Black Gangster (15 page)

"Me and Shortman was cool, Donnie, when he was living, but ain't nothing a dead man can do for me. Don't forget, man, I got two kids to take care of."

"I thought you was gettin' A.D.C., Fran," he said slowly.

"Shit, man, you know A.D.C. ain't no money. How you expect me to really live off that little shit, huh?"

"I guess you didn't live off your check before you met Shortman?" he asked. This time there was no missing the anger in his voice.

She tossed him a skeptical glance. "You know as well as I do, Donnie, that those babies belonged to Shortman."

He made a gesture of impatience. "Shortman, hell. Fran, I knew you when you was fuckin' before Shortman ever came into your life. You may have told him them kids was his, but baby, you'd have to do a hell of a lot better than that to make me believe it."

Fran stopped and put her hands on her hips. "I don't give a fuck if you believe it or not. I'm gettin' money from A.D.C. in his name, so what you think is your goddamn business." She started towards the car, then stopped. "If you don't want to take me to the funeral, I can get there without your help, you know."

"I'll take you," he said hurriedly. "You ain't got to get your ass up on your shoulders, though."

She turned with the lean motion of a sinewy leopardess and stood before him quivering. "I don't know who or what the fuck you think you are, nigger, but I don't have to take no shit off you, you understand that?"

He stared at her angrily, but there was an indication that her rage was mounting. He cautioned himself to be cool. It wouldn't do at all if he was to knock her on her ass. For a moment he let the picture of her sprawled out on the ground flash through his mind; then just as quickly he put it out of his thoughts. He ignored her and walked over to the black Cadillac he had been loaned for the occasion. He opened the door and held it for her, not really caring if she got in or not.

"That's better," she snapped as she switched her hips past him and got in the car. He watched her as she sat down, legs wide open, skirt pulled up around her large thighs.

"You might as well pull your skirt down," he said coldly. "I ain't interested in what you got to offer." He slammed the door before he could hear her loud reply. Her words still reached him, though, as he went around the car. "Black bastard!"

He climbed in and started the motor up in silence, not allowing himself the pleasure of replying to her angry outburst. They drove on in silence until they reached the church. Cars were lined up and down the street. Donnie could tell it was going to be a large funeral. He pulled up as close to the front of the church as he could get, then double-parked beside another Cadillac. He followed her into the church and found a seat in the rear. He watched her switch her way to the front. People were packed inside, and some teenagers were standing at the rear.

He listened to the preacher with one ear while his mind traveled over other things. A lot of responsibility had fallen on his shoulders since Shortman's passing. It would be quite a while before he could go home and sleep peacefully at night.

As soon as the choir started to sing "He's on the Way Back Home," loud crying broke out in the church. People began to file out and go up the aisle to view the casket. He made his way slowly up the aisle, and when he reached the front, he had to hold back a grin. Fran was in the front with the family crying louder than anyone else in the church. The bitch should have been in Hollywood, he thought coldly as he walked past the body. He glanced down and looked away. Death always gave him a feeling of being very small. At the sight of it, he had a feeling it wouldn't be long before he would be lying in his own casket.

Soon after he returned to his seat, people started filing out of the church towards the waiting cars. Fran stopped at his seat and whispered, "I'm going out to the cemetery with the family."

He stared at her coldly. "Good!" he exclaimed and watched her walk away mad. He got up and made his way out of the church. People were still milling around outside. There were large groups of kids everywhere. Most of them were scheming to get out of going out to the cemetery. As he glanced around, he noticed he was just about the only male Ruler around. There were quite a few of the girls around. He noticed Dot and Blanca moving from crowd to crowd. After a while, he realized what they were doing. When one of the women would leave a group of teenagers, the kids would slowly move towards one of the funeral cars and get in. The car would then get in line for the trip to the cemetery.

Ruby slid up beside him. "Donnie, you better get away from here as soon as possible. I just saw two detectives on the other side of the church. I don't know if they'll bother you or not, but it's best not to take any chances."

He nodded and slipped away from her. He moved through the crowd of people quickly and made his way to the car. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the detectives looking his way. He pushed through some women rudely and almost ran towards the car. The detectives started in his direction, but they were too late. He started up the car and drove on the opposite side of the street. The man directing the funeral cars as they lined up tried to wave him down, but the only thing he got for his trouble was being almost run down. People stared after the car curiously.

Once Donnie got clear of the funeral traffic, he slowed down. He drove slowly, making sure he didn't break a traffic law. His first stop was to return the Cadillac and pick up his own car, a late-model Ford. He relaxed a little more after he had gotten out of the Cadillac. He wondered why black men who hustled bought Cadillacs. As far as he was concerned, a Caddie brought too much heat to a black driver. It was an open invitation for the police to stop you.

After making his rounds of the whiskey stills, he began to check out the corn joints that bought his whiskey. The owners of the joints were all patronizing towards him. When he reached his last whiskey joint, he bought a bottle of beer and sat down and relaxed. The sound of the jukebox blaring loudly didn't disturb him. He settled back comfortably and enjoyed the sight of the drunks clowning. He watched the women, most of them in their forties or early fifties, trying to dance. They twisted and bellybumped with loud squeals.

One woman in a bright red dress kept glancing in his direction. She finally made her mind up and came towards him. When he refused to dance, she stood in front of him and rolled her stomach. The house man came over and chased her away. When the record ended, Donnie sent drinks over to her and the two women she was with. He walked over and started the jukebox back up. The women rushed back to the middle of the floor.

A little later, two men entered, one of them wearing work clothes, the other carrying a shopping bag. From the top of the bag, a greasy pants-leg could be seen hanging out. He called one of the women dancers over and an argument developed. Their voices began to rise in anger. The house man rushed over, but he couldn't seem to quiet the man down.

Finally, the heavyset man walked out to the middle of the floor and grabbed the woman with the red dress. He held her arm tightly and yelled, "Whose dress is that you got on, Pearl?" His voice was slightly slurred from drinking. "Whose dress is that, goddamnit?"

"Let me go, man; Mabel let me wear it," she shouted as she tried to break loose.

"Mabel, hell," the man shouted back. "Mabel ain't got no dress. That's mine. I bought it for her ass. She ain't bought a goddamn thing, so get your funky ass out of it now. Right now!" he screamed.

She stared at him as though he was losing his mind. He shook her hard, then released her. "Woman, either you take that goddamn dress off now or I'll take it off for you." The longer he talked, the more furious he became.

"You ain't got no cause to take on like that, Bill," she said, filling her voice with a cordiality that fooled no one.

"Ain't goin' ask your ass no more, woman, get your funky butt out of my woman's dress. If you want one like it, bitch, buy one, but that one there ain't for your use." He snatched her again and shook her harshly. Her teeth were rattling before he sat her back down on the floor. He shoved the shopping bag he had been carrying into her arms. "You can put these on, woman, if you want to. But you got to get your ass out of my dress, now. Right now!" he yelled.

"Just a minute, Bill. Can't I go in the bedroom or something?" she asked, now thoroughly frightened. She grabbed the bag out of his hands and clutched it to her.

He stared after her with murder in his eyes as she rushed towards one of the bedrooms. In a few minutes she returned, the old pair of coveralls falling off her like a blanket. She held the dress out towards him timidly.

The drunks sitting around the house started to laugh at the sight of her. It started slowly, then built up to a roar of wild, unfeeling laughter. The woman dropped the dress on the floor and ran back towards the kitchen. Tears of humiliation ran down her cheeks.

Donnie got up from his chair, stared around angrily at the drunks, then started for the front door. He made it a point to walk across the middle of the room and step on the dress as the heavyset man picked it up. There was a tearing sound as his foot hit the hem of the dress at the same time the owner tried to retrieve it from the floor. The owner glared up at the hot-eyed young man but just as quickly decided to forget about the open insult. He wasn't afraid of the young man in front of him, but he had lived in the ghetto too long to think you could fight one teenager without worrying about his friends. He knew he could always buy another dress for his woman, but getting a new ass would be a problem. He dropped his eyes to the floor. Some instinct warned him that Donnie was searching for trouble. His whole being cried out to meet it, but a small voice in the back of his mind told him that it wasn't like it used to be. The kids nowadays didn't fight anymore, they believed in killing.

Donnie stopped and stared at the man insolently. He didn't bother to apologize. There was a savage eagerness about him that was not lost on the people watching. The house man held his breath, praying his house wouldn't be ruined by a fight.

When there was no answer to his silent challenge, he whirled on his heel and continued towards the door. He cursed himself quietly as a soft-hearted bastard. The sight of the woman being humiliated had brought a lump to his throat. He realized it was foolish of him. He told himself the woman wasn't worth it. But the sight of her pitiful figure in the coveralls made him instantly want to stand beside her and stop the hurting laughter. He opened the door and walked out on the porch. It had always been like this, he thought. The sight of a baby bird hurt could bring tears to the corners of his eyes. There was no doubt about it, you big baby, he told himself, you're just too soft. He started down the steps towards his car. Another thought ran through his mind, causing him to shudder. To think that he had allowed Roman to talk him into stealing whiskey money from Prince filled him with dread. It was just a matter of time, he reasoned, just a matter of time.

WEAVING THE INCONSPICUOUS black Ford in and out of the evening traffic, Ruby drove past the city's new shopping center without giving it a glance. Any other evening she would have stopped and gone into one of the exclusive fur shops to steal something if the opportunity presented itself. As soon as she started to turn off of Woodward Avenue, a red light caught her. She waited impatiently until the light changed, then made a left turn on Davison heading for the west side. She caught the expressway and followed it out towards the suburbs. Finally she parked in front of a luxurious apartment building and hurried into the lobby. A short, fat white woman came out of the elevator with her French poodle on a chain. Both of them were adorned in mink, the poodle sporting a miniature jacket, the woman a stole.

Ruby could feel her feet sinking into the carpet as she walked over to the elevator and asked the operator to take her to the tenth floor. After stepping off the elevator, Ruby glanced up and down the corridor. Finding it empty, she removed her red wig and stuck it in her purse.

A young man answered her first knock on the door, then stepped back and allowed her to enter. "My, Ruby-do," he said in a high, feminine voice, "you could have called to let me know you were coming, couldn't you?" He stopped talking, put one hand on a hip and started to tap one of the high-heeled shoes he wore. "How do you like this outfit, Ruby-do?" he asked.

With a contemptuous twist, he pivoted around on his heels and modeled the tight, light green toreador pants he wore. The pants were set off by a dark-green sheer nylon blouse that matched his women's shoes. His hair was long and bleached red, with a large wave falling down over his forehead. Where his eyebrows had once been, Billy now had midnight-black eyeshadow; it went well with his light tan complexion.

Ruby walked over to the bedroom and pushed the door open. Finding the room empty, she walked back towards the well-equipped small kitchen. "Billy-boy," she called, "it's a wonder you ain't got kicked out of the joint by now."

"Darling, I don't have the least idea what you are trying to hint around about. You know as well as I do that I don't do anything wrong, honey."