Reckless Eyeballing (3 page)

“Good grief, look at the tits on that one,” Jim said.

“Jesus. Would you look at that. I'd like to take that one for a horseback ride all night long. Yeeeeooowww.” Ball and Jim had just finished their work on the play and were looking at the photos of some of the women who had been cast.

“So as I was saying, the guy from the outer office, you know, Ickey, he comes rushing in—was he livid. He looked like he wanted to fight, but she told him it was all right. They had this big, beefy-looking guy with a crew cut there. Bluest eyes I ever saw. He's the old broad's chauffeur and bodyguard. His name is Otto. I thought he was going to jump into it, but he didn't say anything. Anyway, I'm screaming at this broad and she's just standing there.”

“Man. I would have loved to see the expression on Ickey's face. He is one bigoted bastard. He called my stuff crude. I'd like to crude him.” Ian took another hit of the joint and passed it to Minsk. Ian did an imitation of Ickey that wasn't too complimentary. They both laughed. Minsk leaned back and almost fell out of the kitchen chair.

“Imagine that twat. Thought she could get away with it. Do this Eva Braun play at the Mountbatten and give you the Queen Mother.”

“How did you hear that she was going to try it?”

“I was sitting in a café around the corner from the theater and I heard these two broads talking about it. They were excited about the Eva Braun thing. They said that you were…are you ready for this? A notorious sexist.”

“I can see why they would say that about my first play,
Suzanna
, but they'll have to change their minds after they see
Reckless Eyeballing
. They're going to have to like Cora Mae's monologue.”

“Man, are the sisters going to get you for that,” Minsk said. Ball thought for a moment.

“I know. But I figure if I can win these
white
broads to my side, the sisters will follow. The few who think the way they do are dependent upon them. You know how Becky first promoted Johnnie Kranshaw, and then when Johnnie Kranshaw disappeared after a falling out with Becky and her friends, they brought in Tremonisha, and last word I got was that they're tired of the black American women because they feel they can't be trusted and are ‘surly,' and so they're going to start importing some black women from the Caribbean who'll be more agreeable and do their bidding for them. Deputize them to go out and smear black men. At least that's what Brashford said.”

“Yeah, well, they're hard on us white males, too.” Ball stared at Minsk for a moment.

“Brashford says that you're not a white male, you're Jewish, that white men and Jewish men have been fighting for centuries and for you to call yourself a white man is strange. He says that just because you know about Wallace Stevens and Chekhov doesn't mean that these people are going to accept you as white, no way.”

They'd been through this before. Minsk used to argue about universality and the minimal importance of ethnicity, but that would only encourage Ball to quote more of Brashford's ranting and raving.

“He reminds me of my father. He's paranoid too.”

“Yeah. Brashford does go off the deep end from time to time. How's your father doing?”

“The President's visit to Bitburg really upset him. First it was the Nativity Decision, you know where the Supreme Court ruled that the display of Christian symbols is a legitimate part of the American Christmas. He said that every Jew was going to find his exit and he'd find his in death. He thinks that the Christians are going to make Jews convert or leave the United States.”

“Well, maybe he has a point.”

Minsk got up and went to the small refrigerator in his bachelor's kitchen and got a bottle of beer. He was about five-foot-nine-inches and weighed 150 pounds. He went about his house in a jumpsuit and ate 100 percent bran every morning. There were fern plants in his bathroom and health food store soaps.

“I don't think so,” he said to Ball when he returned to the living room. “He was in some pogrom. This whole town was murdered by the Cossacks.”

“Pogrom? What are you talking about?”

“The Europeans were massacring Jews before they went into Africa after the blacks. Ancient Christians hated the Jews. They were suspicious of them because they wouldn't mingle with them or worship their gods. At least that's one theory. In Russia, where my folks came from, discrimination against the Jews was especially virulent, though sometimes they were tolerated; depended upon which czar was in power.”

“Well, all of the Jews over here seem to be eating good. Nobody's herding them into ghettos. What was wrong with your old man?”

“It happens to old people. They get disoriented. You know. My uncle, his younger brother, says that Pop always acted old. He'd go down to the deli or the automat where some of these old-timers would read and discuss the newspapers and talk about the old days in Russia. He'd spend hours there. Or he'd have his head buried in some books. He wrote poetry in Yiddish. He clung to the old ways while everybody else became assimilated, including my uncle, who used to be a gangster. You can't get any more assimilated than that.”

“I didn't even know you had an uncle,” Ball replied.

“Guy was in the mobs, up until before World War Two. Went to St. Louis and opened up a chain of carpet stores.”

“A gangster. In your family?”

“Surprised me too. I thought all of the gangsters were Irish or Italian. But there was some guy named Dutchman. He was a Jew. He ripped off Harlem for millions of dollars. Rigged the numbers so that he was always guaranteed a hefty take.”

“Jewish gangsters. I thought all the Jews were slumlords.” Ball grinned.

“Sure. Einstein, Trotsky, Chagall—slumlords. Fuck you, Ball.”

“Hey, look, man. You're the one who says he doesn't affiliate,” Ball said. “So what are you so sore about? Gimme a break.”

“I just hate misinformation, Ian. The Jews own the media, the Jews own the garment district, the Jews own this, the Jews own that. They just libel Jews with that shit so's to take their minds off of those who really own it. That's the same shit they used against you blacks. Like the black welfare queen with the fur coats and two homes and diamonds.”

“Okay. Okay. Jim, look, man, I take it back.”

They were silent for a minute, both of their heads buried in the script.

“I'm surprised that we got Cora's monologue past Becky. She suggested that Cora Mae's line here on page forty-one read something about her victimization by both the Reckless Eyeballer, Ham Hill, and by her husband. She said that because he leered at Cora the black was just as guilty as the white men who murdered him,” Jim said.

They broke up and the joint they smoked made them laugh even harder.

“She wanted to—I can't believe it. What a screwy bitch. The man who reckless eyeballed the woman, so she claims, is just as guilty as the men who murdered him. That has got to be the most outrageous crap. Where do broads like that get off?” Ball said. They both laughed until they cried.

“Hear about Tremonisha?” Minsk asked.

“Yeah, it's all in the newspapers and on TV. Man, the fellas are very bitter. They're not going to stand for it, according to Brashford. I mean, they just about fought that Vietnam War single-handedly, them and some poor whites, while these middle-class white guys were backing them up in some kind of moving country club at Cam Ranh Bay. These broads should know that the only thing standing between them and these gooks and things that want to strangle them in their sleep is the fellas. At least that's the way Brashford sees it.”

“She said that rapists ought to be castrated,” Minsk said, his eyes probing Ball's for a response.

“Half the white boys in the country would be walking around with no dicks if it came to that. They the champs at date rapes and trains. Look at these white boys knocking over these nursery schools left and right—fucking little children in the butt—how sick can you get, fucking pineapples and dead people. You should hear Brashford talk about it.”

“He didn't see it that way. The Flower Phantom took it personally,” Jim answered. Ball tried to restrain his grudging admiration for the man who had accosted Tremonisha, the man the media was calling the Flower Phantom for his habit of leaving a chrysanthemum with his victim.

“Sounds like a real screwball. My mom always taught me to respect women,” Ball said.

“Yeah, I admire that bond you have with your mother. I was never that close to mine. She was always speaking in Yiddish. Feeding the poor. I was afraid to bring friends home. Afraid she would embarrass me. You say your mother's clairvoyant?”

“Yeah, a couple of scientists checked her out. Physicists.”

“What?”

“I kid you not, man. These guys came out from some school and did tests on her. She's got it. When I was a kid, I couldn't get away with a damned thing. I always wondered how did she know that. Man, did I get a lot of spankings. She'd spank me before I'd even do anything. She'd get all dressed up in black and just appear with a switch in a room where I was into some mischief. Like I'd look up and there she'd be. Gave me the creeps. Anyway, these two dudes say that they are beginning to understand the behavior of particles that communicate with each other faster than the speed of sound, and if you're close to someone like a family or a wife or something, the particles are familiar and communicate even faster. It's possible that you could experience an event before it even happens. They call it precognition. They say that's the way telepathy works. Some people's particles communicate quicker than others, because there is less debris surrounding their auras, they have clean auras, or something like that.

“Anyway, I used to didn't listen to her, me having gone to college and all, but now when she says something, I listen. She said that in the 1970s there'd be a deep recession, and she was right. See, the Africans are into guardian spirits. These spirits of the deceased seem to be central to African psychology, that the world is peopled by spirits of the dead, millions of them, and they intrude into man's experience. Give him advice, on how to hit the numbers. Some people are just born conductors. My mother is one.”

“Yeah,” Minsk chuckled. “We call them dybbuks.”

“Dybbuks, huh. Well, maybe that's what happened to your old man. Your old man was listening to some dybbuk. Maybe he's right. Maybe these white people are going to tighten the screws on the Jews. Brashford says he keeps his passport renewed, because the way the country is moving, he wouldn't be surprised if they started up slavery again. He said that they're pushing the clock back to the pre-Civil War period. Right now we're in the 1880s.”

“Brashford. You listen to him a lot.”

“You don't like him, do you?”

“His talent isn't all that large. His only play is warmed-over O'Neill.
The Iceman Cometh
. All of that stuff about illusion and reality. And the one scene taking place in the bar. The reason they went for it in the fifties was because the last monologue was delivered by a black guy got up in drag. Everybody knows that. That's why he's such a darling of the East Coast establishment.”

“Well, why can't he steal from O'Neill? The white boys steal our shit. Brashford says that you got these sixty-year-old punk rockers saying that they invented jazz poetry and blues. The ones in their late thirties, the yuppies with their Brooks Brothers suits and things, are saying that they invented rock and roll, and some of the white dudes in their seventies claim ragtime.” Minsk looked at the clock. He had to get to the airport. When Ball said something to annoy him, Minsk would either change the subject, pretend that he didn't hear, or come up with something else to do.

O'Reedy was seated at his desk. Tremonisha Smarts was lying on a sofa. She was dressed in a magenta-colored gauzy gown. Her thighs and tits—well, you didn't have to strain all that much to see them. She was beckoning him. Reaching out to him. Enticing him to join her on the sofa. She even patted a place next to her, a seat she intended for him to have. O'Reedy was dressed in a tux, which fit just right, and shiny black shoes. He began to float toward her. Soon they were engaged in a mean tango, their bodies riveted. Someone cleared his throat, awakening O'Reedy from his reverie.

“Yes, what is it, Brown?” An Afro man, with keen features, a thick mustache, dressed in pants with well-defined creases and a splendid white shirt and striped tie, a shoulder holster fastened to his chest. He was holding some papers in his hand.

“The newspapers are calling him the Flower Phantom.”

“What?”

“The Flower Phantom.”

O'Reedy rustled the papers with annoyance. He tilted his head and slitted his eyes. “You're not becoming sympathetic to this degenerate pile of shit, are you, Lieutenant?”

The young man snapped to attention. He straightened up.

“No, sir.”

“Then what's the problem with you? Is it because you're both black! Speak up, Brown!”

“No, not at all, sir.”

“Just because you're both black, you must remember that he's a criminal and you're on the side of the law. He's on the outside, you're on the inside. Never forget that.”

Brown was embarrassed. “Sir, it's just that, well, a lot of the fellows don't like Tremonisha Smarts. She wrote that play
Wrong-Headed Man
. A lot of the fellows are saying that her portrayal of the brothers, well, you know, they're saying that it's not too cool. She makes out like we're all wife beaters and child molesters. I mean, I don't beat my wife. And that scene where Mose throws the woman down the stairs.”

“Did you see the play, Lieutenant?”

“No, sir, but—”

“Go see the play, especially that scene—well, you know, well, there's a scene—look, we're here to protect the public, not to be theater critics. How old are you, anyway?”

“I'm thirty-two, sir,” the lieutenant said. O'Reedy sighed. Just a kid, he thought.

“Lieutenant, I have a lot of paperwork, if you will excuse me.”

“Yes, of course, sir.” The young lieutenant left the office, O'Reedy's eyes following him. O'Reedy was looking forward to his retirement. It couldn't come soon enough. The force certainly had changed. Along about the mid-seventies some meddlesome wimp of a judge had decreed that every time a white policeman achieved a promotion, they had to promote a black. Sure, police brutality complaints were on the decline, but that wasn't the point. In the old days you roughed them up so that they'd realize that white men were in charge. You didn't take any crap in those days. If they'd had this civilian review jazz in the old days, he and the boys would have seen to it that none of the complainants survived to file a complaint. He thought again about the time, decades before, when he had dropped those three bank robbers while finishing up his sandwich. If memory served him correctly, it was a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich on whole wheat bread. He remembered all of the events of that day and played them over and over again in his mind. The screams, the blood and human tissue splattered all over the place. He kept blasting, and the black sons of bitches were flying in all directions, and the crowds were screaming. When he finished his sandwich, he went inside the restaurant and ordered another one. Cool as he could be. Squint-eyed and disdainful.

The whole Western World was becoming sissy. What did that sell-out Jew, Henry Kissinger, say? Something about the Western World going to the dogs, and how his job was to make it easier for the West to accept this. He'd read this in the Sunday paper. What kind of thinking was that? Jew thinking, that's what it was. Used to have somebody around the department who agreed with him, but now all the fellows had left, gone to Vero Beach, Florida. Soon he'd join them.

Sure, they wasted a lot of the “underclass,” but in the old days the mayor and the head of the Police Benevolent Association would take your side. And if you, well, had to remove some poor slob from his misery, there was always the friendly M.E. who'd fix it up. Nowadays, the head of the Police Benevolent Association was a woman. Sanchez…Chavez…something like that. Lawrence O'Reedy dropped to one knee, pulled his gun, and mockingly pointed it at an imaginary fleeing suspect. “Freeze, you son of a bitch. Give me something to write home to Mother about.” He chuckled to himself. He got up and tugged on his pants at the waist. Brown was standing in the doorway, a puzzled expression. “You all right sir?” he asked.