“Ya’ll know that he be a Southern white boy, I mean Deep South, down in Savannah, Georgia,” Darn Good Disciple said as he draped the barber’s cape over Richie’s shoulders. “Ya’ll know he got the words of the song you hear right this day, right now and everywhere di-rec-lee from the Divine Father.”
“What song?”
“Ac-cent-tchu-ate the Positive, son.”
“That’s the song they were singing at the parade.”
“Yep,” he said. Pinning the cape behind Richie’s neck, Darn Good Disciple began singing the song in a low purring voice.
Righteous Reckoning chimed in from his perch near the front door, “Oh, yeah, don’t mess with Mr. In-Between.”
“Are you kidding, those words are from Father Divine?” Richie said.
“It be all true when we tell you about the Divine Father,” Righteous Reckoning said, taking over the conversation. “Johnny Mercer, the big man his self, was humbled down a piece to accept the Divine word and pass it on.”
“But he’s at the top of the charts,” Richie said.
“And the Divine one done put him there.”
Richie was skeptical. How could a Negro preacher be behind a hit national song? It wasn’t even religious. That’s when he started to have second thoughts about Father Divine and his followers.
As time went on, things started to fall into place for Richie about the Peace Barber Shop. Like their Southern talk. Richie knew one Negro kid from the neighborhood, Marvin Davidson, and he didn’t talk like the Divinites did. He didn’t know where Marvin’s family came from before they bought their house on Morton Street, but he thought it was someplace in the South. If they came from the South, wouldn’t he sound like Darn Good Disciple and the rest of them?
But Marvin never sounded like these guys. He’d never forget the first time he met him. It was in Milt’s Confectionary just after he moved to Newark. Richie and Mary MacDonough, widely admired in the neighborhood as the “Profanity Pump,” because she swore like a drunken sailor, were sipping Cokes in a front booth. Mrs. Sedworth sat in a back booth, enjoying a seltzer with a twist of lemon. She always stopped by on her way to the market. Mrs. Sedworth lived in a Victorian around the corner on High and was always elegantly dressed when she went out, usually with a pearl necklace and matching shoes and handbag. Business was slow that day.
The door opened and in walked this tall Negro kid. He was wearing cords, a blue T-shirt, and Converse sneakers. He took a stool at the soda fountain. No one said a word, not even Milt. Black kids just didn’t wander into Milt’s and everyone was shocked.
“I’d like to have a tall glass of Spur, sir,” the kid said. He took a quarter from a front pocket and put it on the counter. “Spur beats Coke or Royal Crown any day.”
Richie just stared. This kid really knows what he wants, he thought.
Milt, a short man with elfin features and mannerisms nodded, not saying a word, poured the Spur and gave Marvin fifteen cents change.
“Thank you, sir,” he said and slowly sipped his drink. When he was done, he swiveled on his stool and turned to Richie and Mary. “I’m Marvin Davidson. Me and my family just moved into our house across the street, but I’m thinking you already know that.”
“Uh…Hi,” Richie said, a little embarrassed although he didn’t know why. “I’m Richie Maxwell and this is Mary MacDonough.”
“Nice to meet you. I’ll see you around.”
He stood to leave just as Mrs. Sedworth passed on her way to the front door. He walked quickly to the front in time to open the door for her. “Please, let me get it for you,” Marvin said as he stepped aside to let her pass.
The middle-aged woman slowed for a moment, looked searchingly at the Negro boy, and struggled for a reply. “Thank you, young man. Thank you very much.”
Marvin followed her outside, closing the door behind him, and while she headed toward High, he walked across the street.
After he left, Profanity Pump finally got her voice back. “Can you beat the shit outta that?” she said, living up to a well-earned reputation. “Who the fuck does he think he is? He better watch his ass around here.”
No one knew for certain who dubbed Mary “Profanity Pump.” It could have been Milt, but most probably it was one of the older kids from the Prep. They would have noticed her with her dark hair, blue eyes, really great skin, and straight teeth.
Nobody doubted that she was still a virgin, and everyone believed that her first time had better be good. Or else.
“That guy better know what he’s doing or he’ll pay for it,” eighth-grader Leo Baldoni said, grinning as he described his fantasy. “If Pump was pissed off, she’d probably slap his monkey around real good.” Smiling listeners agreed.
She was a year older than Richie and the others in his gang, was a year ahead of them at St. Mark’s, and would probably end up at Central High. No one could picture her at St. Mike’s or St. James with their nuns, priests, and limp-wristed lay teachers who were probably all 4-F draft dodgers.
When Pump got going she could rattle it out like a machine gun. Quite simply, she was great. The best. Pump set the standard as to which guys had a pair of balls and who didn’t, and she let you know it. And boy, could she string it all together without taking a breath.
Her crowning glory was the time Stan Wysnoski put his hands roughly on her shoulders during a spat. She pushed them off, glared defiantly, and set him on his heels: “Never put those cock mittens on me again or you’ll be jerking off with your feet. Getit!”
Richie was not alone in admiring how those two little words once clamped together said it all. When she said “Getit!” you knew she was through with you and don’t forget it.
Like Richie, Pump had watched Marvin in open-mouthed silence. By keeping her yap stuffed when she could have shot it off, Pump was saying with her silence that Marvin had balls.
Richie just nodded. But he had to admire Marvin’s style. Here he was a new kid, a new Negro kid, in a white neighborhood, acting like he had lived there all his life. He just might be okay.
He talks normal, like the rest of the kids in the neighborhood. The guys in the barber shop seemed to be putting on some kind of “jive” Nigger talk just for him. Why?
They opened the Peace Barber Shop at seven o’clock every morning except Sunday. Richie was usually there at seven-thirty for his haircut. He could remember only four or five other haircut customers during the times he’d been there. But there was always a steady flow of Negro men and women, entering the shop from the side to the back door.
One morning, after Darn Good Disciple had finished Richie’s haircut, some Negro men and women entered the shop through the side door. Richie caught Righteous Reckoning’s nod in their direction as they covered the few steps to the back of the shop. Through an open door, he saw at least a dozen men and women seated at three long tables. Some were sorting coins. Others were counting bills. At least half of them were working with little bits of paper.
A few weeks later, Richie turned onto Spruce on his way to the shop for his twice a month trimming. Five Negroes, two of them women, had just turned down the alley leading to the shop’s side door. At first glance, it was nothing he hadn’t seen before, but a closer look pulled him up short. Holy shit, he thought, what happened to them? Looks like somebody really worked them over. The two women wore Band-Aids on their faces. One of the men had a bandaged right hand, and another sported a bandage over his left ear. The third man had a homemade sling, looked like a kitchen towel, supporting his left arm.
Richie took two deep drags of his Lucky, before stubbing it out and dropping the butt back in the pack and went inside.
Righteous Reckoning sat in his usual spot by the front door, and Darn Good Disciple sat in a barber’s chair.
“Mornin’, Richie,” Darn Good said as he snapped open a fresh cape and motioned him to the middle chair. He draped the cape over Richie’s shoulders and snapped it closed behind his neck.
After finishing u
p, Darn Good Disciple spun Richie around so he could admire his haircut in the big wall mirror. The rear door was partially opened, enough for Richie to see and hear what was going on in the backroom. One man was yelling while the others were nodding in approval.
“They was waitin’ on us! Damn near busted my arm,” the man said. “Can hardly lift it. Ain’t no way a nigger’s gonna pick up policy slips from a white man’s parlor and walk away as big as you please.”
Righteous Reckoning got up and shut the door.
“Hey, Darn Good, sounds like you’ve got an angry bunch here today,” Richie said.
Darn Good Disciple looked at the other two barbers. “Nah, them folks is just doing Father Divine’s business for the mission. They ain’t customers. They’s just volunteering for the Lord.”
“I guess,” Richie said, still playing dumb. “That guy seemed pretty mad.”
Darn Good gave a glance at Righteous. “Always some problems with good work. Some folks don’t take kindly to our ministerin’ in the neighborhood.”
“Especially the white folks,” Righteous added.
“It looks pretty serious anyway.”
“The sin of greed be an ugly thing. The Devil’s poison. Makes folks do bad things. But it ain’t nothin’ the Divine One can’t handle.”
“Amen!” the other men said.
Darn Good looked at Richie in the mirror. “Son, you are one smart white boy. I always knew you was special. I said so, the day you showed up here. Ain’t that right, boys?”
The two men nodded in agreement.
“We’re like family here. And after all this time, we’d like to think you feel the same way.”
What happened to all that Southern talk? Richie wondered. “Thanks. I like you guys too.”
“And families take care of their own.”
“Amen!” the other men said
“Father Divine says knowledge is a good thing. A golden blessing. But you got to know what’s what. What’s important and what’s not. He says that knowing don’t always mean sharing, especially outside the family. You catch my drift?”
“I ain’t no snitch, if that’s what you mean.”
Darn Good Disciple smiled and took off the cape. “Now, that’s what I’m talking about.” Richie stood and gave him a dime for the cut.
“No need for that, son. It’s on Father Divine today. After all, you’re part of the family now.”
“Thanks, see you next time.” Richie left the shop, feeling that something big and nasty was happening at the Peace Barber Shop.
Everything seemed to be back to normal when Richie returned two weeks later. That is until God’s Tall Timber walked over as he was getting comfortable in Darn Good’s chair.
“You know, Richie, we been worried about you,” God’s Tall said.
“Thanks, but I’m fine.”
“Glad to hear it. But you’ve become a real big question for a lot of the folks in and around this part of the world,” the tall man said. “Tell me, they got a track team over at St. Mark’s? Maybe cross country, you know, long distance?”
Richie wondered what was coming. “Yeah, kind of a track team, only three CYO meets a year, the big one at the Armory, and a couple against other parishes over at Branch Brook Park. Why?”
“Now, that’s interesting. You said you live on Morton between Quitman and High, and that’s close. No more than ten minutes. But on the mornings you come here you’ve been spotted all over the ward, taking the long way but never stopping anyplace until you get here, at our side door. We all thought you were on the team and did all that walking to stay in shape,” the big man said, his voice low and confidential almost in his ear.
Righteous Reckoning was in his usual position, paying close attention to the back door that had been left ajar about three inches.
They’ve been watching me? Richie was nervous. His stomach fluttered. “Nah. I’m not on the team. It’s just that…”
“No, Richie, no need to talk,” the big man said gently. “We know. Your friends are important to you. Sometimes even friends can be hardhearted. It wouldn’t do for them to know that you come here for your haircuts.”
Richie nodded.
“That’s just fine. No need to rock the boat. But we care about you, son. Since you are going to come cross country for a haircut, we’ve come up with an idea. Actually, it was Righteous Reckoning. Tell him about the great idea you’ve cooked up, brother.”
“My brother is very kind. But I can’t take the credit,” Righteous Reckoning said. “No sir. It’s the inspiration from Father Divine that gave me the idea. All the time it takes you to get here, we figured you need a bike. You know how to ride, don’t you?”
A bike? Richie thought. How the hell am I gonna get a bike? “Sure, learned as a kid. It would be swell to have a bike, but my folks don’t have the dough.”
“Now, we thought about that. Times are hard. But Father Divine is generous to his family. He wants to help you get a bike to lighten your load.”
“What’s the catch?”
“Lord almighty, did I tell you this boy was smart?” Darn Good said.
“You did, brother. You did,” Righteous said. “Now, Richie, it ain’t nothing much. Just a favor from one family member to another. There’s even some extra money in it for you.”
“Yeah, I’m listening.”
“You know all them people in the back? They’re doing the Father’s work, collecting money from folks around the neighborhood to help out. But most of the black folks around here don’t have much. Father was inspired to extend his work over to our white neighbors.”
“So you need someone to collect from the whites, and that’s where me and the bike come in. Do I get that right?”
Righteous Reckoning smiled. “You got it. And you can pick up a few dollars for your trouble.”
“I appreciate it. I really do. There’s just one problem.”
“What’s that, little brother?”
“If I get a bike, how do I explain where it comes from? My folks and my friends will ask.”
“Good thinking. Father loves a deep thinker,” Righteous Reckoning said. “We got that all figured out.”
“How does a Star Beacon paper route sound to you? I think your folks will like that.”
“Star Beacon routes ain’t easy to get. I’ve got buddies been waiting months for a shot at one of them, so I never bothered. Besides the wop guy Marsucci who does all the hiring is a slime bag. What I heard, he’s got twenty kids under him and gets a buck a month kickback from each.”
“Frank Marsucci has his faults. A man with faults always has debts to pay. So Richie, let’s just say Mr. Marsucci owes us. There’s a route waiting for you, that is if you want it.”
“Okay, so far. So what about the bike?”
“Father Divine’s got lots of friends. Like the old Jew Simon. I’m sure he has a nice used bike in his shop he’s more than willing to donate to the cause.”
“Just like that?”
Darn Good nodded. “He’s a good friend of ours, always willing to help our good work.”
Richie’s wheels were turning. “What do I tell my dad? Simon’s so tight, he’d never give me a bike.”
“Let’s just say you convinced him to let it go ‘on time.’ You be paying off from the newspaper money. Ain’t nothing wrong with a little misleading now and then.”
“What about the collections?”
“On your route, you pick up the donations at the twelve places we give you along the way, then bring ‘em back here. You get five-cents each pick up.”
“It sure sounds good…okay, I’m in.”
Darn Good slapped him on the back. “It’s a deal, my little brother. Tonight you can bring Father Divine’s tidings home to your folks. That you are now a Star Beacon delivery boy with a route right in your own neighborhood. I can just see the big smile on your daddy’s face.”
The three men stepped aside to allow Richie to slide out of the barber’s chair. There
were smiles all around as they shook hands. Richie felt as light as a feather as he headed out the side door. He didn’t notice that the back door to the betting parlor had been ajar.
They turned just as a trim, olive-skinned man, about thirty years old, pushed open the rear door, and with a twist of his right hand indicated that he wanted the front door locked. “And close the blinds,” he said.
With a shrug, he straightened his navy blue, pinstripe suit coat, fingered the Windsor of his silk, blue tie and pulled down the starched cuffs of his white shirt to expose two heavy garnet and gold cufflinks. He glided into the center chair, rested his Florsheims on the footrest, scanned the three black faces and smirked, “Really laid on that Father Divine bullshit, don’cha think?”
“Come on, Vinnie, give us some credit. We only use what works, and we’ve been working this kid for weeks now. You like what you heard?” God’s Tall Timber said.
“The kid can smell money, but does he have the coglioni to pull it off?” Vinnie Scarlatti said. “We agreed to take it slow like you asked after five of your people got busted up. Don’t prove us wrong.”
“Jimmy Rossi gave you the skinny on us,” Tall Timber said, “that we’re not just three dumb niggers from Georgia.”
“Okay, so you’re three smart spooks. Talk to me, tell me what I want to hear.”
“For now, we’re set up pretty,” Righteous Reckoning said. “But we’ll be moving the parlor outta here. Gotta great spot picked out, right in the middle of the action.”
“What’s this shit about moving out,” the mobster said. “I’m going to say it one fucking time. You don’t do so much as fart without clearing it with me. You did good by Rossi in Atlanta, that’s why we’re even talking. But this ain’t Atlanta. When does this kid start?”
“Soon, real soon,” Darn Good Disciple said. “We’ll let you know when we put things in play.”
“Don’t mess it up. This is payback time for Richie the Boot. He’s got eight shotgun slugs bouncing around inside him, thanks to Longy. He figures the Third Ward is ripe for the picking, and he handed me the job. The boss isn’t a forgive and forget kinda guy, and neither am I.”
Father Divine's Bikes Page 4