Standing at the Scratch Line (19 page)

King stopped under a makeshift awning to drain the water off his hat and coat. There was a line of three or four people waiting for handouts from the kitchen. He heard an old grizzled drunk say, “See! See, that’s the car with the white mens waitin’ in it.” The old man pointed down the alley. “They told me to get away! Now, they comin’ this way and it ain’t good luck that’s bringing ’em.”

King saw the vehicle slowly driving toward the restaurant’s back door and decided that it was not in his best interest to stand in such a vulnerable spot. He opened the door and stepped inside. He closed the door behind him and entered a short hallway that opened onto a large, well-lighted kitchen. There was a bathroom off the hallway, which King stepped into. He left the door open a crack and waited to see if someone would attempt to follow him into the restaurant. After waiting several minutes, King returned to the back door and opened it. The car was gone. The people were still waiting under the canopy for handouts. A few of them had looked at him hopefully when he opened the door.

A hand fell on his shoulder. “What are you doin’ back here, boy?”

From the gravelly voice, King knew that Butterball Brown was behind him. The door swung shut when he turned to face the Biloxi’s owner. Butterball’s plump face dimpled and smiled. “Mamie’s waiting out there for your young ass! If that was my woman, I’d stick to her like white on rice. I’d put her on the back burner and cook her slow like she was a cream sauce.” Butterball rotated his sizable girth as he said this and ended it with a pelvic thrust.

King laughed lightly. Butterball was one of the few people King had met in New York with whom he felt absolutely comfortable. Butterball was a personality. He was obsessed with cooking and women, in that order. Everything he said related to either food or sex and generally both. Butterball Brown was the reason people flocked to the Biloxi. He was a top chef. His specialty was fowl. From squab to geese, he cooked them all. His Duck with Oranges was known to be the best on the eastern seaboard. He was a rotund man with a broad smile and golden-brown skin. With his dimpled cheeks and laughing eyes, sometimes he looked like a gigantic elf in his chef’s cap, but the image was deceptive. There was strength and dedication underneath his jovial exterior. As more than one adversary had discovered, Butterball Brown could be a formidable foe.

King returned his attention to the men waiting in the rain. “I think I got a problem: there’s somebody waitin’ in a car outside. I heard one of yo’ ‘late diners’ say that there was white men waitin’ in that car.” “Late diners” is how Butterball referred to the people who assembled in the alley for handouts at the close of business.

Butterball opened the door. “Which one?” he growled, indicating the men waiting under the canopy. King gestured to one of the men. Butterball called out, “Joe Deavers! Come here, man!”

A scraggly, unkempt man shuffled over to the door and stood swaying before them.

“You know something about a car with white men sitting in it?”

“They down the alley, still waitin’,” Joe said, turning to peer in the direction of the car. “They had a colored man with them, but he and one of the white mens went into the Biloxi.”

“Thanks, Joe. I’ll give you an extra serving for that,” Butterball said and closed the door. “Something’s cooking,” he said as he turned to face King. “I guess we have to make sure that it’s not your goose.” Butterball chuckled, and it sounded like large bolts being rattled in a clay pot.

King smiled as well. “How many ways are there out of here?” He wasn’t worried. Actually, he felt excitement, but it was always a good idea to know the exits.

“There are more ways out of here, boy, than holes in a sieve. If you wanted to, you could go down to the basement and you could go around the stairs, straight toward the front, and you’d find a door that opens into the sewer. All you have to do is climb down the ladder and you can follow the sewer wherever you want to go.”

“The sewer?” King questioned, with a frown on his face. “Under the street?” New York was bad enough with all its tall buildings blocking out the sky, but King could not imagine willingly going into a subterranean tunnel in a city with rats the size of cats. He had seen them running in packs for the curbside drains when he’d driven his car along deserted streets in the early morning. King didn’t particularly mind rats; it was the thought of dealing with hundreds of them in a dark, confined space that didn’t appeal to him.

“I’ve used it plenty of times myself,” Butterball insisted. “I had this Second Cook once who wanted to marinade me in hot chicken broth. It was a love affair made in hell but damn! She was a master at chopping and mincing. The blade would whir—”

“Is you really suggestin’ that Mamie and me use the sewer?” King cut in.

“Oh, Mamie,” Butterball acknowledged. “You could still go down to the basement and across to the next building. I share a coal delivery room with them. It’s not far, but it’s a different exit.”

“No thanks. I think I’ll join Mamie and leave those men to stew in the rain awhile.”

“Don’t wait too late. You might have to use the sewers,” Butterball cautioned.

King followed Butterball through the bustling activity of the kitchen, which despite the lateness of the hour still had two cooks preparing food while other staff had commenced the cleanup operations. Butterball stopped at the swinging doors that led into the dining rooms. He had a policy of not leaving the kitchen until the stoves were turned off. King went through the doors into the dining area and made his way to the table where Mamie was sitting. From what Old Joe Deavers had said, King knew that the ambushers had a spotter in the restaurant. King let his eyes wander over the customers. He was looking for a single man.

The restaurant as usual was full and the bar was doing a lively business. King saw that a band had set up in an alcove off the main dining area and tables had been cleared away to provide space for the cast to toast their departing friend with a gift of their art. Big Ed waved to him from across the room. King waved back and sat down.

Mamie was a little upset that King took so long to get to the table, but she soon got past it once drinks were ordered and the conversation was flowing between them.

“So who’s going to sing next?” King asked after Mamie had informed him of the singers he had missed. He saw no reason to worry her about the white men in the car.

“Reola Mumford,” Mamie answered. “She’s that little, dark brown– skinned woman in the yellow dress. Wait until you hear her.”

The little woman stepped up and took the microphone. She nodded to the drummer and kept nodding as she swiveled to face the audience. She opened her mouth and a high piercing note issued. She worked her way down the scale following melodic harmonies. She was forming syllables, but King did not understand the words she was singing. The only thing that separated her effort from babbling was that every note was bell-like and clarion-clear. He had never heard an operatic solo before, but the music stirred him. The song was a beautiful, slow ballad that allowed the artist the space to sculpt the music in her own special image. The piano joined in playing the chords of the melody. The woman closed her eyes and let her ear guide her through the strange, wistful music. It was a sad and haunting melody and by the time she finished, there were a number of faces in her audience that glistened with tears.

King applauded loudly along with the rest of the audience when she finished singing. “What language was that?” King asked as the applause died down.

“She was singing in Italian. She sang at La Scala in Rome,” Mamie said admiringly. “It’s sad that despite such great talent, she can’t get a job singing with an American opera company.”

“She got to get past it if she wants to sing. Maybe, she’s got to go back to Europe. There was a sergeant in the army who used to say, ‘Prejudice is like gravity; you got to keep pushin’ against it without spending too much time thinking about it.’ He used to tell us that all the time to help us forget how the army was treatin’ us. I hated hearin’ it then, but I got to say that in the long term, I think he was right. You can spend too much time thinkin’ about things and they just get bigger than they is. You just got to keep on pushin’ everyday against the things that cages you in!”

Mamie smiled at King but she did not speak. Everything was so clear-cut for him, white and black, and well defined. Part of it she realized was his youth, yet there was more to it than that, for he was a strange combination of things. He was a man, the war had made him old before his time, and yet he was still a child in so many ways, a dangerous child, but a child nonetheless. Perhaps only a woman could have seen the child in him as she did, for she saw both his innocence and his wide-eyed fascination. She saw it in his numerous questions and in his hesitant efforts to reach out to her, not physically but in conversation, after the animal urges had been sated. He was so different than anyone she had ever known. His raw, unrestrained animal vitality seemed to embody a lust for living that was only equaled by his willingness to face death.

The band started to play dance music and people began to table-hop, moving from group to group, greeting friends and telling stories. Mamie wanted to go over and say hello to the dancer who was leaving to join another show and she wanted King to escort her. The next hour was a blur to King; the people he was introduced to, the hands he shook, the faces he talked to were just snapshots to be thrown in a drawer, never to be seen again. His mind did not even stop to catalog them. He was preoccupied with finding the spotter. During their table-hopping he and Mamie stopped at Big Ed’s table and King had a chance to study the rest of the patrons while his friends talked.

The Biloxi Roadhouse Café was crowded, as it usually was on a Monday night. Most cabarets and clubs were closed on that day, so the Biloxi enjoyed the benefits of decreased competition and over the years became the place to be on a Monday night. A substantial percentage of the clientele were performers of one type or another. Musicians often came with their instruments and singers came ready to sing because the Monday night jam session was an institution held in high repute. A lot of out-of-work singers and musicians joined the jam session to showcase their talent. As a result, there were numerous single people in the restaurant and bar. King was looking for a needle in a haystack and he knew it. It would take a miracle or a mistake by the spotter for King to identify the man.

King excused himself from the table and tapped Big Ed on the shoulder, indicating that he should follow. Big Ed rose without question and walked over to the bar with King. They ordered drinks and then King informed him of the situation. Big Ed listened without interruption, nodding his head as King discussed the various scenarios that might have led the men to him. King was concerned someone in the Minetti organization had tracked him down as a result of the disappearance of Tino Minetti.

The Biloxi was one of the few classy establishments where the social intermingling of colored people and whites was not a strained, self-conscious act. It was not uncommon for there to be more white customers than colored and there were always more than a few tables occupied by interracial couples. Thus, it was not a surprise when King saw Ira Goldbaum.

“Hello, King,” Ira said in a warm and friendly tone. “Looks like the Biloxi’s really doing well tonight. I haven’t seen it this crowded on a Monday night in some time.”

King nodded in agreement.

“I’ve been seeing a lot of one of your squad members,” Ira volunteered. “He’s in two of the law classes that I teach at Columbia University.”

“You talkin’ about Professor?” Big Ed asked with a big smile. Big Ed looked at King. “He’s talkin’ about Professor! Ain’t that somethin’?”

“If you mean Darwin Morris, you’re right,” Ira said with a smile. “Even before the war he was one of my best students and he’s now law-clerking in my legal firm. He shows a lot of promise.”

“So now you one of Professor’s professors,” Big Ed said in awed tone.

King turned so that he could look over Ira’s left shoulder and saw Tyrone Thigpin staring at him. When their eyes locked, Tyrone nodded guiltily and looked away.

“He’s a good man,” Ira said, referring to Professor. “I am not only his teacher but his friend.”

“What are you doin’ here, Lieutenant?” King asked. He used Ira’s military title because he wasn’t comfortable calling whites by their first names; that seemed to indicate a level of familiarity he didn’t feel. Nor was he going to call anyone by their last name when they addressed him by his first name.

Ira had none of these concerns. He was effusive in his response. “I love this place: the music and the food! My wife and I come here often to eat. Sometimes I come by myself for the jam sessions. Ever since Jim Europe introduced me to it, I’ve loved this jazz music. In my law business, I recently set up the corporation papers for a phonograph record company. Part of my fee will include copies of any of the jazz records they produce.”

“Look, Lieutenant, I wants to talk some with you about corporate law, but right now I got some business to tend to,” King explained. He wanted to find Tyrone and have a private discussion with him.

“Of course, I just wanted to come over and ask if my wife and I could ask you over for dinner sometime. I wanted to thank you personally for saving my life and I wanted you to know that my gratitude ran deeper than mere words allow.”

“Sho’, we can do that,” King agreed, thinking that the event would never come to fruition.

Big Ed and he scoured the Biloxi but could not find a sign of Tyrone anywhere. King sensed that he needed to make a move. He needed to do something unexpected. Otherwise he would be reacting to the plans of others. King and Big Ed stood inside the kitchen doors staring out on the dining room.

“I need you to make sure Mamie doesn’t get hurt,” King confided in Big Ed. “I’m going to try to take care of this right now. I think I’m going to pay these boys a surprise visit. I ain’t plannin’ on leavin’ by no sewer.”

“You gon’ need cover?” Big Ed asked.