"Damn," Hastings breathed, "I thought he was gonna come after you sure."
"He's a coward," Keith said. "They all are."
"Yeah," Freeman agreed. "Probably thinks we'd all jump him."
Keith shook his head. "No. He's just afraid of me."
Ted Horst snorted. "He's a heavyweight, hoss. You're just a little ol' middleweight."
"Doesn't matter. Even though they're bred for muscle, they're still genetically inferior and they know it. They've got an instinctive fear of us, not the other way around. They recognize their master."
The three men looked at Keith. "That's what you believe, huh?" Ted Horst asked.
"That's what I believe. Believed it enough that it cost me my job." Keith picked up his bottle and filled his beer glass all the way to the brim, then stood up. "Truth's hard to keep alive. But it's impossible to kill. That's known as a paradox, gentlemen."
Walking carefully, he crossed the several feet between their table and the bar until he stood directly behind the black man. He held his glass near the man's shoulder, and cleared his throat. When the man turned, his shoulder bumped the glass, making the liquid spill over the side and onto Keith's left hand. The black man frowned.
"I believe you tumped over my beer, buck," Keith said.
"Sorry. But you were standin' pretty close to me," the man said in a smooth tenor voice.
"All the same."
The black man smiled and sighed. "All right then, I'll buy you another one. What you drinkin'?"
"No," Keith said, "you won't buy me another one. I don't drink with you."
"Look, I said I was sorry, brother, can't we just let it go at—”
“You're not my brother. My mama didn't fuck orangutans."
The only sounds in the bar were the low roar of the refrigeration units and the air conditioner, and the higher pitched sound of the crowd at the Astros game on the TV.
"You know, I'd get down to the nut-cuttin' on you," said the man, "if you didn't have all your white buddies around.”
“Don't let them stop you, black boy."
The man's jaw muscles twitched. "You think they wouldn't?"
"Goddam it, Pete," Red Bates said, swatting the bar with a damp rag. "There's to be no fightin' in here. You let that nigger alone now."
"He tumped my beer, Red."
"I don't give a shit, you let him alone or you're fired!”
“Too late, Red. I just quit."
"Pretty brave with all your redneck friends behind you," the black man said.
"They won't touch you. You and me, that's all."
"Yeah, I really believe that."
"You've got the word of a white Aryan."
The black man laughed derisively. "Well, that ain't worth shit."
"You gonna fight, you sorry two-bit sack of ape crap, or you gonna try and talk me to death?"
"When I get done with you, motherfucker, you'll be pissin' your Triple X root beer out your—"
The black man never said which orifice Keith would be using to urinate, for he tried to take Keith by surprise, shooting out a huge right fist at his face.
Keith was ready for it, and slipped the punch, then pushed his own right fist into the man's throat. When he threw up his hands, Keith grasped them, pulled them to either side, and butted the man in the face with his forehead. There was a dull cracking sound when the nose broke, and blood gushed from the nostrils as the black man wheezed for breath.
He seemed to call upon some deep reservoir of strength, and broke Keith's grip, then threw a roundhouse right that grazed Keith's temple, staggering him so that he stepped sideways and bumped into a table at which a pair of old and stringy cowboys sat. They scattered as the table went over, flinging chili bowls and a pitcher of beer onto the wooden floor.
Keith fell into the mess, and looked up in time to see the black man, face dripping, throw himself at him. He rolled onto his back, wincing as a chunk of broken glass dug into his shoulder and his head struck the bar rail.
His opponent's left hand caught Keith's belt, and tried to drag him closer, but Keith grasped the bar rail with both hands, brought up his legs, and kicked hard. One booted foot caught the black man in the shoulder, the other in the face. The man moaned, and his grip relaxed long enough for Keith to pull away, get to his hands and knees, and leap on the man.
As Keith fought, he felt no hatred for his opponent. His soul was at rest. In that quiet place inside him, he was the consummate professional, doing a job, performing yet another act of artifice, establishing his character with every movement, a Nijinsky of violence. At any moment he could have ended it with the proper blow, but the impression he wished to present was that of a man overcome by rage and by the reverse racial injustice of which he felt himself a victim, of one genius redneck sonofabitch with as much guts as brawn.
Keith grasped the black man's head and began to pound it on the sopping boards. At first it made a wet sound because of the beer, then because of the blood. He was glad when he felt hands grasp him and pull him away. Although he would have killed the man if he had had to, it would have complicated matters.
"All right, all right," he heard Al Freeman say, "no more, that's enough. No more now."
"Y'all saw it," Bob Hastings said. "Nigger took the first swing. He just got what was comin' to him."
Keith shook them off and took a deep breath. "I'd appreciate it a whole lot if somebody'd give me a beer."
"Fine," Red said, slamming a full bottle on the bar. "Take it and get on outta here. You just throwed your hat over the windmill, Pete."
“Jesus, Red," said Bob Hastings, "it's just a nigger."
"Yeah, well, niggers can buy lawyers these days, if you ain't noticed. And this is my goddam place, Bob, and it's my ass can get sued."
"Nobody's suing nobody. Hey you," Hastings said, kneeling by the black man's side and shaking him. Hastings's hand moved to the man's hip pocket, and slipped out his wallet. Hastings opened it and looked at the cards there. "Hey, Mr. Harrison. Mark, boy . . ."
The black man moaned, and his eyelids fluttered. "Hey Mark," said Hastings. "You plannin' on suin' anybody around here? You wanta call the cops, press charges?"
Then Hastings leaned down close to Harrison and whispered loud enough that Keith could hear. "You do, you're dead. And so's your whole damn family. We got your name, we got your life."
Harrison looked out of puffy eyes, first at Hastings, then at Keith, who looked back at him as he took a swig from a bottle of Lone Star. "No," Harrison said. "No, I won't press any charges." He pushed himself to his feet, one hand pressed to his still bleeding nose. "There a doctor around here?" he asked.
"There are real fine doctors in Nacogdoches," Al Freeman said. "That's about thirty-five miles from here."
"Should be able to get that far," said one of the stringy cowboys.
The second one finished the thought. "Without bleedin' to death."
"Wait a minute," said Horst, and looked at the black man with what seemed like grudging sympathy. "You got any friends can take you?"
Harrison shook his head angrily, wincing at the pain the motion caused.
"We got a good infirmary out at the lab. Doc out there could look you over, what do you say? Won't cost you a cent.”
“Why you bein' a good Samaritan all of a sudden?"
"I don't recall my beating on you in the first place. I can't help what my redneck friends do, but I can help pick up the pieces afterward."
What the hell, Keith wondered, was going on here? He had found Ted Horst to be as savagely bigoted as anyone else from Goncourt. Why was he offering free medical care to a black man, actually taking him out to Goncourt? It didn't make sense, unless
Unless he didn't plan to let him leave.
Horst was talking quietly to Harrison now, and had his hand on his shoulder. Harrison was nodding, and had not shaken off the hand. In another moment, they were walking together toward the front door, and went out into the night.
Keith
turned to Hastings and Freeman. "What the hell?" he said. "Why's he takin' the nigger's side?"
Hastings smiled. "Goddam, but Ted's such a good Christian. Lift up your fallen brother and ease his pain. What a helluva guy." He laughed, and Al Freeman smiled enough to lift his chin.
"Don't you mind Ted," Freeman said. "He knows what he's doing." Then he smiled enough to show his teeth. "You tore into that boy pretty good."
"Sure as hell did," said Hastings. "How you feelin'?”
“Nothin' a couple aspirin won't fix," said Keith, downing his beer. "Think I'll go wash off the nigger blood."
When Keith came out of the men's room, he saw Sally leaning over the table of the booth. Hastings was holding her by the wrist. Keith stayed in the shadows and heard the last part of what Hastings was saying.
“. . . won't be fit for fun tonight. Why don't you meet me at one, and—"
Sally pulled away, and Keith could see red marks on her white skin. "I'll take my chances, thanks," she said through her teeth, and hurried into the kitchen with the empty bottles, anger puckering her coarse-featured but sensual face.
Keith strode back into the room. When the others saw him, a few started to clap and holler. But Red, behind the bar, made a face, shook his head, and waggled his fingers at Keith as if to tell him that, hero or not, there was no changing his mind, and Keith was out of a job. He didn't blame Red. The older man had been good to him, and had never joined in the verbal minority bashing that was one of the mainstays of conversation at Red's Bar. So Keith nodded his head, gave Red a smile and a shrug, and sat down next to Hastings.
"Looks like you're out of work," Freeman said.
"Looks like."
"Tell you what. You hang around here for a couple weeks, and maybe there'll be something for you at Goncourt. Interested?"
"Hell, yes."
"Afford to stay in Bone a while?"
"I'll manage."
"Good. You'll be hearing."
They had taken the bait. Keith drank his fresh beer and tried not to smile. He thought about the pain, and that helped. Still, it was hard, so hard, not to smile.
And smiling and the taste of the beer made him think of happier times, and while the other two men chatted about barroom fights of the past, Keith thought about college, about Iselin, about the old friends who had saved his life.
The remarkable magic of that night over a month ago had stayed with him, and later, in his apartment, he thought more about his friends. He had quickly realized that if it had not been for their grasping him as they began to fade in front of his eyes twenty-four years before, he would have been dead all those years. But he had lived, and now he knew why. He knew who to thank, and who he could never thank.
Suddenly he was possessed with the urge to know more about them. He knew what had happened to Woody Robinson, but what had happened to Sharla, his lover, and Alan, and the others? There was a way to find out, and he sat down at his computer and modem, and began.
He searched the files of the major credit card companies first, and found Sharla Jackson living in Warrensville Heights, Ohio. Her credit history revealed that she had never been married, and was employed by the Shaker Heights School District. That disappointed him. He had hoped to find her working in the inner city.
Alan Franklin's occupation disappointed him as well. One of the country's largest tobacco companies was named as his employer, and his home was in Alexandria. With those two facts in hand, Keith came to the correct conclusion.
He found that Frank McDonald was living in Atlanta, and assumed that he had married Judy Reinhart, since "Judy R." was listed as spouse. When he traced Judy McDonald, he found that Reinhart was indeed her middle name, and that she had become the owner of the Buckhead Folk Art Gallery. Folk Art, he thought with a frown, and in Buckhead, the yuppiest section of Atlanta. Christ, had everybody sold out?
No. At least there was Woody. Sure, he was probably wealthy, and certainly well known, but his music was his music, and as far as Keith's ears could tell, he had never compromised.
But sellouts or not, he owed all of them his life. And the irony of it was that if he was able to do what he hoped to, it would mean their deaths.
Chapter 18
Woody held the note for what seemed like forever, held it, and let it slip softly away until there was only a toneless whisper of breath hovering in the bell of his oboe, an inaudible aura, a wisp of spirit felt rather than heard.
He paused, then drew in breath and nodded, smiled, and everyone uncoiled. There were outbursts of held breath, relaxed laughs, murmurs of approval, and Ivan Redburn ripped out a funky run on his bass, drawing more laughs from the group of friends and lovers.
There was a click, and the engineer's disembodied voice filled the studio. "That was great, Woody," it said with an unmistakably Japanese accent. "Really perfect. You want 'nother take?"
Woody shook his head. "Let's take ten, Idiro, and then we'll listen to the playback."
Woody hadn't intended to record in Japan, especially without the recuperating Michael Lester on bass, but the group had been so together, the sound so tight and so right, that he knew they had to preserve it in a studio. So they booked Ideko Studios to record "Tracy's Song," the tune he had written the previous month.
It had proven to be the quintessence of what Woody wanted to do with his music. It was highly melodic, but unpredictably so, with sophisticated harmonies and complex rhythms. Best of all, it had bite. There was nothing of the meandering mazes of new age about it. It had a destination and it went there, speaking of the past while looking toward the future.
Tracy had been visible in the theatre of Woody's mind every instant he worked on the piece, and when he finished it he knew he had captured both a certain time and timelessness. She cried when he first played it for her on his oboe, unaccompanied by the rest of the group. When he played it for Jim Columbo, Kevin Marcus, and the then-healthy Michael Lester, they only shook their heads in admiration, then began to improvise their parts tentatively, as if wary of breaking something priceless with an underthought phrase, an unconsidered harmony.
The Japanese audiences, before whom it was premiered, adored it, and went far beyond their usual response of polite applause by standing and calling for it to be repeated at most of the concerts, a communal reaction the native promoter had never before seen from his countrymen. It was only one of many kindnesses the Japanese audiences, and everyone with whom Woody, Tracy, and their party came in contact, showed them. It was, Woody thought, a refreshing change from America, where fans seemed to feel that, along with sharing their music, performers should share their private lives as well. But here there was respect, courtesy, and concern, as if the Japanese hosts would make sure that their guests' needs were met before thinking of their own.
One of the few westerners Woody knew who had that generous attitude was Dale Collini. And now, as Woody sat next to a beaming Tracy and accepted a cup of tea from her, he thought of Dale, and hoped that he was as happy with Eddie Phelps as Woody was with Tracy.
~*~
He was. Dale Collini had what he had always considered to be the perfect relationship. His lover was also his best friend, and they had lived together and been faithful to each other for seventeen years.
He and Eddie lived in a small but adequate apartment filled with things they loved, reminders of their trips abroad, and their musical and theatrical pasts. Their circle of friends was close-knit, and, although veiled with occasional sorrow due to AIDS deaths, generally happy. They were relatively secure. Eddie's job as a church organist was steady, and provided him with health coverage, insurance, and a retirement fund, while Dale had for the past eight years been working for a company that did marketing surveys. His schedule was delightfully flexible, allowing him to take off at odd times for auditions and rehearsals. The acting career that he had chosen in the mid-seventies had never flourished, but he had become well enough known in non-Equity circles to keep himself busy and happy, doing six weeks
of stock every summer in Connecticut and workshops in the city the rest of the time.
The past that he remembered vividly and Eddie recalled only dimly had been happy and free from pain. And that was why the doctor's news came as such a shock, far more painful than the tests he had finally finished undergoing. Doctor Thomas Tregaski's clientele consisted mostly of gay men, so it was with practiced ease and studied sympathy that he gave Dale the sentence.
"It's not good news," he said across the desk.
Dale thought he would say it first, that by beating the doctor to the word he would have some small triumph even in the face of death. "Is it AIDS?" he said.
Tregaski shook his head. "No, not AIDS. You're not carrying HIV, and neither is Eddie."
Relief quieted the fear for a moment. He didn't think he could have handled knowing that he had AIDS. He knew that he had been faithful, and the alternative would have been that Eddie had not been. "So what is it, Tom?"
"I'm sorry, Dale, but it's leukemia. Acute myeloblastic. Normally I'd offer more hope. It's a treatable disease. But I've never seen it moving as quickly before." He shook his head, and puzzlement replaced the official look of concern. "It's just racing through your body. The lymph is very swollen, as you know. And it's . . .” He shrugged. "It's everywhere."
"Almost," said Dale, "as if it's making up for lost time?" Tregaski looked at him oddly. "Almost."
The doctor went on to tell Dale that treatment would be complicated, expensive, and time consuming, and that there was less than a chance in a hundred it would do more than minimally slow the cancer's progression.
"So off the record, Tom," Dale said, "if you were me . . . ?”
“I'd say the hell with it and enjoy the time I have left.”
“And that is?"
Tregaski shrugged. "Half a year maybe."
"Six months."
"Half a year sounds longer."
Dale thought about how lonely Eddie would be, hoped that if he took another lover it would be one as monogamous as they both had been. "When will I begin . . . how should I put it, my final decline?"
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