Three Days Before the Shooting ... (44 page)

I said, “I’ll have to look up his poetry, it might be interesting.”

“You do that; they say it’s great. But man, they have another nut up there who’s supposed to have committed treason or something.”

At the word “treason” I almost dropped my cup, feeling the hot coffee through the cloth covering my thigh.

“Treason,” I said, “when? What did he do?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Charleston said. “It was some time ago, but all I can learn that he did was to call the President’s wife on the telephone and try to talk trash.”

I stared into his face, thinking I had misunderstood.
“Trash?”
I said, “What did he do, threaten her? Attempt to blackmail her?”

For a moment he gave me a silent stare, then cut his eyes, looking away. “Forget it, man,” he said wearily. “Are you
sure
you dig LeeWillie?”

The green eyes were boring into me now, and I sensed that I’d made a serious mistake.

“Yes,” I lied, “I collect his records.”

“Look, man, that don’t mean a thing. A lot of folks collect him who don’t
dig him
. They just follow the damn crowd, who follow the dog-butted critics, who say whatever those record companies
tell
them to say. They talk more shit than the radio! I don’t mean to put you down, but you really don’t seem to understand the language that goes with LeeWillie’s music.”

He sounded quite earnest, and because I didn’t understand much of what he said and had been thoroughly baffled by his talk of treason, trash, and the First Lady, I allowed myself to become annoyed.

“Look,” I said, “let’s not argue about it; you want to get Minifees out of here and I’d like to get a story, so if you intend to help, we’d better get on with it.”

Studying my face, he stood, moving toward the door.

“Okay, buddy,” he said. “You’re right. You don’t have to
dig
a man in order to want to help him. What’s your name? Mine’s Charleston, like in South Carolina.”

“I remember,” I said, following him into the hall. “Mine is McIntyre.”

“Okay, Doctor McIntyre,” he said, placing the cups and pot in the cart, “I’ll see if I can help you.”

“Thanks,” I said, “I’d certainly appreciate it. But I’m not a doctor, remember, I’m a reporter.”

His face went blank again. “Now ain’t
that a
damn shame!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Hell, man, that means I can’t help you.”

“But you just said you would.”

“Yeah, but the only ones I can help are doctors. You dig?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

“No, I didn’t think you would. Look, man, they told me that I was to give the
doctors
any assistance they asked for; they didn’t say a damn thing about any reporters. Now you dig?”

“I’m beginning to, I think.”

“So now, after giving it your undivided attention, are you a doctor?”

I nodded. “Yes, I’m a doctor.”

“Good. You really make it hard for a man, McIntyre. But now you’re beginning to riff. I knew damn well that you had
some
kind of degree—don’t you now?”

“Yes,” I said, “as a matter of fact, I have.”

For a moment he watched me silently and I saw his green eyes pale and his features becoming subtly more Anglo-Saxon, more refined, and when he spoke again his speech was precise, Northern, as though he were doing a mocking imitation of a white man.

“Doctor,” he said, “I take it that what you mean to say is that as a matter of
tact
you have …”

“Perhaps, since it’s necessary,” I said, “yes….”

He grinned, his face relaxing. “Skip it, man. Pay me no mind. Just tell me how by dint of hard work and study and the burning of midnight oil what
kind
of degree do you have?”

“A Ph.D.,” I said.

“I knew it! Didn’t I know it? What in?”

“Sociology.”

He struck his thigh. “There you go! Didn’t I know it? Man, you’re lucky because I’m always happy to help a scientist—especially one who digs good jazz. But, Doctor,” he said, leaning close and bringing the smell of coffee and fresh bread, “let me tell you something …”

“Yes?”

“Once I get you to LeeWillie, I don’t know anything about you, you dig?”

“Yes, I follow you.”

“I’ve only
seen
you, and you’ve seen
me
but that’s all.”

“Agreed.”

“You better, because if you get caught, as far as I’m concerned you’re like the bear—you’re nowhere. Because while this job ain’t nothing but a slave it’s the only one I got. So if you get caught, as far as I’m concerned you’re just another one of those psychiatrists or some other kind of bullshitter that I try to have nothing to do with. You dig me?”

“Don’t worry,” I said, “I’ll protect your confidence. Reporters do that all the time. It’s part of our tradition.”

“Man, never mind your tradition, just don’t put me in no swindle.”

“I won’t,” I said, “you can count on that.”

“Okay, Doctor McIntyre. So now I’ll tell you what I want you to do. While I’m working this floor and the next, I want you to walk down to the end of this hall and turn left. When you turn left you’ll see some stairs. So now I want you to go up those stairs and turn left again, and go on up two more flights, and when you get there I want you to stand there on the landing. Understand?”

I nodded.

“What I mean is, I want you to stand there on the landing but
don’t
open the door and go in. You just stand there and wait until
I
open the door. Get me?”

“I understand.”

“Good,” he said, and pushed off down the corridor.

I watched him go, thinking,
Perhaps my luck has changed
, then saw him stop suddenly and turn, frowning.

“Well, go ‘head on!”

I hurried past him and headed for the stairs, still wondering at my luck. Perhaps this was the wedge to break through the system of mysteries.

I had begun to ask myself whether I shouldn’t forget the whole project and return to the Senator’s floor when the door opened and Charleston stood before me holding a mop in a bucket. Without a word he beckoned, and I followed him down a dimly lit corridor, hearing the gentle sloshing of the mop water as we passed a series of rooms with heavy screening and bars on the doors. Stopping before one of these, he put down the bucket and knocked.

“Hey, LeeWillie, you awake?”

Silence. I looked down the corridor from whence we’d come, noticing a thin trail of water sparkling in the dim light. Then from inside the room a muffled voice said, “Who is it?”

“This is Charleston, LeeWillie; you ‘sleep?”

“Hey, there, Charleston, my man,” the voice said with a yawn. “How’re you doing?”

“Fine, man. I say, are you ‘sleep?”

“Naw, I wish I were; but after all these years of gigging I guess I’m a night creature. What’s happening, man?”

“I brought a doctor to see you.”

“Another one? Man, you know I’m sick of doctors! I thought you were bringing me that portable radio.”

Charleston winked at me. “Hush, man,” he said. “Keep it down in there! You’ll get the damn radio just as soon as I can sneak it up here.”

“Did you get some earphones?”

“Yeah, it’s got earphones so you can listen without everybody knowing that you’re tuned in. Now look: I’m going to open the door so Doctor McIntyre can talk with you; he wants to ask you some questions.”

“But I don’t want any more questions, man!”

“Yeah, but these will be different,” Charleston said. Then, glancing furtively down the shadowed corridor, he produced a set of keys and went to work on the lock.

“Yeah, but I’ve answered all those damn questions a hundred times,” the voice said in garrulous complaint, growing stronger as it metamorphosed into a mock dialogue of interrogation:

“‘[Archly]
Mister Minifees, do you … er … get a
bang
out of watching fires?’

“‘No!
[a gruff, heavily Negro accent]’

“‘Mister Minifees
[high and effeminate]
, was your father … often absent from the home?’

“‘[Matter-of-factly]
Yes, sir, he was.’

“‘And did he
[eagerly]
abandon your mother?’

“‘Hell, no.’

(Pause.)

“‘Would you
[coyly]
explain that, Mister Mini-fees?’

“Yeah
[blandly]
, he had to be on his job.’

“‘Oh, yes, I see
[disappointedly]
. And how did you
feel
about your father, Mister Minifees?’

“‘Feel? Hell, I love him—
[very aggressively]
although plenty of times I used to want to kick his behind!’

“‘Yes, yes? And why was that?
[eagerly]
Go on, Mister Minifees….’

“‘Because
he used
to kick mine—Go-odd-damn!’

(Muffled laughter.)

“‘Oh, I see. Yes. And now
[with dry professionalism]
, Mister Minifees, do … you … er …
piss
straight?’

“‘Oh, sure, Doc, sure
[broadly stage Negro now]
except for once in a while….’

“‘Once in a while, Mister Minifees? And when
[eagerly]
is that?’

“‘When I’m cutting those figure eights.’

“‘[Silence, followed by heavy intake of breath, then doggedly]
Yes, I understand. And what do you think about when you’re doing this?’

“‘Oh, come on, Doc
[reluctantly]
, you don’t want me to tell you
that…
.’

“‘Yes, yes, I do
[objectively]
. What is the problem?’

“‘But look, Doc
[awefully]
, have you ever considered the
shape
of a figure eight?’

“‘The shape?
[warily, suddenly on guard]
Why no, Mister Minifees, but that’s an interesting question….’

“‘Yeah, Doc
[broad Southern accent]
, and if you put a head with long hair on top and two big legs on the bottom, and two loving arms on the side—it’s even more interesting. In fact, Doc, it’s a bitch! I call ‘em “golden girls”!’

“‘Er … interesting, Mister Mini-fees, very interesting. However, I think we can drop that. But now
[cagily]
, tell me, were you ever a member of a subversive group?’

“‘Not that I know of.’

“‘Do you belong to
any
organizations?’

“‘Sure.’

“‘What are they?’

“‘The Rhythm Club, Elks, Odd Fellows, and the United Sons of Georgia—And, man, if those are not subversive enough for
you
, they damn sure are for me. After one of those conventions I feel like I’ve been Triple-A plowed under and turned wrong side out!’

“‘And
[bewilderedly]
are these groups, Mister Minifees,
foreign?’

“‘You might say that; they’re colored.’

“‘Why, yes, of course. But now, tell me
[ingratiatingly]
, do you think that the colored man has a harder time than others?’

“‘Doc, are you kidding? Hell, yes! You goddamn right!’

“‘Why?’

“‘Because everybody thinks he’s black, that’s why.’

“‘
[Agitatedly]
Now don’t become excited, Mister Minifees. But tell me, which baseball team do you prefer, the New York
Yankees
or the Brooklyn
Dodgers?’

“‘Neither goddamn one.’

“‘But
why [dismayed]
, Mister Minifees,
why?’

“‘Because I’m a
foo
tball fan—Go-odd-damn!’

“No, Charleston,” the voice sang, in character again, “those guys can go on for hours asking questions, and I’ve answered them until they’re coming out of my goddamn ears. You get that man the hell away from here.”

I listened to Charleston struggling with laughter as he worked on the lock. I had great misgivings about Minifees.

“But wait, man,” Charleston said, “you know I wouldn’t be bringing up any
ordinary
doctor this early in the morning. This one is special, I trained him myself….”

“You what?”

“That’s right, man: I gave him his M.D. Before he met me he was just a reporter….”

“Oh, Lord!” the voice said, then the lock clicked and Charleston was looking quickly down the corridor and pushing the door in upon a dark interior. A light flashed on immediately, and back in the rear of the narrow room I saw Minifees. He lay full-length on a small bed, holding the switch of a small
bedside lamp in his long fingers. He wore white blue-striped hospital pajamas, and above the calm curiosity of his eyes a dully gleaming scarf of black silk protected his hair.

“Hey, man,” Charleston whispered, “put out that damn light. You’re going to have to talk to this one in the dark!”

For a moment Minifees stared at the two of us, then a flash of cold fire broke from his finger, and we were in the dark again.

“Charleston,” he said, “what the hell are you up to now? And what kind of snake oil is this he’s bringing me that has to be sold in the dark?”

Listening to Charleston’s joking explanation, I began to doubt once more that there was anything but the most far-fetched connection between Minifees and the gunman, and their playful approach to my presence seemed to reinforce this view. Yet even as I listened I could not completely dismiss the possibility that Minifees had sacrificed his car as a diversion during an earlier attempt to assassinate the Senator. Until the firing of the gun in the Senate, Minifees had seemed far removed from the world of politics, but with the sound of gunfire the world had become dream-like, and I could no longer be certain. I’d have to follow through and seek out a different logic of events. Certainly Charleston and Minifees were more than they appeared to be; their speech contained depths and traps which I had not suspected, and for all I knew they were listening even now to detect any nuance of suspicion in my voice and conduct. It was frightening, considering the possibility that Minifees might in fact be insane, might turn violent. Still, I was here now and would have to learn whatever I could. For even in itself the car-burning was such a threat to the normalcy of existence that its meaning required urgent exploration. The very fact that they could laugh at such a time and in such a place could be in itself evidence of some underground connection and thus of the possibility of even greater violence and chaos to come.