Native Son (7 page)

Yes, his going to work for the Daltons was something big. Mr. Dalton was a millionaire. Maybe Mary Dalton was a hot kind of girl; maybe she spent lots of money; maybe she’d like to come to the South Side and see the sights sometimes. Or maybe she had a secret sweetheart and only he would know about it because he would have to drive her around; maybe she would give him money not to tell.

He was a fool for wanting to rob Blum’s just when he was about to get a good job. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Why take a fool’s chance when other things, big things, could happen? If something slipped up this afternoon he would be out of a job and in jail, maybe. And he wasn’t so hot about robbing Blum’s, anyway. He frowned in the darkened movie, hearing the roll of tom-toms and the screams of black men and women dancing free and wild, men and women who were adjusted to their soil and at home in their world, secure from fear and hysteria.

“Come on, Bigger,” Jack said. “We gotta go.”

“Hunh?”

“It’s twenty to three.”

He rose and walked down the dark aisle over the soft, invisible carpet. He had seen practically nothing of the picture, but he did not care. As he walked into the lobby his insides tightened again with the thought of Gus and Blum’s.

“Swell, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah; it was a killer,” Bigger said.

He walked alongside Jack briskly until they came to Thirty ninth Street.

“We better get our guns,” Bigger said.

“Yeah.”

“We got about fifteen minutes.”

“O.K.”

“So long.”

He walked home with a mounting feeling of fear. When he reached his doorway, he hesitated about going up. He didn’t want to rob Blum’s; he was scared. But he had to go through with it now. Noiselessly, he went up the steps and inserted his key in the lock; the door swung in silently and he heard his mother singing behind the curtain.

He tiptoed into the room and lifted the top mattress of his bed and pulled forth the gun and slipped it inside of his shirt. Just as he was about to open the door his mother paused in her singing.

“That you, Bigger?”

He stepped quickly into the outer hallway and slammed the door and bounded headlong down the stairs. He went to the vestibule and swung through the door into the street, feeling that ball of hot tightness growing larger and heavier in his stomach and chest. He opened his mouth to breathe. He headed for Doc’s and came to the door and looked inside. Jack and G.H. were shooting pool at a rear table. Gus was not there. He felt a slight lessening of nervous tension and swallowed. He looked up and down the street; very few people were out and the cop was not in sight. A clock in a window across the street told him that it was twelve minutes to three. Well, this was it; he had to go in. He lifted his left hand and wiped sweat from his forehead in a long slow gesture. He hesitated a moment longer at the door, then went in, walking with firm steps to the rear table. He did not speak to Jack or G.H., nor they to him. He lit a cigarette with shaking fingers and watched the spinning billiard balls roll and gleam and clack over the green stretch of
cloth, dropping into holes after bounding to and fro from the rubber cushions. He felt impelled to say something to ease the swelling in his chest. Hurriedly, he flicked his cigarette into a spittoon and, with twin eddies of blue smoke jutting from his black nostrils, shouted hoarsely,

“Jack, I betcha two bits you can’t make it!”

Jack did not answer; the ball shot straight across the table and vanished into a side pocket.

“You would’ve lost,” Jack said.

“Too late now,” Bigger said. “You wouldn’t bet, so
you
lost.”

He spoke without looking. His entire body hungered for keen sensation, something exciting and violent to relieve the tautness. It was now ten minutes to three and Gus had not come. If Gus stayed away much longer, it would be too late. And Gus knew that. If they were going to do anything, it certainly ought to be done before folks started coming into the streets to buy their food for supper, and while the cop was down at the other end of the block.

“That bastard!” Bigger said. “I knew it!”

“Oh, he’ll be along,” Jack said.

“Sometimes I’d like to cut his yellow heart out,” Bigger said, fingering the knife in his pocket.

“Maybe he’s hanging around some meat,” G.H. said.

“He’s just scared,” Bigger said. “Scared to rob a white man.”

The billiard balls clacked. Jack chalked his cue stick and the metallic noise made Bigger grit his teeth until they ached. He didn’t like that noise; it made him feel like cutting something with his knife.

“If he makes us miss this job, I’ll fix ’im, so help me,” Bigger said. “He oughtn’t be late. Every time somebody’s late, things go wrong. Look at the big guys. You don’t ever hear of them being; late, do you? Naw! They work like clocks!”

“Ain’t none of us got more guts’n Gus,” G.H. said. “He’s been with us every time.”

“Aw, shut your trap,” Bigger said.

“There you go again, Bigger,” G.H. said. “Gus was just talking
about how you act this morning. You get too nervous when something’s coming off….”

“Don’t tell me I’m nervous,” Bigger said.

“If we don’t do it today, we can do it tomorrow,” Jack said.

“Tomorrow’s Sunday, fool!”

“Bigger, for Chrissakes! Don’t holler!” Jack said tensely.

Bigger looked at Jack hard and long, then turned away with a grimace.

“Don’t tell the world what we’re trying to do,” Jack whispered in a mollifying tone.

Bigger walked to the front of the store and stood looking out of the plate glass window. Then, suddenly, he felt sick. He saw Gus coming along the street. And his muscles stiffened. He was going to do something to Gus; just what, he did not know. As Gus neared he heard him whistling: “The Merry-Go-Round Broke Down….” The door swung in.

“Hi, Bigger,” Gus said.

Bigger did not answer. Gus passed him and started toward the rear tables. Bigger whirled and kicked him hard. Gus flopped on his face with a single movement of his body. With a look that showed that he was looking at Gus on the floor and at Jack and G.H. at the rear table and at Doc—looking at them all at once in a kind of smiling, roving, turning-slowly glance—Bigger laughed, softly at first, then harder, louder, hysterically; feeling something like hot water bubbling inside of him and trying to come out. Gus got up and stood, quiet, his mouth open and his eyes dead-black with hate.

“Take it easy, boys,” Doc said, looking up from behind his counter, and then bending over again.

“What you kick me for?” Gus asked.

“’Cause I wanted to,” Bigger said.

Gus looked at Bigger with lowered eyes. G.H. and Jack leaned on their cue sticks and watched silently.

“I’m going to fix you one of these days,” Gus threatened.

“Say that again,” Bigger said.

Doc laughed, straightening and looking at Bigger.

“Lay off the boy, Bigger.”

Gus turned and walked toward the rear tables. Bigger, with an amazing bound, grabbed him in the back of his collar.

“I asked you to say that again!”

“Quit, Bigger!” Gus spluttered, choking, sinking to his knees.

“Don’t tell me to quit!”

The muscles of his body gave a tightening lunge and he saw his fist come down on the side of Gus’s head; he had struck him really before he was conscious of doing so.

“Don’t hurt ’im,” Jack said.

“I’ll kill ’im,” Bigger said through shut teeth, tightening his hold on Gus’s collar, choking him harder.

“T-turn m-m-m-me l-l-loose,” Gus gurgled, struggling.

“Make me!” Bigger said, drawing his fingers tighter.

Gus was very still, resting on his knees. Then, like a taut bow finding release, he sprang to his feet, shaking loose from Bigger and turning to get away. Bigger staggered back against the wall, breath less for a moment. Bigger’s hand moved so swiftly that nobody saw it; a gleaming blade flashed. He made a long step, as graceful as an animal leaping, threw out his left foot and tripped Gus to the floor. Gus turned over to rise, but Bigger was on top of him, with the knife open and ready.

“Get up! Get up and I’ll slice your tonsils!”

Gus lay still.

“That’s all right, Bigger,” Gus said in surrender. “Lemme up.”

“You trying to make a fool out of me, ain’t you?”

“Naw,” Gus said, his lips scarcely moving.

“You Goddamn right you ain’t,” Bigger said.

His face softened a bit and the hard glint in his bloodshot eyes died. But he still knelt with the open knife. Then he stood.

“Get up!” he said.

“Please, Bigger!”

“You want me to slice you?”

He stooped again and placed the knife at Gus’s throat. Gus did not move and his large black eyes looked pleadingly. Bigger was not satisfied; he felt his muscles tightening again.

“Get up! I ain’t going to ask you no more!”

Slowly, Gus stood. Bigger held the open blade an inch from Gus’s lips.

“Lick it,” Bigger said, his body tingling with elation.

Gus’s eyes filled with tears.

“Lick it, I said! You think I’m playing?”

Gus looked round the room without moving his head, just rolling his eyes in a mute appeal for help. But no one moved. Bigger’s left fist was slowly lifting to strike. Gus’s lips moved toward the knife; he stuck out his tongue and touched the blade. Gus’s lips quivered and tears streamed down his cheeks.

“Hahahaha!” Doc laughed.

“Aw, leave ’im alone,” Jack called.

Bigger watched Gus with lips twisted in a crooked smile.

“Say, Bigger, ain’t you scared ’im enough?” Doc asked.

Bigger did not answer. His eyes gleamed hard again, pregnant with another idea.

“Put your hands up, way up!” he said.

Gus swallowed and stretched his hands high along the wall.

“Leave ’im alone, Bigger,” G.H. called weakly.

“I’m doing this,” Bigger said.

He put the tip of the blade into Gus’s shirt and then made an arc with his arm, as though cutting a circle.

“How would you like me to cut your belly button out?”

Gus did not answer. Sweat trickled down his temples. His lips hung wide, loose.

“Shut them liver lips of yours!”

Gus did not move a muscle. Bigger pushed the knife harder into Gus’s stomach.

“Bigger!” Gus said in a tense whisper.

“Shut your mouth!”

Gus shut his mouth. Doc laughed. Jack and G.H. laughed. Then Bigger stepped back and looked at Gus with a smile.

“You clown,” he said. “Put your hands down and set on that chair.” He watched Gus sit. “That ought to teach you not to be late next time, see?”

“We ain’t late, Bigger. We still got time….”

“Shut up! It
is
late!” Bigger insisted commandingly.

Bigger turned aside; then, hearing a sharp scrape on the floor, stiffened. Gus sprang from the chair and grabbed a billiard ball from the table and threw it with a half-sob and half-curse. Bigger flung his hands upward to shield his face and the impact of the ball struck his wrist. He had shut his eyes when he had glimpsed the ball sailing through the air toward him and when he opened his eyes Gus was flying through the rear door and at the same time he heard the ball hit the floor and roll away. A hard pain throbbed in his hand. He sprang forward, cursing.

“You sonofabitch!”

He slipped on a cue stick lying in the middle of the floor and tumbled forward.

“That’s enough now, Bigger,” Doc said, laughing.

Jack and G.H. also laughed. Bigger rose and faced them, holding his hurt hand. His eyes were red and he stared with speechless hate.

“Just keep laughing,” he said.

“Behave yourself, boy,” Doc said.

“Just keep laughing,” Bigger said again, taking out his knife.

“Watch what you’re doing now,” Doc cautioned.

“Aw, Bigger,” Jack said, backing away toward the rear door.

“You done spoiled things now,” G.H. said. “I reckon that was what you wanted….”

“You go to hell!” Bigger shouted, drowning out G.H.’s voice.

Doc bent down behind the counter and when he stood up he had something in his hand which he did not show. He stood there laughing. White spittle showed at the corners of Bigger’s lips. He walked to the billiard table, his eyes on Doc. Then he began to cut the green cloth on the table with long sweeping strokes of his arm. He never took his eyes from Doc’s face.

“Why, you sonofabitch!” Doc said. “I ought to shoot you, so help me God! Get out, before I call a cop!”

Bigger walked slowly past Doc, looking at him, not hurrying, and holding the open knife in his hand. He paused in the doorway and looked back. Jack and G.H. were gone.

“Get out of here!” Doc said, showing a gun.

“Don’t you like it?” Bigger asked.

“Get out before I shoot you!” Doc said. “And don’t you ever set your black feet inside here again!”

Doc was angry and Bigger was afraid. He shut the knife and slipped it in his pocket and swung through the door to the street. He blinked his eyes from the bright sunshine; his nerves were so taut that he had difficulty in breathing. Halfway down the block he passed Blum’s store; he looked out of the corners of his eyes through the plate glass window and saw that Blum was alone and the store was empty of customers. Yes; they would have had time to rob the store; in fact, they still had time. He had lied to Gus and G.H. and Jack. He walked on; there was not a policeman in sight. Yes; they could have robbed the store and could have gotten away. He hoped the fight he had had with Gus covered up what he was trying to hide. At least the fight made him feel the equal of them. And he felt the equal of Doc, too; had he not slashed his table and dared him to use his gun?

He had an overwhelming desire to be alone; he walked to the middle of the next block and turned into an alley. He began to laugh, softly, tensely; he stopped still in his tracks and felt something warm roll down his cheek and he brushed it away. “Jesus,” he breathed. “I laughed so hard I cried.” Carefully, he dried his face on his coat sleeve, then stood for two whole minutes staring at the shadow of a telephone pole on the alley pavement. Suddenly he straightened and walked on with a single expulsion of breath. “What the hell!” He stumbled violently over a tiny crack in the pavement. “Goddamn!” he said. When he reached the end of the alley, he turned into a street, walking slowly in the sunshine, his hands jammed deep into his pockets, his head down, depressed.