“Hey, my man, look. I just got this Rolie.”
The hulk on guard takes a quick look at Fox’s wrist. But not to be outdone, he rolls up his sleeve, and shows Fox an old watch. “Me, too. I got a Rolie. Mine is nicer.”
Amused, Fox just shakes his head and thinks, somethings never get old. Me-too is oblivious and opens the door. The back room is ghost-quiet, except for the soft hum emanating from an old a/c unit that hangs on a corner wall. The Merchant sits at a table in the center of the room with three other men. Fox ducks in stealthily but can’t evade the critical stares of the men at the table. Fox acknowledges one of the men, Shivers, with a subtle point in his direction. He’s a spindly man of middle-age with shifty, ferret-like eyes. Next to him, is a slightly younger man, just on the cusp of middle age. He is smartly dressed in a button-down shirt and slacks. He is studious looking, with alert and attentive eyes behind owl-shaped, wire-rimmed glasses.
“What’s up, Books?”
“All is good,” he tells Fox.
Fox takes a seat at an empty spot at the head of the table. To his right, is a man not known to him. He’s a stranger, one with a small oval head, ill-fitted for his broad-shouldered frame. The black circles under his dark, solemn eyes hang like bruises that will never fade. The stranger has anchored his attention on Fox, studying the young tough as though seeking some sort of recollection.
Fox asks the Merchant, “What’s up with your man? This dude is looking at me like I’ve done something to him.”
“Trigger doesn’t like it when people are late. Just deal,” says the Merchant.
Fox takes out several decks of new cards, breaks their seals, and spreads them out across the table for everyone to see. Trigger looks over at the Merchant, and sucks his teeth in disgust. “I thought we were waiting on a real dealer. I didn’t come here to have your son hand out cards.”
A dark shadow falls across the Merchant’s eyes and he chooses to stay silent long enough to allow the quiet to make the men at the table worry. Then in a voice low and emerging from some place dark within, the Merchant says, “He’s not my son.”
“Sometimes, people don’t know, Boss Man” says Books. “You don’t make babies.”
“Books’ gotta lot of nerve,” stutters Shivers. “He ain’t got no kids himself. None of us do.”
The Merchant looks past everyone at the table. He’s not listening to them. It’s Me-Too’s attention that he wants. The big man assures the Merchant that he’s taken an interest in what’s happening at the table. Me-Too asks a simple question, “We have a problem, Boss?”
“Do we?” the Merchant asks the table.
Trigger shoots a disgusted glance at the Merchant but relents. “We have no problem with your boy dealing cards.”
“I didn’t think so,” says the Merchant. “Deal them up, Fox.”
∏
The darkness of the night deepens, and Fox senses a disquiet slipping into the parlor. It is to be expected at this late hour. He swings a nervy gaze towards Trigger. Nothing has changed. The weight of this stranger’s probing stare remains. Shivers fidgets with his cards, using his slender fingers to flip up the edges of the dealt cards. He repeatedly peeks at them to make sure he is reading them right. At the far end of the table, Books has a mound of winning chips in front of him, and he jiggles a handful of them. He blinks owlishly, and stares at his cards impassively. No worries.
Fox keeps an eye on the Merchant too. He watches him slip into the shadows often, only to quickly re-emerge time and time again with bottles of beer, vodka, and rum in hand.
“Looking to keep us juiced up,” says Books. “Trying your best to separate us from our money?”
Books’ words go unchallenged as there’s a sudden movement at the back door. Rarely do new players enter the game at this hour. The knock on the door is a cause for pause.
Me-Too takes a hard glance at the video monitor on the intercom. “Hey Boss Man, check this out. We have company. It’s that Old Man.”
The Merchant says nothing. Instead, he pours drinks for the men at table. It is only after the final glass is full that the Merchant nods his approval for Me-Too to unlock and open the door. The Old Man is ushered in, and immediately raises both hands into the air. He allows himself to be patted down. “I come in peace.”
The Merchant gestures towards an empty chair at the table. “Why are you here?”
“I just want to show you that I have legitimate means to do business with you.” The Old Man reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of bills. “Deal me in? I promise I won’t spend it all.”
The Merchant studies the Old Man for a moment, and wonders, is he serious? But he soon motions to Fox to include him in the next hand. The Merchant takes the Old Man’s money and hands him a small stack of chips.
All eyes are on the Old Man. But he reveals nothing. The Old Man keeps his head down, counts his chips, and calmly waits to be dealt his cards. Trigger sits back in his chair, folds his arm, and studies the Old Man suspiciously.
“Hey, Boss Man, where do I know this dude from?”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
Trigger turns to the Old Man. “I know you, don’t I?”
The Old Man remains silent.
“You don’t speak?
The Old Man waits a moment. “Not to people I don’t know.”
“Books, don’t he look familiar?”
“A little bit. But don’t ask me no questions. I’m trying to win some money.”
“Where you from?”
The Old Man allows Trigger’s question to hang in the air. Unnerved, Trigger turns to the Merchant for guidance. But the Merchant offers no answers—he just throws a devilish grin back at him. He is enjoying this time to study the Old Man. Trigger presses on.
“You from here? Or used to be?”
The Old Man doesn’t say anything. He examines his cards and throws a chip into the center of the table. Finally, the Old Man turns to Trigger, and says, “Yeah, used to be. That was a different time and space.”
Trigger puffs out his chest, “Finally got you to speak. But I like how you say that, ‘a different time and space.’”
The Old Man calls and wins his first-hand.
With a pause in play, Trigger turns his attention back to Fox. “And what about this young cat? I’ve been trying to figure it out all evening. Now I realize what it is. I’ve been going back in time with him, too.”
Fox stiffens his posture, and reaches for a voice of menace and threat, “How you figure?”
“You remind me of a kid from long ago.”
The Old Man looks up from the table, his eyes clocking the presence of this stranger. He is taking him more seriously now. Trigger playfully spins around in his chair. “Hey Boss Man, whatever happened to that kid? He just stopped coming around.”
The Merchant speaks in a strong whisper, “Don’t talk about the Kid.”
“I’m just saying, this cat here reminds me a lot of that kid.”
Fox glares at Trigger, “Nigga, you don’t know me. Don’t put me in your story.”
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop talking.”
“Oh shit. He ain’t like that other one.” Trigger makes a sweeping, mocking gesture and pretends to be sizing up Fox for a picture. “I see a little violence behind those pretty-boy eyes.”
Then Trigger turns to the Old Man. “Do you know who I’m talking about? Were you here around the time of the Kid? I bet you were.”
The Old Man says nothing. Trigger seeks answers from the Merchant.
“That kid was like a son to you. Was to be your legacy. This young cat here is just taking his spot.”
“You just don’t listen.” The Merchant lifts his beer bottle by its neck. He takes a long swig, then pauses to savor its taste. He throws a knowing glance over to Me-Too. “I lo
ve this beer.”
There’s a subtle shift in Me-Too’s stance at the door. He appears to be adjusting his seat on the high stool. No one pays attention to his growing shadow as he slithers closer to the card table. Me-Too slinks up from behind and delivers a blow across the stranger’s windpipe. Trigger reels back in his chair and crashes to the floor.
“I told you,” says the Merchant. “‘Don’t talk about that kid.’”
“Sh... sh... shit, man. You were warned,” stutters Shivers.
Trigger stays huddled on the floor trying to speak. Not in words, but in grunts and high-pitched squeals like those of air wheezing out of a dying balloon. His wails fall on deaf ears. The Old Man looks around and sees that is no one is making an effort to help him up.
“Leave him,” orders the Merchant. “He’ll be alright.
The Old Man disregards the Merchant and extends a hand to help Trigger to his seat. Me-Too and his large shadow move away from the table. The returning light, though muted and hazy, illuminates the Merchant’s soulless eyes—eyes that grab hold of everyone at the table, demanding their presence at his performance.
“You don’t know me. None of you do. I’m sitting at a table surrounded by a bunch of broken old men who think of children and legacy only because it’s been denied them. And so, you think I’m one of you.” The Merchant directs his hardened glare at Fox. “I don’t care about nobody’s children. Think I give a damn about a little hood rat beyond what he can do for me?”
“Oh, so that’s how it is?” asks Fox, with great effort to mask the hurt.
“Yeah, that’s how it is.”
Fox tosses the cards onto the table. “Shit’s getting crazy. Liquor is talking for you. I’m out. Let Me-Too deal.”
“Me-Too watches the door. That’s his job. You deal. That’s your job. Keep your ass put. You don’t leave until I tell you that you can leave.”
Fox says nothing. He drops the cards and pulls his chair away from the table. Fox doesn’t look the Merchant directly in the eye. He just lowers his glare. A rage is building inside of Fox until finally he looks up and challenges the Merchant’s authority. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you for long time, Boss Man... Who the fuck is you?... You think I’m supposed to be scared, just because you got some simpleton nigga at the door holding a gun? You think you’re unique? You’re just a sorry old man running a half-ass gambling parlor. Shit, nigga, you’re a dinosaur. I don’t need your blessing to go home.”
The Merchant doesn’t do anything at first, choosing instead to shake his head, and say, “You know this boy’s story. His father worked for me. You know him.”
Books says, “Yeah, that cat...”
“You don’t say his name!” shouts Fox. “You don’t talk about him!”
The Merchant laughs him off. “His father was the educated kind. Had that collegiate air about him. The type who brought a sort of respectability to my affairs when needed. He couriered for me, was a peddler to the college crowd down the road and found me high rollers for games. He did whatever I told him to do. But he started flexing and talking about how he wanted to go it alone. But I told him there’s no leaving me. His father thought he had smarts and that he could weaken me by stealing from me. He thought it would be easy to part me from my money. Dude forgot I live to count my money. Never going to be a penny short.”
Fox lunges across the table to get at the Merchant. But Me-Too jumps in and forces him back into his chair with a strong forearm blow to his chest. Me-Too puts Fox in a chokehold and forces him to look at The Merchant.
“I had your father in this exact same position. The only difference was he was begging for his life. Pleading with me. Asking me, ‘What can I do to make it right?’ Like he’d ever be able to pay back what he stole. But he promised that he could truly pay me back.”
‘I’ll pay anything.’
‘Anything?’
‘Yes, anything.’
‘Your son. I’ll take your son. He becomes mine now.’
“And this father, who had grander ambitions for his son than a cheap, insignificant life in the streets, said, ‘Yes, you can have my son.’ And so, this bright boy, a good student, who always did as he was told at home, became mine.”
Fox struggles to get away from Me-Too’s grip. But he can’t. “Remember me coming to school with your father. You no longer went home right after your classes were over. Just came with me and hung out with us at Illusions and allowed me to expose you to this world. After only a few years’ time, you dropped out school and turned yourself into nothing more than a common hood rat... no future. Your mama couldn’t control you anymore. You were lost to her. Your father was ashamed of what he had done. And so, what did he do, Books?”
With a newly revealed truth, Books somberly says, “One to the temple. Damn. Never knew the story behind it.”
The Merchant pulls his chair nearer to Fox, and leans over, as though he’s whispering in his ear. But he looks directly at the Old Man. “You know the best way to weaken a man who steals from you? Or a man who tells you, ‘no.’ You don’t go at him directly. You don’t go after his woman. If you want to weaken a man, you go after his children.”
Fox struggles to break free from Me-Too, but he can’t. He can barely breathe. He’s being choked. The Merchant reaches with his free hand down into Fox’s waistband and pulls out a black revolver. “Look at this old shit. Out of all the guns you have locked up at home that I’ve given you, this is the one you bring to the job.”
The Merchant empties the revolver of its bullets and lets them fall to the table. He picks one up and places it in the chamber and spins it. “Sometimes, to make a point though, you gotta get nasty. Gotta get your own hands dirty. Make people know who’s the boss.”
The other card players nervously pull their chairs away from the table. Shivers stammers, “Oh, shit, man.”
“Nobody move,” shouts The Merchant. “This show ain’t over!”
The Merchant points the gun at Fox’s temple. “You ask me, ‘who the fuck is you?’ I’ll tell you who the fuck I am... I’m your God! Say it!”
Fox refuses to answer. He struggles to break free. The Merchant pulls the trigger. Click. Nothing.
“I’ll ask you again... who am I?”
Fox still refuses to answer. The Merchant pulls the trigger again. Click. Nothing again.
“Who am I?”
The Old Man says with force, “Answer him.”
“You’re my God!” answers Fox.
The Merchant leans back in his seat. Me-Too slams Fox face down onto the table. The Merchant hands Fox a cloth. “Here.”
Fox takes it and begins to pat his swollen lip. And as he does, the Merchant tells him, “Now, you can go home. You are no longer needed here.” Me-Too has the door already open for Fox. He mockingly gestures that the path is clear. Fox gets up slowly and limps to the door. He leaves the Madness without looking back.
Trigger is visibly shaken, he stutters, “You... you... you were just playing right? You palmed that bullet, didn’t you?”
The Merchant raises the revolver and points it directly at the Old Man. He takes aim at him. The Old Man doesn’t flinch. Then, slowly, the Merchant turns the barrel away and hands the gun, handle first, to the Old Man. The Old Man opens up the chamber and turns it upside down. A bullet falls out.
“What the hell?” Shivers is frantic. “You’re crazy! You could have killed that kid!”
The Merchant doesn’t take his eyes off of the Old Man, who gets out of his seat to leave. The Old Man stops at the door and looks back at the Merchant impassively. “I’ll be back with the money in a couple of days.”
“Good,” says the Merchant. “I think I’ve shown you not to say ‘no’ to me.”
CHAPTER
FORTY-THREE
It’s Sunday. But something strange is happening
. I don’t get a wake-up nudge from Mama. I wake up on my own. I get out of bed and search for her. She’s not in her bedroom, nor the bathroom, nor the kitchen. Neither is she in the living room, where we spend the Quiet Hour. I find Mama in her solitary place. She’s up in her studio.
Mama is sitting by her easel, staring at an open, black portfolio—the one with the little girl’s work inside. Mama sees me at the door wiping the sleep from my eyes. She closes the book. Mama tells me, “We’re not going to church today.”
Mama says it like it’s not a big deal. Like it’s something that’s to be expected. I watch her pull the little girl’s work out of the portfolio and place it in an envelope. Mama turns her glance to the door where I stand. She tells me to get dressed. Mama says, “We’re going out.”
∏
I peek out my bedroom window and look up towards the sky. I see gloomy, gray clouds that hang low, barring the sun from sharing its light. It will be only a matter of time before the skies open up and the rains come pouring down. There’s a storm headed this way.
Mama gets ready in no time. She’s dressed like a little kid with her baseball cap, college sweatshirt, and jeans. Mama is carrying the large envelope. She places it inside her knapsack, and quickly throws the bag over her shoulders. Mama starts off down the street without saying a word. I follow her on my bike. I don’t know where it is we’re going. Mama hasn’t told me.
We pass the playground. I pause to see if Pretty Girl is there. I have her anklet tucked away deep in my pocket, in the small, emptied-out box of candy. But Pretty Girl is nowhere to be seen. Neither is Tum Tum. The park is deserted as always. Mama and I keep walking.
Our church is just up ahead. I hear faint shouts of praise coming from inside. The people are singing. I hear the steady beat of drums and the clash of cymbals. It sounds like a party. I can’t seem to remember a time when Mama and I were not part of this celebration. It feels weird not being inside the church on a Sunday. Mama and I say nothing as we walk past. The joyful sounds eventually fade away.
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