Dancing Aztecs (20 page)

So today Leroy and Buhbuh, they got to go to this real Chinese restaurant, with Miss Tower and this whole bunch a people, and they ate up a damn storm. So now Leroy and Buhbuh, they talk about that food at that Chinese restaurant until Leroy, he say, “Dere it go again.”

Buhbuh, he say, “Wuh?”

“Dah cah.”

Buhbuh, he look and see that car, and it the same mother-fucking car as the last time, with them same two mother-fucking white men inside there Buhbuh, he say, “Muthuh-fuckuh.”

“Cops,” say Leroy.

“Yuh,” say Buhbuh.

They watch that car go down round the corner, and then they talk about a movie they seen on television, with monsters and vampires in it They talk about that until Leroy, he say, “Lu dah.”

Buhbuh, he say, “Wuh?”

“Dem cops.”

Buhbuh, he look, and them two white men from the car, they walking on the sidewalk, and they coming this way. Buhbuh, he say to Leroy, “
I
din do nuthin.”

“Well,
I
sure as shit din do nuthin.”

“So, wuh the fuck?”

So the two white men, who isn't anyway cops but is Frank and Floyd, they comes along and nods at Leroy and Buhbuh with quick nervous little smiles, and then they goes up the stoop and into the building, and Leroy and Buhbuh, they look at one another, and Buhbuh, he say, “Who dey aftuh?”

So they talk about that, all the different people in the building, while Frank and Floyd, they go upstairs and find the Pinkham apartment, and they walk right in 'cause Leroy, he don't never lock the door, 'cause if you lock the door when the place empty the junkies, they gone think you got something in there and they gone bust the door down. So Frank and Floyd, they go in and split up to search the apartment for the golden statue, and when they meet again at the front door they is
both
found it.

Frank, he say, “What the hell is
that?”

Floyd, he say, “It's the goddam statue. What's
that?”

And Frank, he say, “Shit. We better take them both.”

Meanwhile, Leroy and Buhbuh downstairs, they been thinking and wondering, and they figure what the fuck, it Leroy's house, ain't it? They can go in the goddam house, can't they? They can see what's going on, can't they? So they go in the house and up the stairs and they don't see nothing, and when they going by Leroy's door it open and the cops come out with the two statues Leroy and Buhbuh got today at that restaurant. And Leroy, he say, “Wuh duh
fuck?
”

And the cops, they begin to yell and holler and wave their arms, and one of them accidental hits the statue against the side by the door, and the statue's head, it fall off. And the other one, he yell, “Forget it! That ain't it!” And he hit the other statue against the wall and he head
don't
fall off, and the two white men both stare at the statue with big eyes, and then they push past Leroy and Buhbuh and run downstairs, with the statue that didn't get broken.

And Buhbuh, he yell, “You come back here, my statue!” And he take off down them stairs after them sons bitches.

And Leroy, he run down after Buhbuh.

And all the way down the stairs, them white men, they yelling real loud, “We got it! We got it!”

And down on the sidewalk, Buhbuh, he catch up with them, and he grab the one's arm and he try get the statue back, and they fight this way and that on the widewalk while lots a people on the block, they decide they been outside long enough, maybe they gone amble on inside now, see what's on the TeeVee. And then the white man, he hit Buhbuh across the nose with the statue, and this time the statue's head
do
come off, and the white man yell, real real loud, “Well,
shit!
Here, goddam it!” And he shove the statue in Buhbuh's hand, and him and the other white man, they turn around and they run their asses right outa that block.

And Leroy, he shake his fist and yell after them, “Fuckin cops!” Because in Harlem the cops, they don't got much reputation.

2

From Floyd's list:

F. Xavier White
211 Riverside Drive

Maleficent is always in a bad temper when she's dieting, and she's always dieting, so she's always in a bad temper. However, being in a bad temper always makes her break her diet, so besides being on a diet and in a bad temper Maleficent is
also
always gaining weight. As F. Xavier said about her recently, behind her ample back, “Next thing you know,
I'll
have to get that woman license plates.”

But even Maleficent, no matter how fat or bad-tempered or hungry she might become, knows there are times to be quiet and permit someone else the center of the stage, and one of those times is right now, so when F. Xavier, with his oily unctuous smile showing every blessed one of his huge capped teeth, makes the introductions, saying, “Mr. Jonesburg, I'd like you to meet my wife, Maleficent; sweetheart, this is Mr. Jeremiah Jonesburg,” Maleficent doesn't respond with any of her usual rude tricks at all. Instead, she smiles sweetly and even does something that might be a curtsy—if is isn't an earthquake—and all she says is, “Pleased, I'm shoo-uh.”

Mr. Jeremiah “Bad Death” Jonesburg smiles, with his mouth open, revealing some nightmare version of Ali Baba's cave. Gold and ivory intermixed, with spaces where removals have already taken place, and all guarded by the dragon of his thick, yellow-stained, scabby red tongue. This ugliness smiles, and says, “Hello, fat mama.”

Maleficent winces at that one, and so does F. Xavier, because he knows
he'll
pay for it later, but at the moment Maleficent merely goes on smiling, and merely says, “Oh, you. You sure are the one.”

Jeremiah “Bad Death” Jonesburg
is
the one, in fact. He's the Man, the Main Man from 96th to 155th, east side
and
west. Them Italians downtown
shake
when they hear the name of Bad Death, because he's the one run them out, run them right out of Harlem and the whole patch. He's the meanest, the baddest, the biggest, the toughest, the coolest
and
the hottest son of a bitch ever to hit the street. Where he walks tombstones grow, and where he sits the sun never shines. His bed is made of politician's bones, and for lunch he eats policemen's orphaned children. He picks his teeth with pool cues, and blows his nose on traffic tickets. He wears Datsuns when he roller-skates, and his toilet seat is lined with pussy fur. His hand can crumble bricks, and his piss cuts through solid steel. He stacks his women three at a time like cordwood, and makes love to them all at once. The Queen of England irons his shirts, and his Cadillac runs on Dago blood. When he's angry bullets melt, and when he smiles trees die. He's so mean he can't look in a mirror, for fear he'll annoy himself. When he speaks transistor radios give up the ghost, and when he farts entire neighborhoods turn into deserts. He is the Man, and nobody forgets it.

And he has come to F. Xavier White, Harlem's Finest Mortician (“Your Every Need Anticipated—Service with a Sympathetic Smile”), to make the final arrangements for a funeral. (There's a rumor that Bad Death also made the initial arrangements for this particular funeral, but that's a rumor no one mentions in Bad Death's presence.)

“Mole Mouth was a friend of mine,” Bad Death says, and nobody disagrees with him. “Now, there's a lot of funerals take place in this town in a year, but not many of them is the
best
. What I want for Mole Mouth is the
best.”

“Oh, that's what you'll get,” F. Xavier assures him. He smiles a big smile and washes his hands together and says, “You come to the right man, Mr. Jonesburg. I
specialize
in the best.”

“Mole Mouth come from down South,” Bad Death continues. “Before he come up here and got himself into business he shouldn't of got himself into. Now, a lot of Mole Mouth's family gonna be coming up from Louisiana, Georgia, Arkansas, and I want
them
to see the best. The
best.”

“Yes,
sir
, Mr. Jonesburg.”

“And,” Bad Death says, “I'll want them to
know
it's the best.”

“You'll want a band,” F. Xavier says.

“The
best
band.”

“I wouldn't inflict on your ear anything
but
the best band.”

“That's right,” Bad Death says. Then he gazes a moment past the simpering bulk of Maleficent, and he says, “Now, the Dagos, in the old days, when one of their big boys got it, his competitors all got together and gave him a
big
funeral. A special kind of
big
funeral.”

“A send-off,” F. Xavier agrees. “That's what they call it, a send-off.”

“That's what we want for Mole Mouth,” Bad Death says. “He was my competitor, and I'm giving him the best funeral, and I want it to be a send-off. Better than
any
send-off them Dagos ever give
anybody
. Better than Capone, better than Charlie Brody, better than anything. I want them to see it, and I want them to know it's the
best.”

“Flowers,” F. Xavier says. “Great big horseshoe wreaths of flowers. Lots of black limousines.”

“Make 'em white limousines,” Bad Death says.

“White limousines,” F. Xavier agrees. “And lots of wailing women in black dresses, to throw themselves in the grave. Or, do you want white dresses?”

“White dresses? This ain't a wedding, this's a funeral!”

“Right you are,” F. Xavier says, nodding and beaming, while perspiration is running like the Oronoco River down the middle of his back. “Black dresses,” he says.

“Then there's something else,” Bad Death says. “When a police commissioner or a president or some bastard like that kicks off, they give him a big funeral with uniforms and processions and a lot of bullshit”

“Horse-drawn hearses,” F. Xavier says, and tentatively adds, “Black horses?”

“Horses, that's good,” Bad Death says. He flashes his smile again, and Maleficent quakes. (She's the only woman on earth who wears form-fitting muumuus, and when she quakes the whole muumuu shimmers, like Jello when the refrigerator door is slammed.) Bad Death says, “But uniforms, too. And big shots.”

“Liberation High has a marching band,” F. Xavier says. “With uniforms.”

“That's not
the
band. Not the band we were talking about before.”

“No. no, this is another band. The first band'll be real down home Dixie.”

“Two bands. Hmmmm.” Bad Death strokes his chin—it makes a raspy noise—and considers that. “I like it,” he decides. “Snappy uniforms?”

“Four colors.”

“Good. And what about big shots?”

F. Xavier has spent the last half-minute thinking about that, and growing increasingly desperate, because of course most
true
big shots—mayors or baseball players, for instance—wouldn't be caught dead at a funeral like this. But there has to be an answer, and so F. Xavier keeps smiling and keeps thinking, and Bad Death just keeps looking at him.

The fact is, F. Xavier actually does know a lot of big shots of various kinds, a lot of different people in the community. To become director of Harlem's Premier Funeral Parlor, which has always been his dream, he has deemed it advisable to associate himself with all sorts of local organizations and activities. (The Open Sports Committee, for instance.) Over the years, he has come to be on at least nodding terms with everybody from Congressman Rangel himself to Bad Death Jonesburg here, and surely
some
of those contacts could now be made useful.

Congressman Rangel? No. Not a chance.

How about the Open Sports Committee? Oscar Russell Green, Wylie Cheshire … those were certainly notable names, even if not exactly big shots. He could call upon their recent sense of camaraderie, remind them if necessary of the automobiles he unstintingly provided during their long struggle. His smile suddenly becoming much more confident, F. Xavier says, “I'll get them for you, Mr. Jonesburg. I can't give you an exact list right this minute, but I assure you you'll be satisfied.”

“I better be,” Bad Death says.

“Then there's the question of a chorus,” F. Xavier says, hurrying along.

“Yes,” says Bad Death, and one of the dozen men that Bad Death has stationed around the outside of the funeral parlor walks in, raising a hand to catch Bad Death's eye.

“A female chorus,” F. Xavier is saying, “in floor-length robes. Black? Or white? Sometimes red can look very—”

“Just a minute,” Bad Death says, and asks his man, “What's happening?”

“Two white men.”

“Two
white
men? Where?”

“Climbing the fire escape in back.”

“Dagos?”

“Irishmen. We looked in their wallets, and they're both named McCann.”

“They still alive?”

“Oh, sure. They didn't make no trouble. When we threw the light on them, one of them fainted.”

“Bring 'em in here,” Bad Death says, and when his man goes away Bad Death shakes his head and says, “Irishmen. Huh.”

Frank and Floyd (Floyd is the one who fainted), having been roughed up by a lot of mean-looking black men, and then having been locked away in a room with a stack of coffins, are not feeling very rosy. “I don't know,” Floyd says at one point, “maybe a million dollars
isn't
a million dollars.”

“If it turns out, after we go through all this,” Frank says, “and somebody else found the damn things hours ago, I'm gonna be pissed.”

“If I'm even
around
later on to find that out,” Floyd says, “I'll be so happy I won't even care. If I ever get back to America, I'll get down on my knees and kiss the ground.”

A bunch of the black men come into the room then, and take Frank and Floyd by their various elbows, and walk them away to the room containing Bad Death and F. Xavier and Maleficent. Frank and Floyd don't know it, but F. Xavier and Maleficent are just as scared as they are that some sort of bloodshed is about to take place.