Jonah Man (10 page)

Jonson wracked up an adjacent table. He broke, put a striped ball in a side pocket, banked three more, then cursed as he missed a straight-on shot. The brothers applauded.

A good run, the older said.

I’m out of practice, Jonson said. Wouldn’t mind someone to spar with.

A wager? the older said.

With you?

Oh no, not me, the older said. He took off his hat, stuck it on his brother’s head.

All right, Jonson said, setting a ten on the felt.

We can cover that, the older said.

The younger wracked up the balls, returned the hat to his brother.

He don’t say much, Jonson observed.

Can’t talk, the older said. He can hear, though. Perfect pitch. Can pick a tune out of the air and play it on your instrument of choice.

And what do you do? Jonson asked.

Me? I’m the laughs.

He pulled a rust-colored flask from his back pocket.

Want some?

Only if he does.

The mute smiled, took a sip and passed the flask to Jonson. Jonson tilted his head back, tasted something like kerosene cut with uncooked grains of rice.

Home brew, the older said.

Whose home?

Jonson stepped to the table, pocketed a string of shots before
his turn was up.

You know, he said, moving aside, a third head might bump you up in the order.

You looking to get back in?

Might be.

What are you offering?

Song, dance, a little piano, he said. And I can deliver a line as good as anyone.

We don’t have a lot of dialogue just now.

I could add that dimension.

True. It would have to be worth paying for.

The mute banked the eight ball; Jonson placed a second ten on the table.

Funny our paths never crossed before, the older said.

Half my act died, Jonson said. Took her a good long time.

The older drained the flask, slipped a second from his pocket, broke it in before passing it to Jonson. Jonson hesitated, felt his eyes strain to keep the balls in focus. He looked across the table, trying to determine if the mute was immune, or if the liquor was working on him, too. He took a sip, passed it on.

Your turn, the older brother said.

Jonson rushed his shot as though trying to outpace the alcohol. The mute stepped up, finished the game.

All I got now is some ones, Jonson said.

When the flask came back around, Jonson weighed it in his palm, found it no lighter than the last time he’d drank from it. A shard of pain cut through his chest. He wrapped his lips around the mouth, blocked the liquor with his tongue. Smiling, he passed the flask to the older brother, then picked up a cue stick and stove it across his head. The older stumbled, turned, came at Jonson. Jonson kicked out his knee, brought the splintered wood sideways down his face. The mute backed up; the
attendant stepped out from behind his desk, club in hand.

You got some hustlers here, Jonson said.

That right?

Tell him, mute, Jonson said.

The mute said nothing.

Oh, bullshit, Jonson said.

He leaned down, grabbed the older by the hair, held the jagged end of the stick to his throat.

Cash on the table.

The attendant edged forward.

You’re good where you are, Jonson said.

The mute pulled a fistful of crumpled bills from his pocket, began counting.

I want what I would have won, Jonson said, raising the stick. All right, the mute said. All right.

You see, Jonson told the attendant.

He bent down, pocketed the flask on his way out.

Five cents got him in for what was left of the shows, two cents more got him a bag of roasted peanuts. He sat alone in his row, savoring each nut, taking slow sips from the older brothers’ flask. He stared ahead, unaware of what was happening onstage—only that there was color, movement, sound—then a spate of stillness, quiet—then color, movement, sound again. He tongued the mouth of the flask, fingered the corners of the bag in search of a last nut.

He stopped at a liquor store, emptied a fresh pint of whiskey before returning to his son.

The window had fallen shut while he slept; the room smelled of vomit, shit, alcohol. Someone was shaking him. Jonson rolled
onto his back, saw the old woman who managed the place standing over him, felt her bare foot on his chest, felt his temples pulsing in time to the baby’s screams.

Out, she said. Out, out, out.

What?

Too many complaints.

Now?

Now.

Let me get dressed, he said. Change my son.

I’ll be in the hall.

Jonson stood, looked the room over, realized that he had never bothered to look it over before. For him, it had been parts with no sum: a tub, a window, a wall bifurcated by a steel pipe. If he sat in the tub facing in one direction, he saw the door but not the window; if he sat facing the other direction, he saw the window but not the door. If he stood looking outside, he had no sense that he was standing with his back to a room that contained a tub, a door, a steel pipe.

Come on now, the landlady called.

A minute, Jonson said.

He opened the window, relieved himself into the alley below.

All right, Ray said. All right. I think I’ve got something to keep you afloat.

Room and board?

You should be able to work it out with her.

Her?

Ray wrote a name and address on a slip of paper.

A Madame?

With the business I throw her way, she can’t afford not to take you on.

There must be acts on the circuit that feel the same, Jonson said. I don’t have to go it alone.

I couldn’t, Ray said.

You could.

I won’t. I have a reputation. I promised Ginny I’d look out for you, but by God...

Jonson held up a hand.

Best stop there, he said.

The walk up the macadamized driveway took him past flower beds, sculpture gardens, Rolls Royces. The portico was large enough for a man to live in, its roof doubling as a lanai with
marble balustrade and matching chaise longue. The Madame came to the door in a blue silk gown and diamond earrings, a fresh-picked corsage pinned to her breast. She’d rouged over the liver spots on her neck, wore opera-length gloves to cover the backs of her hands.

Ray sent me, Jonson said.

Right, she said, eyeing the basket.

Inside, there were women with their legs crossed running the length of a batik-print sofa, one per cushion. A dark-skinned woman in a sarong. A pale blonde with her hair bobbed and marcelled. An Asian girl in a jewel-studded bra and grass skirt.

He’s here for me, the Madame said.

They quit smiling, let their shoulders go slack as they stood and disbanded, looking more like girls in costumes than women competing for a fare.

This way, she said.

She led him through a set of stained-glass doors into an adjoining room—a bar, newly constructed, dust still settling on the oak floor, a mammoth man in overalls and shirt sleeves coating the stools with shellac. Jonson and the Madame sat on opposite sides of a small, light-grained table. The Madame drank from a glass of clear, straight liquid, offered him nothing.

What’s wrong with your kid? she asked.

Ever have any of your own?

Never wanted any.

She glared into the basket as though forcing herself to stare down something repugnant.

They get bumps on their skin. Nothing to it.

All right, she said, pointing to a piano in the far corner. Let’s hear you.

He played a song he’d sung with his wife, a happy little ballad, one of the few songs he knew by heart. He sang both parts,
hitting the keys soft, covering his playing with his voice.

That’ll do, she said. Just keep it up tempo. The bar is an add-on. It opens in three days. I want to hear you practicing until then. Pay is eight dollars a month plus room and board for you and your kid. Room is in the basement—I can’t have a baby crying upstairs. One of the girls will show you around. Your job is simple: play when I tell you to play, stop when I tell you to stop. Max will handle any fights, but this isn’t that kind of place. In the meantime, I’ll get a doctor to look at your kid.

Obliged, Jonson said.

She motioned for him to wait in the lobby. He sat where the whore in the sarong had sat, let his body drop into the cushions. He felt as if his limbs had been struggling to keep pace with one another and now for the first time in a long while they could rest in unison. He shut his eyes, heard his son breathing in his sleep.

The girl assigned to show him around smiled, bowed her head, called herself Cynthia. She was young with a young voice, pretty beneath the paint.

What do you think so far? she asked.

This could work, Jonson said. Better than a boat.

I’ll show you where you’ll stay.

The basement was well ordered, but crowded. A central aisle cut through long side aisles of identical and carefully stacked cardboard boxes. The concrete floor was swept clean, the ceiling dusted for cobwebs. Halfway down the center aisle was a cot set atop an area rug, a floor lamp plugged into an extension chord, a small bookcase for him to fill, an H&M trunk for his belongings. There were mouse traps at the mouth of every side aisle, most of them empty.

Not bad, Jonson said. You fix this up yourself?

You can make any place nice, she said.

I don’t see anywhere for a baby sleep.

I didn’t know there was one. I can get a crib. And a blanket. Light blue. Or dark blue, if you like.

Either’ll work, Jonson said.

OK, she said. I’ll let you get settled.

Jonson waited for her to leave, but she stood there, running her palms over the pleats of her skirt, glancing about as though she’d misplaced something in mid-air.

I’ll be all right now, Jonson said.

The sound of his voice seemed to startle her.