Three Days Before the Shooting ... (172 page)

“All right, if you insist, I’m a grown old man who’s as confused in his own way as that lost boy of Janey’s.”

“Yes,” Love said, “and even a heathen like me can say amen to that! But at least you learned something from all my talking. So now get the hell out of here, because as you States Negroes say I’m dry as a bone and beat to my socks. Then when you see that Janey, give her my heathenish blessings. And now that you’ve become my brother in medicine, when you know more about what the boy’s up to, come back and
I’ll
do the listening.”

“I’ll be glad to share whatever I learn,” Hickman said. “And this I can tell you right now: One thing that I learned as a musician was how to listen. So when it comes to you I’ll listen, and carefully, to anything you have to say. Even if it’s again about that poor man and that melon. Because as one who preaches funerals and arbitrates family matters I
know
how terrible it was.”

“Yao! And probably more pitiful than anything you’ve heard or experienced. But that wasn’t my reason for telling the boy about it.”

“No, but on my way back to Georgia I’ll be haunted by what performing such a task must have been for the poor man’s father. It must have been terrible.”

“For all of us, the Chief, his wife, and the tribe. It was a devastating end to a very strange story. First the Chief and his wife lost their papoose to a child-stealing bear, who lost him to a white States man from the East, and after returning to the tribe as a fine young man he fell into trouble and was lost to the spirits.

“But I told the boy the Chief’s son’s story because I had seen the same feverish look in the sick son’s eyes that I saw in the eyes of the States folks who flocked here to settle. Like him they had forgotten their names, or were trying to forget them, and they were breaking their own laws and taboos as they took over the land. So by the time the goggle eyes came they were ripe for the confusion released by the camera. So now the past has spiraled back to the present, and what has to be has to be….”

“What has
to be?”

But now, staring into the trees as though seeing a vision, Love did not answer.

“What is it that
has
to be?” Hickman said, and hearing no answer he arose from his chair. Then, seeing a drop of blood gleaming as it dripped from Love’s nose, he reached for his handkerchief to wipe it away. But stopped by the thought
He’s too tired to be disturbed
, he denied his impulse and with a silent
God be with you
made his way through the quiet of the house, out into the green of the courtyard, and on into the noise of the street.

Reaching the hotel, he picked up his key at the desk and joined a group of guests who were waiting for elevators. And among the passengers leaving the first car to descend he recognized the young white man who had been so attentive when hearing the old jazz fan address him by the name Big Lon. Then as the young man left the car and greeted him with a smile and a nod he turned to respond, but the young man was gone.

Oh well
, he thought as the car ascended,
He’s probably some young fellow who’s interested in early jazz and thinks of those times as a golden age. So why not? Golden it wasn’t, but it sure was exciting
.

Back in his room he stripped to his shorts, and as he washed his hands and face his mind returned to his visit with Love.

What an ornery little rascal
, he thought.
The man’s mind moves like an eccentric dancer and he plays with words like a mockingbird imitating the song of anything around it. Yes, and even when being serious he couldn’t help playing the dozens with my religion and giving Negroes as much hell as he gave white folks
.

But whether he’s a medicine man or not, he’s surely one hell of a talker! Hickman, what are you supposed to make of a little fellow who says his blood is a mixture of black, white, and
Indian and claims he’s a shaman? That’s as confusing as an Afro-American claiming to be a Rabbi. Still, when you think about it it’s no more confusing than a jazz and blues man like you turning into a Baptist preacher. So keep in mind that this country is a place that’s so fluid, changeable, and mixed up that most of its confusion goes undefined and unnoticed. But thank God that even in this Babel of a country the blood of the Lamb comes in many colors and speaks in many tongues and accents…. A little black book-reading Ishmael whose hand is turned against State folks, that’s Love. Still, he has compassion for that boy and a real friendship for Janey—should you call her? Yes, I’d better…
.

When Janey finally answered the phone her voice was guarded.

“It’s all right, Janey,” he said, “it’s me, Alonzo.”

“Thank God,” Janey said, “I hesitated to pick up the receiver because I thought it might be him again.”

“Are you saying that he’s been calling you?”

“No, but not long after you left I looked out and saw him standing across the street. Did you learn anything from Love?”

“Yes, I think so. But it’ll take a while to figure out exactly what it was. He’s quite a talker.”

“A liar is what you mean, the old heathen. But I warned you. Did that white man go to see him?”

“Yes, he did, and Mr. New tried to help him…. But tell me, how can I get holdof liofus? Is he at home?”

“No, he’s not! What you want with
him?”

“I just want to talk with him. Maybe he can help me understand some of the things Love said about your visitor. Where can I find him?”

“I can tell you, Alonzo, but I don’t think you’d want to be seen in the place where he works….”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that no self-respecting preacher would want to be seen in that kind of den.”

“What kind of den?”

“They call it a nightclub, but night or day it’s always full of lowlifers and whores.”

“Well, and as you never let me forget, I’ve worked in a few myself. What does Cliofus do in this den?”

“You won’t believe it, Alonzo, but he has a job of saying filthy toasts for those drunkards and telling them
stories!
Yes, and he makes pretty good money doing it. But if I hadn’t raised him and took care of him since he was a baby I’d throw him out of my house for doing it.”

“Did you ever hear him perform?”

“ME?
I should say not! No self-respecting woman would
ever
let herself be seen in a dive like that. Besides, I’ve been listening to Cliofus run his mouth for most of his life, and since he’s always suffered from some kind of talking sickness
I’ve had to live with it. But even the idea that anybody would
pay
to hear him is a sure sign that we’re living in a brand-new Babylon!” “I won’t argue with that, but who does he work for?”

“……”

“Janey, are you there?”

“Oh, yes, I’m here….”

“Then why don’t you answer?”

“Because I’m ashamed….”

“Ashamed of what?”

“To have to tell you that Cliofus works for Buster.”

“And who’s Buster?”

“You remember Buster, he’s another of my little men. I raised him, but now after all I did to point him in the right direction he’s operating that den of the Devil. And because he liked the stories Cliofus used to tell him and the others from the time they were little, Buster decided that they could make some money by entertaining the riffraff.”

“Now, that’s most interesting.”

“No, it isn’t, it’s terrible! Although I do have to say that it’s the first and only job Cliofus ever had.”

“I can see your objections, even though they’re both grown and on their own. Still, considering the stories I used to hear in barbershops, the idea is interesting. But in my barhopping days there was too much noise for that kind of thing. What’s the name of this place?”

“It’s called the Wind Cave, but I’m told that folks who go there regularly have a different name for it.”

“What is it?”

“Alonzo, you won’t believe this, but they call it Buster’s Funky London! Why are you laughing?”

“Because hearing you say ‘funky’ was so unexpected that it shocked me.”

“I bet it did after all your days of hanging around with such riffraff.”

“Yes, but that was long ago. Anyway, Janey, I’d better hang up now and get some rest. Then I think I’d better have a talk with Cliofus about your unwelcome visitor. Meantime, keep an eye out for him and let me know what happens.”

“And you be careful, you hear me?”

“I hear you, and so long for now.”

Stretching out on the bed with his eyes on the ceiling, Hickman tried to make himself comfortable, but now his mind returned to Love’s account of the ill-fated movie and its connection with Janey’s young visitor. Did Love know about the terrible thing she had done to the young man when he was a child and about to be removed from her care? Probably not, otherwise Love would have mentioned it, or maybe he didn’t out of his regard for their friendship…. And the young man—where was he now? Had he talked further with Cliofus, and did he know about Buster and the nightclub?

When the sound began he was cautiously climbing a steep mountain trail toward a point which offered the broadest view of the landscape below him. Beginning pianissimo, it was like the

[WINDCAVE]

HUM OF AN INSECT
, a drill or a buzzer, and as he continued to climb he ignored it. But now, just as the top of the trail came into view, the hum became a fortissimo roaring—whereupon he found himself spiraling feet first in a fall that seemed endless; and as he plunged downward he told himself to relax, to hang loose, hoping to lessen the impact when at last his body struck the earth, rock, sand, or vegetation to which it was falling. I’ll probably be smashed into pieces, he told himself, but suddenly the fall took a horizontal direction and he was flying backwards along the landscape with a bounding floor underneath him. Then he was teetering on the rear platform of an observation car attached to a speeding passenger train and dancing desperately to stay on his feet—yes! But now as he grabbed wildly to steady himself by grasping the brass safety rail the rail flew away and he realized that with the train traveling at breakneck speed his staying alive depended upon his entering the car. And then, if successful, he would figure out both the reason for his fall and backward plunge into the unknown. Both answers were urgent, but for the moment there was no head-heel-toe of time for anything other than turn-turn-turn to face the door face face the door which was both before and behind him. And quickly, because the platform was narrow and the train’s clickety-clack speeding so jolting that turning to face the door was like willing himself to move without moving. Yet turn he must, and as he bounced and twisted he was taken by a feeling that wrestling against the train’s forward propulsion was as futile as engaging in a grappling match with an adamant bear. And as he lurched from side to side in keeping his balance, that image of his situation was becoming ever more real and embarrassing. Nevertheless, it was a case of do or die, and now he fought against the train’s headlong motion by thrusting his right arm toward the door behind him in search for its handle
.

At first there was only the smoothness of glass and the coolness of metal
. Now,
he thought
, now!
But just as he touched the curved shape of a handle the train lunged forward, and as he banged against solid steel the handle slipped from his hand and sent him reeling. And saving himself by leaping backwards against the door, he rocked and swayed to the train’s pounding motion with the rhythmical clicking of wheels on rails sounding like the challenge of a disdainful drummer daring him to abandon the written score of a piece of new music and take off on a flight of syncopated riffing and swing the band to his personal rhythm. The sound was reassuring. And now, as he countered the train’s rattling advance with a side-to-side swaying, he looked back to see the landscape wheeling past to become a succession of tranquil scenes which flickered and faded in the blue-cast haze behind him. And with the train bearing him relentlessly backward he thought with a sense of wonder
, These scenes I see are not the scenes into which I’m plunging, nor can they ever be again the “where” out of which I’m being carried, or the “when” that lies ahead
…. Then, bracing himself at a backward slant he reached over his head, clutching
the top of the door frame with one sweaty hand, found the handle again with the other, gripped it, and gave it a tentative turn
.

But this time, squirting from his fingers like a wet cake of soap, the handle flipped free. And, annoyed at his failure, he wiped his hand on the seat of his trousers. Then, finding the handle again, he gripped it firmly, and with a grunt applied all of his strength in giving it a teeth-gritting tug. Come on, Come ON! he gasped, but though firmly clutched in his hand the handle resisted. Then, gasping for breath, he tightened his grip and tried once again, but still no movement. Then, giving a final tug of futility, he accepted the now obvious fact that the door had been locked from the inside
.

And now, confounded by the sudden sound of dim laughter, he was furious and raising his right leg kicked backwards against the door three thundering times but heard no answer from inside the car. Then, in an effort to see if there were actually passengers inside, he gave a violent twist to his body—whereupon the train’s headlong advance was suspended. Then the distant engine seemed to reverse its motion, causing the cars to contract like the retracted pleats of an accordion’s bellows—until with an earthshaking roar the train leaped down the track and he was forced to save himself by hanging again on to the handle
.

First he was flying along at a slant with his feet banging the platform, then squatting in the position of a Cossack dancer with arms stretched over his head. And as he held on he found himself looking back with a sense of dread as twin lines of track-side telegraph poles accented the landscape like an ominous parade of wire-supporting crosses
.