Only the Strong (5 page)

Guts listened attentively, as if he'd never heard any of it before. Goode had told him many times about adventures he'd shared with the reverend when they were growing up in the Deep South. But the stories were often oddly abbreviated and full of gaps, as if Goode were editing himself as he spoke. As a result, Guts's knowledge of the pair's unlikely friendship was frustratingly incomplete. Like most folks in North Gateway, he'd been tempted to fill in the missing pieces with rumor and unfounded speculations. Erratic fragments of gossip suggested that Goode and Rev. Washington had been involved in something shady down South, forcing them to flee North ahead of (a) a mob of angry Klansmen, (b) a gun-wielding husband, or (c) a rival moonshiner with murder on his mind. Guts suspected that perhaps none of the above was true. Still, the men's bond was undeniable, airtight.

“He came up from Liberty not long after us,” Goode continued.

He went to the window, parted the curtains, and peered out into the street. Guts knew that nothing on Lewis Place was holding his attention. He was looking all the way back to Mississippi. “Fish cut hair even then. Cut hair and counted money.”

He turned to Lawrence. “It's been about 15 minutes since you last looked in on her. It's probably time, right?”

“Of course,” Lawrence said. He opened the door, and Guts briefly heard the rhythmic hum and hiss of machines as Lawrence stepped through and closed it behind him.

“Listen, Guts,” Goode said. “You're already handling Crenshaw for me. No need to roll up your sleeves.”

“I thought this might be a special case.”

“It could turn out to be. In the meantime, I'll enlist the services of our fine metropolitan police force.”

Guts knew that meant Detective Grimes.

“And I'll make Sharps earn his perfume money. But you keep your eyes and ears open just the same. Now, I need to call Miles.”

Guts nodded. He had been dismissed.

Out of habit, he made a couple of circuits around Lewis Place, checking the alley behind Goode's garage and looking for anything that tripped his inner alarm before pointing the Plymouth toward Margaretta Avenue and his cold, Pearl-less bed. It had been too late to disturb her. After a night of fitful tossing, he had paid his visit to Nifty, then undertook his morning pilgrimage to the park, where Rev. Washington's abrupt appearance brought his communion with the ducks to an unsatisfying halt. Guts sighed and stretched. The day was still young.

In his office that afternoon, his eyelids were growing irresistibly heavy when Playfair bopped in.

“What it is, Big Man?”

Guts rubbed the back of his neck. A good night's sleep would have done him wonders. But he was cheered by Playfair's presence.

“Guts, ain't no way you can convince me that sitting behind a desk for most of the day don't drive you plumb stir crazy. It don't suit you somehow.”

“It suits me fine. Never mind all that. What's in the trunk today?”

“Eight-track tapes, baby. You name it, I got it.”

“Got any W.C. Handy?”

“‘The Thrill Is Gone'? I might have that. I'll take a look for you.”

“No, that's B.B. King,” Guts corrected, but Playfair had already gone out.

Moments later, he returned and placed a portable eight-track player on Gut's desk. He plugged it in. “Maximum portability,” he said. “Eight D batteries and you can take this baby anywhere. Plus it's got an AM radio. I didn't have W.C. Handy, but I found something I think you'll dig.” He pressed a button and the Carpenters' “Close to You” began to play. Playfair frowned and stopped the music. “Wrong tape. That one's mine. Here's yours.”

The mellow tones of Jerry Butler overcame the machine's tinny little speakers and filled the room.

              
Only the strong survive…

“The Iceman, huh?”

Playfair nodded. “Figured he was more your style.”

“How much is this gadget going to set me back?”

“Come on, Guts, you insult me. This don't cost you nothing.”

Playfair turned up the volume and leaned close. “Word is people thought Fish was Goode's banker,” he confided. “Thought he was sitting on some heavy loot.”

“So it wasn't Fish they were after.”

“No, probably it was Goode's money, or some clues about where he keeps it. But you were already thinking that, weren't you?”

“That's more thinking than I'm used to.” Guts scratched the side of his nose with his index finger. “How long ago did you hear about this? Word is going around this morning already?”

“Try last night.”

“Nifty didn't have anything for me this morning.”

Playfair laughed. “Nifty? That fool was too busy partying to pick up any information.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean brother man was kicking up his heels. He's been a regular in the clubs since he ain't scared of you no more. He knows he won't see you because you've been domesticated.”

“No wonder he was so tired. Domesticated, huh? That's what people are saying?”

“Don't act surprised. You used to have your own table at the Zodiac. You were at the Riviera so much that people thought your boss owned a piece of it.”

“Sounds like you're still hitting the spots yourself.”

“You better know it. Your boy Playfair is a regular James Brown. I might like the Carpenters, but I can still get down. Check me out.”

He raised his right arm and shook his pelvis. Then he raised his left arm and repeated the motion. “That's the boogaloo, baby.” He hunched his shoulders and wiggled forward. “This here's the camel walk.”

“Watch it,” Guts advised. “Don't trip over your bell-bottoms.”

“Want me to show you the funky penguin? All the kids are doing it.”

“Do I look like a kid?”

“Well, since you put it that way. If you change your mind…”

“I know where to find you. Play, put the tape player out front. It might get in the way of Trina's dispatching if we keep it in here.”

Playfair carried it out and plugged it in while Cherry and Shadrach watched from a nearby table. They were supposedly playing dominoes, but neither man had made a move in a while. Oliver paced and read the paper.

“Can you get the ballgame on that?” Shadrach asked. “The pregame show might be on.”

Oliver made a clucking noise. “Why don't we see if we can get the news on there? Why a Negro would rather listen to a ballgame than find out what's going on in the world is a riddle I can't figure,” he said. “If Nixon escalated his troop numbers today, would any black man know or care? And that's exactly who Tricky Dick is sending overseas: us.”

“Oliver, can't you ever talk about anything positive?” Cherry asked.

“You won't catch me smiling while the world is falling down around me. Wake up tomorrow and a whole city block might be gone. That's how they do it, you know. It's like these dominoes.
First they closed the ballpark. Blew it up, actually. Shook dust, debris, and enough asbestos over the neighborhood to make us all fireproof.”

“Washburn said he needed to move his team downtown,” Shadrach said. “That's his right. It ain't like we were working in that stadium.”

“Didn't cost us nary a job,” Cherry added. “Besides, they built us that nice boys club right on the spot.”

“Carter Carburetor will be next to close up shop,” Oliver predicted.

“It ain't like black men are working up in there either,” Shadrach said.

Oliver rolled up his newspaper until it formed a tight tube. He looked like he wanted to whack Shadrach with it. “Mark my words,” he said. “It's not about jobs. It's about control. If you've got no say over your food, clothing, shelter, or education, you've got nothing. And don't get me started about health.”

Shadrach grunted. “The last thing we want to do is get you started.”

“I just call it like I see it,” Oliver said. “Carter Carburetor's next, then the hospital.”

Everybody laughed. “That's crazy, Oliver,” Playfair said. “No way in hell they'll come in here and try to take Abram H.”

“Ain't gon' happen,” Cherry agreed.

Oliver pressed his argument. “All those patients without insurance or money. It's a drain on the city's finances. You'll see.”

“That would leave a lot of hurting people on the street,” Playfair said.

“My father died in that hospital,” Cherry said.

“Died? Shit, find me a Negro who wasn't born up in there,” Oliver said. “Everybody in here, right?”

“Except me,” Shadrach said, “but only because it wasn't open yet. I was born at home. Still, can't imagine the North Side without it.”

An uncomfortable silence descended until Playfair clapped his hands. “All right, let's turn this player on and see what we got.”

“Put it on the ballgame,” Shadrach suggested.

Oliver began to cluck again. “Shad, haven't you heard a word I said? Sports are just today's bread and circuses, a sideshow to keep you from thinking about your neighborhood being stolen right from under you, about your young men being sent off to fight and die in godforsaken places.”

“The home team's got three of us starting in the field and one of us starting on the mound,” Shadrach said. “I'm just being supportive.”

“Shad, you're the oldest man in the room,” Oliver said.

Shadrach frowned. “What's your point?”

“I'm just saying that you should be able to remember better than anybody just how bad the home team treated Jackie Robinson when he first came through here. They called him names, frightened his wife. Hell, they even sent a black cat out onto the field.”

“It's different now,” Shadrach said. “Look at Crenshaw. He's the highest-paid player on the team.”

“You mean highest paid slave,” Oliver said. “That's all they are, slaves. Just ask Curt Flood.”

The door swung open and a tall, graceful man strode in. He was dressed in the latest fashions and sported aviator sunglasses and thick muttonchop sideburns. A dull bruise sat high on his cheek. He looked around and smiled. “Afternoon, fellas,” he said.

The men of the cabstand just gaped. Finally Cherry found his voice.

“Goddamn,” he said. “You're Rip Crenshaw.”

The newcomer grinned and flipped off his shades. “That's what folks call me. Here to see my man Guts.”

“Of course you are,” Shadrach said, getting up and moving toward Guts's door. “Our Guts, always rubbing elbows with the bigwigs. He's right through that door. I'll show you.”

Shadrach tapped lightly on the open door. Guts looked up.

“Um, excuse me, Guts,” Shadrach said. “Mr. Rip Crenshaw here to see you.”

Crenshaw had put his sunglasses back on. He smiled at Shadrach. “Thanks a lot, brother.”

Shadrach just lingered and stared.

“Shadrach,” Guts said. The old man didn't move. “Shadrach,” he said again, more forcefully.

Shadrach answered without taking his eyes off Crenshaw. “Hmm?”

“Leave us.”

“Oh, yeah, of course. Sure, no problem, right away.” He left and closed the door behind him.

Guts eyed the ballplayer. “I thought you were going to call first,” he said.

“I was in the neighborhood,” Crenshaw replied. “So I decided to stop by.”

Right
, Guts thought. He said nothing.

“So,” Crenshaw said. “I hear you're stone cold.”

“Not hardly,” Guts said.

“I hear you've slaughtered men and eaten their hearts for breakfast,” the ballplayer said. He smiled. Guts didn't.

“And
I
hear any pitcher with a decent curveball can make you his bitch,” Guts responded. “But that don't make it so, right?” He smiled. Crenshaw didn't.

“I'm usually treated with more respect,” Crenshaw said.

“Same here,” Guts said.

Crenshaw looked at Guts a long while before bursting into good-natured laughter. “You ain't no ass-kisser, are you? Brother, that makes two of us. You all right with me.”

He extended a hand across Guts's desk. Guts took it, but replied, “My boss and your boss might be friends, but that don't make us friends.”

Crenshaw studied Guts. His face brightened as if he'd discovered something. “It's been a while, hasn't it?”

“A while since what?”

“Since you had some.”

“Ah, that's a good one.”

“Mr. Goode said you can show me how the North Side rolls.”

“I ain't been rolling much lately, but I'll do what I can.”
Better get it over with
, Guts thought. “You got time tonight?”