Only the Strong (16 page)

“Just so you know,” Guts began again, “your husband didn't have a beef with me. I barely knew him. I didn't want you to think—”

“Never thought about you at all, mister. I just thought about my husband. I was mad at myself because I had just been wishing he was dead. And then it happened. I had already taken my wish back. I knew it was wrong. But I was too late.”

“I'm sorry,” Guts said. “I wish there was something I could—”

“He beat me. He was mean to the kids and he didn't take care of them. He was drunk all the time. I know it didn't make sense to love him. But I did. I did anyway.”

She turned to Guts. “You want to do something for me? Try leaving. Stop bothering me.” With that, LaRue stepped out from under the awning and peered down the street, as if willing the bus to come.

Guts scratched his nose with his index finger, tried to think of something to say. But there was nothing. He returned to his car and drove off.

Still shy about doing more club-hopping, Crenshaw decided to test his luck at Mound City Downs, the racetrack across the river. He joked that he needed Guts to be his bodyguard and help him take home all the earnings he was sure to win. When they met up that evening, he was again dressed in plain, nondescript clothes, dark glasses, and a cap pulled down low. “Looks like you're hiding,” Guts teased.

“I am,” Crenshaw replied. “If Washburn finds out I'm over here betting the ponies, he'll start wondering if I bet on baseball. That's how you get banned for life.”

Guts wasn't a fan of the races, but he knew his way around. Goode owned a few horses in a stable run by Simon Hughes, the
first of two black men licensed to train thoroughbreds in the area. He also shared an owner's box in the clubhouse with Levander Watts, the
Citizen
's publisher. Guts seldom indulged in gambling. But he often accompanied Goode and was dispatched to the ticket window to handle the boss's bets. He hated walking through the grandstand, watching the desolate losers sift through discarded tickets on the ground, hoping to strike gold—or, at least, get enough for bus fare back across the river to Gateway City.

Because he knew Hughes, Guts was able to park behind the scenes, where the owners, trainers, and stable hands had their own lot. When Hughes gave them a brisk tour of his stable, Crenshaw was as excited as Guts had ever seen him. He had no fear of the horses and they seemed to take to him readily. The one exception was a horse that shrunk away from them as soon as they approached. He whinnied and almost reared up on his hind legs before Hughes soothed him.

“What's wrong with him?” Guts asked.

“He's been drugged,” Hughes explained. “He's been skittish ever since and certainly can't run. I can't even get a saddle on him.”

“What do you mean drugged?”

“He was our best horse, a three-year-old. Mr. G. owns him. A stakes winner. But somebody injected something in him, all but killed him.”

“Shit,” Crenshaw said. To Guts's surprise, Crenshaw pulled off his aviators and wiped his eyes. Guts wouldn't have guessed that Crenshaw had a soft spot for animals. “They're doing this because they don't want to see a black man beat them at their own game,” Crenshaw said.

“Not that simple,” Hughes said. “Whoever's doing it is messing with white men's horses too.”

As the night progressed, Crenshaw lost more than he won. But he didn't seem to mind. To Guts, the ballplayer seemed fascinated with everything: the blare of the bugle announcing the start of another race, the jockeys in their bright silks, the dull rumbling that grew greater as the horses rounded the far turn and thundered toward the home stretch. He even seemed to enjoy the awful hot dogs that Guts had no problem resisting.

After just missing the seventh-race quinella, Crenshaw suggested they call it a night. They each bought a cup of beer and strolled back toward the stables. The two men leaned on a fence rail and sipped their suds. Nearby, grooms and stable hands hosed down horses and went about their tasks.

“I always wanted a horse when I was coming up,” Crenshaw said. “How about you?”

Guts grunted. “Where would I have put a horse?”

“Okay, I see your point. Lots of room for a horse in Wigwam, though. Plenty of people had 'em, too. The whole town didn't have but one stoplight.”

“I didn't even know they had black people in West Virginia until I met you,” Guts said.

“We're there all right. Half a dozen families where I'm from. ‘Our coloreds,' they called us. They thought we were all related—and my old man did his damnedest to make it so. They didn't treat us too bad. They made jokes about not being able to see us at night, stuff like that. Hell, my high school wouldn't have had nothing like a football or basketball team without their ‘coloreds.' Now, you want to know where the crazy crackers are? That would be Arkansas.”

“Mr. Logan's from there,” Guts said. “What were you doing there?”

“Minor leagues. That's where I played Triple A. They hated me.
Hated
. I played the outfield then. Nigger, coon, monkey, jungle bunny—I heard it all. They threw shit at me all the time, and I was the best player on the team they were supposed to be rooting for. The manager started bringing me in to first base in the late evenings because that's when the fans got really rowdy.”

Crenshaw took off his hat and pointed to a spot behind his ear. “Look at that,” he said.

Guts looked and saw a rectangular dent in Crenshaw's skull. Purple against his dark brown skin, it looked as if still hurt.

“A battery did that,” Crenshaw said. “Caught me when I was paying attention to the pitch, knocked me unconscious. Went down face first and chipped my tooth on a rock. Missed two weeks with a concussion. 1963.”

“Son of a bitch,” Guts said. He sipped his beer. A horse whinnied in the background. “Me, I always wanted a bike.”

“A bike? I'm guessing you had room for that,” Crenshaw said.

“Yeah, but my folks never had much after the bills were paid. We talked about it but it never happened. I'm about to tell you something that I've never told anyone else. You got to keep it to yourself.”

Crenshaw leaned in. “Scout's honor,” he promised.

“I never learned,” Guts said softly.

“Never learned what?”

“To ride a bike. I got older and bigger and I just never got around to it. Probably won't.”

“Bullshit,” Crenshaw declared. “It's never too late, Big Man. It's not too late for me to get a horse and it's not too late for you to get a bike and ride it all over the motherfuckin' place.”

“I hear you talking,” Guts said.

Crenshaw raised his cup. “Let's drink to it. You in?”

Guts touched his cup to Crenshaw's. “In,” he agreed.

The bugle blared, announcing the start of another race. It sounded just as clearly back in the stables.

“Guts, you got any brothers or sisters?”

Guts shook his head. “Nope. It's just me.”

“What about grandparents?”

“All dead.”

“No family at all?”

“As far as I know.”

Crenshaw clapped Guts on the shoulder. “Don't feel bad. You might have a leg up on a lot of folks.”

“How you figure?”

“Well, most people don't have a choice when it comes to family. Look at me. I'm number six out of eight. Some of my brothers and sisters would steal my shirt off my back. Others would take theirs off and give it to me. My mama, she worked and worked until the day I could tell her she didn't have to. I got her in a nice house. My daddy, well, he had almost as many kids by another woman not far up the road. He didn't have time for any of us, from what I could see. When word got around about my signing bonus, he showed
up sure as shit. Talking about ‘son, this' and ‘son, that' like I had even half a mind to listen to him. You could say I'm stuck. But you? You get to make your own family. Mr. Logan, he's like your daddy—okay, stepdaddy. Mr. G.? He's the rich uncle who helped you get your start. That lady friend of yours? Well, she can be your wife and carry your babies. If I'm in town, I'll stand up with you at the altar.”

“Sounds like you got it all worked out.”

“Not a bad plan though, right?”

“I don't have a lady friend anymore.”
Damn
, Guts thought.
I'm talking too much. Must be the beer
.

“What? That fast? Damn, what did you do?”

Guts shrugged and stared off into the distance. “Didn't do anything, and I guess that was the problem. This guy named Nifty said I was getting domesticated and I let it get under my skin. Her name's Pearl. She threw all my stuff out of her window.”

“Aw, she wasn't so mad,” Crenshaw said. “If she had been really pissed she'd have set your shit on fire.”

“She was about to.”

Crenshaw's eyebrows shot skyward. “Oh.”

A twig snapped somewhere behind them. Crenshaw appeared not to notice it. Guts turned around and peered into the shadows. He saw nothing.

“Relax, Big Man,” Crenshaw said. “You're not on the job. We're just two friends hanging out.”

Guts reluctantly returned to the fence.

“You're lucky,” the ballplayer continued. “I run into broads who take my shit. You get with a woman who gives all your shit back.”

“That's a good one.”

“Except I'm for real. This Pearl. From what you tell me, she's passionate, sexy. She goes all out for what she thinks is important. And what she thinks is important is you. Sounds like she'd do anything for you, and wants you to do the same for her. You're a killer—okay, an ex-killer—and here you are with a woman who'd kill for you. That's intense, Big Man. That's a killer combination. Me, I ain't ready for that yet. But the way you mope around and shit, I suspect you are.”

“Damn,” Guts said. “That almost made sense.”

“Stick around, Junior. You might learn something. People think I'm stupid because I'm pretty.” Crenshaw drained his cup and crumpled it loudly.

“Will you stop with the pretty shit? Keep that up and people are going to be looking at you funny.”

“Muhammad Ali's always talking about how pretty he is. Nobody looks at him funny.”

“That's because Muhammad Ali will whip some ass,” Guts said.

A shovel blade, swung properly, will knock the average man senseless or even kill him. But Guts Tolliver wasn't an average man, and an amateur was wielding the shovel. The flat part of the blade thudded against Guts's skull, forcing the beer from his hands. The end result, however, was that he was more angry than stunned. He wheeled on his attacker, lowering himself into a crouch as he spun. Crenshaw had also turned and assumed a similar stance.

They faced two men, white, weather-beaten, early thirties. One held a shovel, the other a pitchfork. “Come quietly,” Pitchfork said, and “there won't be no trouble.”

“What the fuck?” Crenshaw asked.

“We know who you are,” said Shovel. “You're the assholes who've been tampering with these horses.”

“I'm about to tamper with
you
,” Guts warned.

“Shut up!” Pitchfork ordered. “You don't belong back here. You must be up to something.”

“We're minding our own business,” Crenshaw said. “You should do the same.”

He took a step forward.

“Back off, All-Star,” Guts said. “I'll take care of this.”

“Listen to your buddy,” Pitchfork said. “Before I knock you on your ass.”

“You don't want to try that,” Crenshaw said. He took off his sunglasses. “See? I'm Rip Crenshaw. First base.”

“And I'm Spiro fucking Agnew,” Shovel hissed.

Guts had heard enough. His head was throbbing. He was probably going to have to take an aspirin and he didn't like to do that. Aspirin was hard on his stomach.

“Hey,” he said, advancing on Pitchfork. He faked a right to his head, inducing Pitchfork to duck and swing his weapon. Guts caught it with two hands, snatched it, and bounced it off the man's temple. He went down quickly. Shovel swung his spade. Guts neatly parried it with the pitchfork and took out his legs. He planted his boot on Shovel's chest. He raised the pitchfork high.

Somewhere he heard a voice. It sounded far away, as if under water. Gradually it became clearer. It was Crenshaw, talking him down. “Come on, Big Man. It's not worth it. It was all a misunderstanding. Come on, let's get out of here. Come on, Big Man. We got plans. You know, bicycles. Horses.”

Guts lowered the tool and looked around. Pitchfork was still out. Shovel was rolling around moaning, eyes closed. Tossing the pitchfork to the ground, Guts stepped over Shovel and followed Crenshaw out to the lot.

The ducks were hungrier than usual. They swarmed near the edge of the pond, their webbed feet paddling so fast that the water churned. Guts couldn't toss the crumbs fast enough. In a flurry of flapping wings, the ducks leapt up to snatch them from the air. His bag was empty before he knew it. He stood up, stretched, and took a look around. All of the regulars were absent from the park except for the fisherwoman. From her perch in her aluminum lawn chair, she seemed to watch over everything. The scene struck Guts as a little odd. He was sure of it: something was off. He walked toward her. The breeze drifting off the pond was unusually brisk, turning into gusts strong enough to make him stagger. When he got close to the fisherwoman's chair, the wind blew her hat off and she looked right at him. Guts gasped, shook to his core. The woman had his mother's face.