Black Gangster (32 page)

As he drove along, the neighborhood began its subtle change. He turned right on Twelfth, a one-way street, and pawnshops and nightclubs began to appear on each side of the street. Farther on, one could see the devastation of the sixties' burning and looting spree. It was everywhere. Here a gutted building, next door a large lot with the debris of past fires scattered over its barren surface.

They stopped for a red light, and the early evening breeze drifted lightly around the car. Everywhere they looked there were the clusters of people that the good weather brought out; they pushed against each other in the cluttered entrances of open doorways to apartment houses and poolrooms and shine parlors. Girls with shortened skirts stood in the darkened doorways, while their counterparts patrolled the sidewalks in revealing hotpants outfits.

Charles stared at one of the younger prostitutes hungrily.

"I'd bet money, Charles, that you'd turn a trick with that young girl if you wasn't shamed she'd come back up on the corner and tell it," Earl said, tossing back his head and laughing. It was a deep sound, one full of mirth, with the kind of heaviness coming through that aroused women. It was also a practiced laugh, one that could be turned on and off at will.

Charles joined in the laughter. He knew it was true. He'd never make a successful pimp of himself; he loved to groove too much. He fell in love with his woman's hips, and that love-joy was his downfall. Earl called it "having a tender dick."

"That's right, boy, you need to laugh," Earl said. "If there's any man who's guilty of following his dick, it's you. For a hard-on, Charles, you'll fuck around and drive five hundred goddamn miles, get there, get the cock, and never bother to ask about the trap money." He laughed again and stared at his husky partner. Charles was by nature a thug. He took his by wit or pistol. Ever since they were childhood friends, Charles was a strong-arm man. At that step in their development, Charles was the boy most of them looked up to. He was the fighter, going to the gym at night, taking up boxing.

How the worm turns, Earl thought coldly. He had been one of the cool ones during this period, always standing back against the wall, posing, and at all times as sharp as his wardrobe would allow him to be.

Another red light caught them. As they sat at the light, two brown-skinned girls crossed the street, flirting openly with the men in the Cadillac.

"Boy oh boy," Charles exclaimed. "You sure get a lot of action when you ride in a hog!"

Earl's laughter rang out sharp and clear. "It don't have to be the Caddie, baby; it just might have been me they were giving that action to, man."

"Shit!" Charles said loudly. "It was the Caddie, baby, that's what it was. Them bitches was lookin' at the ride. It wouldn't have made any difference if two apes was sitting in here!"

"Okay, baby," Earl replied easily. "I ain't about to start arguing over it with you, but one day you'll find out. It ain't always the car, but sometimes it helps out." He laughed again, this time softer.

Another red light caught them. As they sat waiting for it to change, a long, gold Eldorado turned the cor ner. The driver recognized Earl and blew the Eldorado's deep horn.

Earl waved at the driver. "Old Bobby Spencer," he said, speaking more to himself than to Charles. "That old man has handled more money than any four niggers in this city," he stated.

"I guess so," Charles answered. "If I had the good coke connect that he's got, I'd handle the same kind of money myself."

"Maybe. That man has been selling cocaine for over twenty years now, Charles, and he ain't got busted yet. Now that's what I call a smart street nigger."

"It ain't that he's all that smart, Earl, or that he can't get busted. He's just been lucky that them bitches that he's got dealing for him ain't never switched around on him and cracked him downtown. Shit, every time one of his broads gets busted, they take the weight themselves. Ain't none of them ever gave him no trouble." Charles fell silent, waiting for Earl to agree with him.

"That ain't luck, Charles, that's business. It shows the man knows what's happening. He must tell his women just how to handle it, 'cause if you don't explain it to a bitch and leave it to her to handle, she'll fuck it up every time."

"I don't know," Charles mumbled. "It seems like luck to me. If it was me, the bitch would get downtown and tell it all."

"I'll agree with that," Earl said. "More than likely, you'd have left it up to the woman to handle it, never taking the time to sit her down and explain just what to tell them white folks downtown whenever the bust came. So when the bitch got busted, she'd be feeling on her own and she'd try shifting the weight. It's all in being a top-notch player or just another mediocreass nigger out here in the streets."

After the exchange, they rode on in silence, neither man bothering to break the quiet. Each man sank down in his own thoughts, Charles thinking that he was right, that it was just a matter of luck, and Earl knowing that he was right, that it was just a matter of taking care of business. He saw a parking spot in front of a small barbecue restaurant, pulled over, and let his white convertible top down.

As the top went back slowly, four young girls standing in the front of the greasy spoon restaurant stared at the occupants of the car brazenly. In their glance, there was an invitation that needed no words to explain. The weather was warm, the evening was young, and a ride in a convertible would beat the hell out of standing in front of a dirty restaurant. The girls were more than eager. They were ready.

Without seeming to, Earl steadily examined the women. Suddenly, there was a quick movement to his eyes as they focused on one of the girls in particular. "Hummmmmm," he murmured. "What a lovely creature that is."

Before he had time to make a move of his own, Charles took the play out of his hands. "Come here, baby," he yelled, not picking out any particular girl.

Two of the young girls moved away from the window and walked over to the car. The beauty that Earl had noticed was one of them. When the girls reached the car, Charles began to fidget. Now that the action was right in front of him, he was at a loss for words. Earl watched his friend, amused, and his lips turned down in a cold sneer that he was unconscious of.

The girls were amused by Charles' seeming inability to follow up on his bold approach. "Uh," he began, "uh, ain't you got a sister, girl, that works out of the Honey-bunch Bar?" he asked, trying the break the cold silence.

The tall brown-skinned girl, to whom he had addressed the question, put her hand on her hip. "No, baby, I'm afraid you've got me mixed up with somebody else." She answered frankly, her eyes shifting over to Earl. It was obvious that she wasn't interested in Charles.

The slight rejection stung Charles, and he became nasty. "Bitch, I ain't got you mixed up with nobody. Your sister is whoring out of the motherfuckin' bar, so you ain't got to lie about it!"

Now she gave Charles her full attention. She stared straight into his eyes and answered. "If I do have a sister working out of there at night, I don't see why you should be concerned with it, 'cause she sure ain't got no stiff-ass nigger like you for her man." She rocked back on her heels, spreading her legs so that the tight, tiny skirt seemed about to burst.