Three Days Before the Shooting ... (109 page)

“Same here,” Hickman said, “and it’s been good to meet an old-timer who remembers some of the good things that even most of
our
folks have let get away.”

No
, he thought as he watched the little man rock away with the blaring radio pressed again to his ear,
these days they don’t make men like him or records like that, and somebody had to scrape the very bottom of the barrel to find one with me on it. Truly, a man’s sins will find him out. But if that old signifying rascal managed to identify me with that music he’s probably laughing his head off. And now I’ll always wonder whether he did or didn’t. Why, the nasty little devil! He admitted to being everybody but Jack-the-Jiver and Ding-Dong Daddy from Dumas—which would account for his strut. But then his true name is probably some thing like Junior Judkin Jones!

Remembering his mission, he moved ahead, his eyes alert for anyone who might direct him to Millsap. The best place to look, he thought, would be a bar, but he might be embarrassed if I found him in one this early in the day.

Chuckling as he walked along, noting the effect of time on the unfolding scene, he amused himself by improvising on the tale of Sam and Martin. How did it go? How tell it in a barbershop? Oh, go on, give it a try! After a long hobo trip up North Sam dropped off a freight train in South Nowhere, Alabama, and hardly had he touched the cinders than he was grabbed by a gang of evil-looking deputies and an evil-looking sheriff who told him that he could either spend a night in an old mansion and report what was going on in it at midnight or go to jail.

“It’s up to you,” the sheriff said. “If you agree to spend the night out there we’ll give you some bread and pork chops, otherwise it’s sixty days in jail on stale bread and water.”

So, being worn out from his long trip of hoboing, and made a bit uncomfortable by the attitude of the sheriff and his men, Sam agreed to spend the night in the mansion. He knew in his bones that the sheriff was up to no good, but being homesick and tired and less wary of ghosts than of rednecks, he figured he could eat, get some rest, and before daybreak he’d be waiting at the railroad tracks to grab the first freight that passed through long before the sheriff got back. So they drove Sam out to the old decaying mansion and gave him a batch of pork chops, some lard, a loaf of bread, and sent him inside with a lantern. And after hanging around a spell to make sure he stayed put, they left him alone in all the dust, mildew, and stillness.

But that didn’t bother Sam, he was too tired and hungry. So after looking things over and making sure that he was alone, he built a fire in the big fireplace, and after finding a skillet put the chops on to fry. Then he lay back on the floor and waited while they were cooking. But just as he nodded off a noise from the fireplace caused him to open his eyes.

And that’s when he saw a cute little Maltese kitten fall down the chimney and stroll out on the floor. And there in the firelight it proceeded to whistle a chorus of “Dixie” with trills that rivaled a mockingbird’s. Then, after whistling and dancing a chorus of “Swanee,” it took a bow and strolled over and rubbed its back against Sam’s leg and said, “Hey, Sam, how about one of those pork chops?”

“So
that’s
what you’re up to,” Sam said. “Well, the answer is NO! And you better git the hell outta here, ‘cause hungry as I am I’m liable to eat you for dessert!”

“Then how about a piece of bread soaked in some of that good pork-chop gravy,” the little kitten said.

“Not unless you recite me the Preamble to the Constitution of the U.S.A.,” Sam said, “and I mean
backwards
!”

“O.K., Sam, if that’s how you feel,” said the kitten, “I’m leaving. But before I go, just tell me this: Do you intend to be here when
Martin
comes?”

“Scat!” Sam said, and with that the kitten disappeared up the chimney.

So then Sam turned his chops, rested back with his belly gnawing and growling as he closed his eyes. But before he can make himself comfortable, here comes more commotion. And he opens his eyes to see a black cat the size of a tiger barely missing his dinner as it lands in the fireplace and stands glowering with its hair standing on end and its rawhide whip of a tail whipping the air like a mad rattlesnake.

“What’s going on in here?” Sam yells. “What the hell do
you
want?”

“What I’d like to know, Sam,” says the big cat in a refined bass-baritone, “is are you going to be here when
Martin
comes?”

“Hell, yes,” Sam says, “and if you don’t get outta here I’ma whup your butt with this poker! What
is
this anyway, some kinda crazy, gut-busted cat-house?”

“Take it easy, Sam,” the big cat says, “and good eating….”

“Scat!” Sam yells, and the cat flies back up the chimney. Then Sam turns his chops in that deep-frying fat, rests back, and closes his eyes.

And for a while everything was so quiet and peaceful that all he could hear was the sound of his pork chops bubbling in the fat. But then, just as his nose tells him that they’re about done—here comes a terrible noise from the roof that sounds like a grand piano tumbling down three flights of stairs. And when he springs to his feet and grabs the poker, a striped yellow cat the size of a gorilla lands in the fireplace and brushes the soot off its body as it glares at him out of eyes that glow like opals.

Then as Sam freezes in his tracks the cat reaches a paw into the red-hot grease, grabs his pork chops and eats all seven in a single gulp. Then, belching like an alligator and farting like a bear, it arches its back until it’s as tall as a camel. And proceeding counterclockwise it turns three times in a circle, and lays down a pile of a size that would have done credit to a constipated whale or an elephant. And then with its eyes fixed on Sam as though daring him to move, it reaches back daintily and wipes itself with a red-hot ember, shakes its legs, steps back, and takes a deep breath. And then through all the stink and steaming, it lets out a roar in a voice that rolls like thunder:

“HEY, SAM! IS YOU GON’ BE HEAH WHEN
MARTIN
COMES?”

And, gentlemen, that’s when Sam breaks down the door getting him some
air!

“HEY, SAM!” the big cat yells from the broken-down porch of the mansion, “YOU AIN’T ANSWERED MY QUESTION!”

“And what’s more,” Sam yells back as he turns on the gas and heads for the tracks, “if
you
ain’t Martin

And mean to hang around,
You can tell him that Sam
Had some very urgent business
In another town!”

And with a chuckle he adjusted his hat and returned to his search for Millsap.

[LEROY]

M
OVING ON TO
a street to the north, he continued his search. But in none of its shops, billiards parlors, or restaurants was there a sign of Millsap or anyone else who was familiar. And in eyeing faces in the crowd moving past for old-timers who might be of help, he became discouraged.

Forget it, Hickman
, he advised himself,
because by now they’ve probably changed neighborhoods or passed from the scene. And remember how it is when you’re in a strange city and encounter a friend you grew up with: In the joy of reunion time leaps backwards, but then you’re back in the present and before it’s over you both discover that time, space, and different experiences have rendered you strangers…. Yes, but let’s hope that this time there’s at least one left who can guide me to Millsap
.

And with a sigh he moved to a double-doored shop with the words: janus barnes hair salon displayed on its window and saw underneath a painting, the surprising subject of which was a double-headed black man whose faces were staring in opposite directions. And noting that the hair on one of the heads was straight and gleaming and that of the other bushy and dull, he smiled. So what about someone like me, he thought, whose hair is now old and gray but still just as kinky?

And glimpsing a group of young men through the window he thought,
Shall I risk joining them inside or simply keep walking? It has the same name, but the sign is new, and since Janus passed from the scene years ago things inside have to be different. Anyway, given such golliwog styles as the Natural, the Greasy Look, and the Afro, why would a man of Millsap’s taste have remained one of its customers? So, since it was our favorite during the old days, rather than having my memories disturbed by its new owner’s changes, I’d better keep walking…
.

And now moving past he recalled the shop as it had been during the old days. Calling it a salon had been pretentious, but it had indeed been a fine barbershop, and a forum in which he had shared the experiences of its customers and taken part in discussions of politics, sports, and automobiles, and exchanged tall tales, jokes, and improbable lies. It was also famous for endless bull sessions in which the topics included anything from the ways of white folks, to the contrast between history as written in books, heard from grandparents who had lived it, or simply described in terms of the truth as they knew it, to the wiles of women and the immunity of pigs to rattlesnake bites. Yes, and during the Depression it had been a freewheeling haven for good fellowship. So now let it rest peaceful in memory—Amen!

But now, nearing the corner and hearing a crash, he turned to see a stocky black man bursting from the shop with a neck-cloth billowing from his shoulders and heading in his direction with an awkward, collapse-and-recover, side-to-side pumping of his knees, legs, and shoulders. And as he watched the dark face playing hide-and-seek with the white neck-cloth’s swirling he heard a shout, “Hey, Lee-roy! Git your crazy butt back in this chair!”

So that’s it
, he thought,
the old rule still stands: Fall asleep in Janus’s and some joker is sure to give you a hotfoot—which explains his running like an eccentric dancer imitating the walk of a hotfooted camel!
But just as he looked down expecting to see smoke from burning shoe polish curling from the walk-slapping feet the man veered and came directly at him and the neck-cloth became a cloud of billowing whiteness out of which his black-jacketed arms were flailing and flapping like a fish in a net.

Wrong, Hickman
, he thought,
it’s some joker from the old days who’s out to needle you
. And recalling the surprise and delight he’d given a group of rope-skipping children by dancing double-dutch to their rhythmical whirling, he raised his fists waist-high and boogie-woogied left and then right, thinking to counter and discourage his weird-moving teaser—whereupon the man lunged and reached
down, and he felt the shock of arms grasping his thighs—and coming erect with a weight-lifter’s thrust, the stranger was raising him high in the air. And as he threw out his arms and swayed, passersby were stopping to stare with startled expressions. And suddenly overcome by the absurdity of what was happening he laughed to assure them that what they were watching was only a game.

I know, it’s ridiculous for someone as big as me to let a man his size have him up in the air
, he thought,
but if you knew my calling you’d realize that lifting me
up
is his way of putting me
down,
as in the jokes white folks tell about Negro preachers being notorious eaters of fried chicken and chitterlings
.

And amazed by the apparent ease with which his teaser was supporting his weight, he thought,
Maybe he’s out to prove that he’s in a class with Samson, the blind temple wrecker. But if this keeps up he’ll soon have a hernia…
.

“Okay, old buddy, okay,” he laughed. “I surrender.”

But as he peered down at his captor’s partially hidden face, expecting the burst of laughter with which such kidding usually ended he was surprised. For he was met by a pair of bloodshot eyes that stared back with a wild, unaccountable emotion. And as he asked himself,
What is it with this bird
, he was surprised by a siren’s shrill screaming and looked up to see a police squad car speeding in his direction.

Since they’re seldom around when you need them
, he thought,
why are they showing up for some foolishness like this?

But now with a roar the squad car swept past, and above a blue-clad arm pointing from its window he saw a white blur of a face erupting with laughter—and with a squealing of rubber the car roared past and away with its roof lights flashing and its siren screaming.

Good riddance
, he thought,
and enough of this foolishness
. And reaching down to have a good look at the stranger’s face he again heard the voice shout from Janus’s old barbershop:

“Dammit, Lee-roy! Stop that foolishness and git your butt back here so’s I can be done with your haircut!”

And looking up the street he saw a barber who stood in the door with hands on hips while glaring disgustedly at the man who held him.

“You should listen to him, old buddy,” he said with a tap on the stranger’s partially barbered head, “because considering how long you’ve had me up in the air we could both use some rest.”

But with a grunt the stranger was hoisting him higher, and as he swayed in the air he caught sight of a white man who seemed vaguely familiar staring from a third-story window. And feeling a pause in his lifter’s exertion he sensed that his confusing ascension had come to an end. Yes! For now, straining and grunting, the stranger was gradually bringing him down.

Lucky for me
, he thought,
that none of the members are watching this foolishness—
when suddenly the stranger stumbled and sent the scene flying in a blur in which traffic and buildings were whirling in a pungent confusion of bay rum and
talcum, and a truck’s bassy rumbling merging with the falsetto imitation of the squad car’s siren being screeched by a straw-hatted boy riding a tricycle with bare legs flying like those of a high-tailing cat being chased by a dog as
—zip!—
he rounded the corner. And as he squirmed in the air his captor’s head snapped back—and suddenly he was staring at a perspiring face, the skin of which appeared to have been been illuminated underneath by a powerful beam.