South Street (19 page)

“What for?” said Cotton. He walked casually over to the pool table, stepping carefully over the prostrate Willie T., and started to rack the balls.

“’Cause I said so,” snapped Leroy. “Who the hell’s givin’ orders around here?”

“I was just wonderin’,” Cotton said soothingly, with a shrug of his massive shoulders. He finished racking the balls, selected a cue, picked up the chalk. “You ah, lookin’ for somethin’ special, Willie, or you just throwin’ your little shit around?”

“Ahumpaha,” said Willie T.

“He’s lookin’ for somethin’ special,” said Leroy impatiently. “What is this?”

“Just a little curiosity,” said Cotton, smiling innocently and chalking his cue. He inspected the tip with a critical eye, added a touch of chalk, blew away the excess.

Willie T. rose to his knees, shaking his head groggily. Leroy glared at him. “He’s still lookin’ for Brown.”

Cotton bent over the pool table, adjusted the cue ball with exaggerated care, using only the tip of the cue. “Oh,” he drawled. “Course, this fool here couldn’t find a pile a shit in a perfume plant.” He straightened up and beamed benevolently on Willie T., then bent back to the table.

“Fuck you,” mumbled Willie T. “I’ma find him. You just gotta be givin’ me a little space. It ain’t gonna take moren a minute.” Cotton snorted without looking up. “You couldn’t find him,” Willie T said. “You can’t look through no phone book, ’cause you can’t read. Hell, you can’t hardly talk good, even.”

Cotton smiled and made a minute adjustment to the position of the cue ball. “You does enough talkin’ for everybody. An’ as for readin’, readin’ ain’t everythin’.” He made a minor change in the position of his feet and took a few experimental pokes with the cue.

Willie T. struggled to his feet. “Yeah, fatso? Then you find him.”

Cotton looked at Willie T. and grinned. He turned his head back to the table and, without appearing to take aim, sent the cue ball rolling down the velvet to strike the massed balls at the far end of the table with a solid crack. “Already did,” Cotton said, his eyes on the balls as they rolled here and there, striking each other with tiny clicks, bouncing off cushions, veering toward pockets, and dropping out of sight; first the fifteen, then the one, and finally the eight. Cotton looked up into Willie T’s stricken face and chuckled. “Yes, sir. I done found the nigger.” Leroy stood in silence while Cotton circumnavigated the pool table, deciding on his next shot. He settled on the five ball and bent his head in concentration, but just as he began the stroke Leroy’s hand shot out and grasped the cue. The tip of it struck the cue ball a glancing blow and the ball spun madly for a few seconds without moving an inch. When it had stopped completely, Cotton allowed his eyes to travel back along the cue until his glance reached Leroy’s hand, then on up his arm to look finally into Leroy’s congested face. “I wish you wouldn’t do things like that,” Cotton said mildly.

“You play durin’ recess,” Leroy snarled, “an’ I say when recess is. Right now school’s in. Where is this muthafucka?”

Cotton smiled easily and looked pointedly at Leroy’s hand. Leroy gritted his teeth but released the cue. Cotton smiled again and began to line up his shot. “Well,” he said, bending over the table, “he
was
right outside.”

“On the street?” demanded Leroy. “Muthafucka’s got his nerve walkin’ ma street again.”

“He wasn’t on the street,” Cotton said.

“Humph,” Leroy said. “Better not be.”

“He was in the bar.”

“In the
bar
?” said Willie T. “The Elysium bar?”

“Shut up, Willie,” said Cotton.

“Boss, can he tell me to shut up?”

“No,” said Leroy. “I’m the only one can tell you to shut up. Now shut up. Cotton, you mean to tell me he was settin’ right out there an’ you left him get away?”

“Sure,” Cotton said. He sent the cue ball bouncing off the cushion to cut the five ball into the side pocket. “He was gettin’ a six to go. I figured by the time I called you he’d be gone, so I followed him instead.”

There was a long heavy silence while Cotton lined up a bank shot on the eleven. “Well, I don’t believe it,” said Willie T. suddenly. “I don’t believe a single goddamn word. Cotton, how long did you follow this cat? An hour? Two?”

“I followed him home. Figured that was far enough.”

“You mean to tell me you followed this cat all the way home. …”

“Easy as apple pie,” Cotton said.

“Yeah. Too damn easy,” said Willie T. “You know what I think?”

“I’m still tryin’ to figure out
if
you think,” Cotton said.

“I think it’s a setup,” said Willie T. “How come this big bad dude who’s supposed to be movin’ in an’ takin’ over don’t even know if he’s tailed?”

Cotton sighed and shot the four ball. “Well, Willie, I guess maybe he just didn’t notice me.”

“Guess not,” snapped Willie T. “Guess I wouldn’t notice neither if a fuckin’ hippopotamus was to follow me home.”

Cotton looked up, his broad features crowding themselves into a much smaller space. “If I was you, Willie, I’d watch that little shit, ’fore I put ma foot right through your contraption.”

“Damn,” said Leroy, low and dirty in the back of his throat. Cotton and Willie T. stared at the clenched fists, the scowl of hate on Leroy’s face. “Damn. Cat goes walkin’ in ma streets in the broad daylight. Cat goes prowlin’ in ma space an’ don’t even take the time to look around. Cat goes prancin’ into ma bars tellin’ folks what to do. Cat goes an’ does all that, I say the cat goes. Period.”

“But what if he does work for Gino?” said Willie T. softly.

“I don’t care if the nigger’s on the board a directors in hell. Cotton, where—”

“Upstairs from Rayburn Wallace,” Cotton said. He raised his eyes and looked directly at Leroy. “An’ upstairs from Mrs. Wallace, too, a course.”

Leroy’s expression of hate was tempered by bewilderment. “Jesus, he’s after ma women, too.” He spun on his heels and charged out of the room. Cotton chuckled softly, snorted, and turned back to the pool table.

“Phew,” said Willie T. “I sure hope that cat don’t work for Gino.”

“What if he does,” said Cotton.

“What if he does?” screamed Willie T. “When Leroy pounds him Gino pounds us, that’s what if he does.” Willie T. began to gibber.

“Shut the shit up,” said Cotton. He put the pool cue down, walked over and slapped Willie T. Willie T. fell to the floor. Cotton hauled him back to his feet, dusted him off. “Take it easy now, Willie,” Cotton said. “Leroy ain’t gonna pound that dude. Leroy ain’t gonna pound nobody. Leroy’s turnin’ into the biggest, softest piece a chicken dirt since the Little Red Hen had a shit fit. Hell, he keeps you around just so he don’t have to go too far to find somebody he don’t have to be scared of.” Cotton grinned and slapped Willie T. on the back. Laughing uproariously, he sauntered out. A stunned Willie T. started to sink to the edge of the pool table but checked himself, out of habit, and peered over his shoulder at the door.

Brown was on his hands and knees, using a screwdriver to chisel away at the hardened accumulation of dirt, mucus, and chewing gum adhering to the underside of the rickety wooden table. With each thrust the table gave an outraged squeak and rocked back and forth on uneven legs. The room, a kitchen, was clean but bare, containing only an ancient gas stove, a dilapidated refrigerator, a stained porcelain sink, a few sagging cabinets, two chairs, the table, and Brown, who smiled in grim contentment as he chipped away at the rocklike mass. Brown had, with some difficulty, levered the window open, and a breeze blew through it bringing a teasing eddy of relative coolness into the room’s humid oppression, and, along with it, the sounds of traffic and a crying baby and the too-sweet smell of garbage rotting unprotestingly in the alley.

Brown paused and leaned back against the wall and sighed. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a long streak of dirt which turned instantly to mud as it encountered the sweat on his forehead. Brown examined the back of his hand, shrugged, and wiped it on his once-white shirt, picked up the screwdriver, and again attacked the residue beneath the table. He worked away for a few minutes, grunting and grimacing from the effort, stopping suddenly when he heard someone coming up the stairs.

Brown got quickly to his feet, moved silently toward the door. It rattled slightly as someone touched the knob. Brown flattened himself against the wall, grasped the screwdriver tightly. There was a soft, hesitant knock on the door. Brown relaxed slightly. “Come in,” he said. Nothing happened. Brown swallowed and worked his fingers on the handle of the screwdriver. He held his breath, reached out and grasped the door handle, and jerked the door open, springing back against the wall as it swung.

“Adlai?”

Brown relaxed completely, moved away from the wall, and faced the still-empty doorway. “Do come in,” he said.

She stepped gingerly across the threshold, stopped just inside the door, glanced at the peeling walls, then looked at Brown. “Hello, Adlai,” she said.

“Hi,” Brown said.

Her glance traveled around the room, lingering on each example of unsavory deterioration, settling finally on the chairs. “May I sit down?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure, sit down. Over here.” Brown held the rickety chair as she slid onto it, crossing her legs with a light screech of nylon. “Do you want something to drink? I’ve got instant coffee and some iced-tea mix. There’s nothing else except tap water and beer and the water’s awful and I know you hate beer.”

“I’ll have a beer,” she said precisely.

“A beer,” Brown said. “Right.” He took a can of beer from the refrigerator, pulled off the tab, and poured the contents into an empty jelly jar. “I don’t have any real glasses yet,” Brown said apologetically.

She looked at him, took a sip, made a face, took three or four deep swallows, and lowered the jar. “Now,” she said, “will you please tell me why you’re hiding from me or running from me or whatever it is you think you’re doing?”

Brown got another beer out of the refrigerator, taking his time about it. “Do you expect me to answer that?” he said finally. “If you do you’ll have to rephrase the question.”

She raised the jar and took a few more swallows. Brown watched her move and realized that she hadn’t started drinking with the beer. It made him feel a little stronger. She placed the jar on the table with a jerky movement of arm and hand. The liquid sloshed against the glass, fizzed angrily, subsided. “Are you coming back?” she asked.

Brown took a deep breath, closed his eyes, opened them, looked at the peeling wall. “I don’t think so,” he said. He hesitated a moment, then looked full into her face. She slumped slightly and began to cry. “Oh Jesus,” Brown said, “please, Alicia, don’t cry.” He reached over to place a hand on her shoulder.

She jerked away from him. “Shut up, Adlai,” she said. There were no tears in her voice. “I mean, God, Adlai, after all this time you stand there and tell me you don’t think you’re coming back, and I’m supposed to smile and say, yes dear, thank you dear?”

Brown took his hand away. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Go ahead and cry.”

“Thanks. Thank you very much.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, reached for her purse. Brown pulled out his handkerchief and handed it to her. She looked at it, accepted it, blew her nose. She sniffed once or twice. “What is it, Adlai? Do you think there’s something wrong with me? Do you? Please tell me if you do, because you know what? I think there’s something wrong with you. Definitely.”

Brown pulled the other chair out from under the table, twisting it around so that the back of it formed a barrier between them when he settled down astraddle it. “There’s something wrong with me,” he said. “I can’t stand being a gigolo.”

“What?”

“Gigolo. Kept man.”

“You’re a poet.”

“I’m a pet,” Brown snapped. “Example. Earl’s party. There I am in the corner. Dialogue: Oh, Doris, who’s that?
That
, darling, is Adlai Stevenson Brown, the distinguished poet. Really? I’ve never heard of him. Of
course
you haven’t, darling. He’s
obscure
! Isn’t that
divine
? You must
meet
him. He’s just like obscure poets are supposed to be—he uses dirty words and he has three names. Yes but—who’s that? Oh, that’s Miss Hadley. They’re together. She has the money. But nothing lasts forever. Come meet him.’” Brown smiled wryly.

“That’s the way you felt?” she said softly.

Brown looked at her. “No, baby, that’s not the way I felt, that’s the way it
was
. If I ever need money I’ll get Earl to be my pimp.”

“And it was all my fault.”

Exasperation danced in the corners of Brown’s eyes. “It doesn’t matter whose fault it was. What matters is what I have to do about it.”

“And my happiness doesn’t count for anything?”

“Sure,” Brown said. “But not as much as my survival. I was dyin’ up there, Alicia. Sooner or later I was maybe gonna let myself go all the way and really die. Can’t you see, I had to do something.”

“What? Live in a dump? You know what I think, Adlai? I think that’s a lot of crap, that’s what I think. Crap. Just like all the other crap you fed me, about how you were going to be one of the world’s great artists. Only you didn’t tell me the world’s great artist wanted to—to—eat like a hog and drink like a fish and—and—screw like a billy goat so he wouldn’t ever have time to produce any of that great art. Maybe that’s just as well. Maybe that art wouldn’t be so great. All you’ve done for the last year is send out old poems and line wastepaper cans. When you weren’t too drunk to find the wastepaper can.”

Brown grunted. “Well. You can always hide the bottles and have me fixed. That’ll take care of the fish and the billy goat. I don’t know about the pig, but I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

“I couldn’t have your balls cut off, Adlai. You don’t have them any more.”

Brown sighed and leaned forward, propping his chin on the back of the chair.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean that.”

Brown looked at her.

“I’m sorry. I said I was sorry.”

“A white mother complex,” Brown said musingly. “That’s what you’ve got. ‘Don’t use language like that, Adlai. Don’t drink so much, Adlai. Sex is dirty, Adlai, so don’t get a hardon. Don’t put your feet on the table, don’t pick your nose, don’t play with your shit—’”