The Boy in the Black Suit (17 page)

“For the kids,” she announced.

Then, another lady came in carrying a bag of those can-candle things that we always use at the funerals to keep the food warm.

“Hey, everybody,” the lady said. “I got the heaters, but I don't know how to get 'em going.”

This was my shot. I wasn't sure what I would be able to do, but I knew exactly how to do this one thing.

“I do,” I spoke up.

Lovey looked up at me, surprised. I could tell she wasn't expecting me to jump right in like that, but hey, I was trying to make a good impression. She grabbed the turkey knife and started wiping it off. Her eyes followed me as I grabbed the cans from the lady and used my house key to pop the lids off like my dad did with beer bottles. And as cool as possible, I struck a match and got the fire started.

Chapter 11

CANDY MAN

“D
INNER IS READY.
E
VERYBODY COME
down to the dining room.” Lovey's voice came blaring over the intercom speakers throughout the building. “I repeat, dinner is ready. Everybody to the dining room . . . before I eat it all!”

You never really know how many people are in a place until they all come to one space. Also, you never really know how many people are out there struggling, hungry, until there's free food available. Folks came from everywhere. Men, some old, some young. Some with canes and walkers, wearing busted shoes. Some with shirt and tie on, and old seventies thrift-store jackets. Ladies, some toothless, in oversize men's clothes, and some looked perfectly fine. Teenagers, acting all cool as usual, doing their best to not fit in with the homeless crowd, even though they were homeless themselves. And of course, the kids—some adorable, and some badasses.

As they all formed a line at the food table, me, Lovey, Carl, Rita, Maggie, and a few other volunteers all stood behind the dishes we were serving. Lovey had the turkey. I got the chicken.

“A'ight, now this is simple,” Lovey said to me, “Everybody who wants chicken can get a piece. Just make sure you save the drumsticks for the babies.”

“Got it.”

Honestly, I didn't think it was going to go as smooth as it did. Everyone took some of everything, piling their plates up with mountains of food, but nobody was piggish about it. The only problem I ran into—which I thought was going to ruin everything—was that every single person wanted a chicken breast.

“Leg, wing, or breast?” I asked the most interesting-looking old man I had ever seen. His skin was dark and shiny but his eyes were a cold blue. His hair was long and cornrowed straight back.

“Well, I'm known to be a breast man,” he said, flashing a devil­ish grin. The woman behind him, a tiny old lady who, to me, fit the description of the perfect grandmother—small, wrinkly, glasses, and feisty as hell—slapped him on the back of the head.

“What?” he yelped, turning to her. He opened his arms and pulled her in for a hug. “I'm talking about chicken, darlin'. Chicken.” He glanced at me. “Right, young man?” Again, with the grin.

“Of course, of course.” I played along, while he stroked the shoulder of who I figured was his girlfriend. The flyest of homeless senior citizen couples I've ever seen, that's for sure. I continued. “But I got bad news, we're all out of breasts.”

“Out of breasts!” the man barked.

“Out of breasts!” his girlfriend repeated.

You see where this is going?

The phrase “out of breasts” shot down the line faster than the old couple could move to the next tray, which was Lovey serving the turkey.

Lovey looked over at me with the “yikes” face. Then she looked at the couple and said, “Hey, hey, don't be like that, Mr. Watts and Ms. Bingham. We got plenty of turkey.” She piled on the white meat. A little extra for them.

“They got plenty turkey!” Mr. Watts yelled, Ms. Bingham's voice coming shortly after. And on down the line it went again, now calming the rumble the lack of chicken breasts caused.

“You almost started a riot,” Lovey said, balling up a napkin and throwing it at me.

“Close one.”

Other than that, everything was cool, and it was awesome to see the smiles on everybody's faces, their eyes lighting up with every plop of macaroni and every slice of turkey.

Once everyone else was served, Lovey and I took a seat next to a few of the kids and dug in.

After about five minutes of nothing but the weird sound of about a hundred people chewing, Lovey said, “Turkey good, huh?” She stuffed more in her mouth.

“What you think?” I joked, showing her my plate, which had nothing left on it but knife marks. Chris would've been proud. Mom would've been pissed. “No cavemen live in my house,” she would've said.

Lovey bugged her eyes out. Then she picked up her cup of punch and took a sip. “Crazy that a lot of it was cooked in a homeless shelter.”

“I know. Kinda unbelievable,” I said. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Did I invite you? Or was it more like I bamboozled you?” She put her hands together like a fairytale witch casting a spell.

“Ah. Definitely bamboozled.”

When everyone was done eating, me and the rest of the volunteers grabbed trash bags and walked around to collect all the empty plates and cups. Lovey walked with me, talking to everyone while they threw their scraps and bones in the black bags. Whenever we got to a kid, she called out, “Dunk it!” One little boy picked his plate up, folded it in half, and slammed it as hard as he could into the bag.

“Two points!” Lovey howled. “You see that, Candy Man?” She looked over at an older guy, long and skinny, sitting there smiling away at the kids. “Better watch out before little man is better than you.”

I looked over at the guy called Candy Man and instantly recognized him. He was the same guy I shared the train car with the day before, when I went to see my mom's grave. He looked much better than he had yesterday. He had on slacks and a white V-neck T-shirt, tucked in, old-man style. He was shaved, and even though his skin was still dry, he seemed to be way more alive than he had been on the train.

“He better be better than me,” Candy Man said. “All of y'all
better be better than me, hear me?” he commanded, dropping his own plate in the trash.

“I'm gonna be famous, watch,” the boy who dunked his plate said. He ran up to Candy Man and flung himself at him, wrapping his arms around Candy Man's legs.

“Oh, yeah?” Candy Man patted the boy's head. “Then I better get your autograph now!”

Another little girl came over and joined in on the hug. “Me too!” she squealed. “I'm gonna be famous too!”

And another. And another. Even Danielle, the little girl who asked if I was Lovey's boyfriend when we first got there, ran over to pile on. It was as if Candy Man was the king of the shelter.

After we finished with the trash, it was chill-out time, where everyone just did whatever they wanted. The smokers went back outside to puff burned-out cigs, some of the other grown-ups played card games and board games, shouting at each other while slamming cards down on the table. Some played chess, of course. Most of the teenagers took off, and all the little kids lined up to have their pictures taken by Lovey, a thing they apparently did every holiday.

“What's the deal with Candy Man?” I asked Lovey while she unpacked her fancy camera and started attaching the lens to the body.

“Candy Man is a trip, but the kids love him because he used to be a star.” She turned the lens until it clicked. “His real name is Martin. Used to play ball for the Knicks.”

Th
e Knicks? Sweet! I mean, well, kinda sweet. Not so sweet that he's homeless now. But still.

“So—what happened to him?” I asked Lovey.

She lifted the camera to her face and pointed it toward me faster than I could tell her not to.
Snap!
The flash was blinding. She looked at the photo and smirked at what I knew was robot face.

“Drugs,” she said, plainly. I was still stunned as she turned toward all the kids. “I gotta try to get as many of these done as I can before the news folks get here,” she said, still talking to me. But then she switched to her mom-babysitter-teacher voice. “Everybody ready to cheese!” All the children screamed as if she had just told them they were going to Disney World. They stood in line, practicing their snaggle-toothed, buck-toothed, and no-tooth smiles.

“And what about you, Mr. Miller?” She had turned back toward me, a flirty grin on her face. “You ready to cheese?”

I put my hand up. “You just took one of me.”

“Ah, but that was just a test shot. Now, for the real one.”

I waved my hands. “Naw, naw, I can't. I suck at it.”

“At what?” she said with some bite in her voice.

“At smiling,” I admitted.

She squinted at me as if she didn't believe me.

“Well, we'll have to work on that.” She reached over and pinched my cheek like I was one of the kids.

And just like that, a smile came out.

I noticed Candy Man sitting alone with his chessboard, begging some of the other guys to sit and play.

“Why don't one of y'all take on Candy Man?” I asked a man with a toothpick sticking out from the side of his mouth. He was one of about five guys all standing around playing chess and talking trash. I knew it really wasn't my place to bust in and say something like that. I mean, I didn't know any of these guys, but I figured me being with Lovey, and serving them all food, was enough of a pass for me to say something. Stupid.

Suddenly, all eyes were on me. It was like I had just said, “Yo, your mama got next,” or something crazy like that.

“What?”

Then the man with the toothpick moved his hands like he was telling everyone else to calm down.

“Candy Man ain't no fun to play,” he said, sizing me up. He pulled the wooden stick from the side of his mouth. “He too damn good, and when you get beat by somebody over and over again, it just ain't no fun no more.”

“Hey, Cedric, don't even bother explaining it,” one of the other guys, a red-headed freckly faced one, said. Then he looked over at me. “Why don't
you
just go play him and see for yourself.”

“I'm not that good.”

“Scared?”

Come on, what are we, in middle school?
That's what I was thinking. But what I said was, “Scared? It's just chess. I'll play him.”

I walked over to Candy Man. At first I thought all the other guys would follow me over, y'know, to build up the drama like an after-school fight. But no one even bothered. I guess they figured I'd get blown out anyway, so what was the point? I slid the chair
out and took a seat in front of Candy Man. And without saying anything, I moved a pawn.

Candy Man rubbed his hands together as if he was trying to warm them up. “All right, some competition.”

“Won't be much, man. I ain't really that good.”

“No shit,” he said, cocky. “I could tell by your first move.”

This is how the game went down. I moved, then he moved. I moved again, and then he shook his head, and moved. I moved again, then he looked up at me like I was crazy. Then he moved. Then I moved, and he knocked over my king. Eight moves. Checkmate. The fastest war in history.

“Good game,” he said, obviously embarrassed for me.

Toothpick and Freckles were right. He really was that good. I shook his hand, then slid my chair back from the table.

“Wait, you leaving? One more game, c'mon,” he begged, setting the pieces back on their original squares.

“I think I've had enough abuse for one day,” I said, confused as to why he would want to play me again. Three more minutes of total wackness? For what?

“Come on, come on, sit down,” he said. “We don't have to play if you don't want to.” Candy Man suddenly transformed from a champion to a child, and I suddenly got it—he was just desperate for some company.

I turned around to see what Lovey was doing. The news crew had just shown up, and they were filming her as she handed one of the kids a cookie. I had time to kill.

I eased back down in the chair and pulled up to the table again.

“So,” Candy Man started. “What's your deal?”

Not really a good ice breaker.

“What you mean?” I responded.

“I mean, you ain't never been here. At least, I ain't never seen you. And today you show up to help. So what's your story,
Good Samaritan
?”

I looked over my shoulder again, to see what Lovey was doing now, sort of hoping she'd come and save me.

“I came with Love. You know Love?” I said, pointing over at her.

Candy Man leaned forward. “Yeah, I know her. Of course I know her. Been knowing her her whole life,” he said, snappy. “The question is, how
you
know her? You her boy or something?”

Hell yeah, I'm her boy.

“No sir. Just a friend,” I replied, nervous that he'd try to checkmate me in real life.

Candy Man eased up a little. “All right then,” he said, looking down at the chess pieces all lined up perfectly. “'Cause she special. Her grandma was special, her mama was special, and she special.”

“Yes sir,” I said, nervous, and way confused about this whole conversation we were having. I mean, I tried to leave the table, then he begged me to stay just so he could grill me about Lovey? Yeah, fun times.

“Where you from?” he asked, straightforward.

“Right here. Brooklyn. Bed-Stuy. You?”

“Harlem. But not Harlem today. Harlem a long time ago. How it used to be. You probably don't know nothing about that?”

“My parents used to live there.” The conversation finally started to settle in and flow. “They used to work at a soul food restaurant up there, so I know a little something about it.”