Mucho Mojo

by Joe R. Lansdale

  That was good, Hap. Real good. Why don’t you just call her an ambulance chaser?

  “Nice day, huh?”

  “Yeah. Well . . .”

  “I mean, it’s hot, but it’s OK. It’s not as humid as usual. I mean, it’s usually more humid.”

  Florida Grange looked at her watch. “When do you think Leonard will be back?”

  “Soon. Hell, Florida. I’m acting like a fool. I get around a beautiful woman lately, I act like a jackass. I don’t mean to.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “No. No, it isn’t. If you prefer, I’ll just be real quiet and sit here. . . . You interested in Leonard?”

  She smiled at me. “Leonard’s gay.”

  “You knew that? I was hoping to break the news to you, and you’d be so disappointed, I’d have to do in a pinch. I’m not gay, by the way.”

  “Gee. I’d never have guessed. Most everyone around here knows Leonard’s gay. He spent time here in the summers. My mother knew his uncle and knew Leonard all the while he was growing up. She told me about him.”

  “Ah.”

  “Listen, Mr. Collins . . . Hap. I owe you an apology.”

  “You owe me one? Way I’ve been ogling you? You got to forgive me, Florida. I been out in the country too long. No female companionship. I’m almost completely fueled by adolescent hormones.”

  “The other day, when you asked me out, I told you no—”

  “Hey, no problem, that’s your right—”

  “Will you shut up a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  “I got a confession. I didn’t go out with you because you’re white. That’s it.”

  “You don’t like white guys?”

  “It’s not that. It’s that I’m as much a product of racism as anyone else. I don’t really think about it much, don’t think I’m doing it. But, you see, I feel all that stuff about the white man’s world. How, as a black woman, I have to battle uphill for everything I get. How it always seems when I get to a point where I’m ready to advance, there’s some kind of white hurdle.”

  “I guess there is.”

  “Sometimes there is. Sometimes there isn’t, but I’ve got a chip on my shoulder just the same, so when a white man asks me out, I get to thinking he’s thinking, ‘This black bitch will be glad to go out with me. I’m white. And because I’m white, I can get me some of her nigger ass,’ then Massuh can go on about his business and hook up with someone white, someone respectable.”

  “Well, to be honest, I was thinking about the ‘get me some ass’ part.”

  “I know. I can tell. You sort of ooze musk. But it’s the other part. The racist part. I didn’t really think you were thinking that. Not then, not now. But conditioning dies hard. I’ve thought about it a lot since then, and I’ve regretted it, me thinking that, and you see, I knew you were here, ’cause my mother said she’s seen you here, and she knew you from the funeral, and well, I wanted you to know, I’m sorry I was racist. Damn, I’m sort of running things together.”

  “That’s all right. I get your drift. It’s very honest of you. It makes me feel like shit, but it’s honest.”

  “Yes, it is. And I still don’t want to go out with you.”

  “I see.”

  “Know why?”

  “I’m ugly?”

  “No. Actually I find you attractive, in a gnarly, old-fashioned male sort of way.”

  Gnarly?

  “But the problem is I like to dance and white boys have no rhythm. And you know what else they say about you white boys?”

  I watched a beautiful smile spread across her face.

  “What do they say?” I asked.

  “You’ve got itty-bitty dicks.”

  9.

  When Leonard came back, Florida gave him the paper and he signed it and she took it back. We talked her into returning that night for supper. Leonard promised to cook spaghetti and sauce, and I promised to make a salad. Leonard eyed me when I said that, and I said, “Really.”

  I tried not to watch too pointedly as Florida climbed into her car. When she was driving off, Leonard said, “Man, you need to jack off or something. You’re starting to look at that woman like she’s a chocolate eclair.”

  “Yeah, and I’m embarrassed by it too. I can’t help myself. I been alone too long. I made progress, though. While you were gone we had a polite and intelligent conversation about the size of white guys’ dicks.”

  “Those little things?”

  I climbed back on the roof and Leonard came up with me and looked over what I had done, and was pleased to see he wouldn’t have to redo it.

  “You know, you gonna get where you can flush a toilet without instructions,” Leonard said.

  “Yassuh,” I said. “I’s catchin’ on. Ya wants me to sang one them spirituals now, Massuh Leonard?”

  “I want you to shut up.”

  We knocked off at five to clean up. Leonard had paid for a tank of butane, so now there was hot water. When I finished showering with the hot water, I turned the faucet to pure cold and rinsed in that. By the time I got out of the shower and dried and was stepping into clean underwear, I was already sweating and the old boards and wallpaper in the bathroom, damp from moisture and heat, had taken on the aroma of the ass end of a camel.

  I pulled on my jeans and T-shirt and slid my sockless feet into my deck shoes and went into the kitchen. It smelled good in there, which was a nice change. Leonard was hustling about, chopping mushrooms and stirring meat and garlic in a frying pan. There was a big pot of water on to boil.

  “Can I help?”

  “Yeah,” Leonard said. “Stay the fuck out of the way.”

  “I could do the salad.”

  “You could, but it’s too early. Made it now, time we ate, the lettuce would be wilted and the tomatoes would taste like wet golf balls.”

  “Maybe I’ll just read.”

  I got one of the books I’d brought along, Neal Barrett, Jr.’s, The Hereafter Gang, went out on the back porch and sat in a creaky old rocking chair. The left side of the porch was blocked with plywood, most likely so Uncle Chester wouldn’t have to look at the drug dealers next door. The rest of the porch was screened in. The screen door had the bottom part of its screen knocked loose, and it curled up as if suffering from heat stroke.

  Out behind the house there was a pile of burned garbage, some of it black, twisted plastic, some of it blackened cans and dark wisps of paper.

  On out a ways was a butane tank, and beyond that, a trickle of woods and brambles that gradually became more than a trickle. It turned into full-fledged woods. I wondered how far it went. Had it been in a white section of town, where property values were up, it would have long been cut down and concrete would have been spread over it.

  Here, it was a strange oasis of green in the midst of a disintegrating neighborhood that was a slice of human pie neither completely rural nor urban, a world unto itself.

  I read from The Hereafter Gang until Leonard came out the back door and called to me, “Why don’t you go down and rent us a VCR and a movie. And don’t get none of those damn socially redeeming films or anything you got to read at the bottom what they’re saying. And let’s don’t see It’s a Wonderful Life anymore.”

  “Three Stooges OK?”

  I drove into town and rented a VCR and checked out a couple of movies. Jaws, which I’d never seen, and Gunga Din, which I saw when I was head high to a cocker spaniel’s nuts.

  By the time I got back to the house I was hot and sweaty and nervous. I was wondering if I should put the move on Florida, or just watch the movies like a good little boy. Frankly, I didn’t know how to put the move on anybody anymore. I was too long out of practice. I began to wonder if she’d show up. Maybe she’d bring a date. That would be cozy. Perhaps I could loan him some condoms.

  While Leonard hooked up the VCR, I made the salad. I can break lettuce and slice a tomato with the best of them. I didn’t even screw up when I put on the bacon bits and the c
routons.

  About fifteen minutes after I finished, there was a knock on the door and Leonard let Florida in. She was carrying a bottle of wine and a long loaf of French bread. She had a little black pocket book on a strap draped over her shoulder. She was wearing canary yellow this time. It was like all her other dresses, plain in design, but tight and short and flattering to what it covered. She didn’t have a date.

  “Who’re the sweeties next door?” she asked, giving Leonard the bread and the wine.

  “Just the local crack house,” Leonard said. “They’re a real fun-loving bunch.”

  “They certainly are. They just gave me a verbal anatomical lesson.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  She smiled. “That’s all right. I hear worse in court. From my own clients sometimes.”

  We seated ourselves at the table and started on the salad. She ate some of it, but nothing was said about its excellence. Personally, I thought the croutons and bacon bits were very fresh. She bragged on the spaghetti, meatballs, and sauce. Leonard, a regular reader of Bon Appetit, bragged on her choice of wine. To me, all wine tastes pretty much the same. Bad. But I said I thought it was pretty good, too.

  After dinner, we watched the movies. Jaws first. The TV was a little-screen affair Leonard had bought at a pawn shop, but the movie, cropped at the corners, scared the shit out of me anyway. I’ve never liked water, and I like sharks even less. Florida sat in the middle of the couch, and during the scary parts she didn’t leap into my lap for protection or grab my hand. I thought it would be most unbecoming of me to leap into hers, though I found myself pulling my feet up onto the couch, in case any floor sharks drifted by.

  Between the movies we took a coffee break, and Florida took off her shoes, then we watched Gunga Din. I loved it again. About midnight the movies were over and we talked about them for a while, then Leonard went out on the porch to smoke his pipe.

  I stood up from the couch and found I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I didn’t know what to do with my mouth either. Should I say “Good night?” How about “What about them Mets?”

  Florida didn’t help. She kept her seat and smiled up at me. She said, “I’m sleepy.”

  “Yeah, well, it is late. You need me to drive you home? You can get your car tomorrow.”

  “I’m not that sleepy. I would like to stay here, though.”

  “’Cause you’re tired?”

  She smiled at me again. This was the sort of smile you reserve for the feeble-minded. “You want it spelled out?”

  “That would help,” I said. “I think I know what you’re saying, but if I’m wrong, boy, am I going to be embarrassed.”

  “You’re not wrong. Let’s go to bed. Together.”

  “One minute.”

  “One minute?”

  I went out on the porch. Leonard was sitting on the glider. The smell of his cherry tobacco drifted back to me.

  He said, “Well, what’s the score?”

  “Can I use the bed tonight?”

  “Yeah, but you do the laundry tomorrow. I don’t want the wet spot.”

  “Right.”

  Back inside I tried not to look too much like I was waiting for dessert. “Well, you ready?”

  She laughed at me. It was a nice sound. Like bells tinkling. “Where’s the bathroom?”

  I showed it to her. Before she went inside, she said, “Go out and look in my car and bring my overnight bag, will you? Keys are in my purse.”

  I got the keys out of her purse, went out and got the bag. She knew she was going to stay all along. I began to feel a little taller. When I walked past Leonard, he said, “I hope you still remember what to do.”

  “It’ll come to me,” I said, and went inside.

  * * *

  The overhead fan moved moon shadows and stirred the hot air. The shadows fluttered over me and the sweat on my chest dried slowly and comfortably.

  I was lying on my back, naked. Florida lay beside me, on her stomach, sleeping. I had my hand resting on one of her smooth, dark buttocks. I couldn’t resist playing my fingers over her flesh. I replayed what we had done time and again in my head. It was a good picture show no matter how many times I rewound it. I liked it better than Jaws or Gunga Din.

  The bedroom window was up, and from where I lay, my head propped on a pillow, I could see out clearly. Across the way there was some laughter and some lights and shadows moved between the windows and the laughter moved with them.

  I rolled on my side and put my arm across Florida’s back and kissed her ear. She smelled of sweat and sex and perfume. She moved and made a noise I liked. I ran my hand down the small of her back, over her buttocks, down one of her legs, letting my hand hydroplane over the beads of sweat. She spread her legs and I ran my hand between them. She was soft there and moist, and she moved like she thought she might do some business, but then she went still again and started snoring like a lumberjack.

  That was all right. After all we’d done, my ambition might be bigger and better than the tool I needed for the job. And I was thirsty.

  I rolled away from her, eased out of bed, and untangled the sheet from my ankles. I stretched, got the sheet off the floor, shook it out silently and tossed it over Florida, taking a good look at her before I did.

  I found her panties on the floor, along with the little nightie she had worn so briefly. I folded them and put them at the foot of the bed, went to the window and took hold of the bars and looked out. Still busy over there.

  The sound of the wind in the bottle tree came to me, like the faraway hooting of ghostly owls. I listened to the bottles and thought about going to get a drink, then, behind the sound of the bottle tree, I heard a scraping noise. It was coming from the next room.

  I found my jockey shorts and slipped them on, then my jeans. I had brought a little .38 revolver from my house, and I got it out of the dresser drawer from under my socks and eased over to the bedroom door and listened.

  No sound.

  I opened the door carefully and looked into the living room. I didn’t see Leonard on the couch. I heard the scraping noise again.

  I slipped into the living room and saw there was a light coming from the open door of the newspaper room. I held the gun down by my leg and went over there and looked inside. Sitting on the floor, damp newspapers pushed in a heap behind him, was Leonard. He was pulling at the rotten boards in the flooring, prying them loose with a crowbar, stacking them by the papers. The little fan was pointed in his direction and was set not to rotate. It hummed pleasantly, like a bee at flower.

  I went inside.

  “I was going to shoot you,” I said.

  He looked up at me.

  “Who the hell did you think it’d be?”

  “Guess I’ve got the jumps a little, those guys next door.”

  “Did it come back to you? The sex stuff, I mean?”

  “Yes, but we did some things I don’t remember doing before. I guess it’s OK, though. Neither of us got hurt.”

  “What do you think of her?”

  “Well, we haven’t sent out wedding invitations, but I like her. She’s smart. Witty. Fun to be with.”

  “And she’s fucking you.”

  “There’s that.”

  “Come here and give me a hand. I’ve found something interesting.”

  I put the gun on the table next to the little fan, went over and got down on my knees and grabbed hold of the board he was holding and helped him pull it up. There was a screech of nails as it came loose.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “I came in here and started looking around, moved some papers and found this spot. You’ll notice, not all these boards are rotten.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning what happened was the floor was repaired here with untreated wood to replace old wood, and some of that has rotted because of the roof leak. I think Uncle Chester took advantage of replacing the floor to make a hiding place.”

  He pointed. “For this,” he said. />
  In the gap in the floor I could see something large lying in the dark against the ground. There must have been about four feet between the floor and the dirt.

  “When I moved the papers, I spotted it through the hole and got busy pulling the rest of the lumber out,” Leonard said. “I didn’t wake up Florida, did I?”

  “From what I can tell, she doesn’t sleep. She hibernates.”

  “Help me get this out of here, would you?”

  I leaned down and got hold of the heavy metal trunk, for that’s what it was, and we pulled it out of there and set it on the floor beside us. It was army green and there was a padlock on it. It had CHESTER PINE stenciled in white letters on the lid. It smelled of damp earth.

  Leonard got the crowbar and put it inside the loop of the padlock and started to give it a flex, but I grabbed his arm.

  “Before you do that,” I said,. “I was thinking there might be another way.”

  He looked at me, and slowly it dawned on him.

  10.

  Leonard went to get the key while visions of outdated coupons danced in my head.

  When he returned, he tried the key and the lock sprang open. Leonard removed the lock and lifted the lid. There was a puff of dust and a smell came out of there I couldn’t quite identify. Musty, a little sharp. Leonard leaned over and looked inside, and stared. I looked too.

  It wasn’t coupons.

  There was a small, yellowed skeleton, blackened in spots. The skull was turned toward me. Some of its teeth were milk teeth. Probably a male, though I was no expert on that. Eight, nine years old. From the forehead to a spot square between the eyes, the skull was cracked like the Liberty Bell. The legs had been sawed off at the knees so that it would fit in the trunk, and the arms were pulled free at the shoulders, twisted from their sockets like chicken wings. Beneath and around the bones were moldering magazines, and I realized that much of the smell was from rotting paper, but that certainly wasn’t the whole of it. The bones were old, however, and most of death’s stench had long left them, and perhaps what I did smell on the bones was not death at all, but mold.