South Street (8 page)

Brown chuckled. “The Man lives on ma ass. You see into bedrooms with that thing?”

“Don’t need to,” Speedy said. “Hell, I can imagine a lot bettern most a these here white folks can fuck. Course there’s exceptions, like that there blond bitch, what’s her name …”

“I know who you mean,” Brown said.

Speedy gave him an appraising look. “Oh yeah? You been into that, too?”

“What you mean, ‘too’?”

“Oh, nothin’. Just that, way I hears it, when her husband ain’t home, which, just ’tween you an’ me, is mostly, she don’t like nothin’ bettern to go out huntin’ for some black—”

“No thanks,” Brown said. “It’s all yours.”

“Hell, I’m too old for that,” Speedy said.

“So am I,” Brown said. “By about three hundred an’ fifty years.”

“Yeah, well,” Speedy said. “Anyways, I can imagine what goes on.”

“Well, you keep on imaginin’ an’ keep that damn TV set outa ma bedroom.”

“Course, ma man,” Speedy said. “Wouldn’t spy on a brother. Now the super—”

“Shit,” Brown said, and turned to push the button for the elevator.

“Your woman lookin’ for you again last night,” Speedy said. “I said I didn’t know where you was.”

“Umph,” Brown said. “How come it takes this elevator all damn day to get nowhere?”

“South Street again?”

“Shit,” Brown said, stabbing at the button again.

“Man,” Speedy said, “if I was you I’d stay the hell away from there. That street’s a stone bitch. I ’member once upon a time the city was gonna fix it up. Turn the whole damn place into a what you call garden spot. Townhouses, playgrounds, good schools, all that shit. So they went to work an’ condemned all the buildin’s, drove out all the business. Makin’ way for the white folks. That whole street turned into a cemetery. Everybody was livin’ on borrowed time. Then the city changed its mind. Wasn’t nothin’ left but sorry-ass niggers that couldn’t afford nothin’ else.”

Brown looked at him. “It’s an old story. It happens everywhere.”

“Sure do,” Speedy agreed. “Every day in every way. Trouble with niggers is they gets old ’fore they gets tired.”

The elevator door slid open and Brown stepped inside, punched a button. “You watch that bitch,” Speedy said. “She’ll get a hold on you, turn you every way but a-loose.”

“Which bitch?” Brown asked, as the door slid shut. The car boosted him upward, the doors opened again, Brown stepped out into a carpeted corridor. Walking down the hallway, Brown self-consciously wiped his face, patted his hair. He went to a door halfway along the hall, inserted his key, stepped inside, shivering at the sudden chill; the air-conditioning in the lobby and corridor had been reasonable, but the apartment unit was turned up too high. Brown hated air-conditioning. He longed to cut the unit off, but it wasn’t his air-conditioner. It wasn’t his apartment either.

Brown crossed the carpeted living room, entered the bedroom, shucked off his sweat suit and shorts, slipping into an ancient blue terry-cloth robe that was ripped out under both arms, moving quietly so as not to disturb the woman who lay on the bed, her body concealed by the white sheet. Brown looked at her for a few moments, watching the rise and fall of the sheet as she breathed, then he picked up his soggy running clothes and carried them back through the living room and out onto the balcony. He didn’t feel tired any more. He felt strong and quick and he giggled softly as the carpet rubbed against the bottom of his feet. A small spark of electricity arced from his hand to the metal handle of the sliding door; Brown winced, slid the door open, stepped out onto the tile, and stood in the hot sunshine while he draped his wet clothing over the rail. He squinted up into the sun, lowered his eyes to look out over the city, the ugly refineries in the south, the treed jungle of Fairmount Park to the north, and, to the east, the spires of Center City. Brown’s eyes wandered slightly south, along Spruce Street until it reached the Schuylkill. He snorted and turned away.

Brown sat in the living room, in a big white beanbag chair, feeling bored. He got up, went back into the bedroom. The woman slept on beneath the sheet. Brown looked at her for a while, then slipped out of his robe and moved around to the far side of the bed. He started to lift the sheet and ease in beside her but hesitated. He drew his hand back. Then he set his jaw and slid onto the bed. He lay there, his still-sweaty skin sticking to the sheet, pulling slightly as he moved, sending a hand sliding out, laying it across her, his fingers brushing the tuft of hair at the base of her belly. Brown felt his body start to hum, felt strength flow into him. The hesitation vanished, he began to move with almost infinite patience. Carefully, slowly, he moved his hand over her, lightly stroking the flesh between her navel and the swell of her breasts. He raised himself up on his elbow and waited, almost bored. She moaned sleepily and turned away; Brown, unperturbed, stroked her haunch. His hand moved slowly. His thoughts were elsewhere.

The Reverend Mr. J. Peter Sloan watched as the matron cleaned up the smashed glass and smashed parts of the demolished amplifier. The sight of her bent over, sweeping, giving a panoramic view of her broad white-uniformed rear end, with fleshy legs squeezed and a roll of blubber pushed out over the top of her support stockings like toothpaste out of a tube, was enough to make Mr. Sloan faint. The matron finished her sweeping and laid her broom aside. Groaning and creaking, she eased herself down onto one knee and began to wipe the carpet with a damp cloth.

“That will do, Sister,” said the Reverend Mr. Sloan.

“Gotta get this here glass up,” she said in no uncertain terms. “Can’t have people cuttin’ they feet.”

“It’s carpet,” Mr. Sloan said. “That won’t help.”

The matron continued to wipe.

“That will do,” said the Reverend Mr. Sloan sharply.

The matron looked back over her shoulder and scowled at him, her face above her ponderous posterior making her look like a misformed snowman. “All right,” she said, “but if you cuts your foot open, don’t you come cryin’ to me.”

“I’m not likely to cut my foot unless I go walking around barefoot, now am I?” snapped the Reverend Mr. Sloan.

The matron looked at him, then at the studio couch at the other end of the office. “Yeah,” she said, “I ’spect you’ll be all right so long as you keep everythin’ on all the time.” The Reverend Mr. Sloan glared at her. She unconcernedly levered herself to her feet, gathered up her cloth, broom, and dust pan, and departed. Mr. Sloan cursed in a most un-Christian manner and went back behind his desk, stabbed a button on his panel. Thirty seconds later his first assistant stood before him. The Reverend Mr. Sloan looked up from his watch. “Getting a bit slow in our old age, aren’t we, Fletcher?” said the Reverend Mr. Sloan.

“Sorry,” said Brother Fletcher.

“Never mind,” said Mr. Sloan graciously. “You have important responsibilities today. Have you prepared the sermon?”

Brother Fletcher nodded silently. His jaw muscles bulged slightly as he clenched his teeth.

“Good, good,” said Mr. Sloan jovially. “No, no need to show it to me. I have complete faith in your abilities.”

“Thank you,” Brother Fletcher replied stiffly.

“Sit down, Brother, sit down. You won’t be on again for another twenty minutes.”

Brother Fletcher looked doubtfully at the chair.”

“Sit, Fletcher,” said the Reverend Mr. Sloan.

Brother Fletcher sat, accepting the seat that Leroy had declined.

“There,” said the Reverend Mr. Sloan in a voice that dripped rancid honey and machine oil, as Brother Fletcher’s body sank into the depths of the chair. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you.”

Brother Fletcher’s Adam’s apple bobbed expectantly.

“Turnbull did an excellent job warming them up this morning,” Mr. Sloan observed. “I’d appreciate it if you’d convey my compliments.”

“Certainly,” said Brother Fletcher.

“Tut, tut, tut,” said the Reverend Mr. Sloan, shaking his head. “Such a shame about that young man. Promising future, good mind. Such a waste.”

“Waste?” said Brother Fletcher.

“Indeed,” said Mr. Sloan. “I’m afraid he is much too concerned with the pleasures of the flesh. I regret to say it, but I fear he must go.”

Brother Fletcher looked shocked. “I know Turnbull has a girl friend, but don’t you think that at his age that’s only nat—”

“He’s queer,” said Mr. Sloan.

“Upl?” said Brother Fletcher.

“Queer,” repeated Mr. Sloan. “Faggot. Sissy. Punk. Homosexual.” He raised a hand. “I know, I know, Fletcher, you were fooled. So was I for a time. Turnbull puts on a good show. I’ve noticed him making advances toward Sister Fundidia, trying to confuse us. But I know. I can tell.” Mr. Sloan leaned back in his chair and languidly placed a hand on the back of his neck, patting his bald head as if it were covered with a lush growth. He smiled winningly at Brother Fletcher. “If there’s anything I hate,” he said, “it’s a closet queen.” Brother Fletcher’s Adam’s apple bobbed rapidly. Mr. Sloan dropped his hand. His face hardened. “Really, Fletcher, we couldn’t have him leading a troop of boy scouts, now could we?”

“I, ah, hadn’t thought of it quite that way,” Brother Fletcher conceded.

Mr. Sloan smiled. “Of course you hadn’t. A man like you would not think of such things, coming as you do from an, uh, rural area. But I have seen the world, Brother, and I know. It’s my job to keep an eye out for such things. Anyone else would have missed it, but I could see he was concealing his dirty, unholy tendencies. But you needn’t worry about it. I’ll handle Turnbull. I wouldn’t have mentioned it, but it seems that I will be able to make that fact-finding tour after all. I just wanted to tell you that I feel perfectly confident in your abilities and intend to leave you in complete charge. I plan to leave in about two weeks. For the next month you will be in charge.”

Brother Fletcher smiled slightly. “I hope you’ll be pleased when you return.”

“I’m sure I will be,” Mr. Sloan said. “I know you’ve had churches of your own, but those were in, ah, rural areas. I think you’ll find this quite different, but you’ll be able to handle it. For a month. Now, Brother, I know you must prepare yourself, so I won’t hold you.” Brother Fletcher rose and turned toward the door. “Oh, Fletcher,” said Mr. Sloan. “One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“I met Leo on the street this morning. News has reached me that last night, in Leo’s bar, there was some trouble between Leroy Briggs and a young man no one seems to have ever seen before. It seems that the young man forced Leroy Briggs to back down by saying he worked for Gino. The matter requires investigation. This young man could be quite useful. Now I don’t care how you do it, Brother, but I want you to find out about this young man. Infiltrate Lightnin’ Ed’s and interrogate Leo if necessary.”

Brother Fletcher looked shocked. “Infilt—you mean, go
inside
? But it’s a
beer
garden.”

Mr. Sloan looked at him with distaste. “If God condescends to come to South Street, he won’t mind a little alcohol. Now get out of here.”

Brother Fletcher looked at Mr. Sloan uncertainly, and wobbled out the door.

When he awoke he was alone in the bed. He lay there for a few minutes pulling himself together and then he threw the sheet off him and rolled out. He stood beside the bed and stretched, then glanced at the clock. It was mid-afternoon. He left the bedroom and went into the kitchen. There was a used juice glass on the counter, a half-empty coffee mug on the table, and a note on the refrigerator, attached with a magnetic clamp in the shape of a ladybug. The note said that she had gone to get a paper and it was nice that they could still do
something
together. “Bitch,” Brown said, balling the note between his fingers and throwing it toward the garbage can. He missed.

Brown felt the sides of the percolator and found the coffee was still warm. He filled a cup, added milk and four spoons of sugar, and sat down to contemplate his naked navel. The apartment was silent except for the whisper of the air-conditioning. “Shit,” Brown said suddenly. He got up from the table, carried the coffee into the bathroom. He set the cup on the sink, flipped on the shower, climbed in.

Spinning slowly beneath the stream of water, turned on as hard as it would go and as hot as he could stand, Brown let his mind go wandering back to dark alleys, dark nights, dark faces. He picked up the soap and scrubbed in a sudden frenzy. Lather covered him, soap stung his eyes. Brown rinsed himself off. His thoughts turned to Alicia, and he swore softly, soaped himself three times, shampooed twice. When he stepped out of the shower he felt clean and empty. He picked up the coffee cup and drained it, went out into the living room without bothering to dry himself, dripping on the carpet. He shivered in the machined cold, marched to the control, and defiantly cut off the air-conditioning. He threw open the sliding door and breathed in the hot polluted air. Finally he closed the door, went back to the bathroom and got a towel, and proceeded to dry himself off, then he went into the kitchen, took ice and a bottle of scotch from the refrigerator, and constructed himself a drink. He went back into the living room, sank down on the sofa, and slurped it. When the ice melted, despite the chilled whiskey, Brown got up and strengthened the drink from a second bottle sitting on the bar in the corner of the living room. On the way back to the sofa he picked up a yellow legal pad and a pen.

Feet propped up on the lacquered coffee table, drink in one hand and pen in the other, Brown scribbled busily, writing words, scratching them out, tearing leaves from the pad, looking at them, cursing, balling them up. He managed eventually to fill a whole sheet. He sighed, rose, and went to refill his glass. He did a few deep-knee bends. He cleared his throat. He walked around the room three times. Then he went back and looked at the pad. A sour expression crossed his face. He picked up a red pencil, made a few languid marks, sighed, dropped the pencil, balled up the final sheet of paper and threw it, like the others, across the room at the trash can. The paper teetered for an instant on the edge, then tottered and fell outside, joining all the other yellow balls in a tidy heap. Brown got up and went to the bar. He brought the bottle back with him.