Only the Strong (9 page)

Guts waited for an explanation.

“Nichelle Nichols.
Uhura
, baby! I got one she'll look perfect in when we walk down the aisle. But from the look on your face that's not why you called me in here.”

“No, although I wish you the best of luck with Uhura. Actually, I'm looking for a ring.”

Ananias Goode, like Guts, was no fan of churches. Although Rev. Washington was Goode's best friend and he contributed generously to Good Samaritan, he had absolutely no interest in going inside. Even a memorial service for a man he'd known since childhood wasn't incentive enough to end his decades-long avoidance. So he sat outside the church in his New Yorker while Rev. Washington conducted Fish's homegoing service. Oddly enough, Sharps had asked for and received permission to attend, although he'd hardly known the man. Alone in the backseat, his eyes hidden by dark glasses, Goode lifted his glass of bourbon and raised a silent farewell toast.

Nearby, Guts was outside the church, too, leaning against the side of his Plymouth while Mr. Logan bid Fish goodbye. Mr. Logan
had practically raised Guts after his parents died. With his eyes failing, Mr. Logan didn't need to be anywhere near a steering wheel, So Guts took him where he needed to go or made sure someone was available to do it when he couldn't. Mr. Logan's fidelity to Good Samaritan was the reason Guts drove the van every Sunday.

Throughout Goode's rise to prosperity, the word “gangster” had clung like white on rice. For example, Good Samaritan was frequently whispered about as “the gangster's church” because of its pastor's curious friendship with him. By 1970, however, Goode had begun to reinvent himself in earnest. His friend Levander Watts, publisher of the
Citizen
, had helped with timely photographs of Goode engaged in community service. His annual turkey giveaway for Thanksgiving, his dedicated service as a board member of Harry Truman Boys Club, his contributions to the Abram Higgins Memorial Garden in Fairgrounds Park—all received front-page coverage. As a result, over time “the gangster” came to be referred to, with admiration, as “Mr. G.”

The new nickname pleased Goode. Underneath the displays of power, the long trail of bloodshed and intimidation, the penchants for bourbon and good cigars, Ananias Goode, like most human beings, harbored a desire to be loved and appreciated.

Few men were as aware of this as Guts Tolliver. He tapped on Goode's window.

“Mr. G., I'm sorry to bother you, especially at a time like this,” he said. “I need to ask you a big favor.”

Goode rolled down his window. “Guts, always good to see you,” he said. “Come on in, let's talk. It will be like old times.”

PeeWee Jefferson woke up to giggling. That meant his sister and her stuck-up roommates had rolled another sucker.

He got to his feet and ambled toward the sound, scratching his balls. The three women had open suitcases spread out on the beds. They were throwing in dresses and shoes, talking a mile a minute. PeeWee heard something about Chicago.

“I've always wanted to see the Windy City,” he said. “I hear they got some fine females up there.”

His sister made a hissing noise. “Shut up, PeeWee. Ain't nobody even talking to you.”

“I'm your big brother, girl. Show some respect,” he said, eyeing the tangle of chains and jewelry on the night table.

“I'll show you some respect when you find some place to sleep other than my couch. Twenty-five fucking years old and ain't got job the first.”

“I want to go to Chicago with y'all.”

“You can't, there's a height requirement,” one of the women said. More giggling.

“We going to meet some real men and don't need you hanging around,” his sister added. “We going to Hawthorne, play the horses and catch some big spenders.”

“Who'd y'all roll last night? That looks like real gold.”

“What makes you think we rolled somebody?”

“You didn't get this at a prayer meeting.” He picked up one of the chains and held it to the light.

“You don't even know what you looking at,” his sister said. “Put that shit down.”

“I just want to make sure you get the best price for your haul. I can boost it for you.”

“Like we need your help. Put that shit down.”

“Fine!” PeeWee made a big show of throwing the chain down hard on the table. “Just don't come asking for me later,” he said.

He left the room. Grinning, he opened his hand and looked at the ring he'd just swiped.
Well, well, look what we have here.

A large diamond was mounted on a black stone and surrounded by four smaller diamonds. Raised letters spelled “World Champions” around the outside. A major league team logo decorated one shank. “Crenshaw” was on the other.

When PeeWee realized what he had, he thought he might turn it in and get a big reward. Then he decided that doing so might risk being linked to the crime. He'd sell it to a fence instead. But the ring warmed his hand, felt good in his palm. Holding it, he felt stronger. He felt taller. He slipped it on his biggest finger. The world looked better, too. For the first time in a long time, the day
felt full of promise. He took it off and put it back in his pocket.
I'll just hold onto it for a while
.

A few days after Fish's memorial service, Guts paced in the parking lot outside Aldo's, an upscale women's department store in the city's West End. Pearl had started out as a customer greeter, then was promoted to elevator operator, and finally became the store's first black salesclerk. Her post was in intimates, upstairs and far enough away to avoid offending customers uncomfortable with the idea of a Negro handling a cash register.

She came out to the lot, looked up, saw him, and marched right at him.

“You can't be here scaring white women. You trying to get me fired?”

“It's your lunch break, right? I need to talk to you.”

“And people in hell are thirsty,” Pearl snarled. “I wouldn't give you air if you were stopped up in a jug.”

“Come on, Pearl. I just want you to see something.”

“It better be a ring.”

“A what?”

“You heard me. A diamond ring. I know you got that Playfair running around asking about rings. You scared to go into a diamond shop yourself? If it ain't a ring you want to show me, keep stepping. I want to be a wife, Lorenzo. A real wife, not no dress-and-breath.”

“I don't think I ever told you that Mr. G. has a wife.”

Pearl paused to let that sink in. “All the pictures I see of that man in the paper, he's always by himself. How come I've never seen her?”

“Few people have.”

“She doesn't get out much, does she?”

“Never. She never gets out.”

Pearl put her hands on her hips. “Okay, you've got my attention. What do you want from me?”

“I want you to meet her.”

Pearl sat with her hands in her lap all the way to Lewis Place. Guts snuck a glance at each red light and stop sign, but all he ever glimpsed was her firmly set jaw. He found it hard to believe that she was the same woman who'd only recently danced naked to the Temptations in his living room. He turned on the radio. Tyrone Davis was asking, “Baby, can I change my mind?” In his husky voice he pleaded for a second chance.

Without looking at Guts, Pearl reached out and turned it off.

When they arrived at Lewis Place, Goode opened the door himself.

“Mr. G., this is Pearl Jordan.”

“Ah yes, the lovely Pearl. I've heard so much about you.”

“You have?”

“Yes,” Goode lied. Above Pearl's head, the men exchanged glances. “I'm pleased to meet you at last.”

He led them into the living room. “My wife is resting. I have business elsewhere. Lawrence will show you in.”

Lawrence opened the adjoining door to reveal a fully outfitted hospital room. Where every other house on Lewis Place had a dining table and chairs, Goode had installed a large hospital bed and the best life-support equipment available. A transparent canopy was draped over the bed.

Pearl noted the hi-fi speakers mounted near the ceiling in each corner of the room, through which a popular ballad was softly playing.

“Johnny Mathis. Mrs. Goode's favorite singer,” Lawrence whispered. “You can get a little closer.”

Pearl took a tentative step forward. She had already gotten as close as she wanted to get.

What was left of Lucille Goode curled fetus-like in the center of the bed. Her body, shriveled down to 59 pounds, was a tiny, indistinguishable lump. Only her head was full-sized. It hung limply atop her impossibly frail shoulders, crowned here and there with wisps of hair. A tube ran from her abdomen and into a machine next to the bed. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was open.

“Mrs. Goode,” Lawrence said. “Guts is here. And this is his friend, Miss Pearl.”

Guts removed his hat. “Nice to see you again, Mrs. Goode,” he said.

Both men looked expectantly at Pearl.

“H-hello,” she stammered.

After what seemed to Pearl an unbearably long time, Lawrence escorted them out. He took one last peek, shut the door softly, and joined them in the living room.

“We don't know how aware she is, whether she can hear anything,” he said. “So we try to keep a conversation going in hopes she can understand.”

Keep dreaming
, Pearl thought. “What was that thing she was wrapped in?”

“An oxygen tent,” Lawrence explained. “It pumps in fresh air to make it easier for her to breathe. It monitors the carbon dioxide she exhales and removes it.”

“I see,” Pearl said. She waited for them to tell her what had happened to Mrs. Goode. When neither man volunteered, she lost her patience.

“Which one of you is going to tell me how she got like that?”

The men looked at each other.

“It was supposed to be a hit on Mr. G. Mrs. Goode—and their son—got in the way,” Guts said.

“Son? I didn't know Mr. Goode had a son.”

“He doesn't,” Lawrence said. “He did but now he doesn't.”

Pearl had to leave. Right away.

“Nice to meet you, Lawrence,” she said. She was out the door before he could respond.

Guts hustled out after her.

She turned on him, eyes flashing. “You're trying to scare me, Lorenzo. There must be an easier way to break my heart.”

“I ain't trying to hurt you. I just wanted you to see why I think like I do.”

“That was
her
destiny,” Pearl said. “Not mine. I'm supposed to die with all my wits about me, an old lady in a nice bed surrounded by all my grandchildren. I could have told you that if you asked me. I'm as sure of that as I'm black. But you didn't ask me. Instead you drag me over to your boss's house for some kind of horror
show, trying to scare me. Sometimes I think you don't have the sense God gave a grape. I'm catching a cab back to work—and it won't be one of yours.”

Later that day, Pearl smiled as she waited on one of her few black customers, an elegant woman who always bought classy silk lingerie.

Outside the store, dusk was gathering. PeeWee Jefferson found his spot on the parking lot amid a clump of shrubbery, just beyond the reach of the streetlights. He had lurked here often, watching as the employees and customers came and went. Now, he was convinced, the time had come to strike.

Pearl rang up the woman's purchases. She was so dignified, so reserved, that Pearl wondered if she actually wore the sexy stuff she bought. Maybe she bought it to support the store's only black salesgirl. Pearl handed the woman her packages. “Thank you,” said the customer, flashing a brief smile before resuming her usual cool pose.

“Thank
you
, Dr. Noel,” Pearl said. “Have a nice evening.”

Dr. Noel headed to the parking lot humming softly. Watching her, PeeWee fingered the ring in his pocket. She was distracted, a fact in his favor. She was also tiny.
Hell, her packages are almost bigger than she is
. Stroking the ring, he prepared to pounce.

A solid chop to his nose sent him sprawling on his back. The blow wasn't intended to knock him out, just disturb him.

PeeWee groaned. “What the—?”

“Here, let me give you a hand.”

The hand extended in PeeWee's direction wore a ring almost as distinctive as the one in PeeWee's pocket. It was large, rectangular, and emerald green. PeeWee got to a sitting position and scooted backward. Now he could see he'd been surprised by a tall, slender figure with a scary grin. He wore green rectangular sunglasses, a green suit, and green alligator shoes. His bright yellow tie sported a green tie tack.

PeeWee rubbed his nose. “Who the hell are you?”

“I'm the man you'll one day thank for saving you from being sent up on a humble. Call me Sharps. Listen, son, I know what you're thinking. Only rich bitches go to this store, so that one's
pocketbook must be busting with cash. You're right but you're thinking small, small fry.”