South Street (36 page)

“Why hell, I give her a ball-point pen for Christmas. Won’t that do?” -

“Hot damn!” said Willie T. “That was a good one.”

“Shup, Willie,” Leroy said.

“You shouldn’t be talkin’ to Willie T. that way,” Charlene protested.

“I talk to him any way I feel like,” Leroy said.

“He don’t mean nothin’, baby,” Willie T. said.

“Shup, Willie. How you been, ’Nessa?”

“Fine,” Vanessa said. She raised her drink.

“I question that,” Leroy said.

“How you likin’ your new saddle, Leroy?” Vanessa said.

“Fuck you, ’Nessa,” Leslie said.

“Saddle? What you talkin’ about?”

“Oh, I guess it must be a surprise you ain’t sposed to know about yet.”

“I don’t like surprises,” Leroy said.

“Neither did your mother, but that didn’t stop them Indians.”

“I wouldn’t let no bitch talk about ma mama,” Willie T. said. “I’d kick the bitch right outa here if she was to start in talkin’ about ma mama.”

“Ain’t nobody
got
to say about your mama,” Vanessa told him. “You the spittin’ image—bow legs, round heels, hair in your teeth, come on your tonsils, an’ shit all over your nose.”

“You gonna throw the bitch out, Leroy?” demanded Willie T.

“Shup, Willie. You wrong ’bout the tonsils, ’Nessa. He had ’em out when he was a kid.”

“You was in the hospital last week, Willie? Sorry, I didn’t know.”

“Lay offa ma Willie,” Charlene said ominously.

“Ain’t nobody worried about layin’ on him but you,” Vanessa said.

“I pays you to stay off the damn street, bitch,” Leroy said. There was a heavy silence. “I like to keep my eye on everything I own, an’ I own you.”

“Just ’cause you buy eggs don’t mean you own the chicken farm,” Vanessa said.

“I got a lease on the chickens,” Leroy said. “An’ they better not lay ’less I say so. If you ain’t workin’ for me, you ain’t workin’. Now I heard you was out on the street.”

“I was goin’ someplace,” Vanessa said sullenly.

“You was always
goin’
someplace,” Leroy said. “Only you never could do nothin’ when you got there. I heard you was in Lightnin’ Ed’s.”

“Sure was,” Vanessa said. She looked up at him defiantly. “I sure was. An’ I’ma go back there right now. I gotta meet somebody.” She pushed her chair back. “I just come down here to see how the field niggers was gettin’ on.”

“Who you got to meet?” Leroy demanded.

“What do you care?” said Leslie.

“A friend,” Vanessa said. “Nobody you know. Or maybe you do. He buys beer in here sometimes, an’ he stays in Lightnin’ Ed’s sometimes. On Saturday nights.” She smiled at the shock on Leroy’s face. “See y’all,” she said, gathering up her purse. She wiggled her fingers in a coy wave and swept out.

Slack, slouching, too tired for artistry, Leo slapped a sandwich together without care or craftsmanship. The tobacco smoke in the air had reddened his eyes, the thumping jukebox had bruised his ears, the blended aromas of sour beer breath, stale smoke, ancient sin, and pure B.O. had driven his olfactory nerves into sulky retreat. He could still feel, however, and what he felt most was pressure: of bunion against shoe leather, of sole against floor, of belly against unsympathetic restraint of belt. His mouth tasted like he had rinsed it with water from the Schuylkill. Only a bartender, Leo reflected humorously as he forced the sandwich past his dentures, could get the hangover without having the pleasure of the drinking or the benefit of sleep. But all in all it had been an interesting night. It had amused Leo, and that made up in part for his aching feet and the small profit. There had been a few jokes, quite a few laughs. A beer night. Now it was quiet, near to closing, and muddy air oozed through the open door. The sounds in the bar were not the sounds of conversation but the sounds of four people’s breathing: Brown, Jake, Rayburn Wallace, and Leo himself.

Jake was thoughtful. Leo had rarely seen Jake thoughtful—Jake had always claimed that thinking was an occupation for young folks, and that at his age he had figured out everything he needed to know, except how to die, which did not concern him. But all night Jake had sat nursing a few glasses of port, staring pensively across the bar. He had not paid for his last two drinks. Not that that bothered Leo, but it was unlike Jake to forget to pay his nickel. Jake clearly had something weighty on his mind. It had Leo worried. He was afraid that Jake’s brain might rupture with the strain.

Rayburn had Leo worried, too. He had come trailing in after he finished work and he had ordered Jack Daniels. Leo disapproved of Jack Daniels. Leo disapproved of anything produced in or associated with the territory south of the Mason-Dixon line. Besides Jack Daniels whiskey, Leo disapproved of Southern Comfort, Budweiser beer, Washington D.C., the man-in-space program, Lyndon Baines Johnson, and chicken-gumbo soup. He refused to eat peanuts when he attended baseball games and cursed George Washington Carver. He had never forgiven Hank Aaron for continuing to play for the Braves after they moved to Atlanta. It was quite all right, in Leo’s opinion, for Rayburn to drown his troubles in British gin or Scotch whisky, but not Jack Daniels. Rayburn, not sharing Leo’s moral scruples, had done away with nearly half a bottle while mumbling vague curses in an inaudible monotone. Leo had served his drinks and shaken his head. Rayburn had poured the whiskey down.

Leo shook his head again as he shifted his glance and caught sight of the third solitary drinker—Brown. Jake worried Leo with his unusual pensiveness. Rayburn annoyed him with his sudden penchant for Confederate whiskey. Brown scared him because Leo knew that anybody who made Leroy Briggs the slightest bit uncomfortable should be put away for the protection of himself and innocent bystanders. Leo knew that Leroy Briggs was a coward and therefore deserved to be treated with the utmost respect—Leo had seen many cowards perform impressive feats of wanton violence to prove their bravery. Brown, on the other hand, was not a coward. He was a nut, possibly with mob connections. Leo was not afraid of Leroy Briggs any more than a snake trainer is afraid of a king cobra, but, like the snake trainer, Leo was very careful. Leo knew what bothered Leroy, what made him angry, and just how far he could strike. Brown was an unknown quantity, a rustling in the bushes. When Brown had entered the bar Leo had been quick with the shot glass and the scotch bottle, but Brown had shaken his head and had asked for a beer. When Leo had brought the beer Brown had paid for it even though Leo had had no intention whatsoever of requesting money. Then Brown had asked for a couple of napkins, had borrowed one of Leo’s pencil stubs, and had begun scribbling away like a man possessed. Leo, having retreated to the sandwich board, observed Brown from behind half-closed eyes. Brown’s scribbling was accompanied by much wall-staring, finger-snapping, foot-tapping, face-making, and other abnormal behavior. Leo had become a trifle upset. Now, with Brown still performing, Leo’s unease had approached semi-gigantic proportions. He shoved his sandwich into his mouth with one hand while with the other he reassured himself of the convenient positioning of his billy club, his rubber truncheon, his sap, and the taped lead pipe he had, on occasion, bent around particularly thick or stubborn heads. Brown’s skull did not appear to be exceptionally sturdy, which Leo found in keeping with his belief that Brown was soft in the head, so the sap or the truncheon should do it. Still, Brown looked tough, and his hair was long and springy enough to offer some protection. Leo decided that, if the time came, he would use the billy club and keep the pipe handy just in case.

Leo finished his sandwich and his war plan just as Brown gestured to him. Leo wiped his rubbery lips with a damp side towel and went over, one hand trailing along the underside of the bar, ready to snatch up a bottle to administer as an external tranquilizer should Brown become violent without warning. “What can I do for you, cap’n?” Leo said carefully.

“Could I have another beer?” Brown said, plopping the pencil stub down on the bar.

Leo hesitated, realizing it would take two hands to draw the beer. But failing to draw it might cause Brown to become violent. Leo sighed with the weight of the dilemma, shrugged finally, and drew the beer. Brown looked at the glass. Leo started to turn away. “Ah, could you wait a minute?” Brown said. Leo stopped abruptly, snapping to what, in a smaller man, would have been quivering attention. In Leo’s case it was more of a slosh than a quiver. Brown stared at him. “Is somethin’ wrong with you?”

“Wrong?” said Leo.

“Yeah,” Brown said. “You know. Wrong.”

“Oh,” Leo said. “
Wrong.
Naw, suh, there ain’t nothin’ wrong.”

“Then why are you standing like that?”

“Like what?” Leo said.

“With one foot on top a the other one.”

Leo looked down. “Oh. Yeah.” He untangled his legs.

“Can I buy you a beer?” Brown said.

Leo stared at him. “Huh?”

“I said, ‘Can—’ Fuck, what’s wrong with you, can’t you understand English?”

“Yes, suh,” said Leo, “I can understand English.” He stood, solemnly and obstinately uncooperative. Brown’s mouth tightened and Leo, seeing the bunching of muscles along Brown’s jawline, steeled himself for a psychopathic assault.

Brown’s breath hissed from his nostrils. “Fuck it,” he said. He looked down at the napkin in front of him, balled it up. “It’s no good anyway.”

Pride surged in Leo’s thorax, overcoming caution. “What the hell you mean, ain’t no good? It’s the best damn beer on South Street. Most a these penny-ante pissant niggers don’t even
have
draft beer. They shove that bottled shit, costs twice as much an’ don’t taste half as good. That’s on account a they don’t own their own bars. Some white muthafucka owns ’em. You think that white man cares if a black man gets to drink good beer? Hell no, he don’t care. Give ’em shit, that’s what he say. An’ simple-ass niggers swallow it. Now I don’t care if you
is
some kinda weirdo, you gotta know the difference ’tween good draft an’ that bottled wino piss.” Leo glared at Brown pugnaciously.

“I wasn’t talkin’ about the beer,” Brown said.

“Well, I don’t give a fanny fuck if you wasn’t,” Leo informed him. “Y’all youngbloods comes around thinkin’ you knows so damn much ’bout drinkin’, lemme tell you, fool, when I was your age we was mixin’ wood alcohol with Moxie just to get a buzz on.”

“I wasn’t talkin’ about the beer,” Brown said.

“Well, I guess you damn well better not a been,” Leo snapped. He looked at Brown. “You wasn’t?”

“No,” Brown said.

“Oh,” said Leo. He swallowed. “Oh,” he said again. Brown sucked in his cheeks to hide a smile. Leo sniffed. Brown grinned. Leo frowned sternly. Brown threw back his head and laughed. Leo stood his ground for a moment, then smiled sheepishly, then began to roar with laughter.

Jake looked up from his wine. “What’s so damn funny?”

Leo recovered himself and his roar subsided to a chuckle. “It wasn’t nothin’.”

“Damn,” Jake said. “Ain’t nothin’ happenin’ in here all damn night, an’ when somethin’ does happen you gonna keep it to yourself.”

“Leo thought I was tryin’ to proposition him,” Brown said. Leo snorted and grinned.

“You’d do better tryin’ to make it with Betsy,” Jake said.

“Shit,” Leo said, “I’d rather sleep with me than sleep with Betsy.”

“Least Betsy wouldn’t let somethin’ happen without tellin’ me what it was,” Jake said. “C’mon, Leo, you know I’m hard a hearin’.”

“When it suits you,” Leo said.

“Well, there ain’t no use in bein’ hard a hearin’ when it don’t suit you,” Jake said, assuming the long-suffering air of a patient guru with a slow pupil. Leo looked at Brown, Brown looked at Leo. Brown opened his mouth and rolled his eyes back. Leo collapsed, laughing, across the bar. The bar almost collapsed, too. “Now dammit,” Jake said, “are y’all just gonna keep on actin’ like a bunch a hung-over hyenas or you gonna tell me what’s so damn funny?”

“It ain’t nice to call folks names,” Leo said blandly.

“Ain’t nice, shit,” Jake said. “You gonna stand there beatin’ off your belly, or you gonna pour me some more wine?” Leo sighed and lifted the bottle from below the bar. Brown drained his glass and handed it over for a refill. Jake accepted his glass, looked at it. “Now you gonna tell me?”

“Tell you what?” Leo said.

“Jesus fuckin’—” Jake exploded.

“Why don’t y’all just shut them garbage cans you been usin’ for mouths,” snarled Rayburn, turning on his stool and staring at the three of them. “Bunch a fucked-up niggers, all you want to do is set around makin’ noise an’ talkin’ a bunch a grade-B bullshit. Sometimes y’all make me sick.”

“Uh, oh,” Jake said.

“It must be that cracker whiskey he’s been drinkin’,” Leo said. “Shit’s got him thinkin’ he’s a member in good standin’ a the White Citizens’ Council.”

“I’m tired a you all,” Rayburn said. He pushed himself away from the bar, tripped, sprawled onto the floor. Leo watched impassively as Jake backed away from Rayburn’s prostrate form. Brown looked at the two of them, shrugged, and went over to help Rayburn up. “Get your goddamn black hands offa me,” Rayburn snapped.

“Let me help you,” Brown said, grasping Rayburn’s arm. A quick flash in the darkness, the sounds of ripping cloth, a sharp intake of breath. Brown leaped away, stood staring uncomprehendingly down at the neat slice across the front of his shirt, the thin red line of blood welling out of the skin of his chest.

“I said, lemme be, muthafucka,” Rayburn said. “You mess with me an’ I’ll make minute steak outa your black belly.”

Brown stared silently. “An’ I’ma make a shit-flavored milk shake outa your stupid head, Rayburn,” Leo said. “He was only tryin’ t’help you up.”

“I don’t need no help from no black-assed, sissy-lipped, poop-nosed—” Rayburn stopped abruptly as the side of Brown’s foot connected solidly with the side of his head, groaned, and rolled against the bar. Brown kicked the razor out of Rayburn’s reach, picked it up, examined it, then looked at the line of blood on his chest. “You got any iodine?” he said mildly. Leo wordlessly pulled the first-aid kit out and set it on the bar. Brown looked at it, impressed by the size. “I guess you get lots of, uh, accidents in here.”