South Street (48 page)

“No,” said Brother Fletcher gently, “I wouldn’t think so.”

“An’ if he hic can’t hic marry hic me,” said Sister Fundidia, “I’m hic ruined!”

“You mean—”

“I hic raped him hic,” Sister Fundidia confessed.

“I see,” Brother Fletcher said gravely.

“Hic,” said Sister Fundidia.

Mrs. Fletcher entered carrying sugar, milk, and three steaming mugs on a painted tray. Under one arm she held a brown paper bag.

“What’s that for?” asked Brother Fletcher.

Mrs. Fletcher set the tray down and looked at him haughtily. “Anybody with good sense knows there ain’t but one cure for the hiccups.”

“A paper bag?” demanded Brother Fletcher scornfully. “Pshaw.”

Mrs. Fletcher looked at him, smiled knowingly, and turned to Sister Fundidia. “Don’t you pay no attention to him, honey, he’s a
man
. Now you just blow into this bag. Fill it right up an’ don’t let the air out.”

“Hic,” said Sister Fundidia. She accepted the bag, plastered it over her mouth, and began to blow into it with great enthusiasm.

“Jehoshaphat,” mused Brother Fletcher. Sister Fundidia completed her task, and Mrs. Fletcher took the bag carefully and strolled around behind the sofa. “You say his name is Jehoshaphat, Sister?”

“Hic,” agreed Sister Fundidia.

“I told you that wouldn’t work,” Brother Fletcher said.

“Hic,” said Sister Fundidia apologetically.

Mrs. Fletcher slammed her free hand against the bottom of the bag which she was holding three inches from Sister Fundidia’s left ear. Sister Fundidia let out a howl like a strangling cat and leaped two feet into the air. She landed back on the sofa and bounced heavily. Her breasts bobbed like balloons in a high wind. “It’s the only way to get rid of the hiccups,” Mrs. Fletcher explained to her startled husband.

“Hic,” said Sister Fundidia.

“‘It’s the only way to get rid of hiccups,’” said Brother Fletcher.

Mrs. Fletcher ignored him and sat down on the other side of Sister Fundidia. “Sugar, dear?” she said.

“Yes hic please,” said Sister Fundidia. “Only …”

“Only what?” said Mrs. Fletcher.

“It just hic don’t seem hic right, us drinkin’ hic coffee while the hic Reverend’s in hic jail hic.”

“What?” exclaimed Brother Fletcher. “You mean Jehoshaphat is—”

“He hic
said
it was hic all hic right to call him hic Je hic hoshaphat hic,” Sister Fundidia said quickly. “But hic,” she added, “maybe he hic meant hic only hic when we hic was hic a hic lone.”

“I think maybe he did, honey,” Mrs. Fletcher said softly. She looked at Brother Fletcher. Brother Fletcher looked at her. Mrs. Fletcher began to giggle.

“Harriette, this is serious,” admonished Brother Fletcher. “The man’s in prison.”

“Sure is serious,” agreed Mrs. Fletcher. “They might make a mistake an’ let him loose.”

Brother Fletcher glared at her. Mrs. Fletcher covered her mouth with both hands and giggled more quietly. Brother Fletcher turned to Sister Fundidia. “Now, Sister, I want you to be calm. Are you calm?”

“Hic,” said Sister Fundidia.

“Good, good,” said Brother Fletcher. “Now I want you to tell us everything.”

“Every hic thing?” said Sister Fundidia uncertainly.

“Yes,” giggled Mrs. Fletcher, “every hic thing.”

“I don’t see what’s so funny about a man being in jail,” Brother Fletcher snapped.

Mrs. Fletcher stopped laughing instantly. “You’re right,” she said. “It’s not funny. It’s not funny when a chicken is in a hen house, so it isn’t funny when Sloan’s in jail.”

Brother Fletcher shook his head and turned back to Sister Fundidia. “All right, Sister, go ahead.” Sister Fundidia launched into her story, punctuating it with hiccups. “He was taking you to the Caribbean?” interrupted Brother Fletcher.

“Hic,” nodded Sister Fundidia. “See, hic, it was all my hic fault about the hic other, but he hic said we could get hic married as soon as we hic got hic back hic. He was real hic good about it. Hic.”

“You say you raped him,” said Mrs. Fletcher bluntly. “Just how did you do that?”

“Well I don’t hic remember for hic sure,” admitted Sister Fundidia. “I was hic unconscious at the hic time. I wouldn’ta hic known at hic all but the Reverend hic told hic me.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Fletcher. “I hic see.”

“All right,” said Brother Fletcher, “now you said you were just about to leave for the airport when the police came?”

“That’s hic right,” said Sister Fundidia. “An’ then I hic ran right hic here.”

“Didn’t the police say anything?”

“Oh hic yes,” said Sister Fundidia. “They hic said a hic lot. They hic said somebody had hic tipped them hic off and that hic they were hic taking him hic back hic.”

“Back?” said Brother Fletcher. “Back. Well, Sister, what did he say?”

“I hic wouldn’t wanna repeat it, hic, but he was mighty hic up hic set.”

“I’ll just bet,” Mrs. Fletcher said, standing up. “Sister, I think you should come on in the bedroom and lay down for a while. You’ve had a hard time.” She took Sister Fundidia firmly by the hand.

“But what about hic Je hic Reverend hic Sloan?”

“Don’t you worry,” Mrs. Fletcher said. “I’ll make certain the Reverend gets all the help he’s got comin’.” She smiled grimly and led Sister Fundidia off to the bedroom.

Brother Fletcher got up and went to stare out the window at the clot of winos gathered in front of the liquor store. “Back,” he said musingly. “Back.”

Mrs. Fletcher returned from the bedroom and sat down on the sofa. “I wonder what they caught him for. Is there a law against sellin’ you mother?”

Brother Fletcher turned away from the window. “The question is,” he said, “what to do about it.”

“Why do anything?”

“Well I’ve got to do
something
.”

“Why? Seems to me somebody already did something. You’re always sayin’ God moves in mysterious ways. Now what could be more mysterious than the Philadelphia Police Department?”

Brother Fletcher looked at her. “They that hunger and thirst after righteousness shall be filled,” he said softly. “Maybe it does work.”

“Of course it does,” Mrs. Fletcher said. “All you got to do is figure out what it did. This time it gave you a church.”

“I suppose so,” said Brother Fletcher. “But that’s not really important. What’s important is that it works.”

“Fletcher,” Mrs. Fletcher said, “you know half the time I don’t understand you at all.” She got up and went over and planted a soupy kiss on his cheek.

The fan in the ceiling cast floating shadows over the lobby of the Elysium Hotel. A few feet away the evening’s festivities were well under way in the cocktail lounge, and the doorway that led from lobby to bar exhaled tobacco smoke, music, laughter, and the odor of alcohol. The desk clerk, bent over an Arabic edition of the Koran, wrinkled his flat nose in pious distaste.

It was a few minutes after ten when Cotton came in. “Where the hell’s Leroy?” Cotton said without preliminaries.

The desk clerk looked up. “Mr. Briggs is out.”

“Where’d he go?”

“He went, quote, Brown huntin’, unquote. He left shortly after you this morning.”

“Oh, Jesus! Didn’t Willie T. tell him what I said?”

“In the words of the Prophet—”

“Fuck the Prophet,” Cotton said.

“—never trust an infidel to behave with honor.” The desk clerk smiled serenely.

Cotton moved closer and peered suspiciously at his eyes. “You been into the camel shit again, ain’t you, Mohammed?”

“I have not—”

“Shut up. I gotta think. Cotton paced the lobby for a few minutes. “That Willie T., didn’t he even
try
an’ stop Leroy?”

“He said, quote, Cotton can kiss his own damn rattlesnakes, unquote.”

“Well, why didn’t you say somethin’?”

“If it is the will of Allah—” said the desk clerk. He stopped when Cotton tapped him firmly over the belly button.

“Now you listen here, Mr. Hophead X, if I don’t get ahold a Leroy before he gets ahold a Brown you best be worryin’ about your will, ’stead a Allah’s.” The desk clerk smiled serenely. “Where’s Willie T.?” Cotton barked.

“I have been immersed in the waters of Truth and can pay no attention to the comings and goings of minnows.”

Cotton stared at the ceiling, grinding his teeth. “How much a that shit did you smoke?”

“Only a fool attempts to count the sands of the desert.”

“My God,” Cotton groaned.

“Were I to guess,” the desk clerk continued, “and I would only guess under duress, but were I to guess, I would surmise that Willie T. is somewhere like the North Carolina Bar-B-Q, busily reserving his place in Hell by feasting on pork chops.”

“If you don’t quit monkeyin’ around an’ give me some straight answers, I’m a shove a pork chop up your ass an’ send you to Hell backwards,” Cotton told him. “Now, do you know where Willie is, or don’t you?”

“He went out. With Leroy.”

“Oh, shit.”

“He returned, without Leroy.”

“So he’s here?”

“No.” Cotton ground his teeth. “He went out again.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. But”—the desk clerk raised a finger—“he came back. But”—he lowered his finger—“he went out again.”

“Did he stay out?” Cotton asked.

The desk clerk wrinkled his nose. “He went out with Charlene. In the words of the Prophet, a man who will sup on unclean animals will also—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Cotton said, “an’ ain’t no damn prophet never said that.”

“You don’t know what the Prophet said,” the desk clerk said. “You can’t read English, let alone Arabic.”

“Two courses at Community fuckin’ College don’t make you the Sheik a Araby,” Cotton snapped. “Now you listen. If Leroy comes back you keep him here, you understand? Keep him here. If you don’t, this place is gonna be one big pork roast, you dig?” Cotton started toward the door.

“Allah,” said the desk clerk, “will protect his own.”

Cotton shook his head, snorted, and trundled out the door.

“Hey, Leo, how about a lil drinkee-drink?”

Leo, his features already twisted into a mask of distaste, glanced as briefly as possible into the simpering face of Elmo. “Y’already had too much,” Leo said.

Elmo looked hurt. “Whatsa matter, doncha like Elmo?”

“Sure he does,” Big Betsy broke in. “We all like you. Course,” she went on thoughtfully, “we’d like you a lot better if you was someplace else. Like Texas. Y’oughta go out west, Elmo. They got lotsa rattlesnakes out west. It ain’t good to be separated from your own kind.” She turned to Leo. “Don’t give him nothin’,” she advised.

“I gotta serve him,” Leo said in disgust. “It’s the law or somethin’. Sometimes I think them segregationists got a point. What you want, Elmo?”

“Beer,” Elmo said, pushing money across the bar with a grubby hand.

Leo drew the beer, set it up. “Now you listen, Elmo, I don’t wanna hear one damn word outa you. ’Specially not to Rayburn.”

“Rayburn’s here?” Elmo gulped.

“Sure is,” Betsy said. “Now ain’t you got an urgent appointment in Timbuctoo?”

“No,” Elmo said.

“Well I do.” Big Betsy lowered herself from the stool and, holding her nose, waddled away.

“You know, Leo,” Elmo said, “I don’t care too much for the way you treat me. Every time I come in here you be shovin’ me out ’fore I even get in the door. Makes me feel like I was on a merry-go-round. Ma beer don’t settle right. I get a belly full a gas.”

“Aww,” Leo said. “That’s too bad. Don’t hardly leave enough room for the shit. Try puttin’ it in your head, ’cause that’s stone empty.”

“Well,” Elmo said, “that may be, but ma empty head has the idea that maybe if you was to treat me a little better, I might see ma way clear to not doin’ ma duty, which is to tell Rayburn where his run-off wife done run off to. You see what I mean?”

Leo gave him a look of grudging admiration mingled with acid disgust. “Elmo, I got to hand it to you, you had everybody fooled. They all said you was a prick, but what you are is a cunt. With crabs.” Elmo glared. “But,” Leo continued, “I do see your point. Only I wouldn’t want to stand in the way of a man doin’ his duty, so I tell you what you do. You tell Rayburn where that bitch is. Then he goes chargin’ outa here to get Leroy, an’ he might just do it, too. Rayburn moves real nice with that razor.” Leo paused to suck in air through his teeth. “Or maybe Leroy beats the shit outa Rayburn. Now that’s bad for Rayburn, but it’s all right for me, ’cause then I’ll have the best excuse in the world to split you open from the top a your head to the crack a your ass. Either way, there’s gonna be one less muthafucka on South Street. You, ah”—Leo pitched his voice high to imitate Elmo’s whine—“see what I mean?” Leo grinned and turned away.

Elmo smiled evilly and waited until Leo had taken a few steps. “Ain’t you got enough funerals to go to?”

Leo stopped and turned slowly. “Elmo, I’m tired a your shit.”

“You don’t act like a man in mournin’, Leo,” Elmo giggled.

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“Aw,” Elmo said, “ain’t you heard? Your buddy the wino kicked off this mornin’, early. Died of an overdose a livin’. You can’t imagine how I hate to be the one has to tell you.” Elmo grinned at Leo’s stricken face and took a sip of beer.

Leo put his side towel down and leaned on the bar, seeming to shrink slightly. The noise in Lightnin’ Ed’s rolled on unabated, although a few faces turned to look at Leo’s bent form. Brown came through the open door and took a seat next to Elmo. “What’s wrong with Leo?” Brown said.

“Leo just got some bad news,” Elmo said.

“Jake?”

Elmo nodded solemnly. “I think it mighta hit poor Leo pretty hard.”

Brown got up and went over to Leo, put a hand on his arm. “Leo?”

“It ain’t true,” Leo mumbled.

“It’s true,” Brown said. “I’m sorry, Leo.”

“Are you
sure
?”

“I’m sure.”

“I can’t believe it,” Leo said. He swallowed heavily, looked at Brown, shook his head. “I don’t know what to do. What should I do, Brown?”

“I don’t know, Leo, I don’t think there’s anything you
can
do.”

“There’s gotta be somethin’,” Leo said. He wiped his big hands on his stained apron, looked around. He nodded to himself, bent over, and pulled the switch that controlled the jukebox. The music died.