ONE MAGNIFICENT RAT, premium blue-gray, and at least twenty-five inches long, walked boldly into the center of Nonnie Swift’s cluttered living room, its near-metallic claws making a kind of snare drum beat on the parquet floor.
“I started to call the ASPCA,” Nonnie whispered.
“I’ll handle this mother,” I said.
“Please be careful.”
“Sure thing.” An old proverb crossed my mind: Bravery is a luxury; avoid it at all cost. “Take the gun,” I said to Nonnie.
“Oh! Les . . .”
“Take it.”
A terrified Nonnie reached for the spear gun. “I’m praying as fast as I can, Lester Jefferson.”
“This is gonna be child’s play,” I said. “Hell. I thought he’d come on like a tiger,” and just then, before I could get into a quarterback position, the rat bit my left big toe.
“The sneaky son of a bitch,” I yelled, hopping on one foot.
“Are you wounded?” Nonnie cried.
“No. I got tough feet.”
The rat moved back. He had a meek Quaker expression and the largest yellow-green eyes I’ve ever seen on a rat.
“He’s the lily of the valley,” Nonnie said, foolishly, I thought.
“Shut up,” I warned and knelt down and held out my hand. “Here, rattie, rattie,” I crooned. “Come here, you sweet little bastard. Let’s be pals.”
“Call him Rasputin. They love that,” Nonnie advised.
“Rasputin, baby. Don’t be shy. Let’s be pals, Rasputin.”
Rasputin lowered his head and inched forward slowly.
“That’s a good boy, Rasputin,” I said.
And the little bugger grazed my hand lovingly. Rasputin’s fake chinchilla fur was warm, soft.
“That’s a good little fellow,” I smiled sweetly and clamped my hands so hard around Rasputin’s throat that his yellow-green eyes popped out and rolled across the parquet like dice.
“Oh, my gracious,” Nonnie exclaimed. “You killed him with your bare hands. Oh, my gracious!”
“It was a fair fight.”
“Yes, it was, Lester Jefferson. You killed the white bastard with your hands.”
“Yeah. He’s a dead gray son of a bitch,” I said happily.
“He’s a dead white son of a bitch,” Nonnie insisted. “White folks call you people coons, but never rat, ’cause that’s them.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“It’s a fact. I should know. They got plenty of rats in New Orleans. But none in the Garden District, where I was born.”
“Well, well,” I said. “You never get too old to learn.” Seizing my rusty Boy Scout knife from my patched hip pocket, I began skinning Rasputin I. “Do you think the others will be afraid to come out because they smell the odor of death?” I said.
A delighted cackle from Miss Swift. She lifted her skirt and displayed rosy, well-turned knees. “Let’m come. You can handle’m.”
“You’re right for once.”
Nonnie walked over to me, like a fifty-year-old cheerleader. She touched my shoulder lightly. “Your true glory has flowered,” she said. “Samson had his hair and, by god! you got your Wig.”
Modesty forbade me to answer Miss Swift, but her voice rang sweetly in my ears. I would have kissed her, except my hands were soaked with blood.
“Are you ready, warrior?”
“At your service, Ma’am.”
“That’s the spirit,” Nonnie said. “I’ll get the coal shovel and bang against the wall. Then I’ll close my eyes. I don’t want my baby to be born with the sign of a rat on him.”
Waiting for Nonnie’s overture, I stood up and stretched. The blood had caked on my hands, making them itchy.
“This is gonna be more fun than a parade,” Nonnie said. She spat on the coal shovel for luck.
“I’m ready when you are,” I said, bracing my shoulders and sucking in my belly.
“Here we go,” Nonnie cried, and banged the shovel against the wall three sharp whacks.
Lord! Eight rats bred from the best American bloodlines (and one queer little mouse) jumped from holes in the chinoiserie panels. Nonnie had her eyes tight shut and was humming “Reach Out for Me.” Or were the rats humming? I couldn’t quite tell.
Fearless, I didn’t move an inch. Images of heroes marched through my Wigged head. I would hold the line. I would prove that America was still a land of heroes.
Widespread strong hands on taut hips, fuming, ready for action—I stomped my feet angrily. If I’d had a cape, I’d have waved it.
The rats advanced with ferocious cunning.
Perhaps for half a second, I trembled—slightly.
With heavy heart and nothing else, Nonnie Swift prayed. Through the thin wall, I heard Mrs. Tucker wheeze a doubtful, “Amen.”
Then, suddenly feeling a more than human strength (every muscle in my body rippled), I shouted, “All right, ya dirty rats!”
My voice shook the room. Nonnie moaned, “Mercy on us.” I could hear Mrs. Tucker’s harvest hands applauding on the other side of the wall. The rats had stopped humming but continued to advance.
And I went to meet them, quiet as Seconal (this was not the moment for histrionics)—it would have been foolhardy of me to croon, “Rasputin, old buddy.”
Arms outstretched, the latest thing in human crosses, I tilted my chin, lifted my left leg, and paused.
They came on at a slow pace, counting time. The mouse shrewdly remained near the wastebasket, just under the lavabo.
“Yes!” Nonnie cried out.
I didn’t answer. The rats had halted, a squad in V-formation. Connoisseurs of choice morsels—of babies’ satin cheeks, sucking thumbs, and tender colored buttocks—they neared the front for action.
“Come a little closer,” I sneered.
“Oh, oh,” Nonnie cried. “I can’t wait to tell him about this moment! I am a witness of the principality!”
She was obviously nearly out of her mind, so I said only, “Patience, woman.”
“Yes, my dear. But do hurry. He’s beginning to kick. We’re both excited.”
I stood my ground. The rats seemed to be frozen in position, except for one glassy-eyed bastard, third from the end.
He broke ranks and came to meet me.
I flung my Dizzy Dean arms, made an effortless Jesse Owens leap, lunged like Johnny Unitas, and with my cleat-hard big toe kicked the rat clear across the room. He landed on Nonnie’s caved-in sofa.
But I’ll hand it to the others: they were brave little buggers, brilliantly poised for attack.
Strategy was extremely difficult. I had to map out a fast plan.
“Les, Les . . . are you all right?”
“Yeah,” I breathed and started to close up ground.
One rat, a second-stringer, made a leap but I crotched him with my right knee. He nose-dived, his skull going crack on the floor. Another zeroed in on that famed big toe, but I was ready for him too. Kicking wildly—because four were sneaking from the left flank—I could only knock him unconscious.
Now the four and I waltzed. One-two-left. One-two-right. One-two-left, one-two-right. One-two-left, one-tworightone-twoleftonetwo—and then the biggest son of a bitch of all leaped as if he’d had airborne training.
I hunched down fast and he sailed right over my head. I spun around just in time to land a solid right in his submachine gun mouth.
Panting hard, I watched him go down slow, his head bobbing in a kind of ratty frug.
I felt good.
“They at war!” I heard Mrs. Tucker yell. I looked over at Non-nie. She was backed against the door, mesmerized with admiration.
When I turned to face the enemy again, two rats were retreating.
Pursuing as fast as I could, I slipped on the waxed floor and fell smack on the remaining three. But I fell easily and was careful not to damage the fur.
I lay there briefly, rolled over, and scouted for the deserters. Two were making a beeline for the wastebasket, which was brass and steel and filled with empty Fundador bottles.
I was decent. I waited until they thought they were safe, only to discover that they were actually ice-skating on the brandy bottles.
I knelt down and called, “Rasputin, Rasputin.” They raised their exquisite heads and I put my hands in the wastebasket, grabbed both by the neck—I squeezed, squeezed until the fur around their neck flattened. It was easy.
“You can open your eyes, Nonnie,” I said in a tired voice.
“A Good Man Is Hard to Find,” the gal from Storyville sang.
I was tired. I made a V-for-victory sign, winked, and started skinning rats.
Someone knocked at the door.
Nonnie was excited. “Oh, Les. The welcoming committee has formed already!”
“Wanna sub for me, cupcake.”
“Delighted.”
Another knock. “It’s Mrs. Tucker, your next-door neighbor, and I couldn’t help but hear what was going on . . .”
“There ain’t no action in this joint, bitch,” said Nonnie.
“I just wanted to offer my heartfelt congratulations to young Master Jefferson.”
“Is that all you wanna offer him?” said Nonnie bitchily.
“Now that’s no way to talk, Miss Swift, and you a Southernbred lady.”
“You’re licking your old salty gums,” Nonnie taunted. “You smell fresh blood. If you’re hungry, go back to yo’ plantation in Carolina.”
“I will in due time, thank you.” Mrs. Tucker withdrew in a huff.
“Go! Go!” Nonnie said, and turned abruptly and walked over to where I sat on the floor. “I guess you know those skins ain’t tax-free,” she said.
Engrossed in my job and thinking of The Deb, I did not answer.
“I could report you,” Nonnie went on. “You don’t have a license for rat killing.”
“But you invited me over. You were afraid they’d kill you!”
“That’s beside the point,” Nonnie said sharply. “There are laws in this land that have to be obeyed.”
“You didn’t mention the law when you were trying to break down my door.”
“Smart aleck! Ambitious little Romeo. I want a percentage on every perfect skin!”
“But I’m not gonna sell them,” I said clearly.
“Listen, conkhead! You’ll put nothing over on me.”
“Never fear, cupcake.”
“You try to outsmart me and I’ll see your ass in jail if it’s the last thing I do.”
I looked up at Nonnie and laughed. Rat killing was a manly sport and there was always the warmth of good sportsmanship after the game. I split open the belly of Rasputin number nine. The rich blood gushed on the parquet and I thought of the long red streamers on a young girl’s broad-brimmed summer hat.
“At least you could give me some for broth,” Nonnie cried. “Don’t be so mean and selfish. I’m only a poor widow and soon there’ll be another mouth to feed.”
I wasn’t really listening to Nonnie; in my mind I saw the tawny face of The Deb, saw her rapture upon receiving the magnificent pelts. We would talk and laugh and later make love. My penis, which I have never measured, flipped snakewise to an honest Negro’s estimate of seven and a half inches.