The Vulture (6 page)

I began to undress her. I shed her clothes and threw them in the direction of the easy chair behind us. The couch sighed as I lay next to her and wrenched my pants down over my knees. With tenderness and all the restraint I could manage, I guided her hand to me, and she was released by her desire to touch me as she was being touched.

The ribbon that had held back her brown locks became tangled and fell to the floor beside us. Her face was framed by the curls, and I saw her more as an angel than ever. I bent to kiss her breasts.

Somewhere on the other side of the world I heard her voice break through the fog in my mind.

‘Eddie,’ she called. ‘I’m not . . . this isn’t the first time.’

I heard her and understood all of the things that the statement implied, but I couldn’t stop to analyze. There was a naked woman next to me. Without thinking of what I was doing, I was on top of her. With one smooth movement we were one. She shook momentarily and then bucked under me. Our chests flattened against each other, and I could hear through my own
body her rapid heartbeat as we began to match our rhythm and response. Then as quickly as I began, it was over. She shook spasmodically, and her nails dug furrows deep into my shoulderblades. I could feel the onrushing end and fought it until it all but overcame me, and I sent the messengers of my virility hurtling through her body.

I rolled off onto the floor and lay quietly. I could hear Crys trying to retain a normal breathing pattern. She was the first to move. My eyes were closed, but I saw everything clearly. She stepped over me and padded to the closet, hesitated, and then went into the bathroom. I heard the sound of running water, a splash, and then nothing.

When she emerged from the bathroom, she was wearing a pink towel around her neck and one of my bathrobes. I had put on my pants, but I still lay in the middle of the floor, smoking a cigarette.

She sat on the couch behind me as the seconds ticked away.

‘What’s wrong, Eddie?’ she asked softly.

‘Nothin’, hon.’

‘This
is
what you’ve wanted, isn’t it?’

Now there was a question. My jaws started to tighten, and I could feel the blood rushing to my head. What in the hell do you think? What does a man want except to lie next to a woman and embed himself in her loins and feel her shudder? What does a man need except to know that somewhere in the world he is still the master? That nothing can take the place of the power he possesses between his legs? What is the supreme prize but the treasure that a woman carries at the base of her stomach? What is life all about except fucking?

All at once I realized that this did not answer the question.

‘I don’ know,’ I told Crystal.

She didn’t look surprised. There was neither anger nor disappointment in her eyes. The brown stare that I loved so much had clouded to a noncommittal gray.

‘Is the game all over?’ she asked no one in particular. ‘Now that the hunter has captured the game . . . and found out that it will not go down in history as a singular accomplishment?’

‘That’s not the point!’ I yelled.

‘Then what is the point? What have I done today except the thing that you’ve wanted since the night we met? . . . Now I want to know if that’s all you want? You’ve had me! Is it over? Do you want me to go?’

There was a blazing fire in her face. The smile that I wanted to see was gone, replaced with bitter disappointment. I knew then that our first act of love had been a failure. My own ego had eaten up the happiness that she should have returned to. My pride was ruined because I was supposed to dance a victory dance after breaking down all of the girl’s defenses; but all I had was, at best, more empty, pointless exploitation. I was not the conquering hero. I was the runnerup. I was not Leif Ericson. I was Christopher Columbus. I had been deceived.

No! I had deceived myself. She had never told me that she was a virgin. I felt like banging my head against the wall, but instead I extended a hand to Crystal, and she lay next to me crying in my arms.

‘Spade! What the hell’s wrong wit’ you, man?’ It was John Lee.

‘Oh, wow! I wuz daydreamin’, man.’

‘Thinkin’ ‘bout tryin’ to git to that broad over there?’ His eyes slanted toward the red-bloused teeny-bopper.

‘Naw,’ I said quickly. ‘Thinkin’ ‘bout callin’ Crys an’ tellin’ her to come over an’ watch us smoke some a that mean bush you got. How ‘bout a nickel bag?’

‘Sounds hip to me.’

‘Tell me somethin’, man. Whut wuz that shit you came up with las’ week about the Juneyuhs shootin’ up?’

‘Wuzn’t what I thought,’ Lee said. ‘They been shootin’ wine in their legs.’

‘Wine?’

‘In their legs,’ said Lee.

January 4, 1969

When January comes to New York City, she brings traveling companions – dirty snow, forty-mile-an-hour winds, jackets, earmuffs, and scarves. As the weather grew colder in the city, I totally lost contact with everyone who had been a part of my life except Crys. She and I constantly saw each other, but everyone else was just a part of the gossip I heard about when I stopped into Tommy’s for a cup of coffee. Once baseball season ended, Tommy became a radio who broadcast all of the neighborhood’s misfortunes.

Usually, come winter, I make the Cobra my home. It features a three-piece jazz group on the weekends and tasty soul food all of the time.

I visited the bar on the Saturday night following New Year’s Day. The collecting had been light, and neither Smoky nor I had seen any reason to sit and chit-chat in Harvey’s. Fortunately, he gave me a lift down the West Side Highway and then plowed off through the slush.

I was dipping into a Jack Daniels as the group came on. The pianist did a few light chords and the group swung into Cannonball’s ‘Mercy.’ The crowd began to warm to the strokes from the bass, and the rendition brought out the soul in the audience. Here and there you could hear a ‘Git it, baby!’ or ‘Do it jus’ one time!’ The waiters and waitresses waded through the crowd serving food and drinks from trays balanced on one practiced hand.

From the dimness behind my corner table an arm reached over and tapped me on the shoulder. It was Howie, the head waiter.

‘Nissy wants to see you, man. Sez it’s urgent,’ he whispered.

‘What the hell about?’ I asked.

‘Man, I don’ know. Might be jus’ another excuse to try an’ git the hell in here, but I ain’ havin’ none a that shit.’

I got up from the corner of the bar and waded through customers and candlelight atmosphere. Through the door that led to the small alcove I could see two struggling figures.

My mind went out to meet them. Nissy? What the hell would he want with me? He could possibly want some wine money, but he knew better than to bother me about something like that.

Nissy was a wino, a man dedicated to the pursuit of the grape. He was always either drunk or trying to get drunk. His whole hustle was shining shoes when somebody set him up with the equipment. And as soon as he had enough for a quart, he would be gone to get high, and a little kid would cop his polish and box and be gone. Occasionally he could get a job running messages for the numbers man or something, but once he got high, he’d quit. Money was only important because it furnished wine for today. To hell with tomorrow. His bloated face gave me a wild stare as I came through the frosted glass.

‘I gotta see ya, Spade,’ he squeaked breathlessly.

‘Thass what I hear. Cool it!’ I commanded, dropping the sarcasm. ‘Let ‘im go, Hemp.’ Hemp was one of the Cobra bouncers. He was holding Nissy at arm’s length by the front of his filthy overcoat, the smaller man’s feet practically off the floor.

‘I gotta see you, Spade,’ he repeated.

I waited until Hemp had disappeared back inside. I turned and faced Nissy with contempt in my eyes.

‘How menny times I tol’ you not to hussle this place?’ I asked. ‘You gon’ come by here one night when I ain’ here
an’ Howie ain’ gonna be for no bullshit, an’ he gonna have Hemp an’ Jason throw yo’ ass in the river. You need a cold bath?’

‘Naw, Spade . . . Lemme tell yeh. Then we see who’s right.’ I nodded. ‘Somebody got to Isidro t’night. They put a bullet in between his eyes. I swear! Paco an’ Jessie went to fin’ Slothead, an’ they gonna get John Lee. They said they gon’ cut his dick off!’ Nissy was panting, and his eyes were rolling in his head.

‘You drunk!’ I yelled.

‘No! Man, I seen Seedy dead wit’ my own eyes! I swear!’

I looked him over for a second and then nodded.

‘Wait a second. I’ll be right back.’ I turned and went inside. Howie was standing in the corner I had occupied: his face wrinkled when I reached for my coat. I picked up my topcoat and scarf and swung over the bar and grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels Black.

‘I’m goin’,’ I told Howie. ‘I’ll pay you later.’

‘In the street,’ Howie whispered. ‘Please don’ start no shit in here t’night.’

‘I ain’ startin nuthin’,’ I told him.

I slid back into the lobby and found Nissy regaining his cool, leaning against the outer door smoking a stogie. I handed him the bottle and started squeezing into my coat. I waited until he took a shot.

‘I need all the details you have, man,’ I told him.

‘Okay. Fifteen minnits ago the cops pull up at Seedy’s pad an’ jump out, runnin’ upstairs. You dig? Then a ammalance come an’ they haul his ass away. It’s Seedy. They got ‘im covuhud but I know who it iz. There wuz a hole in the mid of hiz head, a small ‘un. Not too much blood. The cops come out an’ they ast a few questions an’ then they haul ass. That’s when I hear Paco an’ Jessie say then gon’ get Lee.’

‘How you know I wuz in here? Where’s Lee?’ I couldn’t ask the questions fast enough. Nissy was still pulling at the mash.

‘I jus’ took a chance. You know, Saturday night. Where
you
gon’ be? I donno where Lee iz at. Home?’

I was already preparing myself to deal with the Hawk. My gloves were on, and the scarf was around my neck.

‘Somebody hadda hep Lee. I donno who else would hep the cat, considerin’ heppin’ him agains’ who. Them spic mothuhs gon’ tear him a bran’ new one.’ Nissy was starting to ramble.

‘What makes Paco think that Lee did it?’ I asked.

‘I donno. No sign I could see. Look like a clean hit. Guess he put one an’ one togethuh an’ got Lee.’ Nissy fell out laughing at his joke.

I came out of my pocket with a bill. The little wino’s eye caught the picture of Hamilton and nodded.

‘You haven’t seen me in a week,’ I said. ‘You know nothin’ ‘bout Seedy an’ John an’ none a that shit. Right?’

‘You goin’, huh?’ he asked, pocketing the bill.

‘Ain’t rilly got no choice,’ I said.

‘Damn! Gon’ be mo’ killin’ t’night. Wish all this could happen in the summer when it ain’ too cold to go an’ watch. . . . Who you wan’ me to see if they git you?’ Nissy asked.

‘I don’t give a fuck,’ I snorted.

I went through the last set of doors on that note and out into the early-morning chill. My watch read one-thirty. The wind blew grains of snow up against my sunglasses, and the swirling flakes began to crust on my eyebrows and in my hair. At my feet, along the sidewalks, were stains where dogs had come along escorted by frozen masters and done their thing to help keep New York beautiful.

From the high-rise apartments that faced 17th between Ninth and Tenth avenues, there were still millions of lights
hanging in the windows, fighting to aid the streetlights illuminate the corners and save travelers from muggers.

A sudden thought crossed my mind. Where in the hell could Lee be at this time of night? The answer was home, but if he was there, what would the P.R. boys do to get him out of the house? Even they weren’t so bad that they were going to bust in to the man’s crib and take the whole family off. That was Roaring Twenties action. I checked for cars and crossed Ninth Avenue. I was tired, hungry, and needed a drink. I should have taken that Jack Daniels away from Nissy. A wino couldn’t even begin to appreciate a mellow thing like that. It was almost like handing a grade-A-1 steak to a vegetarian and watching him throw the choice meat to the dog.

I headed downtown on Ninth Avenue. John lived at 306 West 15th Street. I passed the four-hundred block between Ninth and Tenth. John lived between Seventh and Eighth.

Cars and trucks struggled through the foot-high slush with fog beams that simply flashed everywhere except through the dirty mess that children wake and marvel at. No school tomorrow, and a million games to play. Building snowmen and castles and hitting the fat bully across the street with snowballs would be the order of the day. With a little luck, the pony-tail girl from the next building would be out, and she would either be impressed by his sled and marksmanship with snowballs, or be pushed in the drifts with the other creepy things.

I ran up the stairs to John’s apartment. The dim light in the hallway added to the shivers. Inside my fur-lined gloves my hands felt like icicles that couldn’t be flexed. I took off my sunglasses to wipe away the haze. That was when I saw the figure standing in the corner of the hall, wrapped in a shadow and smoking a cigarette. As the smoke was inhaled, the corner was illuminated.

‘Whuss happin’, Paco?’ I asked the Puerto Rican.

‘I theen’ you know whuss happnin’,’ he said slowly.

‘No, I don’, bruthuh. Thass whut I’m askin’ you. You know I don’t go through no bullshit thing, right?’ I stopped about five feet from him. He remained in the corner dragging on the weed. I removed my gloves and slid them into my coat pocket along with the sunglasses. I pulled out a cigarette and in so doing made sure that my coat was unbuttoned and would not restrain my arms.

‘Seedy iz dead, man. You know that?’ Paco asked me.

‘Yeah, I jus’ heard. Thass a shame. You got any ideas?’

‘One.’ Paco grinned. ‘Yo’ amigo John Lee.’

‘Why you think that?’ I quizzed.

Paco shook his head, and a small smile took over his face. He was convinced that I was playing a game with him.

‘If I gotta tell you, man, I will. John an’ Seedy in the same job, an’ if Seedy ain’ in the job, then John get alla business. Izzit right, o’ what?’

‘Whuss John gotta say?’ I asked.