Jack Womack, page 15
“Haven’t seen a phone yet,” she said. “He’ll just have to wonder.”
As we waded Broadway’s river a Rheingold beer truck nearly swept us out with the tide; its carmine flatbed bore a hundred wood-staved kegs. As hoped, familiarity’s narcotic began settling; the more seen, the more all contained a certain expected inevitability that vanished only with examination of details. They carried the charge that shocked without warning: the thumb-and-fingered way a cig was held, the shine of an amber button; the pattern of a pair of socks, the letters on a box of cereal; a pronunciation, a haircut, a gum wrapper twice expected weight for its foil being tin and not silvered plastic. Without the details all might have bored.
“Centre and Grand,” I said, pinning his dot. “Exact.”
“All right,” she said. “Here on out, you stick right by me. Don’t be a wiseguy hotfootin’ it off by yourself.”
Beyond Broadway streets narrowed and darkened; buildings grew heavy with cornice and molding. Where sightlines showed backcourts, long lines evidenced, sagging between windows, clothes pinned upon them flapping like flags. Children’s shouts grew overloud; vegetable perfumes freshened the street stink.
“These dagos down here act like they own the damn city, but they definitely do own this part. They mouth off, you ignore ’em. They do anything, let it pass. Don’t fight back, don’t smart off. Walk fast like we’re just passing through and be set to scram. If we’re heading where I think we’re heading—”
Her thought faded without ending as we continued on. Bakeries rich with yeast’s smells, stoops crumb encrusted, showed their loaves piled high in windows, near framed snaps of Mussolini, this quadrant’s Big Boy. Further along saints appeared in windows, crucifixes upon chests; the lingua overheard carried flowing phrase rather than harsh bite. Throughout downtown there’d seemed a shortage of non-Caucasians; here, we were sole and only. Elderlies crossed themselves as we paced by; middle-aged women eyed us updown, sending only mutterance and not audible word; keg-shaped men turned vast backs towards us until we drifted past. A ganglet of young men lounged at café’s door, near Centre. One wore a sleeveless under to better flash his furry shoulders; a forearm tattoo looked to have been done with hot coat hanger and crayon. As we passed, Wanda stepped lightly when the tattooed boy thrust out his foot.
“Watch where y’goin’,” he giggled.
“Lookit that turban,” one said; I’d nearly forgotten my bandage, and how it showed. “Must think he’s Gandhi.”
“Why ain’tcha monkeys in the zoo?” another shouted. “Lookin’ for y’organ-grinder?”
“Keep walkin’, Kingfish.” Something pebblelike struck my back as we turned briskly northways, onto Centre. “Ruby Begonia—”
“Fuckin’ niggers,” I heard the one who’d tried the trip say.
“That word,” I said as we left earshot. “What problematicks them so?”
“Ignore ’em,” she said, tightlipped; her pupils dilated as if to draw in all existent light, to defend against the dark. “Got to if you’re going to be flatfootin’ it down here.”
Something unignorable rose above the surrounding town ahead; if it ever stood in our New York I’d never vizzed it. Likely it was long-wiped; in our day this sector was well within the old Loisaida Zone, years cleared by Mister O’Malley’s order, its scraps delivered uptown, for the new Bronx buildings. Possibly only the contrast between the low redbrick buildings surrounding the close lent the effect, but no cathedral showed so holy, no castle seemed so secure. Its carved-stone walls stood as bulwarks; over its windows rock curved and swept as if poured and frozen fast. Above its defended roof rose a pillared barrel capped with green copper dome. The tracker pulsed as we drew near, reaching the square’s edge.
“He’s there,” I said, switching off and pocketing. “What is it?”
“They must have thrown your friend in the slammer,” she sighed. “That’s police headquarters.”
Dozens of black beetles lay still round their nest, as if, sprayed unaware, they’d crawled home to die; their uniformed, weaponed drivers showed only too much life, coming and going. Amidst the surroundings, too, lurked threat; hanging from one building’s face, crosstreet, was a pistol of four-figure caliber, aimed directly towards the building. A shop, it seemed; a shop selling, to New York’s illtempered public, guns.
“Think he turned himself in?” she asked.
“His affinities lean towards those assuring security,” I said. “If nabbed he’d likely volunteer all.”
“All what?”
“Fables, undoubted,” I said. “Dangerous nonetheless. His fancies kill. I’m judging protective mode holds throughout the place?”
“Protective mode,” she said. “What the hell you talking about now?”
“Is it secured?” I asked. “If I entered now, what would happen?”
“Go in there without a reason or an invite and you won’t come out anytime soon.”
“No choice for the moment, then,” I said. “Likely he’ll linger. Keep an afar eye and action if movement’s seen—”
“Then we can go?” she asked. So I wished; turning, we saw, several meters downstreet, three of our verbal abusers, waiting with staring eyes.
“Hey,” shouted the tattooed boy. “Didn’tcha hear me say keep walkin’?” One darker than I, to his left, held a bat, palmed it with his free hand, set to slam.
“Turn around,” said Wanda. “Head north. Don’t run but don’t shuffle.”
We didn’t run; they did. We’d not covered ten steps when I was shoved pavementways, scraping forward.
“Ya deaf? Not gonna answer when somebody’s talkin’ to ya? Huh?” he screamed, grasping my lapels, hauling me upright.
“We goin’,” said Wanda, stepping closer, attempting to loose his hold. “Ain’t no call to roughhouse.” He shoved her aside, not far; enough to annoy. Though smaller than me, he was wiry, and showed but twenty years agrowing. Sweeping his hands from my jacket and pushing him away, I felt my heart shudder; I’d not had a one-to-one in twenty years.
“I’ll teach y’t’keep th’ fuck outta th’ neighborhood,” he shouted, running at me, seemingly driven mad by our presence. With the position he held there were three defenses; I chose the one that hurt. Swinging up my leg, nearly pulling a groin muscle, I heeled him hipways. As he tumbled, I topsided; he spat in my face. Now I’m no Jake, no Johnson; but seeing his ape’s look, feeling the trickle down my chin, I wished nothing less than to have all his blood before me in which I might swim. Enroute to term, however, I froze, repossessed by reason; in the interval his friends, demurring, closed in with fist and boot and shortly had me rolling. The batted one aimed to swing his knockout; he heard the whistle as I did. They were up and off, back into their home’s all-forgiving embrace, into love’s dark depths. Grounded, fresh blood soaking my old bandage, I heard hard shoes click my way, felt a foot tap my most painful side as if awaring me that all was not yet done.
“Get up,” someone said. Opening eyes, I vizzed two policemen, appearing elephantine from ground view. “Nobody gets beat up down here ’less they did somethin’. What’d you do?”
“This man’s from South America, officers,” Wanda said. “He’s visitin’. Not causin’ no trouble. I had to come through this way and he was so kind, he offered to walk me ’cause he knew I was scared, yes sir. Then them bad boys, they come up and—”
“Lemme see some identification,” said the shorter of the two. “You too, toots.” Passing him Cedric’s handicraft I drew myself slowly into sitting position. They eyed the passport; lapped it back to me.
“Sorry it happened,” said the taller. “Y’gotta be careful in New York.”
“No pursuit’s attempted?” I asked. “They ran that way. You can snare—”
“Pal,” he said. “So you’re in the right. Think it matters? Take it easy. Go back to your hotel.”
“Where’re y’stayin’?” the short, prognathous one asked.
“Says he’s at the Hotel Theresa,” said Wanda. “Even if he’d been let in a midtown place they don’t have any rooms, what with the fair and all—”
“Where’s the pursuit?” I repeated, more furious than hurt.
“They live here, right? They’re gone now. You’ll heal up, bud. So they kicked your ass. Quit bellyachin’.”
“What are your numbers?” I asked, doing what I always feared Jake of doing, of wording without thought; thought seemed unnecessary, under circumstance.
“Numbers?” said the short one, circling back as he started to leave. “Why? Want to file a complaint or something?”
“Exact.”
“That how they do things in Venezuela?” he asked. “Lemme give y’a New York complaint.” With full strength he clubbed my back; feeling a rib snap I collapsed groundways. “Smart off once more I’ll make sure y’miss your boat—”
“He’s a foreigner, Mike,” said the other. “South American—”
“Nigger’s a nigger t’me,” said the short one. “Don’t care if he’s the King of Venezuela.” Blessedly, I blanked. Upon awakening from my brief peace I prayed to viz my own world, familiar and dear, where if I was beaten it would be by strangers without ideological reason; therefore understandable. Wanda knelt close, dabbing my brow with sodden cloth.
“Babes in the woods,” she whispered, wringing blood from her scarf, mopping me anew.
7
“YOU START PISSIN’ BLOOD, WE’LL HAUL YOU OVER TO SYDENHAM,” said Doc, “but I think you’ll be all right.” With a long wrap he’d mummified my abdomen to keep my ribs from floating free. “Lucky he didn’t just kill you.”
“For what purpose?”
“For the hell of it. Gimme a finger. I need fresh blood to do that test.” Compared to earlier pains his pinprick came as kiss. “There. Didn’t hurt a bit, did it?”
“This demonstrates what?” I asked.
“Let me check it out first,” he said. “How’re you going to get word to this fellow if he’s locked up?”
“I doubt he’s locked,” I said. “Probably has the king’s ear in which to shoot lies and nonsense.”
“He sounds like bad medicine to me,” said Doc, “and I ought to know. You don’t think he was arrested for anything? I mean there’s a lot they could’ve gotten you on if they’d wanted to—”
“Unknown,” I said. Having bloodied a glass slide with my extract he lowered above it a clear square; pressed the two into one. “His condition’s unknown, his plot’s unknown. All’s to be done is suspect.”
“You all seem pretty good at that,” said Doc. “What if you can’t get ahold of him anytime soon? Thought of that?”
“Certainly,” I said. “A slim option adheres that Oktobriana’s associate is still viable. He possesses prime essential. If he is, however, he’s in Russia.”
Doc whistled, laying the slide onto a primitive microscope’s rounded glass. “Russia. Damn.” My parents gave me such a beginner’s model when I was nine, when they still hoped to later afford medical school’s unfunded costs. I used it once or twice, never adjusting to blood’s sight until later, in different context. “They’ve tightened up the borders there past few years. They say old Uncle Joe’s got something going on but nobody says what. Probably be easier getting in downtown. Sure be a helluva lot closer.”
“Three weeks ago he arrived here,” I said. “Never returned. I’m doubtful he remains in existence.”
“Maybe he’s just lying low. Pays to over there, I’d think,” said Doc. “You know there’ll be Russian scientists in town all through the next week what with those goings-on at the fair. Maybe one of them knows something, ran into him or something.”
“Doubtful,” I said. “If he’s present, he’s kept covered. We’ve no method of safe contact in any event.”
Doc cranked his scope’s wheels, focusing. “Remember that fellow hollering in the window last night? He works out at the fair. He’s a Red, too. He might be able to dig up some dirt over at the Soviet Pavilion. See if anybody admits to hearing anything. Can’t hurt to ask.”
In some situations it killed to ask. Still, any straw was worth a snatch. “We can contact soon?” I asked.
“He’ll be downstairs again tonight. Comes uptown ever’ weekend. Rabble-rouses over on Lenox during the weekend, during the day, comes listening to jazz at night. We’ll go down there this evening and wait for him. Usually gets there around eight.”
“What’s his role at the fair?”
Taking a sausage-sized glass hypo, affixing a clean needle to its end, with it puncturing the cap of a squat brown bottle, Doc drew in fluid that he then injected into the blood sample. “He worked on the Futurama,” Doc said. “For GM. That’s the best exhibit out there. Shows what the country’ll be like in 1960. Being from the future, of course, it’s bound to be old hat to you. Writes articles predicting things, too. Scientifically, of course; it’s fascinating stuff.”
“What’s foreseen?” I asked.
“You’ve got to ask? You don’t know?” he laughed. “All kinds of things. Superhighways where you can go eighty miles an hour right through town. Ever’one living in these skyscrapers surrounded by parks. Cars and planes and trains’ll all run on atom power.” I smiled; wished not to say that his world as it evidenced appeared to be growing into an adulthood not unlike ours, and maturing much more quickly. “Machines that control the weather. You know all about it, I’m sure. You were flying an atom-powered plane, weren’t you?”
I shook my head. “If so, the swamp would still be burning and half of New York would be irradiated.”
He lifted gaze from the eyepiece. “Irradiated? Like with X rays?”
“Worse,” I said. “We employ more traditional techniques for transport.”
“Guess it’s like gambling,” said Doc. “Can’t be guessing right all the time. I’ll admit I’ve always been a sucker for those world-of-tomorrow stories, though—”
“Let the future show as it comes,” I said. “It always disappoints.”
“If you all are any example, I suppose it does.” His stone face cracked with sudden laughter. “I still don’t know how’s I believe you all. Guess I’m just waiting for you to make a slip.”
“I’m grateful for your help,” I said, knowing we’d make no such slip. “We’d be lost without.”
“You all seem like good people,” said Doc. “Even Jake, considering.”
“He’s very set in his ways,” I said. “Sometimes he frightens without intent—”
“I mean considering that he’s white,” said Doc, taking the slide from its slot. “You’re clean, Luther.”
“What’s meant-?” I began; didn’t finish.
“That fellow, Bill, one I was talking about,” said Doc, seeming thoughtful. “He’s better than most, but even so…whenever I read his articles or he shows me something he says is just around the corner, it always seems to me something’s missing. One time I asked him, I said, ‘Bill, you mean colored people’ll be living like this too?’ Cause I started thinking, if they’re not, then where’re they going to be?”
With the rest, in the valley; under the rocks, between the bricks and lost amidst plenty. “He responds how?”
“He shrugs, he says, ‘Of course they will. Ever’body’ll live the same way.’ Like I say, he is a Red so you got to take ever’thing he says like that with a grain of salt.” Doc stood, walked over to a wooden chair set atop a wheeled pivot. “Don’t think the thought ever really occurred to him. Don’t guess I should be surprised. He’s still not like most whites though, just the same.”
“Doc,” I said, “had I been white would the police have still trounced?”
“Yeah, under the circumstances,” he said. “You were smarting off, to their mind, and so they’d have beat you up anyway unless you made it clear you had connections somewhere. Point is, if you’d been white nobody down there’d have bugged you to begin with.”
“It’s unreasoned,” I said, stepping down from my seat at tabletop, reshirting myself with careful gesture, to lessen stab and ache. He’d replaced my old turban with smaller gauze so I wouldn’t show so disabled. “I’d read about it but had no idea—”
“You said it,” he laughed. “Tell me something I’m having a hard time with, though. You and Jake. I mean he acts like you’re white—”
“Jake responds equally to all.”
“It seems so natural, though. In your time whites really get along with the Negro people, or have they just finally got used to ’em?”
“Our day has many hates,” I said. “More diffuse. No less painful, much more reasoned. Generalized and nonspecific but for those regarding government or class or alien.”
“It just seems unbelievable,” said Doc, leaning hack; his chair squeaked in pain beneath his weight. “They got new laws or something that make ’em give equal rights?”
All have equal right to suffer. “It’s not something that comes up. Money and merit decide—”
“Money,” he laughed. “If that was the case, ever’body’d be equal here. Nobody’s got any money.” With thick fingers he tapped his chairarm, as if awaiting word from someone distant. “Still find it hard to believe. Tell me something, Luther. I don’t care how well you say ever’body gets along, somebody’s got to slip sometime. When was the first time you remember somebody calling you a nigger?”
Twenty-odd years ago, I thought, on Long Island’s smooth beach. “Last night,” I said.
“All right, tell me this then. There must have been some time some day some white person must have done something and let you know you was different somehow. There must have been. When was it?”
Delving more deeply than I’d allowed previous, desired previous, I drew rotten meat from the broth’s pure surface: remembered my white roommates at Andover disbelieving my preference for Nielsen’s Fourth or Tallis’s Spem in Alium over the blues—not Robert Johnson’s blues—they so continually played and too often sang along with, claiming that they had to introduce me to my own culture, guardians of it that they felt themselves; recalled how, as a teen, boarding the elevator in our building on East Eighty-sixth, the way older white tenants simultaneously rising seemed instinctively to draw themselves deeper cornerways, their eyes black as Jake’s; recalled Skuratov’s specification of negritanski in his reference to me; thought of the Happy Golliwogs we’d seen at Detsky Mir. While armied I’d never experienced such, never in the field; in the field, when I controlled many men, in Long Island, most still were black or Hispanic themselves, excepting Sergeant Johnson. I’d known no comment at Dryco where, granted, I was the only black topender but for Ms. Glastonbury. They’d hired me deliberate, true. But had I not been an army success—
