THREE HOURS LATER, I found myself with a slightly crushed Christian Dior box, jumping the sidewalk puddles, in which I saw the reflected solidity of Victorian brownstones. Despite the chilly drizzle, children seemed to be enjoying themselves on the fire escapes: laughing, singing, catching raindrops, telling dirty stories.
I walked along, blinking at the reflections in the pools, thinking of the children against the background of the harsh Harlem streets (but magical, all the same, stuffed with riches), and looking up now and then at the wet gray sky, only to be knocked out of my reveries by the sound of music.
It was blues, blues so real the’d make you hollow at five o’clock in the morning, no matter if you were alone or in the arms of your lover. These blues were coming out of a three-for-one bar and grill. I stopped for a moment and listened to Jimmie Witherspoon grind out “See-See Rider” on the jukebox. Through the steamy face of the grill, I saw hands working with the dexterity of an organ grinder, turning banquet-size slabs of barbecue spareribs on a spit. I could smell the spareribs, too. The crawlers in my stomach performed (Mr. Fishback’s Credit Card carried no weight in three-for-one bar and grills), so I moved on down the street, past select pawnshops, fourth-hand boutiques, liquor stores. In a doorway, narrow as a telephone directory, I saw a group of young people sitting on the staircase, playing Charlie Mingus music. I didn’t stop. Mingus always takes my energy away.
Nor did I stop a little farther on, hearing, from a storefront church, Gospel music. No, I didn’t stop. I’ve been listening to Gospel music as far back as I can remember.
As I went on, I began to hear Spanish music. I was not far from Spanish Harlem, where no rose ever grows, but human and paper roses sometimes blossom in the street. The Deb’s flat was here, in Harlem’s International Zone.
She lived in a “real co-op,” she had told me. The cooperation came from the police department; the commissioner had stationed bluecoats on split six-hour shifts at the entrance. Even so, a “society” murder had been committed in the entrance last Thanksgiving morning.
Walking up the flagstone path of the co-op, I recognized the Sunday afternoon bluecoat. He sported a frozen smile. Rumor said that a few of Harlem’s more inventive citizens had (under the personal direction of Mr. Fishback) drained the blood from his body and that now 150-proof gin ran through his veins.
Offering a sunny, arctic smile, bluecoat eyed the Christian Dior box.
“Hi,” I said, stepping smartly into the lobby. A hunk of dung-colored plaster fell from the ceiling, which was frosted like a cake, missing my head by inches.
An old stoop-shouldered crone was standing opposite the mailboxes, stuffing beeswax into cracks of the wall.
“Excuse me,” I said, “are you the concierge?”
The crone looked up. Her face was buttermilk-yellow and granite-hard. “The who?”
“The super.”
“No. I am not the super and I ain’t his wife. I just happen to live here.”
“I’m sorry. Do you know if The Deb’s in?”
The crone seemed interested. “Which one, Sonny?”
“The one on the ninth floor.”
“Oh, her. She’s in. But I don’t know if she’s busy or not . . .”
I clicked my heels, walked away, and bounded up the shaky staircase.
The strains of “Muslim Da-Da, Mu-Mu” (the Faust of rock ’n’ roll) drifted from The Deb’s pad, but nothing could blanket my schoolboy joy as I knocked on the solid door.
The doorknob fell off. Rolled, spun like a top. I watched until it stopped and then turned, certain The Deb would be spying through the peephole.
“Oh. It’s you,” were her first words when she opened the door. She wore a yellow robe. “Come on in if you gonna.”
“Thanks,” I said nervously.
“You almost missed me. I was just getting ready to go to Radio City Music Hall. In a taxi, so as not to miss the newsreel.”
“I thought perhaps we’d go to some quiet bistro . . .”
“You got any money?”
“Why must you always think of money?”
The Deb stared at me briefly. “You’re a card,” she said. “Did you know that?”
“Now, cupcake . . . Look. Here is a little something I thought you might like.” I held the box out.
“Oh. A present. What is it . . . no, let me guess. The definite, collected rock ’n’ roll records?”
“Guess again.”
“It wouldn’t be a blond Macy’s wig, would it?”
“Women,” I sighed. The most fascinating, hypnotic—the strangest creatures on the face of the earth.
“Give it to,” The Deb said and lunged at the box.
“Easy, baby,” I said, brushing her hand aside. I tossed the Dior box casually on her rumpled bed and sat down on a sick chair which was vomiting straw.
The Deb’s hands tore the box open. I yawned.
“Oh! Oh Oh! Oh!”
Hot-eyed, I watched The Deb fling open her yellow robe and press the pelts against her naked body.
“Mr. Jefferson, you are the most thoughtful man!”
“Just a little token of my esteem.”
The Deb switched over and gave me a wet smacking kiss on the forehead. It was a sugar-daddy kiss, but I was grateful to be in her alluring old-rose presence. Dimpled nipples brushed my chin; the scent of her body was fresh as dew. My hands prepared for travel.
“Now, Mr. Jefferson,” The Deb warned.
“Cupcake . . .”
“Men,” The Deb sneered, breaking away. “You want the world but don’t wanna pay the price. You don’t know the first thing about gentleness, and I don’t care what country you come from.”
“Shut your trap,” I commanded. A masterly manner just might work.
The Deb veered away from me and then stopped. “What did you say?”
“You heard me,” I told her and stood up.
“If that’s the way you feel,” The Deb said, “I’ll just play me a little music.”
“Don’t you touch that goddamn machine!”
“It’s mine,” The Deb said, “and I meet the landlord coming up the stairs on the first day of each month.”
“Don’t give me that jazz,” I said, and began to sulk.
“Your, your . . . Wig looks very glamorous this afternoon,” she said in a let’s-make-up tone. “I really mean it. It’s so dark and rainy out, it brings kind of a glow into the room.”
“To hell with The Wig,” I said, not really meaning it, but I was interested in something more than sweet words.
“I love it. Really I do.”
Without answering, but thinking clearly, I went up to the tawny smasher and gave a backhanded slap that threw her against the low bed.
“And I thought you came bearing gifts of love,” she cried.
“But I did,” I said, kneeling down and cradling her tear-stained face in my firm hands, thinking of that old cat Othello. But being only an average young man, living in a terrible age, cuffed by ambition, and now in love—I could only press her against me and hope.
“Les,” she said softly.
It was a small triumph, a midget step past the gates of pain.
The Deb had an “important engagement” at eleven and I had to be up early for Monday-morning business, so I left promptly at 9 P.M. Just as I reached my own block, I saw white-uniformed men carrying a covered stretcher. The frame of the stretcher gleamed under the street light.
Nonnie and Miss Sandra Hanover were coming down the stoop. Miss Sandra Hanover was out of costume. She wore blue jeans and a man’s raincoat.
“It’s old Miz Tucker, Les. Poor old thing passed away about an hour ago.”
“Yes,” Nonnie said. “Thoughtless bitch. She had to kick off and me in the condition I’m in.”
“That’s too bad,” I said.
“We’re going to the funeral home and make arrangements,” Miss Hanover said. “She’s got no family, so we’re shipping her back to her white folks in Carolina.”
“Yes,” Nonnie said vigorously. “That was her last wish. To have her remains sprinkled on the plantation’s blue grass. She’ll make excellent fertilizer, I’m sure.”
“Where’s Mr. Fishback?” I asked.
“Go up and look in your room,” Nonnie said. “He stopped by after you so rudely walked out on me this afternoon. I saw you steal that fancy box off the garbage truck.”
Fuming, I rushed up the stairs.
Two messages were stuck under my door. One was from Little Jimmie Wishbone and read:
URGENT. Must talk with you. Please call me at this number.
But there was no telephone number on the matchbox cover. I picked up Mr. Fishback’s note. It was written on Mr. Fishback’s usual fancy paper, a pale gray, with a border of asphodels and black bleeding hearts. It read:
Lester Jefferson, this will come as a surprise STOP I am leaving for the deep-sea diver’s club STOP on Eleuthera Island which is in the Bahamas STOP From there I will go by chartered plane to Toledo, Spain STOP Will return in good time STOP
“—F– —,” I said. Hump Mr. Fishback. But what did he mean: “Return in good time”?