Winston stayed on the shaded side of the street as he made his way to the shanties. He’d spent the night with a waitress from the Palace in her one-room apartment above a liquor store, and had not slept. Her place had been bare, mattress on the floor and all that, but it had smelled nice and so had she. All night.
He pushed a shopping cart he’d boosted from a bum sleeping one off down an alley, leaving the cat’s stuff in a neat pile. Now it was loaded with his guitar and amp. His other possessions—such as they were—were back in the shanties at Billy Lambert’s. He was getting the hell out of the City tonight. All those women, some with boyfriends, husbands, and even worse, mad-as-shit brothers. Then there were the troubles in the shanties—the attacks by the white folk and everyone getting ready to leave. And something else, something that might not catch up to him, but who knew?
He planned to stick around for the Square before he left. He dug the Square. When Eunice Prendergrast learned he was a musician, she got him a drum and told him to flow along with the rest of them. It had been good; really good. Almost like those times onstage when it really came together, but in a different way. Better. Hard to explain. Hard to even dredge up the feeling when it wasn’t actually happening. He was looking forward to one last time. Maybe smoke some mesca with Billy, get in the mood.
He came to the field that led to the shanties. The cart rattled as he steered off the cement sidewalk and onto the jumble of broken asphalt, dirt from God knew where, and weeds that passed for a field around here. The Samedi cats were out, rolling oil drums and lugging scrap wood to dump in them. A couple of them were painting that weird skull and top hat on the barrels. Watching all this, in a chair against the shanties’ edge, was Senah Glélé, wearing a black bowler and smoking a cigar, his eyes hidden by dark glasses.
Winston found a guy he kind of knew named Étienne. “What’s going on?”
Étienne was pouring sweat. His eyes were yellowed and rimmed red. “Getting ready, boss. Getting ready.”
“For what?”
“Things happening today, boy. Getting ready.”
Winston chewed on his lip, not sure he was willing to put much stock into Father Womé’s prophecies. These Samedi guys certainly did, though, and they knew Womé better than he did.
Étienne said, “Heard you’re checking out.”
“That’s right.”
More of the guys had stopped now, using Winston as an excuse to take a break.
“Where you headed?”
Winston shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“Don’t put down roots, right? Just ease along.”
There was a lot of head nodding and people slapping him on the back, shaking his hand.
“You sticking around for the Square at least?” Étienne asked.
“Yeah. I’m sticking around for that and then making my way.”
Inside the shanties, Winston weaved his cart through the confusion of people. He found Billy Lambert’s shack and pushed the cart through the door. Billy was sitting in the corner on a seat he’d made from a stack of newspapers. Daylight leaked in through some narrow slits that Billy had cut through his tin wall. From the smell, Winston knew that Billy’d already started with the mesca.