Our Man in the Dark (15 page)

I'm not up for the challenge. I walk past him to smoke a cigarette under the awning.

“Hey, man, where you get that limp?” he asks. “Was you in the war or somethin'?”

“Something like that.”

“Korea?”

“Not exactly.”

I can see him mulling over whether or not to ridicule or pity me.

“Okay, dig this,” he takes off his hat and looks over his shoulders. “I can get you another girl, but I can't get you the same rate I gave your friends.”

“Friends?”

“Yeah, man. A couple of them cats you checked in with wanted some trim. Them girls was friends of mine working without a pimp. This chick I'mma get for you got a pimp, so she cost more. But she's worth it, man. Believe me. Foreign or somethin'.”

It must have been some men from the local chapter. Everyone else is too recognizable, and Gant is out of the question. “What did they look like?” I ask.

“The girls or the two fellas?”

“Forget it. How much?”

“Fifty.”

“Fifty?”

“Fifty, and I'll send her right to your room.”

“Foreign or something” is an appropriate description of her. Who knows in what arbitrary category Europeans would place her. Her face is round and framed by hair that's a wild collection of corkscrews. She has the fullest lips I've ever seen on a white woman. Her accent is thick and breathy. German, I think. She smiles, but there is a cold detachment in her eyes that I, strangely, find comforting. She undresses without prompting.

Her whole body is trapped in crisscrossing net—a fishnet bodysuit. I've captured a mermaid.

She says she is glad that I'm Negro. She likes Negroes. Negroes have a hidden power. Especially me. She can tell. She says I have a strength that people refuse to see.

My erection presses against my thigh, and I feel the same relief that I felt when I was a teenager and discovered that the doctors were wrong.

The next morning I arrive at Uncle Ray's Boxing Club, the gym where the boxer trains. I look around, trying to find him. Men spar, work the heavy bag, and jump rope. They all seem very fit but not in the shape one would expect of someone competing in a heavyweight fight. Then I see him: a man so big and black that he must have been extracted directly from the source of all Negroes and all men.

“Lester Smalls?” I ask over the thud of fist against leather.

He raises an eyebrow in response, never taking his eyes off the rhythm of his pummeling.

“May I have a moment of your time?”

The trainer holding the bag motions for Lester to stop, then walks over to me.

“What the fuck can I do for you?” He's an old black man of about sixty, wiry, and with hair like rounded cigarette ash.

“I'd like to have a word with Lester.”

“Lester is in the middle of training. He don't have no words.”

“It's important. It concerns his health outside of the ring.”

“What? Who the hell sent you?”

“I am a friend of Count's.”

He laughs. “Man, you probably the first person in history to say that. Count don't have no friends, just people he ain't killed yet. Now get the hell outta here. Me and my boy got training to do.”

“Why are you training so hard if Lester's going to lose?”

“The hell you say?”

“You're right. I'm not Count's friend, but I guess you could say I work for him.”

“You? Is the motherfucker cutting corners?”

I feel like it's time to cut to the chase with this simpleton.

“He knows about the dive,” I tell him.

The trainer looks around the gym for a response.

“Man, are you crazy? You can't be saying that word in a joint like this. You trying to get us killed?”

“Not at all. I'm trying to help.”

Lester looks concerned and makes his way toward us.

“What's the problem, Mike?” He mumbles.

“Nothing, Les. Man says Count knows about the dive.”

“That's not good, huh?”

“No, Lester,” says Mike. “That's not good.”

“However,” I say, “Count doesn't want you to lose . . . at least not on purpose.”

“If my boy don't go for a swim, them 'talians will see to it he don't come up for air. That's why we left the South, to get out from under small-time hoods like Count. Man, this is Los Angeles! This is close to big time. Yeah, I know it ain't the best start, but you want us to throw it away by getting killed?”

“Look, I don't know your history with Count, but at least with him, your record stays clean. If Lester takes a dive, that's all he'll ever be good for. No matter what they've promised you, there are no title shots after this. With Count—”

“I never felt right about takin' a dive anyway,” says Lester, jumping in. “I know I can take Boca. Why can't I just show everybody what I can do?”

“Wait a minute,” Mike says. “Lester, you need to think about this. Remember what it was like when we was with Count.”

“I remember.”

“You remember how he took everything from us? Everything you fought for?”

“I can handle it this time.”

“What about Etta? You remember that?”

Lester throws a punch at the bag so quick and loud it could have been mistaken for a gunshot. “Damnit, I said I remember!”

He moves past me, barely grazing my shoulder but knocking me off balance nonetheless. Mike places a stabilizing hand on my arm, then grips it tightly.

“What kind of shit you tryin' to pull?” asks Mike. “You know as well
as I do, Count only means him harm. Count only means everybody harm.”

The old man's got a grip too strong for his age. It's unreal. “Let go of my arm,” I tell him.

“You puttin' some dangerous ideas in his head. Is Count gonna offer some protection if Lester changes his mind? Huh?”

“Look, I just came here to relay a message. Whatever you and Lester decide is up to you. Now, let go of my goddamn arm.”

He lets go and I take a step back. I can still feel the phantom pressure of his fingers on my biceps. We lock eyes for a moment, sizing each other up. I weigh my chances of taking him out. They don't look so good. “I've said all I needed to,” I tell him. “I'll see you at the fight.”

I walk for a long while. It takes some time for the deadbeats and derelicts to fade away and a decent supply of cabs to appear. It seems like you can walk forever in this city and still be nowhere.

I finally hail a cab and hop in the back. I put my hand to my face, trying to wipe away the sweat and frustration of my encounter with the boxer and his trainer. I couldn't care less what Lester decides to do. He's buzzard meat either way. I feel something poke me in the chest. I look at the inside pocket of my jacket and discover the nuisance: a well-fattened envelope. Things got so heated back there I forgot to give Lester the courtesy of hearing Count's counteroffer. Why would Lester listen to me? After I left, I'm sure Mike convinced him to go through with their original plans. It would be a shame to let such an opportunity pass me by. I hold the envelope in my hand, weighing my options.

“Hey.” The driver cocks his head toward me without turning around. “Where you going, man?” He has a Spanish accent. Rosary beads hang from his rearview mirror.

I put the envelope back inside my jacket. “Where would one go to find a bookmaker?”

“
Que? Los bookies?
You wanna make a bet, man?”

“That's right.”

He looks out the window at passing traffic and then looks at me through the rearview mirror. “Look, I don't speak English so good. You
know?”

I know his game, so I retrieve some money from the envelope. “Among other things,” I say handing him the money, “Benjamin Franklin was a pretty good translator. You know?”

When I get back to the hotel, Gant informs me that Martin isn't feeling well and that our meetings have been canceled for the day. This gives me some free time, so I decide to see how Candy would like to spend it. But when I knock on her door, she does not answer.

I'm glad I stayed in my room tonight. Just cigarettes and a bottle of Thunderbird—hobo's lemonade. I need some time alone to convince myself that I am not mad about Candy's disappearance. I have a mind to go over to her room and break the door down to see if she's still breathing.

Who am I kidding?

That sinister guesswork is only a salve for my ego. She's probably out there trying to become a star. Isn't that how it happens? Country girl with neon ambitions comes to Hollywood, and a handsome movie star dazzles her with celluloid promises. Probably having cocktails right now with Belafonte—no, Poitier—she likes them stony and mysterious.

Yeah, Atlanta ain't Hollywood, and I brought her here.

I hear a deep resonant voice out in the hall. It sounds familiar. I make my way over to the door, open it, and peer out. All I see is a girl walking away. I can't see her face, but I can tell, just by that walk, that she is beautiful. She seems to be wearing a wig—too blond and stiff to be real. She holds her high heels with two fingers hooked inside, and her stockings are now a sheer scarf draped across her neck. My door creaks and catches her attention, but I close it before she sees me.

The hallway air makes me realize the smoke is piling up. I need to air out the room. The window opens to reveal a fire escape and the back of a building that's painted completely black; everything, including the windows, is coated with black paint.

It's a familiar setting. I've seen it in the movies. The weary hero retreats to a fire escape like this one to smoke, to think, and to retrieve wisdom. Always at night, he hovers above the city on an iron cloud, contemplating the chaos and cruelty down below.

I want to go out there, so I put a chair close to the window and put my bad leg out first, followed by my good leg, using it to pull my behind
over the sill. I reach out to the railing and pull myself up. Exhausted with my efforts, I reach for my cigarettes—but I left the damned things inside.

I stare at that black wall, its black windows, and take in a lungful of hot air. This is definitely the desert. None of this should be here. But my excesses seem at home in LA—maybe too much.

I look around at the other fire escapes below and above me. I look to my left and then I see him, two escapes away. Of course, we would have the same idea. How long has he been out here? Did he watch me struggle? I try to wave at him casually, but I'm sure it looks exaggerated as I try to maintain my balance with one hand.

Martin waves back and then points at me. “You'd better pray,” he calls over to me.

Guilt travels at light speed in the night. His preachy command makes me feel ashamed. I don't like his accusatory tone, so I act like I didn't hear him.

“You'd better pray there isn't a fire,” he says louder, and follows with a laugh.

I wonder what the hell he's laughing at, but then I look down and realize I'm just wearing my boxer shorts.