South Street (12 page)

“Cotton says it’s important.”

“What the hell does he know,” yelled Leroy. Leslie drew back and then let her body fall full upon him. “Jesus, stop that,” said Leroy. “Don’t be in such a hurry for everything. You’re always in such a goddamn hurry.”

“You comin’, Leroy?” yelled Willie T.

“He’s comin’,” giggled Leslie, “he’s comin’ all right.”

“Oh Jesus, boss,” said Willie T., “I didn’t know you was still …”

Leroy rolled over on top of Leslie and proceeded to do an imitation of a runaway pile driver.

“Ahhh,” said Leslie.

“Oh, Jesus,” muttered Willie T. He stepped away from the door, then he stepped back and put his ear right up against it. “Maybe it wasn’t all that important, boss,” he yelled. “I’ll tell Cotton to handle it hisself.” He listened carefully but no sound came through the door except a couple of moans, assorted gasps, and the creakings of the bed.

“Ahhhh,” Leslie said again, biting at the fist she held to her mouth.

“Thank God,” muttered Leroy. “Christ, you like to kill a man. You’re worse than the goddamn Internal Revenue.”

“Ummm,” said Leslie, biting at him.

Leroy pulled away and climbed out of bed.

“Maybe it ain’t all that important,” yelled Willie T.

Leroy pulled on his pants and headed for the door with his purple-and-turquoise shirt dangling over his arm. He opened the door and charged out, running full tilt into the side of Willie T.’s head. “Oww!” said Leroy, clutching at his groin. “What the hell was you doin’ down there?”

“I was just tryin’—”

“Yeah, well you keep on tryin’ an’ I’ma roast your ass for Thanksgivin’. Now what’s all this shit about?”

“I dunno,” said Willie T., trailing Leroy down the hall. “Cotton just said to come get you, somethin’ was poppin’.”

Leroy grunted. On the way down the stairs he slipped his arms into the sleeves of his shirt, and he entered the barroom of the Elysium with his belly showing like a wide brown necktie. He stopped at the bar and slapped sharply on the wood. The bartender left the customer he had been waiting on and hurried over. “The usual,” said Leroy. While he waited, Leroy looked at Willie T. “That gal is like to kill a man.”

“Yeah,” said Willie T. “Either that, or get him kilt.”

“Shit,” said Leroy. He accepted his drink from the bartender and marched off into the office.

Cotton was standing by the pool table, his hands folded, Buddha-like, across his belly. “Sorry to drag you away,” Cotton said, “but to tell you the truth I was thinkin’ maybe you’d be dyin’ for a break.”

“You tryin’ to say I might be tired?”

Cotton smiled. “Well,” he said tactfully, “let’s just say ain’t nobody can fill up the ’Lantic Ocean spittin’. ’Sides, this here might be important. I was settin’ up to the bar when in comes this dude an’ asts for you.”

“Whad he look like?” Leroy snapped.

“He was just a wino, I seen him around a million times. Don’t get so damn jumpy.”

“I ain’t jumpy, nigger,” shouted Leroy.

“No,” Cotton said. “You ain’t jumpy. You just in a hurry to get back upstairs an’ see if you really can fuck yourself to death.”

“C’mon,” said Leroy, “’fore I bashes your face in.”

Cotton smiled enigmatically. “Anyways, this here wino, he says he’s got some information for you.”

“What kinda information.”

“He said it was a name.”

“A name? Shit, I already got a name. Where is this fool?”

“Willie T.,” said Cotton. “Go get that wino I left out there with Charlene.” Willie T. went out. “I left him with Charlene,” Cotton explained, “’cause he looked like he might run.”

“That was on account a Charlene,” Leroy said. “That bitch litters every time some fool winks at her.”

In a minute Willie T. returned with Elmo in tow. “Hi there, Mr. Briggs,” said Elmo.

“What’s this shit about a name?”

“It’s a name,” Elmo said. “Ain’t no shit. Everybody’s got a name.”

Leroy looked at Cotton. “You hauled me outa bed so’s I could play games with some simple wino?”

“Even fellas in bars that makes other fellas in bars eat shit got names,” Elmo said.

“What?” said Leroy, spinning around.

“I said—”

“I know what you said,” said Leroy

“An’ you better not say it again,” said Willie T.

“Or you ain’t gonna have no face to say it with,” finished Cotton.

“I didn’t mean no harm.”

“Yeah, well,” said Willie T.

“Never mind,” said Leroy. “I think I know what you’re talkin’ about, an’ I think I know who you’re talkin’ about, so cut the shit an’ start talkin’ about ’em.”

“I can’t,” said Elmo. “Ma throat’s too dry.”

“I see,” said Leroy. “Willie. Get the man a drink.” Willie T. vanished and returned a minute later with a glass of red wine. Elmo snatched it out of his hands and tossed it off. “Fine,” said Leroy. “Now talk.”

“All right,” said Elmo. “But I wants more outa this than just one lil’ drinkee. Why, in order to tell you what you want to know I gots to betray the secrets of a friend.” Elmo held the empty glass over his breast and looked sorrowful. “That don’t come cheap.”

“Cotton,” Leroy said, “soon as this gentleman betrays this great secret, you tell Nemo to give him wine for a week.”

“Why that’s mighty nice a yeaugh—” said Elmo as Leroy grasped him by his skinny throat and hoisted him high in the air.

“What’s his name?” demanded Leroy, his eyes burning.

“Yeaugh,” said Elmo.

“Talk, damn you!” shouted Leroy.

“He can’t talk,” said Cotton.

“What?” shouted Leroy.

“You’re chokin’ him, Leroy,” said Cotton. “He can’t hardly talk while you’re chokin’ him.”

“Oh,” said Leroy. “Oh.” He looked at Elmo, whose tongue was beginning to hang out, seeming surprised to find him there on the end of his arm. “Oh.” He dropped Elmo. Elmo sagged against the pool table. Cotton held him up. Elmo gulped like a beached catfish.

“What’s his name?” said Cotton.

“Breghn,” said Elmo.

“Whad he say?” said Leroy.

“Beats me,” said Willie T.

“Christ, Leroy,” said Cotton. “You gotta be more careful. You like to killed him.”

“He ain’t gonna die,” said Leroy. “Ain’t no wino gonna be dyin’ when he’s got all that free drinkin’ comin’, soon as he tells me …”

“Bra—Brah, Brahn,” said Elmo, with difficulty.

“Brown,” said Cotton.

“Braghn,” said Elmo.

“Brown?” said Willie T.

“Brown,” said Elmo, swallowing heavily.

“Shit,” said Leroy. “That’s a lot a help.”

“Yeah,” said Cotton disgustedly. “Let’s get him outa here.”

“What about ma wine?” said Elmo, recovering rapidly.

“Cotton,” said Leroy, “tell Nemo this fool can have three drinks. Tonight. That ain’t worth no damn week.”

“That ain’t right,” protested Elmo. “You ain’t keepin’ your word.”

“Nobody ever keeps promises to niggers,” snarled Leroy. “Ain’t you heard? You find out some more an’ we’ll see about the week. Now beat it.”

Willie T. took his cue and propelled a still-protesting Elmo through the door.

“Everybody’s named Brown,” said Cotton. “We sure as hell ain’t gonna be lookin’ him up in no phone book.”

“You ain’t,” said Willie T. “You can’t read.”

“Fuck you,” said Cotton, “an’ fuck the duck that laid you.”

“Least I can get laid,” said Willie T. “You just roll.”

“Shut up,” said Leroy, who was staring at the wall with a look on his face that would have done credit to Genghis Khan. His eyebrows were pulled down low. His mouth was twisted. Little beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. “I wanna know who he is. An’ I wanna know where he is. An’ I wanna know now. You get on it. Take the damn Street apart if you have to.”

“Ah, can’t it wait until mornin’?” Cotton said. “It’s nearly two.”

“What the hell’s that got to do with it?”

“Folks don’t generally hang out in bars after closin’ time. It’s kinda dark.”

Leroy glared at him. “I don’t care about that. I want results.” He stared into space and smiled thinly. “Results. You all get to work. You find me this Brown fucker. Fast.”

Shadow-spoor on a city street

Tells a tale of the aching time

When hate and anger and sorrow meet

Merging in a soundless cry

And I have walked the line.

Brown bloodstain on a peeling wall

Trace of violent proud despair,

Of stumbles with noplace left to fall,

Of an old man’s empty wine-breath sigh,

And I have seen him crawl.

Will You look down from on high

Upon the lives You have forsaken?

And when You come again to find

Your ass is butchered and Your manger’s taken

By some black barking whorebitch’s bastard babe

Squalling and shitting on Your hay

Will You smile, will You sigh,

Or will You loose Your righteous wrath

And call for the Judgment Day?

And I have walked, armed with ear and eye, through the

dark mysterious unmapped streets, stalked the wild wailing

wino in his lair of yesterday’s paper and last week’s puke,

observed the exotic mating dance of that vanishing species,

the two-buck whore, witnessed the march of the great gray rat….

And LIVED! To write the memoirs that the National Geographic

would not buy.

And I have seen an old man die,

Felt his fingers stiffen in my hand

As his spirit returned to the Motherland,

Walking onward without fear,

Knowing that Hell was only here,

That there could be no worse.

Men fight men in a jungle dance with violent steps.

And in the bleachers clapping hands cast the vote of who goes free:

White thumbs turn, white fingers twitch

The strings of lives, and cut the threads.

But white ears seldom hear the cries,

For all the shouts, screams, sobs, and sighs

Are drowned out by the roaring gears

And covered by the rolling years,

As the City passes by.

—Brown

“H
AW, HAW, HAW,” LAUGHED
Big Betsy the whore, “haw, haw, haw. Pour me another one, Leo. Haw, haw, haw.”

Leo glanced up from the sink. “Ain’t you ’bout had enough?”

“Yeah,” said Big Betsy. “Of you.”

“I ain’t got time to be carryin’ you home tonight,” Leo warned.

“I wouldn’t go home with a piece a shit like you. I got standards.”

“Shit,” said Leo, “what you got is a welfare check.”

“Some folks is lucky,” said Big Betsy, “an’ can afford to have standards all the time. I has standards when I can afford to. Now pour me another drink or by God I’ll drink someplace else.”

Leo chuckled to himself and poured Betsy another drink. She fumbled in her purse and fished out a bill, shoving it aimlessly across the bar. Leo saw the hand come out toward him, the fingers fat, sweating, tiny hairs growing out from the knuckles. Round metal bracelets on Betsy’s arms jangled musically for an instant before the sound was smothered in rolls of flesh. Leo closed his eyes. “It’s on the house,” he said.

Betsy shoved her lower lip out, laid her head on her shoulder. “You ain’t tryin’ to—”

“Betsy, c’mon now, you know me bettern that. We been friends a long time.”

“That’s true,” said Big Betsy. “An’ that’s just why I asked. I don’t want you to be gettin’ no wrong ideas. I mean, I like you an’ all, but you just ain’t my type, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, sure,” said Leo, looking at Big Betsy’s bouncing chins and breathing a sigh of relief.

“You ain’t mad, are you?” said Big Betsy. “I wasn’t tryin’ to hurt your feelin’s.”

“No, sure, I understand,” said Leo. “Drink up, huh? It’s gettin’ late.”

“Sure,” said Big Betsy. As she raised her gin she looked around. “By Jesus, we got the whole damn place to ourselves.”

“Yeah,” said Leo. “Tuesday night, ain’t never much business.”

“Tuesday’s a real crock a shit,” agreed Big Betsy.

Leo drew himself a glass of beer and downed it in slow, reflective swallows.

“Hey, Leo,” said Big Betsy.

“What?” said Leo absentmindedly.

“We spent a lot a time in here together, you an’ me. Seems like we’re always the last ones here.”

“Yeah,” said Leo.

“You know, Leo, bein’ a hooker is a crock a shit. Can’t hardly make a decent buck no more.”

“It’s rough,” Leo agreed.

“Damn right, it’s rough. An’ you know what’s doin’ it? It’s the goddamn Pill, that’s what. Useta be, a dude wanted a good time an’ no worries, he’d go find hisself a hooker. Now they got these teen-age pieces a ass layin’ for free, ain’t got nothin’ to lose on account a that damn Pill. But that ain’t the worse part of it. You know what the worst part of it is?” She paused to glance at Leo, who was looking at the wall, his eyes flat and abstracted. “The hell of it is,” Big Betsy continued, “you know they ain’t no damn good. You know them little teen-age pieces a shit don’t do nothin’ but wiggle their ass an’ call it a fuck. Ain’t that right? Leo?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, right.” He looked at her, his eyes focusing slowly. “Yeah.”

“Damn right,” said Big Betsy. She tipped her glass back and drained it. “These girls nowadays ain’t got no notion what a man’s all about. Not like I do. I seen enough to know. You know somethin’, Leo? Men is gettin’ scarce. Somebody must be killin’ ’em off or somethin’. Most a these dudes around here is little pieces a ape shit, two beers an’ they’re under the table, come one time an’ they done shot their wad. Rest of ’em’s fags. A real man, that’s what I want. Like that dude was in here the other night. Or like you,” she said, batting her eyes.

Leo stood holding his empty glass. Betsy’s words went in his ear and banged around for a while before they began to penetrate the fatigue fog over his brain. Awareness stole over him. He looked at Big Betsy. Big Betsy smiled. Reactions chased themselves across Leo’s features: disbelief, amazement, terror. He closed his eyes and blindly drew a beer from the tap and swallowed it in two very rapid gulps. He waited until the beer had descended the full length of his esophagus. Then he opened his eyes. “I think it’s time to close up,” Leo said.