South Street (49 page)

“What the hell, Leo?” demanded Big Betsy, seconded by an annoyed chorus.

Leo looked around. “Jake died this mornin’. I sorta feel like closin’ up for the night.”

Brown shook his head slowly. “I don’t …” He stopped.

“What?” Leo said.

“It don’t seem right closin’ a bar when a wino dies.”

“He’s right, Leo,” Big Betsy said. “That’s the last thing Jake woulda wanted.”

Leo sighed, nodded, and turned the jukebox on again. He drew himself a beer and stared into the darkness at the far end of the bar. Brown looked at him, hesitated, then resumed his seat. Big Betsy came trundling down the bar. “Move,” she said to Elmo.

“What for?”

“To give your seat to a lady,” said Big Betsy.

“You ain’t hardly no lady,” Elmo snapped.

“Uh huh,” said Big Betsy. “Well in that case, there ain’t nothin’ keepin’ me from kickin’ your balls so hard you’ll have to fuck with your nose. Now move your ass, nigger, I wants to talk to Leo.”

“Bitch,” said Elmo. Big Betsy raised a foot. Elmo got up.

“Thank you, sir,” Big Betsy said. “Now fuck off.” She turned to Leo. “You all right?”

“It ain’t gonna be the same, Saturday nights,” Leo said. He looked at Brown. “Every Saturday night Jake sleeps in the storeroom.”

“I know,” Brown said softly.

“Slept,” Leo amended. A plump tear escaped from his right eye, meandered along his nose. Leo sniffed powerfully. The tear disappeared. “Every week.”

“I know,” Brown said.

“Christ’s sake, Leo,” said Big Betsy, “you almost make me believe you was queer for him or somethin’.” Leo ignored her. Big Betsy looked at Brown, shook her head.

“You know,” Leo said, “I been thinkin’. Maybe I oughta take me a vacation.”

“Vacation?” said Big Betsy. “What the hell for?”

“To get away from some a these goddamn hookers,” Leo said. “Think maybe I’ll go on down to Florida. Sposed to be pretty nice in Florida. I hear you don’t do nothin’ all day but set around drinkin’ orange juice an’ playin’ shufflabode.”

“What the hell’s shufflabode?” demanded Big Betsy.

“It’s a game. Ain’t it, Brown?”

“Listen to him,” crowed Big Betsy. “Wants to go to goddamn Florida to play somethin’, an’ he don’t even know what the hell it is.”

“It’s a game,” Brown said.

“Ain’t no such thing.”

“You heard Brown.”

“He don’t know everything.”

“Knows moren you. Knows what shufflabode is.”

“An’ what about us? What the hell we sposed to be doin’ while you go off to play some simple-ass game?”

“We?” said Leo. “Just who is we?”

“Me,” said Big Betsy. “Ain’t that enough?”

“Oh yeah,” said Leo. “That’s enough, all right. That’s plenty. Matter a fact, that’s too much. You hear that, Brown? I can’t take ma first damn vacation in fifteen years ’cause some damn whore might have to peddle her ass on the street ’stead a parkin’ it on a nice soft bar stool. Damn!” Down the bar someone waved for service. With a parting glare at Big Betsy, Leo trucked away.

“Gotta keep his mind offa Jake,” Big Betsy said to Brown. “Leo, he likes fact tough. He is tough. But him an’ Jake was real close.”

“Maybe he should take a vacation,” Brown said.

Big Betsy looked at him. “I thought you was supposed to be so smart. What’s he gonna do, go to Florida for two damn weeks or whatever an’ then come back to this shit? The only way to take a vacation is to do it like Jake done it—cheap an’ permanent.” Big Betsy looked at Brown fiercely. “You don’t take no two weeks, Brown. You do like Jake. You last as long as you can. Then you rest.”

“What for?” Brown said.

“’Cause you’re tired,” snapped Big Betsy.

“No,” Brown said, “I mean, why do you last as long as you can?”

Big Betsy glared at him. “I ain’t got time to be thinkin’ about shit like that. I gotta keep Leo’s mind off Jake. Poor Jake.” Big Betsy snorted heavily and turned away. “Leo, you black bastard,” she shouted over the noise of the bar, “there ain’t no such thing as shufflabode.”

The moderate mass of Willie T. was accelerated out of Charlene’s embrace by an irresistible force which, Willie T. saw from his rest position on the floor, had been administered by the sole of Cotton’s shoe. “What the fuck?” said Willie T. Cotton launched another place kick. Willie T. executed several rather unorthodox bounces, like a somewhat underinflated football. “Awfghlumphgh,” said Willie T.

“You sure is,” Cotton said.

“Leave him be,” Charlene shouted, waving a stained doily, which had lately adorned the back of the sofa upon which she and Willie T. had reposed, around in front of her in an unsuccessful attempt to conceal both her mammary glands and her pudendum from the eyes of a disinterested Cotton. “Leave him be an’ keep your goddamn eyes to yourself.”

“Shup,” Willie T. gasped, protecting his testicles with one hand and his face with the other.

“Shit, Willie,” Cotton said amiably, “you’d be better off coverin’ your belly to protect what guts you do have.”

“You let him be, now,” said Charlene, who had solved the modesty problem by rolling over to face the back of the sofa and holding the doily over her behind.

“Quiet, bitch,” snapped Willie T. “I’ll deal with this.”

“You couldn’t deal a game a slapjack,” Cotton told him. “Now where’s Leroy?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“I don’t know, Willie,” Cotton said sadly. “All I know is, you better come up with some idea, or I’ma have you eatin’ pabulum an’ fuckin’ jello for the next six months. If you live that long.”

“Why can’t you let him be?” Charlene demanded.

Cotton looked at her back. “Charlene, now, we’re talkin’ a little business here, an’ I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t keep on interruptin’ me that way. It upsets me.” Charlene’s cheeks quivered slightly and she made small whimpering sounds, but she said nothing at all. “Now, Willie, you tell me where Leroy is. Since you let him get away.”

“I tried to make him wait, Cotton, honest to God I did, but you know Leroy, when his mind’s made up it’d take moren me to change it.”

Cotton looked down at him in disgust. “I guess it would, Willie. I guess it would. It’d take moren you to walk a fair-sized poodle. Now where’d you leave Leroy?”

“He left me. He said he didn’t want me jogglin’ his elbow when he killed Brown. He just—”

“Just what?”

“He just told me to be around later to help get rid a the body.” Willie T. swallowed heavily and closed his eyes.

“Aw,” Cotton said, “whatsa matter, Willie, don’t you like dead bodies? ’Fore long you gonna be havin’ one a your very own, so you better start lovin’ ’em. Now put your damn clothes on.” Willie T. got up, rubbing his backside with one hand and his ribs with the other. “Move it, nigger,” Cotton snarled.

“I’m movin’.”

“You don’t move fastern that, you gonna be needin’ another hand.” While Willie T. struggled into his clothes Cotton backed up to the sofa and sat down. Charlene squealed. “Oops,” Cotton said, and got unhurriedly off Charlene’s head. She took a swipe at him. Cotton caught her hand and snatched the doily out of the other. “’Sides bad manners, bitch, you got a fat ass. You ready, Willie?” Without waiting for an answer he released Charlene and headed for the door. When he looked back Charlene was bidding Willie T. a soulful farewell. Cotton sucked in air, threw his head back, and bellowed. “Move!” Willie T. broke away from Charlene, grabbed his stingy-brim, and scuttled toward the door, wiping saliva from his chin. Cotton grabbed him by the elbow and propelled him down the stairs and out onto the street. Willie T. escaped from Cotton’s grasp and took refuge on the other side of a garbage can.

“All right now, nigger,” Willie T. said toughly, “I want to know what this shit is all about, an’ it better be good.”

Cotton looked at him, snorted. “Now, Willie, I don’t know where it come from, but I got this feelin’ you don’t want to die. Am I right? Now, I went on over an’ waited around outside a Gino’s place. You do remember Gino, don’t you? Anyways, I was settin’ around there for a while an’ here comes that Brown fella. You remember him? Well, he walks into the front damn door a Gino’s little front operation over there, you know what I mean. You, ah, gettin’ the picture, Willie?”

Willie T.’s jaw started to quiver.

“I see you’re gettin’ the picture,” Cotton said. “Now what I did was, I went on around to a pay phone, an’ I called up this white dude I know an’ got him to come over there. I sent him on inside to see what’s happenin’. By this time Brown’s been in there, oh, half an hour. You dig?”

Willie T. started to drool.

“You dig,” Cotton said. “Now the paddy told me when he got inside, there was Brown callin’ Gino a fat greasy wop. An’ Gino was laughin’.”

Willie T. grabbed a light pole and began to shake and whimper.

“Uh huh,” Cotton said. “Paddy says Gino bought Brown a drink an’ they talked for a while, an’ then Gino asted Brown to have dinner with him.”

Willie T. stopped drooling, whimpering, and shaking. He was absolutely still for a few seconds, and then he sank to the pavement in a dead faint.

“Shit,” Cotton said with a sigh. He stood Willie T. up against a wall and slapped him until he came to.

“Oh, Jesus,” moaned Willie T. “What we gonna do?”

“We gonna look in every damn joint on South Street until we find Leroy,” Cotton said.

“Right,” said Willie T., nodding his head, “right.” He stood there nodding his head. “Right.”

Cotton sighed again. “Willie,” he said gently, “we ain’t got all night.”

Willie T. nodded one last time, whirled jerkily, and set off down the street like a deer afflicted with a mild case of polio. Cotton trundled after him, shaking his heavy head.

He was watching somebody named Rayburn Wallace. He felt an incredible sorrow rising within him as he watched Rayburn Wallace talk earnestly with a fat, undesirable whore. The pity turned to acid and burned big holes in his stomach. He rose quickly and ran for the men’s room to bend, to sway, to vomit out the acid into the bowl, or onto the floor, or anywhere. Arriving, he found Rayburn Wallace there, too, bent over the bowl. He bent beside Rayburn and they vomited in unison, together feeling the relief, the painful tightening beneath the scrotum as the liquor and the pity gushed out into the cracked white bowl. He saw Rayburn Wallace in the mirror as he had seen him in the barroom: face strained and ashy, shoulders slumped.

“Rayburn, man,” he said, “you looks like a piece a shit the cat left out for the crows.” He giggled painfully, was pleased to see that Rayburn giggled too. It gave him a sense of connection, a feeling of unity. He pulled the crumpled beret out of his back pocket and set it on his head at a rakish angle. Suddenly the sickness welled up inside him again. He pulled the hat off, leaned over the bowl, feeling the tightening below his balls as the foulness inside him came reeking roaring upward. He prayed it would not go on when his stomach was empty. He rose, dunked his head in the sink and wet his face and hair, dried himself with a rough paper towel. He opened his eyes. Rayburn looked at him again. He put the beret back on his head, pulled it down over his eye, tried to look mean and badass. His stomach heaved. He grabbed the hat off his head and bent over the bowl, but it was a false alarm. He straightened. The room swayed. He stuck the beret in his pocket and turned toward the door.

Rayburn moved slowly on rubbery knees. The barroom swam before his eyes, from the far end where Big Betsy held lonely court beside the stool he had vacated, past the row of faces, all shades, all smeared, as if some master artist had portrayed them with painstaking care in infinite detail and then, in a moment of passionless carelessness, had smeared it all with his elbow. Rayburn’s vision crawled over them. The room went out of focus, jiggled, twisted, sharpened again as Rayburn’s eyes fell on the solid, massive shape of Leo, caught in the familiar motions of drawing a beer from a tap, wiping the bottom of the mug with his side towel, setting it in front of a round head and white-shirted back. Rayburn moved toward Leo, his feet shuffling across the hard floor, his velocity increasing until his motion became a fall that was arrested only as he fetched up against the bar. He grabbed a stool and managed to lower himself onto it.

“You okay, Rayburn?” Leo asked.

“Course I’m okay,” Rayburn said.

“You don’t look too damn good.”

“How about a drink?”

“All right, but don’t you be botherin’ nobody.”

“How’m I gonna bother anybody? Spit on ’em?”

“Lean on ’em, maybe,” Leo said. Rayburn realized that he had been leaning heavily against the occupant of the next stool.

“Lord,” said Rayburn, straightening up and almost falling in the process. “I’m sorry.” He looked at the man. “Hey, don’t I know you? It’s all right, Leo, this here’s ma goddamn buddy. Right, brother? Say, what’s your goddamn name?”

“Rayburn, I think you done had enough,” Leo said. “You’re botherin’ folks.”

“He didn’t say I was botherin’ him. Hey, bro, am I botherin’ you?”

Brown looked at Leo, then back to Rayburn. “No. You ain’t botherin’ me. You want a beer?”

“Sure,” Rayburn said. Leo shrugged, drew the beer, and ambled away. “That Leo,” Rayburn said, “has got his damn nerve. Had enough, shit. There
ain’t
enough.” Brown smiled tightly. Rayburn leaned against the back of his stool and discovered that his stool had no back. Brown caught him before he fell. “Thanks, bro,” Rayburn said. Brown nodded and raised his beer. “Say, bro,” Rayburn said, “this stool ain’t taken or nothin’, is it? I mean your woman ain’t—”

“No,” Brown said.

“Oh,” Rayburn said. “Ain’t you got a woman?” Brown ignored him. “I ain’t got no woman.” He looked at Brown. Brown’s eyes were fixed on the ranks of bottles on the backbar. “She run off,” Rayburn said. “She run off on account—”

“On account of you was messin’ with some white woman,” Brown said.

Rayburn stared at him. “How the hell you know that?”

“I heard the story before,” Brown told him. “It’s a legend.”

Rayburn glared at him. The silence between them stretched out, a thin thread in the general clamor. Rayburn finished his beer and gave Leo a poorly coordinated wave. Leo planted himself across the bar. “’Nother round, Leo,” Rayburn said.