South Street (23 page)

It was a hot afternoon. The sun burned in a sky so blue it seemed that the color had been pounded into it with a sledgehammer. Waves of heat hung shimmering above the roofs of parked cars, reflected off the windshields of moving ones in quick, sharp glints. The rolling tires made kissing sounds as they pulled away from the insistent grasp of heat-softened asphalt. The bellowing exhaust from the number forty bus was a slightly warmer, dirtier current in the sea of hot, filthy air. In the transom space over the door of Bad Boy Bob’s Bar-B-Q an exhaust fan labored, sending the aroma of sweet-sour sauce dancing out onto the street to the beat of one bent blade that banged against part of the housing. Bad Boy Bob switched the fan to high, and the beat quickened while everything else in sight slowed down. The winos congregating near a burned-out boarded-up bashed-in storefront sank back against the grimy wall and basked like black snakes in the sun’s heat. Fast Freddy fingered his slips and waited for the Man; business had been brisk but Fast Freddy had the uncomfortable feeling that somebody was going to hit him big. Harry the Hype, swathed in sweaters, hung onto a parking meter, waiting for his connection. Despite the heat Harry the Hype was shivering—a junkie has no summer. Upstairs in the Elysium, Cotton climbed out of his bed, lumbered down the hall to the men’s room, entered a stall, and emitted clouds of flatulence, two blobs of feces, and grunts of orgasmic satisfaction. Mrs. Fletcher pushed her shopping cart along the burning sidewalk, the perspiration on her skin making her clothes wet and heavy. Rayburn Wallace sat before his living-room window, staring out at the silver sparkle of a jet as it lined out for the other side of the world. Leslie, draped across the broken-down sofa, dressed only in her panties, flipped through the pages of
Black Stars
magazine and nibbled on a Hershey bar. In the cool dark interior of Lightnin’ Ed’s the afternoon crowd watched the Phillies losing another game to the Pittsburgh Pirates. Brother Fletcher, his conscience sleeping through the hot afternoon, clutched a frosty mug of Schmidt’s beer and groaned along with everyone else as the Phillies slid into undisputed possession of the National League cellar. The Reverend Mr. J. Peter Sloan rolled down the Delaware River Expressway into the city, the air-conditioner of his Lincoln Continental going full blast, his stereo tape player pounding out James Brown’s latest, which bore a striking resemblance to James Brown’s previous. In her twenty-third floor apartment Alicia Hadley, Ph.D., tried to concentrate on the paper she was preparing for possible publication in the journal of the Modern Language Association, entitled “Reflections of the Nonviolent Civil Rights Movement in Contemporary Black Poetry.” Leroy Briggs lay on his king-size mattress, his tiger-striped sheets twisting around his ankles as his pumping legs fought to carry him clear of the dangers lurking in his dreams. Adlai Stevenson Brown, occupation bartender, stood in the air-conditioned coolness of Frankie’s Place, scribbling fragments of poetry on paper napkins. Patrolman Mario Arbruzzi completed the grisly process of hauling one corpse, property of the late Louis P. DiGeorgio, retired bartender, out of the Delaware River. Big Betsy considered a problem of fluidics—how to get both her body and sufficient water with which to wash it into a bathtub at the same time. Willie T. cruised down South Street in Leroy’s Cadillac, checking the action and searching for any signs of invasion by Gino’s Italian Army. The city panted through hot August Friday. The rivers oozed downstream, fighting sluggishly against the awesome pressure of the incoming tide. At desks and tables and benches and counters and consoles workers paused and sighed and thanked God it was Friday. In Center City Friday was the end day, and the buildings, the streets, the sidewalks would rest through Saturday and Sunday and come to choking life on Monday morning. On South Street Friday was the beginning and the asphalt panted in preparation.

The sun scorched its way down the western half of the sky, trailing red haze across a wino’s vision, imprinting afterimages on the eyes of the no longer suffering Harry the Hype, who, connection made, eased northward to wait for the avalanche of evening pleasure-seekers with their snatchable purses loaded with cash if he were lucky, with credit cards if he were not. Alicia Hadley stepped from her shower and began half-heartedly to prepare for an evening out with a caramel-skinned stockbroker named Wendell Isaac Whyte. A sheepish and slightly inebriated Brother Fletcher hurried home, his clerical collar somewhat bent out of shape. A soaked and scrubbed but still odoriferous Big Betsy armored her face for the evening’s campaign. Cotton considered the remains of a sixteen-ounce steak done hardly at all, sighed, and ordered another. Rayburn Wallace slipped a sandwich and an apple into a brown paper bag, kissed his sleeping wife on her sweating forehead, and left for work. Willie T., wincing, paid for refilling the cavernous gas tank of Leroy’s car. The Reverend Mr. J. Peter Sloan, sipping brandy on the rocks, listened to a recording of the previous month’s Love Feast, savoring the sound of his own cultured voice reproduced in stereophonic sound. Leslie woke from her afternoon nap, called Rayburn’s name, smiled when there was no answer. Mrs. Fletcher stared as her husband rushed into the apartment and went directly to the bathroom without stopping to say hello. Fast Freddy sat contentedly in a corner of the Elysium’s lounge, sipping beer and thanking God that no stupid nigger had managed to hit the number. Adlai Stevenson Brown hung up his apron, accepted his pay in cash from Frankie, and said good-bye. He shoved the money into his shoe, stuffed a mass of paper napkins into his pocket, and stepped out onto the street.

The hot afternoon air struck Brown like a foam-rubber-covered fist. Sweat sprang out on his brow and ran from beneath his arms. He crossed Walnut Street into Rittenhouse Square, dodging a well-dressed woman walking a carefully clipped poodle, and continued on across the Square on the diagonal, coming out on Eighteenth Street. By that time the heat had begun to feel good to him.

Brown moved along through the ranks of redbrick townhouses and then, quite suddenly, entered the half block of dilapidation that preceded South Street. Each day, walking home, Brown had marveled at the speed of the change from prosperity to poverty, from neat to ramshackle, from white to black. It was not at all like the transition from day to night: there was no modulation like dusk, or dawn. It was more like the snapping of a switch, the crossing of a threshold. It was the sharply illustrated difference between inside and outside, and it was the sharpness of it that bothered Brown more than the change. And the change bothered him a great deal. It bothered him that there was a change at all, and it bothered him that he changed as he crossed: spoke differently, smiled differently, cursed differently, perhaps even thought differently and felt differently. It was as if, crossing the visible border, Brown left something like a piece of luggage in a coin locker, and on the other side he picked up the piece of luggage he had deposited there at his last crossing. Brown turned left onto South Street and headed toward the apartment he had rented. On his way he passed the Elysium Hotel and recalled that he was out of beer. He retreated into a sheltering doorway and, concealed from the eyes of the ungodly, worked his pay envelope out of his shoe. He transferred a ten to his pants pocket, shoved the envelope back, and crossed the street. He entered the Elysium, ordered a six to go, and walked out again. The event did not go unnoticed. Willie T. saw him.

Willie T. was consumed by zeal and was impressed with the need for quick and definitive action. He put down his glass of Coca-Cola on the rocks and let his mouth drop open. “Did you see that nigger?” Willie T. demanded.

“Who?” said Charlene, who was engaged in a subtle seduction, rubbing her left thigh against Willie T.’s leg and pressing her left breast against Willie T.’s arm. “What you talkin’ ’bout, honey?”

“That was that sonofabitch Brown,” said Willie T.

“He the one that’s got you boys on the rag?” Charlene inquired.

Willie T. spun around and laid his open hand against Charlene’s temple. Charlene’s eyes rolled dazedly for a few moments. “Don’t talk dirty,” snapped Willie T. “That’s all you silly cunts are good for, drinkin’ an’ smokin’ an’ fuckin’ an’ talkin’ dirty. You cut it out, now, you hear?”

“You hurt me,” protested Charlene.

“Did not,” denied Willie T. “If there’s one place I can hit you without worryin’ ’bout doin’ no harm it’s upside the head.”

“Damn,” said Charlene. “You act as if I was the one runnin’ you off the Street.”

“Why you …” Willie T. raised his hand again.

“I was just kiddin’, Willie baby, honest I was!” Charlene squealed.

Willie T. lowered his hand, giving the rest of the barroom a disdainful look. “Don’t kid,” Willie T. said. Charlene nodded humbly.

“Well, Willie, I see you’re followin’ in Leroy’s tracks like always, an’ beatin’ on women.”

Willie T. turned at the sound of Vanessa’s voice. “I guess you wishin’ you did have somebody to beat you,” Willie T. said.

“You volunteerin’?”

“No,” said Charlene emphatically.

“Maybe,” said Willie T.

“Sorry,” said Vanessa, “you ain’t hardly big enough. Why you just stick to kissin’ Leroy’s behind?”

“Why don’t you go to hell?” said Willie T.

“Why don’t I shit on a plate so you can have a hot meal?” suggested Vanessa.

Willie T. choked on his Coca-Cola. “See what I mean? You can’t do nothin’ but screw an’ drink an’ talk dirty. An’
you
”—he glared at Vanessa—“can’t even screw right.”

Vanessa swallowed and her jaw tightened. “You shut your mouth, nigger, or I’ll—”

“Sure, baby, sure. I got to be goin’ to see Leroy ’bout that Brown now.” He grinned at Vanessa triumphantly.

“You do whatever you want,” Vanessa said tightly, “only get outa ma sight.”

“What you think Leroy gonna do, baby?” Charlene said.

“Oh, now, I don’t know,” said Willie T. He leaned back against the bar. “We got him kinda calmed down, but Leroy ain’t gonna like that joker just walkin’ on in here an’ gettin’ a six-pack.”

“Shit,” said Vanessa. “You mean to tell me Leory’s done started a local chapter of the AA?”

“With regards to Mr. Jokerass Brown,” said Willie T., “it’s more likely Leroy’s gonna be buyin’ him a life membership in Fraternal Order a Crippleass Niggers. Leroy ain’t fond a the joker, an’ when Leroy ain’t fond a somebody, that just ain’t too cool for somebody. As you”—Willie T. paused to favor Vanessa with a bright smile—“well know.”

“Leroy’s still fond a me,” Vanessa said. “He just forgets sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Willie T. agreed. “Leroy told me you was one a the most forgettable moments in his life.”

“Tut, tut, tut. Sad, ain’t it? Leroy done forgot about what you ain’t never gonna get a whiff of.”

“Ain’t hard to get a whiff,” Willie T. said. “All you gots to do is stand downwind.”

“That ain’t me you smellin’,” Vanessa told him. “That’s the shit on your nose from where Leroy stopped a little sudden.”

Willie T. gritted his teeth. “Maybe after me an’ Leroy takes care a this Brown fool, maybe we’ll just keep on goin’ an’ take care a you.”

“Humph. That’s some combination,” said Vanessa. “Leroy an’ you. Sounds like Sampson an’ his ass’s jawbone.”

“Oh, they need a good combination,” Charlene said. “Brown’s the dude that’s got Leroy runnin’ scared.”

“Leroy ain’t runnin’ noways, I done told you that,” snapped Willie T.

“What did you say?” demanded Vanessa.

“I said Leroy ain’t runnin’—”

“Not you, fool. Whad you say, Charl?”

“I just said Brown was the dude”—Charlene hesitated and looked uneasily at Willie T.—“uh, that Brown’s the one Willie T.’s gonna run right into the river.”

“Um hum,” said Willie T. in satisfaction. “Gonna run him clean to Camden. With,” he added modestly, “a little hep from ma friends.”

“He’s here now?” said Vanessa excitedly. “Where?”

“Nah,” Willie T. said, “the cat done split. Took one look at me an’ ran like a preacher after a plate a fried chicken.”

“Damn,” said Vanessa, “I wish I’d a seen him.”

“He wasn’t nothin’ to see,” Charlene said. “Scrawny-lookin’ dude, didn’t look like he could scare piss outa a baby. Wonder what he done to scare Leroy?”

“Goddammit, woman, how many times do I have to tell you, Leroy ain’t scared. He’s just bidin’ his time. One a these nights we gonna trot on up there an’ wring this fool’s neck like he was a Christmas turkey. …”

“On up where?”

“Why, up to your sister’s place,” said Willie T. “I got it all figured out. See, Leroy goes up the front steps an’ I climbs up the—”

“Hey, ’Nessa!” shouted Charlene.

“Humph,” said Willie T. “Wonder where that silly bitch is off to?”

“I’d say she was off to visit her sister,” Charlene said.

“Damn sister better get her ass around here,” said Willie T., glancing at his Timex. “Leroy gonna be wantin’ her.” He settled himself on the bar stool, pressing against Charlene. “Hey,” he said, straightening suddenly, “you don’t think she’s gonna tip Brown off or nothin’, do you?”

Charlene leaned over and blew into Willie T.’s ear. “How come we always got to be talkin’ ’bout these other folks, sweetie? Let’s talk about you an’ me.”

“All right, mama,” said Willie T. obligingly. “I don’t mind if we does.” Willie T. smiled seductively and pressed closer to Charlene.

Love Feast night at The Word of Life. The Reverend Mr. J. Peter Sloan felt a deep flush of affection for himself as he watched the congregation fill the theater. Mr. Sloan motioned to his acolytes and stepped into his air-conditioned dressing room. He removed his baby-blue bell-bottom trousers and handed them to an acolyte. He slipped off his gold Bradley-collared orlon shirt and handed that to a second acolyte. He sat down and raised his feet and allowed a third acolyte to remove his authentic Mohawk moccasins. From still another acolyte he accepted a rich purple robe of spun cotton and rayon and shrugged into it. He sat down again and allowed the boy to place a pair of high sandals on his feet and lace them up, and then Mr. Sloan rose again and took from the hands of still another acolyte a silver chalice filled with chilled red wine. The Reverend Mr. Sloan tipped his head back and drank deeply. As the boy carried the cup away Mr. Sloan reached out and patted him benevolently on the rump.