South Street (10 page)

Vanessa twisted her head over and sank her teeth into the meat of Leroy’s palm. “Ow, bitch!” shouted Leroy, jerking his hand away and slapping her in the same motion.

Vanessa readjusted her glasses unconcernedly. The imprint of Leroy’s hand showed purple against her dark skin. She sipped her Singapore Sling and stubbed out her cigarette. “Ain’t your woman,” she said. “She’s married to Rayburn. You just borrows her.”

“Ain’t none a your business,” said Leroy. “You bite me again, bitch, an’ I’ll take your simple head off.” He smiled at her.

Vanessa twisted around in her chair and looked up at him, smiling too. “All right, then, I won’t bite. I’ll spit.”

Leroy stopped smiling. “Don’t you forget who’s payin’ for what.”

Vanessa sniffed. “I ain’t for sale. I do exactly what I wants to do when I wants to do it.”

“Too bad you ain’t no good at it,” Leroy said. “Looks like we gonna have to find some way to get rid a you. Maybe we’ll have a raffle, an’ you can be the turkey.”

“French kiss ma ass,” Vanessa said.

“Where is she?” Leroy demanded, looking at Charlene but keeping a wary eye on Vanessa.

“Maybe she’s out lookin’ for a man,” said Vanessa. “A real one.”

“Now I’m tired a your shit, ’Nessa,” Leroy said. “You keep your mouth shut or I’ma sick Cotton on you. He handles all ma light work.”

Vanessa looked up at him. “Leroy, don’t you
ever
make the mistake a thinkin’ I’m light work.” She held his gaze for a few seconds. Leroy dropped his eyes.

“Hi, people,” said Leslie, removing Vanessa’s purse and slipping into the vacant seat.

“Where the hell have you been?” demanded Leroy. “I had to stand around here wastin’ time with this bitch sister a yours.”

“Well, I gotta clean up after ma
husband
,” Leslie said, “long as I’m still livin’ with him.” She gave Leroy a calculating look.

“Husband,” said Charlene in disgust.

“Well now, I got some business to attend to,” Leroy said. “Y’all drink whatever you wants; tell Nemo I said to put it on ma tab.” He looked down at the top of Vanessa’s head. “I’m buyin’ you a drink, bitch.”

“I don’t want nothin’,” Vanessa said.

“Shit. The day one a you bitches don’t want somethin’ is the day I gets elected President.” He spun and walked off across the room.

“Sonofabitch,” muttered Vanessa, waiting carefully until he had disappeared through a door marked
OFFICE
before she began massaging her shoulder.

“You better quit messin’ with Leroy,” said Charlene. “When you was goin’ with him, that was one thing, but you ain’t goin’ with him no more.”

“Damn right, I ain’t,” said Vanessa.

“I ain’t gonna be able to stop him if he decides to mess you up,” said Leslie.

“Listen here, honey. Don’t you be forgettin’ who is whose big sister. I don’t need nobody to protect me from Leroy Briggs. Leroy ain’t gonna do nothin’ to me until he gets me back so he can dump me on ma ass. He can’t quite figure out why I ain’t cryin’ after him.”

“What
did
happen with you an’ Leroy?” Charlene said.

Leslie looked at Vanessa, giving her a secret smile.

“You listen to me, Les,” said Vanessa, “you get somethin’ on Leroy so when he gets ready to dump you he can’t do it as quick as he wants.”

“He ain’t never gonna want to get rid a me.”

“He always does,” said Charlene. “Look at ’Nessa.”

“I’m different,” said Leslie. “Ain’t I, ’Nessa?”

“You knows it all, don’t you?” said Vanessa. “Now she’s gonna tell me how she can take care of herself.”

“Where
you
gonna sleep tonight?” asked Leslie sweetly. She screwed up her face in surprise when Vanessa slapped her. “What you do that for?”

“Just so’s you wouldn’t get so cute you got to thinkin’ cute was all there was.”

“Hey,” said Charlene brightly, “let’s all have another drink.”

Leslie looked at Vanessa, her eyelids low. Vanessa gazed back at her steadily. “Don’t try an’ teach your big sister to suck eggs,” she said. “I was hungry long ’fore you was.”

“You was lots a things ’fore I was,” said Leslie.

“I was smart ’fore you was.”

“You got so smart you got dumped.”

“Hey, let’s have another drink, y’all.” Charlene waved to the bartender.

“Leroy Briggs is gonna beat you out an’ use you up, an’ then he’s gonna send you on back to that broken-down janitor a yours. If you’re lucky.”

“You’re jealous is all,” Leslie said. “You wishes you still had him.”

“He wasn’t no prize.”

“What you want, Les?” asked Charlene. Leslie said nothing. “I’ll have another beer. What about you, Les?” Leslie glared at Vanessa in silence. “Bring her a Seven-and-Seven,” Charlene said. “She always drinks Seven-and-Seven, don’t you, Les? Seven-and-Seven?”

“I got him,” Leslie said. “You wants him, an’ I got him.”

“Bring her a Seven-and-Seven. An’ another one a them things for ’Nessa, a whatchemacallit. Put it on Leroy’s tab.”

“You can have him,” said Vanessa.

“I got him.”

“Oh, Jesus, will you stop it,” said Charlene.

“He’s gonna kick your ass.”

“He kicked
your
ass. It don’t have nothin’ to do with mine.”

The bartender arrived with the drinks, plopped them down on the table. “No, no, Nemo,” said Charlene, “I get the beer. She gets the Seven-and-Seven. An’
she
gets that other thing. Leroy’s payin’ for it.”

“Leroy ain’t payin’ for me,” snapped Vanessa, whipping a dollar bill out of her purse. “I buy ma own drinks.”

The whisk broom made staccato rustlings on the leather couch. Rayburn carefully brushed out the accumulation of dust and dirt, bending to the floor to scoop up a few pieces of change that had fallen from some businessman’s pocket into the crack behind the cushions. He carefully scraped chewing gum from a quarter, dipping the coin for an instant in the bucket of green chemical-smelling water beside him to loosen the gum and then rubbing it until only a few sticky vestiges remained at the nape of George Washington’s neck, under his nose, and around his eyes. Dropping the quarter into his pocket he glanced around the reception area approvingly. The carpet still had to be vacuumed, but he would do that on the way out. Rayburn turned, accidentally kicking the bucket. A drop of cleaning fluid spattered onto the carpet. Rayburn cursed softly. He bent quickly, searching for a rag, but, finding none that was dry enough to suit him, he pulled off one of his gloves and rummaged in the pocket of his baggy green trousers for his own handkerchief. He wiped up the stuff, smiling when he saw that it had not had time to stain the carpet. He got to his feet, reached for the keys hanging at his side, found the right one by feel, opened the door to the private secretary’s office, turned to get his bucket.

There was a cart for the bucket and brooms and vacuum cleaner, but Rayburn never brought the cart into the executive suite; it made marks on the carpet that he could never get out. Instead he lugged the bucket around and carried the big canister vacuum cleaner so he would not have to roll it on its casters, and kept the whisk broom and rags and furniture polish in his pockets. He hauled the bucket into the secretary’s office and began to wipe down the furniture, working clockwise around the room, wiping everything that could take the strength of the cleaner without corroding. After he had wiped the desk and carefully replaced everything in the same position, he went around again with the dry rag, dusting the lampshades and the magazines on the table next to the soft chair where the VIPs got to wait, the metal file cabinet, and even the framed picture of the secretary’s husband? son? boyfriend? on top of it. Rayburn had often wondered about that picture of a young white boy in an Army uniform, his head shaved clean so that his ears seemed to stick out, a broad smile on his face. Rayburn wondered where the soldier was now, what he was doing. The uniform was the same style as the one Rayburn had worn in the Korean war. Maybe they had been in the same company, he and the soldier. They might have fought in the same battles, perhaps saved each other’s life. The secretary, Rayburn decided, was the soldier’s mother, and she would have white hair, be plump and jolly, still wear seamed stockings. The soldier would be married now. Rayburn wondered where he would live. Maybe he had moved to California. Or maybe he would live in the city somewhere. Maybe in the rowhouses in South Philly, maybe on Christian Street, near the Italian market, just a few blocks from South Street. He’d work in a factory or drive a truck or a taxi. No, he’d work in a gas station, own a piece of it, maybe. Be a partner. The best mechanic around. He’d go in in the morning and sit around the office, and folks would bring in their cars and try to get him to work on ’em, an’ he’d just set there drinkin’ a Coke an’ smilin’, talk to ’em all about the weather until ’bout ’leven o’clock, an’ then he’d get up an’ eat his sandwiches an’ go to work. Man, he’d run them cars outa there like they was on a conveyor belt. Folks that didn’t even own a car would stand around just to watch him work. They’d ast where he learned to fix cars like that, but he wouldn’t say anything; he’d be too busy fixin’ to bother. So they’d ast each other, Hey, where’d this nigger learn to fix cars like that? An’ somebody’d tell ’em, Aw, he fixed tanks in the Ko-reen war. Man knows how to fix a tank ain’t gonna be worryin’ ’bout no Ford long. Goddamn! folks’d say, that cat sure do work! ’Long about four o’clock, after he’d done fixed half a dozen cars, he’d quit an’ go in an’ set around the office for a while, drinkin’ a little more Coke an’ listenin’ to the bell ring every time a car ran over the hose in front of the pumps. He wouldn’t pump no gas, though—he’d have a boy to do that. ’Long about five-thirty the phone’d ring an’ the boy’d answer it an’ say there was somebody needed a tow, an’ Rayburn’d tell him to go on out an’ bring it on in, an’ the boy’d go off in the wrecker. After a while he’d be back, haulin’ a long pink Caddy. Rayburn’d take one look at the Caddy an’ tell the boy to take it on down the street to the next station. There’d be this big man settin’ up next to the boy an’ he’d say, I thought you was gonna fix ma car. Rayburn’d spit on the sidewalk an’ look at him an’ say, I don’t fix no Caddys. The dude’d say, But, goddammit, I got a date an’ I’ma be needin’ ma car, an’ Rayburn’d tell him, Walk. If she really loves you she’s gonna want to see you, car or no car. Now, boy, take the man on down the street. Tow’s free. After a while the boy’d come back an’ ast could he get off early. The boy’d say he had a date with his girl. Rayburn’d say sure, only go on home now an’ clean up an’ come back by a minute ’fore he left. Then he’d just set there, smilin’ an’ thinkin’ while the boy run off, smokin’ a cigar an’ maybe drinkin’ a beer now that he wasn’t gonna have to be workin’ much longer. Pretty soon the boy’d come back, all turned out in his knits an’ a leather, an’ Rayburn’d smile an’ tell him he looked real fine. Then he’d say, Gone, now, an’ take ma car. I ain’t gonna be needin’ it tonight. The boy’d look at him like he didn’t think he heard right. Rayburn’d watch the boy pick up the keys an’ go walkin’ around the back like he was scared he might wake up, an’ pretty soon he’d be back with the car. Rayburn’d wave at him an’ the boy’d say he was gonna be careful, an’ Rayburn’d tell him he better be careful or he’d end up married an’ the boy’d grin an’ get it in gear, an’ Rayburn’d chuckle when the kid gunned it at the light an’ caught rubber in second.

“Shit, nigger, you dreamin’! You ain’t never gonna make that.”

Cotton turned his massive head on his short thick neck and glared at Willie T.’s smooth coffee-colored face. “I’d make it if you was to let me alone long enough to get it lined up.”

“Listen to him,” crowed Willie T. “‘Lined up,’ shit. Nigger can’t shoot no pool.”

“Let him shoot now, Willie,” said Leroy absentmindedly. He pulled a cigar from his breast pocket, stuck it in his mouth, and inclined his head toward Willie T., who produced a match as if he had been waiting for the opportunity.

“He ain’t gonna make it,” said Willie T.

“That’s ma business,” said Cotton. “You gots to let me shoot ma shot.”

“Why?” said Willie T. “You ain’t gonna make it anyway.”

“Sho’ am,” Cotton said. “I’ma cut a combination on the six ball an’ just slide that fifteen in down there, an’ then I’ll be all set up for the eight ball in the side, an’ that’ll be your ass.”

“Damn,” said Willie T., “don’t you know nothin’ ’bout geometry? You ain’t gonna do nothin’ ’cept maybe knock ma six in for me, then I’ll be set up for the eight ball.”

“I’ma eight ball your ass if you don’t let me shoot the damn thing,” said Cotton.

“You stop fuckin’ on Cotton now, Willie,” said Leroy. He puffed on his cigar, filled the air with gray clouds.

Willie T. smiled slyly. “Gone now, Cotton, an’ shoot you shot. Course, if I was you, I’d just shoot safety.”

“Don’t tell Cotton how to play his game,” said Leroy.

“That’s right,” said Cotton, making a face at Willie T.

“All right,” said Willie T., raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I was just tryin’ to be helpful, maybe speed things up. This nigger’s attemptin’ to take all night losin’ one damn game.”

“Let him be,” said Leroy. “I been thinkin’ an’ we gots more important things to worry about.”

“Like what?” said Willie T.

“Like Gino movin’ in on me.”

“Shit,” said Willie T. “Ain’t no Gino gonna be movin’ in on
us
. Gino don’t want nothin’ to do with no niggers. He don’t like nobody that ain’t Italian.”

“Willie T., we’re talkin’ about money. Gino likes money moren he don’t like anything.”

“Gino ain’t interested in takin’ over our street—” Willie T. began.

“Whose street?” Leroy interrupted.

“Your street,” said Willie T. “There’s no way he
can
do it. We’d know the minute one a his muthafuckin’ fools come around.”

“All right,” said Leroy, “
how
we gonna know? We gonna smell the spaghetti on his breath?”

“What you want me to say?” said Willie T.

“He’s gonna be
white
,” said Cotton.

“So what we got to worry about then?” said Willie T. “Maybe we oughta get rid a black shoe polish so we don’t get faked.”