Sons from Afar (27 page)

“What do you want with the chief?”

James studied the row of bottles lined up under the long mirror behind the bar. He studied the names and logos of the different brands of beer.

“Just some information,” Sammy said. His voice was still high, like a kid's, but his calmness wasn't like a kid. James, jittery with nervousness and feeling out of place, wanted to pull on Sammy's sleeve and tell him to be more polite, to ask him if they couldn't please leave. Sammy acted like James wasn't there.

“Yeah? What kind of information?” the bartender asked. He had little black eyes that shifted from Sammy to James and back again.

“Whether the chief is here or not, to start with,” Sammy said.

The man gave that some thought. He watched the TV set while he thought. James watched it too; it was an Orioles game, of course.

“And if he is, then what?” the bartender asked, his nose sharp as a rat's.

“About a man named Francis Verricker,” Sammy told him.

The bartender's smile was like a rat that had just found a baby to chew on, James thought. “No kidding?”

Sammy didn't say anything.

“Sammy,” James said, but Sammy ignored him.

“Well, he's here.”

Francis Verricker was there? Right then? James looked again at the men at the bar, who looked like they never went anywhere, just sat there drinking and chewing on pretzels. He looked at their backs, and the backs of their necks, and the backs of their heads.

“Yeah?” Sammy asked.

“Chief's in the back room,” the bartender said, nodding his head toward a dark corridor that led off the back of the barroom, without taking his eyes off Sammy. Sammy started to move off toward the corridor, but the bartender stopped him. “Off limits. That room's not for kids.”

Sammy stopped, and turned around. He looked briefly at James, who thought, appalled: He's enjoying himself; he likes this.

“Neither's this one, either,” the bartender said.

“We're not asking for a drink or anything,” Sammy told him.

“Bet your butt you aren't,” the man said. “I could tell the chief there's someone out here to see him. I could
tell
him.”

“Would you?” Sammy asked.

“Since it's about Francis Verricker. Chief's always interested in Frank. You think Chief would be interested in Frankie?” he asked down the length of the bar.

Heads nodded, but faces stayed turned away.

“You two sit down. No, you don't. Not in a booth. Take that table by the door. I'm not going to serve you anything, no Cokes, no water, nothing. Got me? The cops would like to have my license, so no kid drinks anything in my place. Anything. Got that?”

James nodded his head and swallowed back the bubble of air that was rising up his throat. He went right over to a table and sat down on the scarred wooden chair. Sammy came more slowly behind him. That left two empty chairs at their square table. James looked across at his brother. He wanted to warn Sammy to be more careful, but his brother looked almost like someone he didn't know. He looked like he might do all right in this part of the city, in this kind of place. James felt better when he saw that, even though it meant he was depending on his little brother to take care of him in case of trouble. He wondered how much of their father there was in his brother.

“I almost thought he was here,” James said. “Our father.”

“Don't say that,” Sammy warned him. “Not around here. Not unless you know it's okay.”

James agreed: He should have thought.

The bartender came back and stood beside their table. “He says, he might like to talk to you, but not right now.” While he stood there, his little black eyes flicked around the room, watching everything.

“When then?” Sammy asked.

“Wait and see,” the bartender said, and turned his back on them.

James let his brother digest that thought before he suggested, “We could leave, anyway,” ashamed of himself for suggesting it, but unable to stop the idea from coming out of his mouth.

“We can wait,” Sammy said. “It's probably something going on in a back room, poker or something.”

“With gambling,” James guessed. That would explain why they kept it secret. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

When James asked him where the bathroom was, the bartender pointed down the hallway. James went to it, leaving Sammy alone at the table. When he got back, Sammy went, leaving him alone at the table. James looked around him, then back at his own hands. It was better not to seem to stare. He felt out of place, and he thought his strangeness showed. This was his father's world, the kind of place where his father hung out. James felt uneasy, nervous; he knew that anything at all would tip him back over into feeling afraid.

A young man, maybe twenty, maybe a little older, came in, and went to the bar. The men there seemed to know him, although nobody spoke to him. James did stare at the young man: He looked too young and clean for this place. His jeans were worn soft, his workshirt hung from broad shoulders and
needed an ironing just like everybody else's, but he looked different. He had shining clean brown hair, brushed back from his face and longer than most of the crew cuts in there, and a flush of pink on his milky skin where the high cheekbones turned flat. His eyes, when he looked around the room, were blue, the blue of a spring sky before the heat of summer has bleached it out. Although his body looked full grown, his cheeks looked like he didn't need to shave yet, and his expression, looking around and seeing James, was frankly curious. Not hostile, not nosy, just curious. His face had a friendly expression on it, about the exact opposite of the rat-faced bartender.

Sammy sat down, smiling. “Some graffiti, hunh?”

“You're too young,” James reminded him. That wasn't true though. Every minute in here Sammy seemed to get older and James younger. And there were a lot of minutes they were spending, waiting. They didn't talk much, just sat, as time wore on and the booths and tables filled with groups, the bar with men alone. The bartender scurried up and down, across the room, his fingers greedy around bills and coins, jamming them into his apron pocket as if trying to conceal them. The baseball game ended and some show with car chases came on, car chases, shooting, and long-haired, long-legged women. Deep men's voices carried on indistinguishable conversations, occasionally bursting into laughter or brief quarrels, sometimes yelling across the room for another drink.

The minutes became an hour and then two hours. Sammy, for a wonder, waited patiently. James had no idea what Sammy was thinking about, as the time ticked by. James thought about his French report and his English grade, Toby, Andy Walker. Then he began to think about Celie, just remembering pictures he carried in his memory, from the very first time he'd seen her. From the first, she had snared his eyes, the way she looked, the
way she moved, and he didn't even really know why, why this one particular girl. James was settled down to memories, trying to ignore everything around him, when Sammy leaned toward him to say, “Some fun, hunh?”

“No,” James answered, cross at being interrupted.

“He just wants to make us wait.”

“I don't much care if he never comes out.”

“It sounds like he's sort of King of the Mountain around here. That's what kings do, show how important they are by making people wait to see them.”

“Not real kings,” James said.

“What do you know about real kings?” Sammy demanded. “You talk like this is some fairy tale, or something stupid like that.”

James leaned his elbows on the table. He'd done some reading for his French report, with the help of the English teacher, whom he'd asked about books about fairy tales. He'd read an essay from
The Uses of Enchantment
, by somebody named Bettelheim; she'd lent him that from her own library. He leaned forward to explain to Sammy how fairy tales weren't all pretty-pretty. Take Hansel and Gretel for example, with a stepmother who wanted to lose them in the woods for the wild animals to eat and their father went along with it; take that idea just for starters, that idea wasn't any too stupid. He leaned forward and took a breath to begin.

“James,” Sammy cut him off, his voice low so only James could hear it.

James looked up and around. Nobody was coming to their table.

“It doesn't look good for us to be talking,” Sammy explained. “People are looking.”

James just stared at his brother's face. Sammy looked calm, maybe a little amused, certainly relaxed: but his eyes had darker,
almost dangerous undertones, James saw, and his face was a mask over whatever his real feelings were.

“Why do you think they're so interested?” James asked.

Sammy shrugged, leaned back in his straight chair, jammed his hands into his pockets, and let his glance go lazily around the dim room.

James wanted to move over to one of the chairs next to Sammy, to have their backs to the same wall. He scolded himself: They were just two kids, they didn't have any money or anything, these men wouldn't think they were worth paying attention to, they'd be all right.

“My guess is, these people don't like Francis Verricker much,” Sammy said. Smiling away as if he were making a joke.

“Then shouldn't we leave?”

“No. I want to know what's really true. Just the truth, I don't care what it is. As long as it's true.”

So they waited some more.

At last, a line of men emerged from the narrow hallway. Sammy had his back to them so he couldn't see them. James could see them.

There were half a dozen, the first five like attendants. It was the last man they were waiting for; he was the one everyone was waiting for. James knew that as soon as he saw him, a big, broad man—not so tall really, but heavy-muscled in his arms and legs, barrel-chested, his shirt unbuttoned down a ways, his square head planted on a thick neck. The man was tanned, like leather. James watched his approach.

The bartender, too, watched, his little eyes eager, his long nose pointing, like some rat looking out from its hole, ready to run out and grab the chunk of food that might fall, if things went well. James thought he knew, with a cold fear that reached up to finger his heart, who the chunk of food was.

The man pulled out a chair and sat down between the two boys. His hair was grizzled, the crew cut, the stubble on his face, the hairs visible on his chest with the colors of a tattoo showing through.

“I'm Chief,” he said. And waited. “You were asking for me.”

James looked at Sammy, who wasn't saying anything.

“What about Frank Verricker?” the man asked. He didn't lean forward, didn't sit back. “The son of a bitch owes me twelve hundred dollars. What about him?”

“He owes us, too,” Sammy said.

“Yeah? Well I'll tell you, kid, you are behind me in line to collect. Got that? The next time he shows his face around here, I'm collecting—in cash or in blood. Maybe you can have some of what's left.”

“How long has it been since you saw him?” Sammy asked, still slouching back. James was sitting up straight.

“Too long.”

The man waited. Sammy waited. James clutched his hands together in his lap.

“That IOU is long overdue.”

“He lost the bet,” Sammy guessed.

“He lost the whole game,” the chief said. “It's usual to buy a man a drink if you're going to ask him questions. You buying?”

“Sure,” Sammy said.

The chief raised his pale eyes and the bartender hustled over. “Brandy, Al, the best. Double brandy. The kid's buying.”

It cost Sammy five dollars, which he paid without a murmur of protest, without looking at James. James wouldn't have protested either. He'd be satisfied just to get out of this with his skin safe and his nose unbroken. There were an awful lot of broken noses in the room. And broken hands, too, he thought, watching the chief's big hand wrap around the glass of brandy.

“But I don't much expect to see Frank, or my twelve hundred, not this side of hell. Frank has a way of running out on his debts. So what's your name, kid?”

“Tillerman,” James said quickly, just in case the anger he saw flare up on Sammy's face took over.

Then the chief looked at him, measuring. The chief smiled at whatever he saw, just opening his mouth. “What are you, brothers?” James nodded. The man's two upper front teeth were dead, a black color the outer layer of enamel muffled to gray; if James had teeth like that he wouldn't smile much either.

“Well, you can tell your old lady that if she thinks she'll see him again, and see her money again, she better think again. I've known him for years, and I never knew Frank to do more than take a woman for all she'd give him, and then leave her. He was something—I'll admit it—there's nobody like Frankie for women. They can't say no to him. But he never went back to any of them. Kids like you wouldn't have money worth gambling for or borrowing. Am I right?”

“Yeah,” Sammy said. “I guess you don't happen to know where he is now.”

“With some dame, somewhere. Not here, he wouldn't dare come back here again. Not with empty pockets, the way he always does. Taking people for money—not paying up, that's Frankie. Tell you why—the bastard thinks he's the whole reason the whole world exists; he thinks he's the center of the world. He's always watching out for number one. Only thing he's good at is double-crossing. But he double-crossed the wrong man this time.” The chief lifted his glass and emptied it. “I could use another one of those.”

“Sure,” Sammy said. He paid out another five dollars.

“You're okay, kid,” the chief said to Sammy. “You're an okay kid. You wanna see something?”

Sammy shrugged. It was almost as if Sammy didn't care if the man wanted to impress him. He unbuttoned the rest of the buttons on his shirt, and pulled it out of his trousers. He leaned back to show them both a thick scar, circling his waist like a bullwhip.