  Ira jumped up. "They're my friends. Is this what they taught you at Sunday school?"

  Rufus cracked his knuckles. "Make me wonder why you Jews go to the expensive university, come out not knowin' shit stink." He opened his coat. The collar of his black silk shirt was embroidered with his name in metallic thread.

  Bismarck said, "That's the shirt. Right after my brother was born he climbed up and read the
damned collar from the inside: 'Sufur'."

  Rufus pulled a silver flask from his coat pocket and took a draft. "Want to lose money buyin' chicken-bag, cool. Want to settle with one bitch all the time—nice bitch, but she wearin' too much flesh—and leave go that foxy blonde pussy, cool. I don't believe it. If I was you, shit, I know my bitch ain't goin' nowhere, right? Who she goin' to get better than me? And I know that blond old man, tub of guts ain't goin' nowhere, so I ain't goin' to have no divorced blonde bitch botherin' me, right? So I got no trouble. I got mine and I got his. I got me a big stash of powder to work the blonde, and I got all the opportunity I need. And this plantation nigger don't need no law degree to spread the bitch's legs like fried chicken, and pop that pussy like a watermelon on the ground too long. Fact, even if I was just some ghetto-nigger pusher, I stuff the beefaroni into the bitch. I seen her lookin' my way..." It was masterful.

  "Stop!" Ira's hands were clenched.

  Again Rufus laughed. "Take it easy, slim. I just sayin' if it was me, I buy the goods and play both way. You do what you want." He stood up and buttoned his jacket. "But the discount price don't last long."

  He walked toward the door, shoulders rolling and arms pumping in urban strut. He had learned to use his forward appendages in locomotion, like the higher orders, while Ira lurched peg-leggedly. As Rufus opened the front door Ruth arrived at the landing. "How's everythin'?" he said. Without waiting for an answer he passed her and went down the stairs.

  She kissed Ira on the cheek. "Why is he here today? Is something wrong?"

  "Sometimes I wonder."

  Ruth gingerly drew off her shoes and put her feet up on the living room table.

  "Please don't," Ira said.

  "Sorry. So what did Rufus have to say?"

  Ira sat down. "He's offering me quantity. His car was stolen and he needs to raise cash."

  Ruth laughed. "You must be kidding. I've never seen him wearing less than a car's worth of jewelry and clothing."