Emma was living the life of Riley. There was always a good crowd on hand and she had even rented a nickel jukebox for the crap room. Pat was no distraction. Mama Joe still kept her and had moved just a few houses down the street. Emma had front and back door watchmen, was making lots of money, and whenever Salvador was out of pocket, even turned a trick or two.
It happened again. Only Emma, Allen, and a white gambler called Blackie were left in the game. Emma backed off so Allen and Blackie could go “head to head.” She pulled for Allen to take him and sat on pins waiting. When they finished, Allen was the winner.
She woke up all the broke, snoozing players so they could watch. Salvador even left his post when she and Allen played head to head, but his interest was not in the game. He knew Allen was still her husband and didn’t like the way she looked at him or touched his hand, and jealously called him her “sweet man.”
The only rule about rolling and setting was, “Go for whutcha know.” It was teacher against pupil. Emma sat on the daybed with the crap table pulled up to her; Allen sat at his usual seat directly across the table. They went back and forth for hours, all the while keeping it casual and friendly. Both rolled so smooth and easy that one die seldom stopped more than an inch ahead of the other. Emma had one distinct advantage; she gauged her rolls with the nails tacking the blanket down, just like she used to do with the cigarette burns on her old crap blanket.
Whenever they squared off to duel she did everything to throw him off stride while he was shooting. “Give me anutha drank outta Emma’s bottle, baby. Betcha don’t bar it. Shoot ‘em!” On and on with the rap. When he got set picking them up, she’d make him put them down, somehow. “Hold ‘em up there!” She’d grab his hand and pat it, offer him a drink, and just outright say, “Blue, put them dice down baby.”
Frustrated, he’d stop and throw her the dice. “Here! When you git thru playin wit ‘em, give ‘em back!”
She’d spit and blow on them, rub them between her thighs to hex them and then toss them back. He’d miss. “Aw, Gotdam! The mule throwed Rucker,” she’d say, and could hardly get the top screwed on the bottle fast enough.
They’d been going at it for hours and, money-wise, they were about even. Emma called for a time out. “Shit, Blue! Les stop an take a break an have a drank. Ain’t you tired?”
“Hell yeah! I gotta git up an stretch my legs a minute. They dun damn near went to sleep.”
She pushed the table away, went to the outhouse, checked on Salvador, and returned. “Hand me my bottle, baby.” Looking around the room, “Resta y’all WAKE UP! WAKE UP! The house is on fire!”
That perked them up. “Give everbody a drank. Pass the bottle roun when Blue gits thru. Git some water for ‘em to chase it wit, them nigguhs ain’ useta drankin good whiskey,” referring to her personal bottle of “hockey proof” Old Grand Dad. She kept on, “Y’all wake up now or you might miss somethin.” I certainly didn’t need any rousing. I was absorbed and watched every move they made. The others had to ask for the bottle three or four times before I heard them.
After seating herself back on the daybed and pulling the table close, “Blue, you bout ready?”
“Yeah, I’m ready,” retaking his seat.
It was her shot. While rubbing the dice on the blanket, with a metal smile, “You know whut, Blue?”
“Whut?”
“I’m goin on an take you lak Grant took Richmond.”
“Well, you won’t be gittin no cherry. I been busted befo. Quit stallin an shoot the dice!”
“But I’m gon do it different this time, Blue. I’m gon make ten straight passes on yo ass befo I miss. Then I’m gon letcha shoot ‘em one mo time, an it’s goodnight Irene.”
After he took his shot and missed, he sang, “You got me!”
“An you the one taught me.” He never beat her. When their game was over, she’d throw him ten or fifteen dollars so he wouldn’t leave broke.
They were good gambling friends, but he never ever slept with her. That’s where he drew the line, content with just their gambling friendship developed over the years. It never failed though, when the house cleared and we finished cleaning up, Salvador started his nagging, “Gotdamme Eemma, you thinkee I’m a Gotdamme suckum, don’tcha? I no fuckin suckum [sucker]. I see you make them fuckin goo-goo eyes to you Gotdamme sweet man.”
“Whut the hell you talkin bout, Sabbado?”
“Eemma, you know Gotdamme well whut I talkee. Allen, you Gotdamme sweet man. I’m the Gotdamme man to theese fuckin house. I hangee my Gotdamme hat over here, not you fuckin sweet man!” He was way off base, as usual. She was tricking with Mr. Albert, definitely not Allen.
Disgusted, “Aw Meskin, fuck you! I’m tired. I don’t wanna hear all that shit. Go lay down somewhere an git outta my face.”
“Gotdamme Eemma, didn’ I tole for you, you leessen to my voice! I’m the Gotdamme man …”
I was busy as a cat covering up shit keeping a lookout at the back door and selling whiskey to the players. On weekends, Emma’s bedroom at the front of the house became the trick room whenever the whores needed it. I had already rented it out twice, and waited for Octavie to get through so I could clean it up quickly. Ida was in the wings.
It was midday Saturday, payday. The crap room was humming. The pulpwood haulers, Allen, two or three crapshooters from across town, and some white railroad workers all jammed around the table betting hot and heavy. Emma had finished all the cooking earlier and was smack dab in the middle of the action. All the bases were covered. Salvador was at his usual post in the front; I was taking care of all the other house business.
By late afternoon there was a lull in the action because several of the pulpwood haulers, the heaviest losers, left for the liquor store to borrow some money. The white gamblers were gone as well. Nobody was shooting craps and the gamblers were just sitting around waiting and bullshitting.
Since there was no game going on, Salvador joined the revelry in the crap room. Departing from his normal aloofness, he stood against the wall drinking and laughing his head off at their “nigger-whitefolks” jokes. They bullshitted about everything, from the way they each looked to the size of their peckers. Oscar especially enjoyed teasing Emma and said, “Lemme axe you sump’n Big Emma. How on earth didja end up wit a pepper-belly? Frum whut I heard, dey screws lak rabbits, ninety miles a minute,” he joked. Everybody in the room laughed—except Salvador.
“Fuck you! You black-ass cheeken-sheet sonaveech!” Salvador shouted.
“Fuck you back, Meskin! If you don’t wanna hear whut we talkin bout, carry yo Meskin ass on sumwhere else. You stand over dere an laugh yo ass off at everthang sumbody say bout sumbody else, but when sumbody say sump’n bout a Meskin, you git mad.”
“Leessen, you sonaveech, you no talkee to me! I telly to you! I’m the Gotdamme man to theese house!” moving in Oscar’s direction.
Oscar rose quickly from the daybed, ready to rumble. Some of the others held them apart. Throughout the momentary fiasco Allen stayed in his seat at the table, casually playing with the dice. “Say Oscar, let Sabbado alone, man. An you Meskin, you oughta take yo ass sumwhere an set down.”
Hotheaded and more than ready for a piece of Allen’s ass, Salvador broke the grasp of the restrainers and attacked. He forced Allen into the crap table, jamming it against Emma and hemming her in on the daybed. Although Allen outweighed him at least forty pounds, Salvador had the advantage as they grappled with each other atop the table. Allen was fighting with all his might to get him off but Salvador was fighting equally as hard to retain his position.
One of the two-by-four legs gave way, and table and all crashed to the floor. This jarred them apart momentarily. Allen got to his feet first and landed a clean blow to Salvador’s face, and he reeled backwards toward the kitchen entrance.
Both were straight-up slugging it out in the kitchen. Allen’s heavier blows were doing the most damage. He knocked Salvador back seven or eight feet into the icebox.
Emma rushed in but Allen shoved her back through the doorway and quickly pulled the .38 long-barreled revolver from his waistband. Before Salvador regained his bearings, BANG! The scent of gunpowder filled the small room.
Still on his feet, Salvador staggered and slumped against the icebox. With blood pouring between his fingers he held his head. “Gotdamme Allen, you sonaveech! You shoot me!”
“An that ain’ all, Meskin. I’m fitna shoot you again!” Like a flash, Salvador ducked and rushed Allen a fraction before he squeezed the trigger. The bullet missed.
He bear hugged Allen and came out of nowhere with a hunting knife, ripping him from the left shoulder blade all the way down to his hip bone. Allen hit him repeatedly with the gun barrel and managed to get elbowroom for another shot. With his left arm tucked against his wounded side, he raised the .38 to fire again.
The head wound had weakened Salvador and he was about to drop. Allen squeezed the trigger, CLICK! CLICK! … CLICK, CLICK, CLICK, CLICK! He wheeled and walked out of the house, heading down the back trail.
Emma followed him out the door, “Blue, you hurt! Don’t leave, somebody dun called the ambulance. It’ll be here any minute.”
He kept walking. Salvador had collapsed on the kitchen floor. She got a towel and attended him until the ambulance arrived. Allen got to the hospital on his own. I heard it took almost two hundred stitches to sew him up. Hard-headed Salvador returned home that night. Miraculously, the bullet ricocheted off his skull and came out near his temple. All he had was a headache and swollen face.
As soon as Salvador recovered from his minor gunshot wound, he started blaming “Eemma” for what happened. “Eeet’s all you Gotdamme fault Eemma! You sent off for you Gotdamme sweet man!” But that was the case no more. Allen no longer honored the calls and quit coming to the house.
Emma and Salvador began fighting like cats and dogs. He soon discovered that when he drank too much he couldn’t whip her, so he changed the course of things and started faking it. She would still get drunk, and that’s when he would make his move.
I was so familiar with the routine I cautioned her not to drink so much, “Emma, you can’t fight when you drunk.”
Only to get a customary, “Jes hand me my bottle. I don’t need you tellin me shit! Hell, I ain’ drunk!” Followed by, “You stay outta me an my o’ man’s bizness! I don’t need no help frum you!”
Once she got started, the whiskey made her really blow it out, “I ain’ scaid uv no muthafucka on earth! Specially Sabbado!” All the while, he sat on the old metal trunk over in the corner of the crap room with his head down, feigning a drunken sleep and taking it all in. “I kin whup a whole cow pen full a Meskins lak him in my underskirt an never show my ass!”
Unfortunately, it didn’t hold true when she was drunk. He’d beat the dogshit out of her, but she sternly ordered me not to interfere. Most of the time I left, only to return to find her with a black eye and busted lip.
She put him out of commission for a while though. They got drunk “together” and went to bed. Salvador waited until she fell asleep. He got up, put his pants on, and went behind the headboard. Reaching his arms through the iron railings, he got a chokehold around her neck. She woke up struggling and reached her hands through the rails, frantically trying to break the hold. She grabbed the first thing she touched, which happened to be his balls. Using her long fingernails, she ripped his nutsack. When she let go he fell to the floor, his trouser fly covered with blood. I talked her out of chopping his head (or anything else) off with the hatchet.
I was back in school but absent most of the time because they fought and stayed drunk so much. When I came home from school one afternoon she told me, “That old white daddy uv yo’s died. They havin his funeral today.”
“We goin?”
“Hell naw. His wife would shit a green egg if we showed up at First Baptist.”
“I got to go change,” heading for my room.
“Where you goin?”
I was old enough now and just kept walking, changed clothes and slipped away to the church. Even if I was wrong as two left shoes, I had to be there. I owed him that much. After all, he was my father.
I was practically running the house, and it even spilled over into the crap games. My big chance came after they started arguing while the game was in progress. For fear of the gamblers leaving, Emma put me in charge so they could go in their room and finish the fight.
In many ways, I was better than she was. I had the “rolllll” down to a T and controlled the dice better, knew how to gauge them in accordance with the nail heads, and wasn’t drunk. The gamblers didn’t hesitate when I took the game over. I had been around them so long, I was viewed as a regular player. Besides, “money’s money,” young or old. When she sobered up I turned the money I’d won over to her.
Emma was so busy trying to keep the licks off her ass, mine was being spared. When she got whiskey mean and missed a point on the dice, I still got my “jinky peckerwood-lookin ass” driven from the crap room. But I no longer quivered when she ‘buked me; I bit my lip to hold back my seething anger and to keep from lashing out at her.
Their fighting had given the house a bad name; it was losing money. After the police were summoned several times to quell things, the gamblers got scared to come for fear of being arrested themselves. Now, we were lucky to have three or four people at the house on weekends.
It was another Saturday, and I’d been up since early dawn getting things ready, just in case. I scrubbed the floors with Eagle Lye (minus the piss) and cleaned up the crap room from last night’s minor activity while she and Salvador were still in their room. With all the preparations taken care of, I left to round up some players. I walked down to the liquor store council tree where the pulpwood haulers were parked, and told them, “There sho is a good game goin at the house.”
Two or three interrupted their drinking and said, “When we finish takin care uv bizness, we might cum by.” I knew they probably wouldn’t.
After leaving them I headed for the Terminal Cafe at the train station to give the same message to any potential players who might be there. I made all my Junction rounds to the places where the gamblers hung out before going back home.
I heard the low, muffled scuffling as soon as I stepped up on the back porch. When I walked through the kitchen and entered the crap room, I saw that Salvador had Emma pinned in the corner next to the trunk. He was choking her so hard his hands and arms trembled. The fight had gone out of her and she was barely struggling. I rushed over and positioned myself so she could see my face. “Emma, you want me to help you?” She couldn’t talk, but motioned her eyes up and down for a “yes.”
We had a potbellied wood-burning stove in the crap room, and kept the wood stacked on the back porch. I ran out and got a big stick of the wood, ran back and hit him just above the ear. He released his hold, and Emma sank to the floor. The first blow stunned him. I got in another before he came at me, which was just what I wanted. I faded him off to give her a chance to catch her breath.
As soon as she got herself together she jumped him from behind. Emma wasn’t drunk this time, and Salvador was no match for both of us. Realizing he had two motherfuckers on his hands and nothing to fight with, he managed to raise the lid on the old metal trunk where he kept all his tools. I knew about the house’s major weapon that was kept inside. He was going for the white-handled hatchet!
Emma slammed the lid down on his arm and plopped her 200-plus pounds on top of the trunk. Salvador let out an agonized shriek. When he screamed, she looked at me, “Is I got ‘em?!” More excitedly, “Tell me, IS I GOT THIS MUTHAFUCKA??!”
“Yes mam, I bleeve you got ‘em.”
“Don’t BLEEVE nuthin. Tell me, is I GOT ‘em?”
“You got ‘em, Emma!”
“Thas all I wanna know.”
Salvador’s face grimaced with pain, “Gotdamme Eemma! Geet you big ass up! You gonna broke my fuckin arm!”
“
You don’t say?” and started bouncing up and down as Salvador groaned loudly. She was winning one for a change and how sweet it was to be bullyragging him. “Y’know whut Meskin? I been waitin a long, long time for this day.”
“Gotdamme Eemma, you brokeen my fuckin arm!!” He squirmed vainly trying to free his arm.
“I know Gotdam well I am,” she said unconcerned, “an thas not all I’m gon do,” ordering me, “cum here baby.”
“Yeah, Emma.”
“You think you kin hold this lid down if I git up off it? Be sho now! Set down on it an see.” I added my skinny ninety pounds on the trunk lid along with her.
Salvador moaned, then cried out, “I no heetchu no mas Eemma! OOOH!”
“Emma!” I said concerned, “I don’t think I kin hold it down settin on it. Lemme stand up so I kin brace my hands on th’ ceilin.” I stood up and got into position. With my palms pushing against the ceiling, “I kin hold it now, Emma. Git up anytime you ready!”
“Make sho you got it now! I’m fixin to git off.”
“I got it,” I reassured.
“Don’t tell no dirty!” as she slowly wiggled off the lid. Looking up at me, “Be sho you got it now! I’m gittin off,” she said one more time anxiously.
“I got the muthafucka! Go ‘head an git off Emma.”
“Okay, I’m gittin ALL the way off,” and finally let her feet touch the floor. Satisfied that I had him under control, she taunted, “Awww, Gotdam! Gotcha at last, ain’t I? You know whut I’m fixin to do to yo ass Meskin? Betcha can’t even guess, kin ya?” Pausing to look up, “You still got ‘em?”
“Yes mam, Emma.”
Sugar Ray Robinson would have loved the footwork she put down. Moving and circling around him, she jabbed and shadowboxed, stopping only to put her hands on her hips and shake her booty in his face. Finished with her roadwork, she let him have a fist right in the kisser, “Maybe that’ll stop some uv that ol’ mouth uv yo’s.” Then back to the show, putting her head right down in his face, “Here, hit this muthafucka! I know you wanna hit me. Why don’tcha? Oh, don’t wanna fight now, huh.”
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