Jack Womack, page 18
“Cedric?” I said. “He’s your age?”
Doc sighed. “Nobody seems to look my age but me. Yeah, he is. Anyway, we all started doing business together, see. Lee got mixed up into it later, after I got out of that end of things. Early on, though, Vernon set up a couple alky cookers, ran off batches of bathtub hooch. Cedric always had an eye for organization and the way he set things up we was able to keep the mob from cutting into our action too deep. Made arrangements, you know. That sort of thing. Time went on, we expanded. This place was a speak when we first opened ’er up. Good thing was all Cedric or Vernon had to do was pay off the precinct house and they wouldn’t touch us. We did all right—”
“Through illegalities.”
He stared at me as he hadn’t since the first hour here. “Get off your high horse, man. What was I going to do? Till I took those medical courses I couldn’t get a job running an elevator downtown. And where was I going to get money to start anything up with? Only colored banks there were all gone by the end of ’33 and the U.S. Bank wouldn’t give me paper to wipe a baby’s ass. I wanted to get better’n I’d got, Luther. And I have. If things don’t work one way you go another way. That’s all.” Looking clockways he saw the time; nine-fifteen. “Shit.”
“Think he’ll still appear?” I asked.
“Might know this’d be the one night he wouldn’t—”
“Doc,” Jess said, staring windowways, mopping the bar with an imprinted cloth. “You expectin’ company?”
“Why?” Doc asked, swiveling round. Beyond the mirror-read neon sign hanging in the window, within the awning’s shadow, revolving red light swirled, flashed off. “Oh, hell—”
“For us?” I asked.
“More than likely—” The door swung open; in strolled a gentleman twirling a walking stick, craning his view behind him to see if he was the object of professional desire.
“Who called the G-men?” he asked.
“What you mean, Theodore?” Jess said. “Who’s out there?”
“Two white men in dark suits,” he said. “Seem to be operating in official capacity. Also two gentlemen of color from the local department. All of them just hopped out of the squad car and went upstairs. Give me a highball, Jess.”
“Let’s get out of here,” said Doc, standing. “If they’ve gone to the apartment—” Jake already headed towards the front. “No, Jake. Out back. Follow me.”
With fast-mustered casualness we moved towards the rear through the club, ducking past a curtain overhanging stage right, and entered pitchblack.
“He’s let the lights burn out again,” Doc mumbled. Light eking from an open door midway downhall helped us guide our steps. Inside the lit room I vizzed Vernon confronting a tall, lean man standing in a corner as if for punishment, his face turned from view. Upon the dressing table lay a battered wooden guitar.
“It’s copacetic,” Vernon said to him. “Ever’body’s shy sometimes. You’re gonna do fine—”
“Not in front of these people,” the man said, scratching his face with long, slender fingers.
“Once you get goin’ it won’t matter. Come on, Bob—”
We continued on; I had to pull Jake along. “Luther,” he said, “that was him—”
“He’ll be playing again, Jake,” I said, in foolish attempt to assure. “We’ve got to move. This crew must be appearing per Mal’s request. No estimating what’s been told. Prep yourself for anything.”
“Chances missed never return,” said Jake, his voice lower than usual. “My tools’ll help.”
“We’ll obtain,” I said, “if possible.” Ahead, at darkness’s end, glowed a red exit sign, marking our path out. Doc paused before opening the door, his bloodlit form stalling us.
“Keep quiet,” he said. “This’ll put us out in the courtyard just below the kitchen window. If it’s open maybe we can hear what’s going on. Figure something out.” With gentle hand Doc opened the door; we lightstepped into the concrete garden. Kitchenglow, yellowed by drawn drapes, shone overhead; as the awning was rolled up, we could have known full view were we three meters high. To kitchen’s right showed blank stones and two blacked-out windows.
“Those lead where?” I asked.
“Back room in my office,” Doc whispered. “Looks like they haven’t gone in there yet.”
“Then we should,” said Jake. “My equipment’s needed. What’s eavesdroppable?” We pulled silence round us, the better to hear; two men, perhaps three, spoke in turn; from each we gleaned murmurs and bits of word.
“…know somebody else…make it a lot…in time—”
The el ground all sound underwheel, rolling uptown. Jake scuttled crosscourt, reaching the windows without sound; we followed, silent though not as silent. “These locked?” he asked, drawing from his jacket lining a thin, flexible bar.
“Yeah,” said Doc. Jake slid the bar between the sashes, jiggled and snapped; quietly raised the lower windowpane, hopped up and pulled himself inward, lifting himself with toe-edge against brick.
“Thought so,” he said, reaching down for us once he’d landed within. Doc lodged solid midway through, as if to rest; with considerable effort we squeezed him through, feeling as if we were trying to get the last inch of toothpaste. In yanking me up they nearly dislocated my own shoulder; my ribs felt for a moment to be pulling apart once more, but didn’t.
“Don’t turn on the lights,” Doc whispered, as if we knew where they were to turn on. “Put your hand on my shoulders. Watch your step. Follow me.” Through dark we glided, traveling tiptoed so as not to cause the floorboards to weep of our presence. Alcohol’s sharp perfume awared me that we must have entered the exam room. I heard jingling metal’s clink.
“Jake,” said Doc. “The key. Turn it to the left. That one where your hand is.”
Jake unlocked and opened the door, withdrawing and jacketing whatever lay topside. Our breathing settled: I heard another sound, rising from below, alternately hard, then soft; as if snared from the heavens it faded and returned, the signal everpresent if rarely heard or caught proper. Robert Johnson sang.
“Darktown Strutters’ Ball,” someone kept yelling below, but his plaints were trampled beneath the singer’s plea. Jake kept still, his ears picking up all.
“I’m cryin’ please, please let us be friends—”
“Alive,” said Jake, unmoving, stilled as if by amber’s wrap, drawing new life from each word.
“Come on, Jake—”
“An’ when you hear me howlin’ in my pathway, rider—”
“Hush.”
“Some a that ‘Darktown Strutters’ Ball—’”
“Please open your door ’n’ lemme in—”
Fresh sound distracted all; the reception office’s door crashed open. Sudden light blinded before Doc and I took a single step; Jake, unseen to any, was already gone, as if swept up by angel’s order.
“I got the drop on you, boys. Stick ’em up.” We lifted arms as if to give praise. The policeman showed nearly so lightskinned as I, and as tall, but bore twice the weight. He leveled his peacemaker our way, a .38 by its look, though judging caliber at distance is never easy, especially with such a collectible as his. At closer view, I noted the barrel bore an evident silencer. “Keep ’em up.”
“You’re making a mistake,” said Doc, in normal, though ragefilled, voice. “This is my office—”
“Keep your trap shut,” the policeman said, stepping forward, aiming direct. Catching eye of the open cabinet, spotting Jake’s belongings, he froze. “Holy shit—” Keeping his gun, and his look, on us, he shouted across the hall to one unseen. “Nate!! Get over here. I’m gonna need a hand with these two.”
“I’m telling you this is my office—” The policeman took quick glance at a certificate hanging on the wall. “How long you been at this precinct, son—”
“I work Central Harlem, usually,” he said, “and I ain’t your son. They didn’t want to use anybody on this one you might be too used to dealin’ with. Doctor, huh? Dillinger’s doctor? Plannin’ to knock off the treasury with this shit or what?”
My prolonged hosannas strained my split ribs into spasms; involuntarily, my elbows began to slump. The policeman directed his barrel between my eyes.
“Keep ’em up or I’lI blow your head off.”
“Who you got, Edgar?” his associate asked, entering; Senegalese dark, he was the size of a freezer unit.
“Old guy says he’s a doctor. If this one’s the Venezuelan he’ll have a passport. Frisk ’em down and pull their flyers. I got ’em covered.”
Nate beat us updown as he searched for pocketed harm, patting blindly away, pulling my passport and yanking Doc’s papers; he didn’t take my wallet.
“Would you get a load of this shit?” Edgar asked, dragging forth evidence once Nate had the drop on us. “You ever see a gun look like this?” he asked, fondling the Shrogin.
“Popgun, looks like. What is it?”
“Popgun, hell. Didn’t know better I’d swear it’s a machine gun.”
“Where’s the drum? Keep ’em up,” said Nate, aiming at us both.
“Uses a belt, maybe. Must be foreign. We’ll haul it all down, let the feds figure it out—”
“What about that pistol, man?” Nate asked. “Evil-looking piece. Stick it somewhere, pick it up later. Those assholes won’t know.”
“Shit. Take a look at the bullets in the chamber and tell me where I can buy some more. Okay, you two. Let’s step across the hall and see your girlfriends. They probably miss you, we been talkin’ to ’em awhile, tryin’ to anyway. They’re playin’ hard to get.”
“You better not’ve done anything to my wife—” Doc began; Edgar drew a sap from his pocket, struck Doc across the side of the head with it. He stumbled back, blood darkening his graying hair. I caught him before he fell.
“Wouldn’t touch your ugly wife, man,” said Edgar. “It’s little Red they’re after. Now move it.”
With single arm I assisted Doc until his balance returned, both of us prodded forward by gun’s sharp poke. Jake wouldn’t have run, that was certain; dependent on what he’d had time to recover before our untimely interruption would decide the method of his action, and the timing. It couldn’t be soon enough. That, once moving, he would apply total effort was as certain; that thought comforted and terrified.
“It’s AO, Doc,” I said, helping him along; his head’s blood dripped down his face like tears, splashed onto my shirtsleeve.
“Shit,” was all he said. Reaching the apartment and entering, we saw Wanda and Oktobriana in the kitchen, under guard of the two white men; they were young, suited and tied. One had brown hair, the other blond; otherwise they might have been brothers.
“Norman,” Wanda said, “what’d they do to you?”
“Same thing we going to do to you, you don’t shut up,” said Nate. “How’re you boys doin’ here with the ladies?”
“They’re being very uncooperative,” said the blond. “We’ve received none of the answers we’d hoped to receive. Stronger measures may be needed.”
“Where’d you get that? Whose is it?” asked the other, seeing Edgar lay Jake’s goods atop the sideboard’s ledge.
“In his office. Think they were tryin’ to get it. Must’ve come in the front after we did and before I went back out there.”
I eyed the space, judging position and distance. Doc and I stood stove-near, covered by Edgar and the brownhaired fed. Wanda, across the room, poised near the icebox, her head level with its top-positioned drum. Nate and the blond covered the door leading into the living room. On the kitchen table, in room’s center, sat Oktobriana, wearing a baggy red jumpsuit she’d donned at evening’s arrival; though I knew she’d noted Jake’s absence immediate, she made no remark. The window’s drapes were drawn shut; night-breeze billowed their hems. Only streetsound came from without, and the regular roar of the el as it passed.
“You got their papers?” asked the blond. “Let’s see.” Edgar handed them over. The brownhaired one walked across the room and brushed Oktobriana’s hair from her face; her eyes burned as she stared at him. Edgar and Nate eyed the agent’s movements with evident suspicion. With whitened hands she gripped the table edges.
“Ready to talk yet?” brownhair asked her, grinning. “Where’d you get this janitor suit? You some kind of dyke?” She remained still, her eyes fixed upon the window.
“I’m no expert but this passport seems forged to me,” said the blond. “We can check with the consulate later. What were you doing down by police headquarters this morning?”
“I told you all like I told them at the time,” said Wanda. “This man helped me out by walking me through a bad neighborhood and he got beat up for his troubles.”
“Gonna get beat up for more’n that if he don’t talk—” said Nate.
“There’ll be none of that in a federal case,” said the blond. “You weren’t looking for anyone there, were you? Someone you thought might be inside?”
“Were you carrying any of these weapons at the time?” asked brownhair, his attentions towards Oktobriana momentarily distracted. “Do you have Venezuelan licenses or permits for these, or are they yours?”
“No answers until I’m lawyered,” I said. The feds stared; Nate and Edgar laughed long and loud.
“Nigger wants a lawyer,” said Nate. “You hear that shit?”
“Wants one to hold his hand while he gets the hot seat—” said Edgar.
“You’ll receive a fair trial in the United States Colored Court,” said the blond. “Did you come into the country with the young lady?”
“Specify charges for this fair trial,” I said. Doc held himself upright by gripping the stove; if he slumped, I tugged him up.
“At the proper time you’ll be notified of all charges against you,” said the blond. “Who else was with you and how did you arrive? Your assistance will make things much easier for all of us.”
Their questions ran with circular reason; though at first I’d been sure that Skuratov’s hand behinded this assault, the more they talked the more I doubted.
“As an apparent Russian national, miss, you’ll understand why we wonder that you have no visa—”
“Is that your picture of Stalin? What sort of books are those in your grips?”
“Are you a Russian national?” the blond asked me, possibly remembering Pushkin. “Are you a member of the American Communist Party?”
“Shit,” Edgar said, interrupting. “You assholes aren’t going to get anywhere this way.”
“This is a federal case,” said the blond; we watched the burgeoning debate. “Your jurisdiction, such as it is, enables us to move freely throughout the neighborhood but—”
“Meanin’ if we drive you all won’t get the shit kicked out of you out in the alley,” said Nate.
“You want answers?” Edgar said. “Up here you don’t get the right answers unless you ask the right questions.”
“Mister Hoover disapproves of methods used by your patrols,” said the brownhaired one, moving again to Oktobriana, with light finger stroking her beneath the chin. “They’re unprofessional—”
“Mister Hoover disapproves of havin’ a colored police force, too, but that don’t make much difference when push comes to shove,” said Edgar. “You decide on who to make an example first. Of the four, who’re the ones to keep?”
“The Russian girl’s essential,” said the brownhaired.
“We think the Venezuelan might have been the pilot,” said the blond. “We’re not sure yet what role the older couple play although she was with him this morning—”
“Should’ve figured,” said Edgar. “All right, then. Just gotta show ’em you mean business.” So saying, turning his pistol Doc’s way, he fired twice at point-blank, his silencer holding sound to no more than brief pings. Doc’s knees buckled under him as his white shirt reddened; sagging forward, he tipped floorways with a thud. The el rolled by as Wanda screamed, rushing over; none stopped her. By the pink foam bubbling from his lipcorners I could tell that his lungs were hit; by the darkness of the blood issuing forth, it evidenced that his aorta went as well. He looked upward as Wanda held him, as if baffled.
“Norman,” she pleaded, “don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t. Don’t go, God, don’t go—”
“God,” Doc whispered. “God damn. God God damn. Damn. Damn God—”
“That’s what you need to do, you want results,” said Edgar. None of us moved; Oktobriana’s lip showed deeper red where she’d just bitten it. Doc lay on the floor; his heart beat until it had pumped itself dry. His eyes glossed; his foamy lips closed. What ran inside now pooled round our feet.
“Feel like talking now?” the brownhaired one said to Oktobriana, his fingers still playing about her chin. She kept her head level, her eyes fixed ahead. “No?”
“I think we should bring them in,” said the blond. “There’re a number of things we need to go over—”
“There’d be questions we’d have to answer, too. I think we should get everything straightened out here. What’s your name? Nate? Hold her for me, will you? Just put your arm round her neck.”
“What are you going to do?” his companion asked. Nate stood there, uncertain himself of what was planned.
“Must be federal procedure,” said Edgar, looking disgusted.
Nate held her neckround, in choke position, his gun aimed at her temple with his other hand. Wanda held Doc’s face against hers as if to breathe life into him again. Jake’s collection lay where Edgar dropped it, across the room; the blond, standing near, was giving closer attention to his associate’s actions than to protecting the weaponry. If I lunged at the proper time, perhaps I might retrieve something with which some damage might be done before I was sent away.
“No procedure I’m familiar with,” said the blond, stepping forward. “There’ll be no violence here.”
“Course not,” said the brownhaired one, taking his fingers from her chin, fixing them on her jumpsuit’s closure strip, pulling it open. “You haven’t been in the New York office that long. There’re benefits to the job—”
