South Street (52 page)

They sat in silence for a while. Leroy shifted his weight. The chair springs creaked in mild protest. “I hear you went coon huntin’,” Cotton said finally.

“Yeah,” Leroy said. “You sure you don’t want a drink?”

“Nah,” Cotton said. “I had enough. But you go ahead.”

“Yeah,” Leroy said. “I think I will.” The springs complained as Leroy moved. Cotton heard a drawer open and close, heard the flat rattle of thin metal on glass as Leroy opened the bottle, the gurgle as he poured, the musical tinkle of glass on glass as the bottle tapped the rim of the tumbler.

“You have any luck?” Cotton asked.

“What with?”

“The coon hunt. You find him?”

“Oh yeah,” Leroy said bitterly. “I found him all right. Found him with ma woman.” Leroy gulped his drink. “Oh, I found him all right.”

Cotton pushed himself off the edge of the pool table and stumbled to the desk. “I do believe I’ll take that drink after all.”

“Bottle’s right in front a you,” Leroy said. “You know, you sit here in the dark for a while, you get so’s you can see real good.”

“You better hand it to me,” Cotton said. “I might knock it over.” Leroy took his hand and guided it to the bottle. Cotton raised it and drank deeply.

“Don’t you be spittin’ in ma gin, now,” Leroy said. Cotton grunted and put the bottle down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and made his way back to the pool table. “Man,” Leroy said, “I’ll never be able to figure that cat out. Comes tippin’ down here like he owned the place, touches ma balls like he done up to Lightnin’ Ed’s, walks up an’ down the street,
ma
street, like he was God Almighty, takes ma woman out from under ma nose, an’ then he don’t even lock his goddamn door. Jesus! Almost like he didn’t know what the hell he was doin’. Almost like he didn’t understand—oh, hell, I don’t know. Door unlocked an’ her right there with him in the bed. I heard it squeakin’. An’ you know what else I heard? I heard her makin’ them sounds, you know? She wasn’t screamin’ or nothin’, just makin’ them little sounds, like she had the hiccups an’ couldn’t stop. She never made no sounds for me. Bitch just laid there till I was through an’ never made a goddamn sound.”

“Maybe she was fakin’,” Cotton said.

“She never even faked for me. Just waited until I was finished an’ got up an’ wiped herself off, right in front a me, like I made her dirty or somethin’.”

“Well,” Cotton said uneasily, “it don’t matter no more.”

“Nigger left the door unlocked,” Leroy said. He raised the bottle and drank.

“Maybe you oughta get laid,” Cotton suggested. “Les’s outside. She’ll fix you, up.”

“Yeah,” Leroy said.

“There anything you want me an’ Willie T. to, ah, dispose of?”

“Yeah,” Leroy said. “Here. It’s empty.”

Cotton took the bottle. Leroy stood up, groaning. “Maybe I better tell you—”

“Not now,” Leroy said.

“It’s business.”

“Not now.”

“It’s important.”

“Later.”

“Might not be no later.”

“Then it ain’t gonna make no difference.” Leroy shook himself, cleared his throat, tucked in his shirt, and walked out into the barroom. Cotton followed, grasping the empty bottle, blinking his eyes in the sudden brightness. Leroy spotted Leslie and started in her direction. Cotton went to the bar.

“Gimme another bottle, Nemo.”

“I can’t sell no more, it’s closin’ time.”

“I ain’t buyin’,” Cotton snapped. “An’ I ain’t astin’, neither. Now give me that drink. Where’s Willie T.?”

Nemo nodded to indicate the corner where Willie T. sat, silent and alone. Cotton grunted, picked up the bottle, and went over. “Don’t tell me,” Willie T. mumbled. “I’ma go to church on Sunday an’ pray.”

“It’s Sunday right now.”

“Lord Jesus have mercy,” Willie T. responded.

“Amen,” Cotton said softly. He watched absently as Nemo came around the end of the bar and went to lock the street door as an unsubtle hint that the bar was closing. Nemo reached the door, reached out for the fastening, then backed quickly away as if he had seen a rattlesnake. Blood dripped from his arm. Cotton blinked, clawed for his gun. “It’s started!” He kicked the table over and hauled Willie T. to the floor. “Get your gun out, get your gun out!”

“I want ma mama,” wailed Willie T. He wrapped his arms around Cotton’s legs. Cotton kicked himself free and cautiously raised his head over the edge of the table. Rayburn Wallace stood in the doorway, a razor glinting in his hand.

“I’m lookin’ for Leroy Briggs,” Rayburn said. “I don’t want nobody in ma road.” There was a general scramble to get out of his way. A broad avenue opened up to the table where Leroy sat with Leslie. Cotton lined his gun up on Rayburn’s chest.

“Put that away, Cotton,” Leroy called. Cotton lowered the gun but kept it ready. Leroy got up and moved toward Rayburn. He stopped ten feet away, smiled into Rayburn’s sweat-shining face. “How you doin’, Rayburn? How’s your, ah, job?” Rayburn advanced a step. Leroy held his ground, smiling, relaxed. Cotton brought his gun up again. “I told you to put that thing down,” Leroy said. “I ain’t gonna be tellin’ you no more.”

“I ain’t puttin’ nothin’ down,” Rayburn said.

“Oh, no, brother, I wasn’t talkin’ to you. I was talkin’ to ma man over there. See, he was gettin’ ready to blow your ass to kingdom come. Wasn’t you, Cotton?” Leroy looked in Cotton’s direction, but Rayburn’s gaze was steady on Leroy’s belly. The razor twitched slightly.

“Sure was,” Cotton shouted.

Rayburn’s gaze held steady.

“Me too, boss,” yelled Willie T.

Rayburn’s eyes did not flicker. “I don’t care ’bout your men. I come to get ma woman. She’s ma wife, an’ I want her back.”

“Oh yeah?” said Leroy. “Well, help yourself.” He stepped back out of the way. “There she is. Big as life an’ twice as beautiful. Great condition. She works fine. She’s all yours. I ain’t got to be hangin’ onto no woman if she don’t want to stay.”

Rayburn wet his lips nervously. “Les? Les, honey? Daddy come to take you home.”

“Shit,” Cotton muttered, and put his gun away.

“Go home, Rayburn,” Leslie said. “You’re drunk.”

Rayburn took two steps toward her. “Come with me.”

Leslie arched her eyebrows. “You givin’ me
orders
, Rayburn?”

“Please, baby,” Rayburn said.

“That’s better,” Leslie said. “If there’s anything I hate, it’s takin’ orders from a toilet cleaner.”

“I want you to come with me, baby,” Rayburn said.

Leslie got up and stepped over to him, leaned against his arm, rubbed herself against his hip. “I know you do, honey. An’ I would, ’cept for one thing. You make me sick.” She smiled sweetly and whirled around. Her short skirt spread, showing a blaze of orange panties against pale skin. “You useta make me laugh,” she said. “You was so damn funny, comin’ in smellin’ like white folks’ shit.” She looked around at the few people left in the bar. “You shoulda seen him. He’d come home an’ point to a spot on his knee an’ he’d say, ‘See this, baby? This here’s the shit a the executive vice-president.’ An’ then he’d point to a spot on his sleeve an’ he’d say, ‘See that, baby? That there’s the shit a the president.’” She smiled at Rayburn. “An’ then he’d point to his nose an’ say, ‘You see this right here? That, baby, is nothin’ else but the shit a the chairman a the board.’”

“I never said that,” Rayburn said.

“He useta call me up an’ say, ‘Guess what, baby? I just finished moppin’ the president’s private crapper. Got it real shiny. I mopped the floor with ma wooly head, an’ then I shined the tile with ma liver lips, an’ then I cleaned the toilet seat with ma tongue.’”

Rayburn took a step toward her. “I never done that.”

“But the best part,” Leslie said, giggling, “the best part was what he useta do when he got ready to fuck.”

“Shup up,” Rayburn said.

“Leroy? You know what this big nigger useta do when he got all hot? He useta—”

Rayburn grabbed Leslie’s arm and slung her across the room, following quickly, the razor slicing the air. Leroy moved to stop him. Rayburn brushed him aside.

“Oh yeah,” Leslie shouted triumphantly, “that’s just
exactly
what he done.”

Rayburn grabbed her by the hair, laid the razor against her throat. “I’ma kill you!”

“Shit,” Leslie said. Rayburn pressed the razor against her skin. A thin line of blood erupted along the blade. “Mmmm,” Leslie said. “That feels good.”

Rayburn snatched the blade away. Leslie snickered. Rayburn laid the blade flat against her cheek. “I’ll mess you up. I’ll mess you up so bad won’t nobody want you!”

“Nobody?” Leslie said calmly. “You mean nobody, or you mean nobody but you? Folks that cleans toilets can’t be too proud. Now put that thing away, I’m gettin’ tired.”

“I oughta kill you,” Rayburn said.

“You oughta kill yourself. Go home,” she said, as if she were talking to a dog.

Rayburn turned docilely, walking as if in a daze toward the door.

“Oh, Rayburn,” Leslie called sweetly. Rayburn stopped. “I just wanted to tell you, you got to be a pretty good fuck there toward the end. ’Bout once a month I got so I wasn’t even pretendin’ it was somebody else.”

Rayburn stumbled on toward the door.

“Oh, Rayburn, I left some dirty panties in the drawer. Case you get lonely, take ’em out an’ have a sniff.” Her laughter pushed him out into the night. Leslie got to her feet and looked around. “Well, Leroy, ma hero, where was you when the shit hit the fan?”

“Watchin’,” Leroy said. “Just watchin’. Cotton?”

“Yo.”

“You go an’ get some money out the safe, an’ then you an’ Willie T. take this cunt out to the airport an’ put her on the first thing goin’ beyond Chicago. Give her some money. But not enough to get back.” Leslie’s grin vanished. “Sorry, baby,” Leroy said. “I ain’t got time to be sleepin’ with cobras.”

“Fuck you,” Leslie snapped. “The trouble with you niggers is that you’re all goddamn janitors. You all cleans toilets. Every one a you.”

“Leroy?” Cotton asked, coming back with the money. “A thousand enough?”

“Make it two. Send her to Alaska.”

“Amen,” Cotton said. “While we’re goin’ out to the airport, over the river, past the junk yards, all that shit, maybe we oughta be gettin’ rid a some other trash at the same time?”

“What trash?”

“Well, you know, just, trash.”

“Cotton, what the hell—”

“Guns,” Cotton said. “Bodies. That kinda trash. Your gun an’ Brown’s body.”

“Huh?” Leroy said. “Brown ain’t dead.”

“But you said—”

“I said I went up there, an’ they was in bed. I didn’t kill him.”

“Well, why the hell not?” demanded Cotton.

“Well, how the hell should I know? Maybe I didn’t feel like shootin’ a man while he was fuckin’. Maybe I just wasn’t in the mood.” Leslie snickered. “Get her outa here,” Leroy said.

“Sure, Leroy, sure,” Cotton said, and hauled Leslie unceremoniously out the door.

B
ROWN SAT SILENTLY AT
the table, sipping coffee from a cracked cup. He made a face, reached for the sugar, and dumped in two more spoonfuls, tasted the coffee again, and nodded. “You gonna make yourself sick, takin’ all that sugar,” Vanessa told him. “All that sugar’s bad for you.”

“You’re always so concerned about ma health,” Brown said. “You ma insurance company or somethin’?”

“Or somethin’,” Vanessa said. Brown chuckled. Vanessa sighed. “I’ll get you some brown sugar tomorrow. Brown sugar ain’t as bad for you.” Brown grinned at her lecherously, reached out a hand. “Quit that, now,” Vanessa snapped. “How you want your eggs? Straight up or over easy?”

“How ’bout one straight up an’ one over easy?”

“I tole you to quit that,” Vanessa said crisply. She broke the yolks and pan-scrambled Brown’s eggs, slid them onto a plate, and put them in front of him. Brown looked at them. “What’s the matter?” Vanessa demanded. “Somethin’ wrong with them eggs?”

“No,” Brown said quickly. He began to eat.

“Can’t be sendin’ you up there to that woman with an empty stomach.” Brown paused, glanced at her, then went on eating.

“I guess she cooked all kinds of fancy shit for you, huh?” Vanessa said.

“No,” Brown said. “Most a the time I cooked fancy shit for her. Her family had hired help. She never learned to cook.”

“Oh,” Vanessa said acidly. “She had hired help. I’m sorry I never had no hired help.”

“That’s okay,” Brown said charitably. “You can’t cook any bettern her.”

“I ever tell you you was a bastard?” Vanessa inquired.

“I do seem to recall,” Brown said. Vanessa opened her mouth. “I also,” Brown cut in, “recall what comes next: fifteen seconds of angry glances followed by two and a half minutes of tears followed immediately if not sooner by a quarter hour’s dissertation on how you ain’t good enough in bed or smart enough in the head an’ had to quit school at fifteen an’ screw everybody that had the price an’ how I’m wastin’ maself with you an’ how you know deep down inside that I can’t hardly wait to get away. Excuse me, ma’am, but I am a little bit tired a that stale bullshit.” He grinned. “I even prefer your eggs.”

“It ain’t bullshit,” Vanessa snapped. “You’re goin’, ain’t you?”

Brown sighed. “Yes. I’m going. I’m going to a cocktail party. You want to come?”

“No,” Vanessa said. “I just want to know why you have to go.”

“I don’t
have
to go,” Brown said.

“You want to go.”

“Not exactly.”

“Then what the hell you goin’ for?”

Brown looked at her for a minute, looked down at his plate, pushed it away. “To get a decent meal.”

“You’re full a shit,” Vanessa said.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Tough shit, babycakes,” Vanessa said. “
I
want to talk about it.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“But I do.”

“Well then, you just go ahead an’ talk about it,” Brown snapped. “I ain’t figured out how to shut you up anyways.”

“You ain’t hardly taken the time. Shit, I don’t know why I want to bother. You know, nigger, you’re beginnin’ to make me mad. Who the hell you think you are? You know what you are? You’re one a them outside agitators—”

“Oh, Lord.”

“—come down here stirrin’ up people’s lives—”