Only the Strong (39 page)

Bumpy was holding his side and groaning. “This ain't over!” Young Mom shouted. “You hear me? This ain't over!”

Bored with the books and dissatisfied with the work assignments—he was nothing more than a glorified lackey, when he really should have been running things—PeeWee slipped his trusty World Series ring from his pocket and held it under the lamp on the desk. He never tired of that, turning the ring slowly as light slid through the jewel and threw blackness everywhere.

Dr. Noel sprung from the shadows near the floor and slashed his Achilles tendon with the scalpel she kept in her lab coat. “Ow! What the fuck?”

He dropped to one knee, enabling her to slice the same tendon behind his other ankle. While he wobbled, she grabbed her bust of Dr. Charles Drew from its pedestal and swung it against his head. PeeWee grunted and slumped to the floor. The ring fell from his hand and rolled into the hallway. Artinces heard furniture moving overhead, the sound of drawers being yanked out and tossed aside.

Sharps entered. He saw PeeWee on the floor, out cold. From behind the desk, Artinces hurled the bust at him. But it was too heavy to sustain much momentum and he easily avoided it. “Well,” he said, “the doctor's in the house.”

Guts's car was in motion before Charlotte yanked the door shut. He wasn't sure but it was almost as if the girl was angry with him.

“Are you following me?”

Guts shook his head. “Just picking up some vanilla wafers.”

“I can take care of myself, you know.”

“Yeah,” Guts said, “I can see that. Want to tell me where we're going?”

“Just keep driving. I'll tell you when to turn.”

They rode in silence for a while.

“You in college or high school?”

“College. I was, anyway.”

“Why ‘was'?”

“I might not go back. I want some time to think about things.”

“To think? What are you, about 19?”

“Almost.”

“Eighteen then. What you got to think about? You got your whole life in front of you. Opportunities. Good things.”

“You think that? You really think that?”

The girl turned toward him, looking for an argument. He kept his eyes on the road.

Sharps had a wide-open stance, like a bull rider in a rodeo. Artinces threw herself at the opening, hoping to slide through his legs and slash at his testicles as she passed. But Sharps was as quick as he was slick. She got a piece of his thigh as he shifted his feet, inflicting only enough damage to make him mad. Sharps roared. He pressed his hand to his thigh, felt the warm trickle of blood.

“Bitch! If I didn't know any better. I'd think you were trying to kill me. Guess what—you're not the first.”

He snatched her up as she tried to run. He punched her in the face and hurled her into a bookcase. Pain sizzled from her tailbone to her skull like oil poured into a hot skillet. An avalanche of books tumbled on her as she blinked, trying to focus. Twin images of Sharps swayed before her. Both of them were bellowing.

Following Charlotte's directions, Guts headed west on Delmar. The tiresome landmarks flashed as they rolled. Package Liquor. Chinese Food. Church.

The girl seemed calmer now, reflective. Despite her boyish disguise, Guts recognized her as the girl he'd saved behind the Comet Theatre. He'd seen her again at the grand opening of the Harry Truman Boys Club not long after. But not since then.

“What were you doing when you were my age?”

Guts thought a minute. “Nothing good, I can tell you that. Besides learning about love.”

“What about it?”

“How hard it is to get over it. She was beautiful. And nice to me. Made me feel like right beside her was my place to be in this world.”

“What happened?”

Guts glanced at the girl. She was pretty when she wasn't scowling. More landmarks flickered in the side-view mirror. Colt 45. Fried Rice. Jesus.

“It didn't work out,” he said.

Summoning what was left of her waning strength, Artinces struggled to a sitting position. Breathing hard, she rested her back gingerly against the bookshelf. Her tongue felt thick and her mouth was full of blood.

Sharps leaned close to her face. He was done yelling. “Bitch, what all you got in here? You got Goode's shit? Where the stock certificates? Where the diamonds?”

She laughed. The man was making no sense at all. She spat a tooth into the palm of her hand. “Makes no difference,” she said. “Diamonds, turnips, they come from the same dirt.”

Sharps stared at her. Before he could reply, they both heard a car pulling up outside. “Shut up,” he instructed. “Don't say a word.” Muttering curses, he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her into the next room.

Outside the Noel mansion, Guts raised his eyebrows.

“You live
here
?”

“Dr. Noel lives here. I just take up space.”

Guts insisted on walking Charlotte to the door. He sensed a wisecrack about to bubble forth from her lips. She surprised him by swallowing it. Instead, she accepted his offer. They got out of the car. She looked even younger out in the open, more vulnerable. At the porch, Guts noticed that the door wasn't completely closed.
There was also a pungent, familiar scent that set his nerves on edge. What was it Goode used to say? Something about a skunk.

He turned to the girl. “What's your name?”

“What?”

“Tell me your name.”

“It's Charlotte. Why?”

“Charlotte, I want you to go wait in my car.”

“Why?” She was sullen again.

“I need you to trust me. Have I let you down so far?”

“No,” she replied. “No, you haven't.” She almost smiled, revealing a comma-shaped dimple on one side of her face. It reminded Guts of something, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

“Okay then. I need you to go back to the car and stay there. Don't come out until I let you know it's safe.”

Charlotte nodded. She jogged back to the Plymouth.

Slowly, Guts pushed the door open. On the floor in the middle of the hallway, a tiny object glittered on the marble floor. It was a ring. A World Series ring. What the hell was it doing here?

Bingo
, he thought. He reached down and pocketed the ring. A streak of blood led him to the library, where he saw PeeWee stretched out on the ground. Books were strewn everywhere. A curtain was torn and one bookshelf was toppled completely over. A sculpture of a man's head sat on the floor in chunks.

PeeWee sat up and mumbled something about three women. Guts punched him and sent him back to sleep. Guts heard sounds of movement overhead, heavy breathing, something being dragged.

He stealthily climbed the long, winding staircase, arriving on the second floor without a sound. The torn-up interior of the master bedroom reminded him of the streets of North Gateway after the riots. The mattress had been slit and flipped over. The bureau and chifforobe were in splinters. Earrings, underwear, and necklaces hung from the ceiling fan. Any space not blanketed with discarded items of clothing was covered by papers, some still in neat stacks and others shuffled and tossed like playing cards. In the center of the room with his back to the door, calmly studying what looked like bank documents, stood Nifty Carmichael.

Guts began to creep toward him.

“Figured you'd be here,” Nifty said.

Guts stopped.

“What? You surprised? Sharps ain't the only nigger that stinks. Except he smells like rotten flowers. You? You smell like blood.”

Guts listened, mind racing. Something was different about Nifty. Besides the fact that he wasn't running in place.

“We been connected, me and you. Ever since that old bitch stepped in front of that bus trying to give me a quarter.”

Whatever it was that was different about Nifty made Guts hesitant, unsure. Nifty usually shook helplessly in Guts's presence, teeth chattering, like a nudist at the North Pole. Sometimes he even wet his pants. Where was that Nifty and what had this impostor done with him?

“I don't just watch the streets, Guts. I watch you, too. I been studying you for years, waiting for you to get careless. Lo and behold, it finally happened. Love does that to you, right? Steady pussy makes a man weak. I seen you keeping company with that bitch that works at Aldo's. That's one fine bitch, finer than you're used to. I knew she'd have you limping soon enough. Knew I'd catch you one day, dragging a leg behind you and grinning like a fool.”

Guts took a step toward Nifty. Instead of scampering like a rabbit, Nifty stayed put. He wagged a finger at Guts. “Not so fast, fat man. Daddy's talking. Where was I? Oh, yeah. So when a business associate approached me about taking down Ananias Goode, I signed on. Because wherever that motherfucker's involved, good-for-nothing Guts is bound to show his ass.”

Guts leaped. He expected Nifty to run but he didn't, so Guts overshot his mark. He spun around, caught Nifty's arm and gave it a vicious twist, yanking it up and behind him. But there was no satisfying snap. Nifty popped his joints and wriggled loose, giving him just enough time to free his sword and catch Guts as he came at him again. He raised the sword and swung down with all his might. The blade entered cleanly, just where Guts's shoulder connected to his trunk. His eyes opened wide in wonder as he fell.

The whole room rattled when he landed against the ruined chifforobe. He slumped against it as dazed as a fighter caught between the ropes, sucking air while the referee counted him out. Guts's brain sent urgent messages through the nerves snaking along his damaged appendage, commanding it to rise, recover, revive. But his arm wasn't listening.

He was vaguely aware of Nifty crowing and strutting. “I told everybody,” he boasted. “I told anybody who would listen that you'd gone soft. I told 'em you weren't as fast as you used to be. Guess I was right.”

Guts struggled to stay alert. He shook off thoughts of his parents, Pearl, the ducks on the pond in Fairgrounds Park. He needed to be fully present with Nifty, to wait for the blustering freak to dance too close to his working hand.

“I bet you wonder where I got this sword,” Nifty said. “Got it from Playfair. Naw, he didn't sell it to me. He wouldn't do that because he's too loyal to you. I stole it out of his Buick while he slept. You should see the things he has in that trunk. It's true what they say. He has everything a brother needs.”

Guts scanned the room in search of something that could be turned into a weapon. His eyes landed on a framed photo that Nifty had knocked from Dr. Noel's nightstand. It was a picture of a couple in a nightclub, smiling against a backdrop of sequins and jazz. He saw that the couple was Dr. Noel and Ananias Goode.

Guts thought that he and Pearl should take a picture like that. He and Pearl.

Nifty held the sword like a bat. He moved it slowly through the air at a phantom target, like Rip Crenshaw warming up before the crowd. Guts slumped farther. He looked limp, sweaty, barely responsive. Watching Nifty, he thought of the Louisville Slugger in his trunk, the gift from Crenshaw. Why didn't he have the presence of mind to bring it with him? Nifty squatted beside him. “You should have killed me a long time ago, Guts. The North Side ain't big enough for the both of us. So I got to make some room. One of us has to go and it has to be y—”

In a quick, desperate move, Guts swatted the sword from Nifty's grip and grabbed his throat. He pulled him close and squeezed.
Nifty's eyes bulged, blood vessels straining against viscous yellow. Snot burst from his nostrils and his breath slowed to a whistle. Guts turned away. Nifty's struggles grew faint and finally still. Guts released him and he fell over, the sword lying flat under his body.

“Damn, never seen a nigger hugged to death before,” Sharps exclaimed. He entered the room dragging a bundle behind him. The bundle was Artinces Noel.

“He got too greedy,” he said. “I told him not to take you on, but he was smelling himself. I told him, ‘Guts ain't too bright, but he's plenty strong. Maybe we should invite him to join our operation.' What a team we could have been, with my brains and your brawn. But you ain't much use with a broken wing. Look at you, bleeding all over the doctor's Persian rug.” Sharps dropped the unconscious doctor near the door and got out a pearl-handled razor, the razor that once belonged to Rudolph Fisher. He crossed the room and leaned in close to Guts.

“Think of your reputation,” he advised. “Go down strong, so your name will ring out. You don't want people saying you died crying like a bitch.”

“Goode is on to you,” Guts said.

“Ask me if I give a fuck,” Sharps said, grinning.

“Grimes is on your trail. He has a badge. You should give a fuck about that.”

Sharps grew serious. “Grimes? That spooky bastard's not in with Goode. He told me himself.”

“Sounds like you fell for the okey-doke,” Guts said, stretching his fingers under Nifty's corpse. “Didn't you say something about having brains?”