“What do you mean?” he asked.
It was time to close or walk so I mentally held my nose. “I mean you don’t get fair treatment, do you? That’s the one thing I got to give.”
He snorted. “No shit, we don’t get fair. Everything’s slanted. Always making us out to be nuts. Only we ain’t crazy. Ain’t even close. Shit, we might be the only sane ones left.
“I’m telling you, I can put you next to the man who will make sense out of everything.” He paused to look around. “The folks here,” he waved his arm, “not just inside the bar, but the whole neighborhood, they know we’re not crazy. Even them that don’t agree.”
“It’d piss me off too,” I prompted. “Selling newspapers by calling you ‘sickos.’”
“That’s why we got to be careful.”
I shrugged. “Me too.”
“How much do you get for an article if you sell it?” Joe asked in a sudden jump.
“Somewhere between five and seven big ones,” I made up.
He whistled appreciatively and pushed himself to his feet. “Well, wait here for a couple minutes while I get them. If they like you, we might have a proposition.”
“Thanks, but I find my own women.”
He started to answer but caught on. “Oh, another joke,” he said.
I nodded.
“Well, wait here, anyway.”
“Why not,” I agreed, pushing away my growing revulsion and sudden apprehension.
I addressed an immediate concern as soon as Buzz’s heavy door closed behind Joe’s wiry frame. Actually, I undressed it. I went to the john and stuffed the bills from my wallet into my pocket. Then I unhitched my pants. I was lucky. Today was a Jockey day. A pair with elastic strong enough to vaguely hold its shape after adding the wallet. I walked back to my booth feeling like a catcher wearing a square cup, but it wasn’t a day to be caught with accurate identification.
The crowd had thickened along with the gray, stale air. As the suddenly busy waitress delivered another Sam Adams the front door opened and I sensed it was Avenger time. I didn’t see anyone until the crowd of people standing by the entrance scattered and the atmosphere through the boisterous neighborhood tavern intensified.
I hadn’t been able to see him because he wasn’t very tall. About five nine, a pugnacious face with slicked back hair, barrel chest, barrel belly, he strode pigeon-toed from acquaintance to acquaintance with Fang trailing behind. The man knew a lot of people and was intent on visiting all of them. He didn’t exactly shove those in his way, just jostled past. Despite the safety of my booth he had already jostled me; I was annoyed by the long wait and his lousy manners.
Fang and friend arrived just before my patience left. But their presence did nothing to reduce my irritation. The friend sprawled onto a chair by the booth, clipped a smoke from my pack, and drank half my untouched beer. Fang stood quietly at the end of my bench. I lit a cigarette and waited. Impatiently.
Dale Carnegie stretched a beefy leg onto another chair and draped an arm over the back. “You don’t look like no writer. You do time?”
He didn’t want to hear about SDS and I didn’t want to tell him about the deal Simon cooked that got me out of real time and into therapy. “A couple of close encounters and a few over nights. Why? Do I look rough?”
“Not rough.” He glanced out the side of his eyes. “Roughed up. You better not be a fucking cop,” he said ominously, swinging his foot off the chair and turning to face me.
“I told Joe what I did. He get confused between then and now?”
“You have papers?” he asked.
“Are you crazy? Bring my wallet here? No thanks. Too much trouble replacing everything if it got swiped.”
“No fucking credit card?”
“I’m an artist, a white man without plastic.”
He grunted, looked up at his disciple, then tilted the side of his head toward the ceiling. “Go with Joe to the men’s room. He isn’t gonna do nothing but shake you down. I just don’t want him to do it out here.”
I studied the grease he used to Pat Riley his hair. Finally I nodded and stood. I slouched a little more than usual on my way to the bathroom where Joe hurried a customer, then swung the metal door hook.
As he turned to me I growled menacingly, “I keep my money in my left pocket. Don’t mess with it and don’t go near my johnson or I’ll go fucking ballistic.”
“Don’t worry,” he said as he ran his hands lightly and ineffectually over my body. “I hate faggots worse than anybody.”
He finished with my pants cuffs and stood up from his kneeling position. “Empty your pockets,” he demanded.
I shrugged, shook my head, and pulled out my money and keys. “You want me to pay for this crap?”
He looked at me blankly.
“Another joke,” I frowned, shoved the money back into my pocket, and unlocked the door. The inside of my nose was beginning to cake with urinal disinfectant and the smell of Fang’s anxiety.
By the time we returned to the table my beer was gone and the bigshot had helped himself to more of my nicotine. “I don’t suppose you ordered me another drink?” I asked sarcastically.
“Yeah. Yeah, I did. Bass for both of us. Told ‘em to put it on your tab.” He crushed out his cigarette in the cheap tin ashtray and immediately helped himself to another.
“What about something for me?” Joe asked plaintively. His earlier swagger was ankle high around the moocher. Even his teeth looked less forbidding. Maybe because I could have easily removed them in the bathroom.
“I want to talk to writer here in private. Why don’t you wait at the bar.” It wasn’t a request.
“But I want a drink,” Joe protested.
“Then order a fucking drink. He has money on him, doesn’t he?”
Joe held his thumb and forefinger about a quarter inch apart.
“Put ‘em on his tab.”
I waited until Joe left and the drinks arrived before asking, “I guess you don’t belong to the health wing of your organization?”
He looked puzzled until he saw me staring at his cigarette. “Oh, you mean this. Yeah, well it’s probably a good idea to quit.”
“Almost as good as running up my bill, right? I don’t remember inviting you or him”—I gestured toward Fang—”to drink on my dime.”
He looked at me and shook his head. “You’re a big tired looking guy with no identification who says he’s a writer. You want something, you pay for it.” But some of the bigshot was gone from his voice.
I played his change of tone by gathering my stuff on the table. “Fuck this. I squash my butt for a couple hours to be frisked in a smelly head by someone with low budget Hollywood teeth. Now Mr. Big tells me I’m not done paying. To hell with this.”
He put his hand on top of mine. It wasn’t a caress. He was fat but there was muscle under the blubber. “Sit still, writer. You came here to get our story. Nothing comes free.”
“So far, nothing’ is exactly what I’ve paid for.”
“You have a tongue for a guy in the middle of a situation.”
I stood. “I’m not impressed with the ‘situation.’ I can drink cheaper with people I know.”
“You can drink anywhere,” he agreed, “but you can’t talk to the Avengers nowhere else.”
“If you’re an Avenger and you call this talking, it doesn’t matter where I drink.”
“I didn’t want to bring my wallet in here, either,” he mocked.
“If that’s what’s making you weird, say so.” I sat back down.
He stopped the sparring, offering me a cigarette from my pack. “Look, I gotta be careful. The Avengers are taking a lot of heat right now from people who think we’re off the wall. Everyone keeps forgetting that we lost our main man. The Avengers don’t count. Only the Horns matter.”
His lips curled. “No fucking surprise. They own the newspapers, the television, the movies. It’s like Sean wasn’t a human being. Like we’re not human.” He looke
d me over. “Then you come in here and I’m supposed to believe you ain’t exactly like the rest? Trying to get information, then screwing us?”
It was too soon to plunge in with questions about the murder. He would just become more suspicious. Instead, I shook my head, “Don’t give me that. Joe picked me out. He made it sound like you were looking to talk. If he was full of shit, say so.”
“We’re looking,” he admitted. “I’m sitting here because…”
“I’m springing for drinks and smokes,” I finished.
He didn’t smile. In fact, he looked at me sharply. “You want to hear what I got to offer, or you want to make jokes?”
I shrugged.
“I’m trying to tell you that we might be willing to talk.”
“So talk.”
He scrunched up his porcine face. “Not now.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Don’t be an ass,” he hissed, his hand curling into a fist. “This is too serious for you to keep fucking around. The goddamn country is over the edge and someone who knew what to do about it got nailed by a goddamn gun-carrying kike. No more fucking jokes!” Despite his vehemence, Mr. Burly was just not as confident without his buddy nearby.
I nodded. “Okay. No jokes, but no more games. I want the whole ten yards. On you, on Kelly, on the Avengers. On everything that happened.”
I forced myself to continue, “I want to know what the Avengers believe in. If you’re just another sneaker-stealing street gang, I’m not interested. If you’re working for a chop-shop, I’m not interested. But, if you are political, if you believe in something and have the cojones to back those convictions, then I’m interested. No party lines, no fake bullshit. I’m looking for reality here. I got a built-in crap detector and if it beeps, I roller-derby out the door. After I get my money back.”
He worked his way through my words. I drained the last of my beer, lit another cigarette, and waited patiently. I was satisfied with my lying riff.
And so was he. “Tonight,” he said softly. “That’s when you’ll find out who we are. Then, you tell me whether we step up to our beliefs, whether we got balls.” He lifted his arm, waved, and pointed at my head. It was time for me to pay.
“What’s the matter with right now?” I asked. “And what’s your name?”
“The name is Blue.”
“Blue?”
He waved his hand for an answer. “What’s yours?” he asked.
“Matt.”
“Matt I knew. Matt what?”
I hesitated then rushed on. It wouldn’t please him to know I struggled to find a usable. “McMurphy.”
“You’re a mick?” he asked, confused.
“My old man. But he disappeared when I was young. My mother was Italian and I look like a Jew. What can I tell you?”
He looked disgusted. “Bad enough to look like a kike if you’re born one.” Blue stood, reached back down to my cigarettes, and pulled out a handful.
“Sealing the deal?” I asked.
He raised his eyebrows, daring me to complain. “That’s right, sealing the deal.” He shoved the bounty into his pocket and lit another. “Tonight about one-thirty. Here. After the place closes. If it’s locked, bang on the door and someone will let you in. And don’t forget your papers.”
“You don’t trust me,” I smiled.
“I don’t trust anyone.” He looked down at me and emphasized, “Bring the fucking papers.”
He shook his head, turned, and walked away. The number of people in the place had swelled since our conversation began. The smell of workday perfume and aftershave lotion merged with the overhead blanket of smoke and the blare of multiple conversations. People were trying hard to distance themselves from their previous eight hours. Some with forced gaiety, others with anxiety-ridden relief. Blue barged into both as he pushed his way through.
I was so relieved when the overworked, tired waitress brought me the check, I didn’t bother to get mad at the amount.
The fading late afternoon sun came as a shock after the lifetime I’d spent inside the bleak tavern. I rushed toward my car hungry for a hot shower; my skin felt smarmy, coated with Joeand Blue’s hostility and hate.
I also had to speak to Simon. It was short notice, but he’d have to pony up the phony ID. I wasn’t coming back without believable plastic. When I got to the car I was pleased that my note had staunched any flow of red. No new citations for my collection, no Denver boot. I had the door open and a foot in the air when a tiny hand grabbed my shoulder. It startled me and I quickly swung around bumping into the young Black lady I’d met in front of my building.
“Sorry,” I said. “You surprised me.”
She had retreated a step after the bump and stood watching me.
“Another coincidence?” I asked.
“You know better.” Despite her tired eyes, wrinkled black pants suit, and general disheveled appearance, she looked even younger than before. Playing detective for a day hadn’t diminished her beauty, though. Her only jewelry, too small round silver hoops in her left ear. I leaned my head to the side looking for right ear options.
“What are you staring at?” she asked.
“I wanted to see if your right ear was pierced.”
A look of disgust crossed her face. “Is that a jungle joke?”
Her question caught me by surprise. For a knee-jerk moment I questioned my curiosity, then shook my head. “No, I was appreciating your style.”
A bright white smile crossed her tired face. “Appreciate it enough to talk with me?”
I should have been right back at her for following me. “I’m on my way out so make it quick, okay?”
She dropped her smile and nodded her head. “I’ll keep it simple. What are you doing here and what did you learn about the Avengers?” The smile reappeared. “Quick enough for you?”
“It’s direct, I’ll give you that.”
She looked down the street then said, “Can we sit in your car? I don’t feel comfortable standing outside like this.”
Neither did I. I wasn’t thrilled about the car, but we couldn’t duck into a local pub for a drink. “Yeah, only you can’t stay long. I told you, I’m on my way out.”
I unlocked her door then climbed in on the driver’s side. When I lit a cigarette and opened the ashtray, I saw her look at the overflow of discarded smokes.
“You like keeping your lungs warm, don’t you?” she asked.
“And nitrites. Gotta have my nitrites. Now you know everything about me.”
She grinned but shook her head. “No, sir. All I really know is that you met with a couple Avengers. I want to know what you found out. You looked pretty dangerous when you walked out of that joint.”
“Dangerous? I’m held captive in my own car by a young woman without a gun, and I’m dangerous?”
“I said looked dangerous, and then only for a few minutes. My name is Cheryl Hampton. I’m a writer. I’m following the Horowitz/Kelly killings. And I’m not that young. I’m almost twentyone.”
“Believe me, from my perspective that’s young. Who is Horowitz?”
“Who was Horowitz. The Rabbi who was shot.” She stopped and looked at me with disdain. “Don’t pretend you don’t know who I’m talking about.”
“Just forgot his last name. Everybody keeps referring to him as Reb Dov. Who do you write for?”
“I free-lance and have a desk at the Record.”
The Roxbury Record was a Black-owned community newspaper. “You’re a little far from home, aren’t you? The Record’s circulation isn’t too big in this part of town.”
“I told you, I free-lance. I’m not just interested in neighborhood stories. And I knew you work for Simon Roth before you told me. That’s why I’ve been following you.”
I looked at her young, hopeful face. “You’re not going to win a prize traipsing after me, girl,” I said harshly. “There’s no story here.”
Her eyes glittered with determination. “I don’t care about prizes.
That’s not what I’m about. This story concerns what happens when hate is left to fester and grow. Folks have to see how deep it runs so they can change their attitudes. Someone has to hold this underbelly up to the light. Everybody, Black and White, Irish and Jew, needs to learn from this. Otherwise we’ll all end up down the toilet.”
Her spirit left me feeling old and tired. Too old to share her hopefulness, too tired to deflate it. Which made it time to go. “I appreciate the sentiment, but what’s it got to do with me?”
“No one is releasing information and most reporters are just willing to wait. I have more at stake than they do. I want to stop this kind of hatred. To do that you have to drag it out of the night. In whatever neighborhood it shows its face. The more information you give me, the better able I’ll be to do my job.”
I leaned my head onto the steering wheel. “You’ve pegged me just about as good as you worked the stake-out. I put down my banners a long time ago. I work for money, not love. I don’t care about getting any kind of story out. If I had my way I wouldn’t be on this case at all, but Simon Roth is my boss and my friend. I’m willing to do him a favor, but that’s as far as my generosity or my idealism goes. Sorry if I disappoint you.”
My words did what I intended; she prepared to leave. Only now I wasn’t sure I wanted her to go.
Cheryl nodded her head while she opened the door. “You don’t disappoint me, you’re just full of shit.”
Before I could offer to drive her back to her car, Cheryl’s silhouette disappeared into the rapidly encroaching darkness. A feeling of protectiveness swept through me and I almost jumped out after her. Almost. Instead, I lit another cigarette and fought the inexplicable anxiety her departure had left behind.
McMurphy? For Christ’s sake, Matt McMurphy. Damn, you are a trip. Why not Kerouac? Or maybe Matt Cassidy?” Simon’s amusement wafted clearly through the telephone. Yea, copper wires.
“Well, I didn’t expect to reach them so quickly. But listening to their rap made me feel like I was sitting in an asylum. Anyway, Al Ginsberg wouldn’t fly with this crowd. I can’t go back without identification, friend.”
The Complete Matt Jacob Series Page 61