Solomon's Vineyard

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Listen. This is a wild one. Maybe the wildest yet. It's got
everything but an abortion and a tornado. I ain't saying it's true.
Neither of us, brother, is asking you to believe it. You can lug it
across to the rental library right now and tell the dame you want your
goddam nickel back. We don't care. All he
done was write it down
like I told it, and I don't guarantee nothing.

KARL CRAVEN

FROM THE way her buttocks looked under the black silk dress, I knew
she'd be good in bed. The silk was tight and under it the muscles
worked slow and easy. I saw weight there, and control, and, brother,
those are things I like in a woman. I put down my bags and went after
her along the station platform.

She walked towards-the waiting-room. She had gold-blonde hair, and
curves, and breasts the size of Cuban pineapples. Every now and then,
walking, she'd swing a hip until it looked like it was going out of
joint and then she'd throw it back in place with a snap, making the
buttocks quiver under this dress that was like black skin. I guess she
knew I was following her.

A big limousine waited beyond the magazine stand. I stood in the
shadow of an apple machine and watched her get in. Her legs were
strong, like a dancer's. I was staring at the white flesh above the
silk stocking when the chauffeur closed the door and took her bags from
a redcap and put them in front. He gave the redcap four bits and
climbed back of the wheel. She had been looking straight ahead, but
suddenly she turned to the window and smiled at me. Her smile said: We
could have fun together, big boy.

The limousine went away. I watched until it was out of sight. Some
doll) Maybe the town wouldn't be so bad after all. It was hot on the
platform and I felt sweat ooze under my arms. I showed my bags to the
redcap and called a cab. The train began to pull out of the station,
the engine throwing steam on a baggage truck. I gave the redcap two
bits and got in the cab. It had a sign saying:
Anywhere in town
—50c. The driver didn't bother to close the door.

“Where to?”

“Any aircooled hotels?”

“In this burg?” The driver snorted. “Don't make me laugh.”

“What's a good one then?”

“There's the Greenwood.” The driver turned around and squinted at me.
“Or the Arkady.”

“Which is the best?”

“The drummers use the Greenwood.”

“Take me to the Arkady.”

Hot air rose from the brick pavement on Main Street, making the
building look distorted. I saw the town was mostly built of red brick.
The pavements and the business buildings and even some of the houses
were made of red brick. I saw a cop leaning against the front of a drug
store. He had on a dirty shirt and needed a shave. Main Street was
littered with papers and trash. A Buick went through a red light by the
drug store, but the cop didn't move. There were plenty of cars parked
diagonal to the curb, but there weren't many people outdoors. It was
too hot.

We went by a movie house, turned left where it said
No Left Turn,
and climbed a hill. I saw a gulley with a shallow stream. The water
looked stagnant. In the distance there was another hill with four brick
buildings and a smaller white one near the top. There were green fields
and grape vines on the hill. The white building looked like a temple. I
pointed out the hill to the driver.

“That's Solomon's Vineyard.”

“What?”

“You heard of it,” the driver said. “A religious colony. Raise grapes
... and hell.”

He looked around to see if I liked the joke. I liked it all right. I
laughed.

“About a thousand of 'em up there. All crazy. Believe in a prophet
named Solomon.” We crossed a square with streetcar tracks and a park.
“He's dead. Died five years ago, but the damn fools're still expecting
him back.”

About five blocks from the square we came to the Arkady. It was a
rambling three-story brick building with metal fire-escapes on the
front. There were a dozen or so rocking-chairs on the porch. I saw a
sign:
Mineral Baths,
and that gave me an idea what kind of a
hotel it was. A Negro porter saw us and loafed down the steps.

“How much?” I asked the driver.

“A buck.”

“Your sign says anywhere in town for fifty cents.”

He shifted a plug of tobacco to the left side of his mouth. “Don't
always believe in signs, mister.”

He had shifty eyes and his lips were stained yellow from the tobacco.
He looked like a ball player I used to know. I got out a fifty-cent
piece and flipped it in his face. “Give the porter my bags,” I said.

He snarled and I got ready to hit him, and then his face fell apart.
He gave the bags to the Negro. There was a red mark where the coin had
caught the bridge of his nose. He bent down to pick it off the
floorboard and I went up the stairs and across the veranda and into the
lobby. The air inside stank of incense. I saw potted palms and heavy
mahogany furniture and brass spittoons. Three women were sitting by the
reception desk. The clerk was a small man with a smile—and coy brown
eyes. He had on a red necktie. I wrote Karl Craven on the register.

“Have you a reservation, Mr. Craven?” the clerk asked.

I looked at all the keys in the boxes. “What the hell would I need a
reservation for?” I asked.

He giggled. He got out a key and gave it to the Negro. “We have to
ask,” he said. “It impresses
some
people.”

I went to the elevator. The women were looking at me. One of them was
younger than the others; a pretty redhead with her skirt pulled high
over crossed legs. Her face was sullen, and when I looked at her she
stared right back at me. She had beautiful legs.

The elevator made it to the third floor and the porter led me to 317.
He put the bags down, and while he opened the windows I took a gander
at the room. There were twin beds and a big dresser with a white stain
where some gin had spilled, and a couple of big chairs. There was a
Bible and a phone book on the dresser. There was a patch in one of the
green bedspreads. By the door the rug was worn. On a table between the
beds was an old-fashioned telephone with an unpainted metal base and a
transparent celluloid mouthpiece.

The Negro finished the windows. He looked in the bathroom and the
closet. He was stalling for a tip. “Boy, who's the babe in the lobby?”
I asked him.

“The young one?”

“The redhead.”

“That's Miss Ginger. She's a friend of Mr. Pug Banta.”

I remembered the name. He was a former East St Louis gangster. Not an
important hood, though. He'd run alky and killed a couple of guys in
the old days. He was tough enough, but he never was a big shot. I
remembered he was supposed to be running a bunch of roadhouses
somewhere further west.

“And Mr. Banta wouldn't like it if I fooled around?”

“No, sir.” The Negro was positive about it. “Sure wouldn't like it.”

“Well, I got another chance,” I said. “A very swell blonde. She's got
a chauffeur.”

The Negro said: “That's the Princess.”

“The hell!” I said. “What Princess?”

“She live at the Vineyard. Head of the women there.”

“The place up on the hill?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What's your name?”

“Charles.”

“Well, Charles, what are they like up there?”

“Oh, they all very holy.”

“I couldn't call up and ask the Princess for a date?”

His eyes got big at the idea. “No, sir,” he said. “No, sir.”

I threw him a quarter, but he didn't go away.

“I can ...” he began.

“How young?”

“'Most any age.”

“I like 'em around fourteen.”

His eyes spread out. “Mister, that's jail bait in this state.”

“Well, I'll let you know,” I said.

He started to go. “Hold it,” I said. I looked in the phone book for
Mrs. Edgar Harmon's boarding-house. It was at 738 B Street. The Negro
said that was only six blocks away. “Okay,” I said.

He left. I took off my coat and the shoulder holster and my shirt.
The shoulder holster always chafed me when it was hot. I went in the
bathroom and washed my face and chest. I dried myself and put on a
clean shirt. My old one was wringing wet. Oke Johnson was living at
Mrs. Harmon's boarding-house. I decided to walk over there. He'd
written he had something. We needed something.

The clerk behind the reception desk simpered at me. He looked like a
pixie. I thought, quite a hotel; service for all. I went out. I saw A
Street to the left, and a block further along I saw B Street. I was in
the three-hundred block. The numbers went up on my right. Seven hundred
and thirty-eight was a big, red-brick house with maples growing in
front. There was a porch and stairs that needed a coat of grey paint.
Oke had picked the place, he wrote me, because he wanted to work
quietly. He was a smart Swede; the only smart one I ever saw. I went up
the stairs and pushed the doorbell.

A fat woman in a black dress with white lace on it came to the door.
There was a mole on her left cheek, just past the corner of her mouth.
She had been weeping. “Yes?” she said.

“Mr. Johnson, please.”

Her puffy eyes came open. “Are you from Mr. Jeliff?”

“No.”

“Oh, you're from the police. Come in.” She went on talking so fast I
didn't have time to say anything. “I guess you know I sent for Mr.
Jeliff. He was Mr. Johnson's only friend in town. It was funny, him not
being a butcher himself. I never knew what he did, though I will say he
had plenty of money.”

By this time I was in the house. “I'm not from the police,” I said.

“Oh,” she said. “Why do you want to see him?”

“I'm a friend. St Louis. Has anything happened to him?”

“Oh!” she said. “Oh!” She hurried up the stairs, moving fast for so
big a woman. I began to feel funny. It was one of those things you get
sometimes, premonitions, it says in the dictionary, that tell you
something is wrong. I didn't try to think what it could be; I just
waited until she came downstairs with two men. I saw they were
plain-clothes cops.

“This is him,” the woman said.

The younger of the cops got behind me so I couldn't run away. The
other, a middle-sized man with a pasty face, squinted at me.

“What do you want with Johnson?”

“I'd like to see him.”

“Why?”

“I'm a friend.”

“Yeah?”

“That's what he said,” the fat woman gasped. She was out of breath
from the stairs.

“Is he in trouble?” I asked.

The cop laughed. I didn't see what was funny. The woman began to
weep. I looked at the cop.

“He's dead,” he said, watching me. “He got knocked off this morning.”
I was half expecting it, but still it gave me a jolt. I'd had a letter
from him only two days ago. He wasn't in any trouble then.

“My God!” I said. “Who did it?”

The cop behind me spoke. “Suppose we ask you that.” His voice was
harsh.

“I didn't.” I pretended to be frightened. “I hardly knew him.”

“Yeah? Then why are you calling on him?”

“I was just looking him up. I'm from St Louis. I used to know him
there. Slightly. Very slightly. I got in this afternoon, and I didn't
know anybody else in town.”