“Sid,” says one of the fat man, stepping aboard, extending a hand.
Sid takes the man's plump hand. “On time, as usual.”
The other fat man is staring at me. “Who's he?” he asks, pointing.
“He's a friend of mine,” Sid says.
“Which drum?” asks the first fat man.
“That one.” Sid points to the drum nearest the back of the boat.
The first fat man signals to the two big guys in the trunks. They hop across to Sid's boat and walk to the drum. They turn the drum upright and pry the lid off and then one of them reaches down into the barrel and comes up with a dripping green plastic garbage bag. He opens the bag and pulls out a clear plastic bag of white powder. The big guy hands it over to the first fat man.
“Come on, let's go,” says the second fat man, looking around.
“In a second,” the first fat man says, looking at Sid, who's standing by, watching with his hands in his pockets.
“The money,” Sid says.
“In a second,” the first man repeats.
Sid pulls a gun out of his pocket. “The money.”
“Sid, slow down,” says the first fat man, “you'll get your money.”
“The money,” Sid repeats, extending his free hand, palm up, pointing the gun at the second fat man. “Or I'll blow your brother's greasy head off.”
“What is this, Sid?” asks the first fat man.
“This is the Little Bighorn. This is where the Indian cuts the white boy's tail.”
The second fat man tosses a briefcase across the gap between the two boats and it lands by my feet.
“Good,” Sid says. “Okay. Now, you two, Fric and Frac, I want you overboard. Craig, check the case.”
The two guys in trunks don't move. I open the case and tilt it, showing Sid the money inside.
Sid fires the gun over the big guys' heads. “Move!”
The two men jump into the water.
“Sid, you won't get away with this,” says the second fat man.
“In the water, chubby,” Sid says and pulls the hammer of the pistol back.
The second fat man jumps into the ocean.
I look and see another boat coming our way. Sid sees it also. “Shit,” Sid says. “Okay, fatso, in the drink.”
“So help me God, I'm going to get you, Sid.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Sid straightens his arm and aims the gun at the fat man's face. “Tell it to the Coast Guard.” The first fat man joins the others in the water. The four of them are bobbing up and down between the boats and Sid is leaning over, looking at them. “I got you, you son of a bitch.” He looks at the approaching boat. “Start the boat, Craig.”
I climb up the ladder and start the engine.
“Let's get out of here!” Sid yells to me.
I steer the boat away and then I look back and Sid is still leaning over, yelling at the men in the water. I start to think about what Sid was saying earlier about killing me and I climb down the ladder and I tiptoe up behind Sid and I push him into the water. I'm at the wheel again, driving away.
“Craig!” Sid yells and then there's a gunshot and I look back and see Sid waving his gun in the air, keeping the thugs away. “Craig!”
There's a blast of a voice through a bullhorn from the Coast Guard boat, but I can't make it out. I'm just looking at the compass and heading south. When the other boats are out of sight, I head east.
As I'm nearing the mouth of the Columbia River, I look down from the wheel at the deck and I see that clear plastic bag of white powder. I climb down and I drop it overboard and watch it sink slowly out of sight.
I push on into the mouth of the river and on to Portland. I stop in Portland. I dock the boat and leave it and I'm walking through the city of Portland with my saxophone, my phonograph, my record, my bat, and now a briefcase full of money.
Chapter 13
Ma walked into my room with her head bowed. I was sitting on my bed, looking at my model plane. Ma sat beside me. She didn't look at me.
“Grandmama's dead,” she said.
“What?”
“Grandmama's dead.”
I tried to look at Ma's eyes. I could see a tear working its way down her cheek. Grandmama and Ma were close until Ma started acting so crazy. Then Grandmama just sorta stayed away
;
all of Ma's people did. Daddy didn't have any people. His twin brother got run over by a coal truck in Birmingham. He was the last. Ma grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “It's okay,” I said.
“You're a good boy, Craigie.” I was getting tired of hearing her say that.
“It's okay,” I repeated.
She put her arm around me and pulled me close against her coat. I began to perspire immediately. She cried harder.
Later, Martin and I were in our navy blue suits in the back seat of the car. We were on our way to Watkins Funeral Home. It was the largest black-owned business in Fayetteville. Pernell Watkins also owned a wig shop, which his wife operated. Everyone wondered about the wigs in that shop. Especially since Joey Fields looked in the window of the shop, saw a wig, and swore up and down that it was the hair of his dead wife, Jenny Mae. The controversy grew because Jenny Mae Fields's funeral had been a closed-casket affair. As we pulled to a stop in front of the funeral home I began to wish I was back home at the piano with Bud.
We entered the funeral home and Grandmama's body was laying out in a coffin in this dimly lit room. Ma's brother and her two sisters were there. Aunt Cleo and Aunt Edna were screaming and carrying on and their husbands were holding them down.
I wandered away from the room, away from the crying, and into a large office. As I looked around I thought of Pernell Watkins, the funeral director. He was tall, slender, and light-skinned. It seemed like all funeral directors were light-skinned. In the office I saw a picture of the original Watkins, a dark-skinned guy. However, as I looked at the pictures of the descendants of the original Watkins, I saw that each Watkins was lighter in color than the previous one. I figured dealing with death had that effect.
I wandered from the office, down this long corridor, and I started feeling real scared because there was this weird music playing. I walked into this large room filled with caskets. Bronze, silver, pretty wood caskets. Big caskets, small caskets, wide caskets. I stopped to look closely at one light-blue casket. I ran my fingers along the golden handles. Then I saw some dirt around the edges of the coffin. Somebody grabbed me and I screamed. It was Martin.
“What are you doing?” Martin asked.
“Look here,” I said. “Dirt.”
Martin's eyes opened wide. “He uses the same boxes again and again.”
We heard footsteps and we ducked down and scurried back to where Daddy was. We were shaking.
“What's wrong?” Daddy asked.
Just then, Pernell Watkins came and stood by Daddy. Martin, who was about to talk, caught himself and grabbed Daddy's arm and whined something about Grandmama. Daddy was really puzzled and he dropped a hand to Martin's back. Martin looked at me and shrugged his shoulders.
I'm out on the streets of Portland, Oregon, and I ain't ready to go home and I figure Sid will be looking for me, so I decide to stay put for a while. I'm in the Chinese section of Portland and I see this sign on a house advertising a room for rent. I ring the bell.
The door swings open and there's a short, skinny Chinese man. “What can I do for you?” he asks.
“I'm here about the room,” I tell him.
“It's a small room. Fifty dollars a week. I live here with three other men and there's one bathroom.”
“I'll take it.”
“Don't you want to see it first?”
“No.”
He lets me in and leads me upstairs and down the hall to my room. It's a small room, like he said, with a bed and a chest of drawers and a big, soft chair.
“I'm Quincy,” says the short man.
“Craig. Craig ⦠Sutton,” I says. I reach out for his hand and he's got long, cold fingers that wrap around my knuckles. “If you don't mind, I think I'll catch up on some sleep.”
“Bathroom's at the end of the hall.”
“Thanks.”
Quincy leaves me and goes back downstairs and I walk into the room and fall onto the bed. I get up and decide to wash out my clothes before I sleep.
My eyes open and I get up and plug in my phonograph. It's dark outside and I can hear talking. I stop the music and get dressed and go downstairs. There are three men with Quincy watching television in the living room and when I walk in they all stand up. There's a fat man in jeans and a flannel shirt and two men dressed all in gray and they're all Chinese.
Only the fat man extends his hand and Quincy tells me his name is Thomas. I take his hand and he smiles and I smile. The other two men are named Mike and Larry and they don't push their hands out and they don't smile.
“Let me show you the rest of the house,” says Thomas and this big fella slaps a hand on my shoulder and turns me around. When we're out of the room he says, “Don't let Mike and Larry bother you. They are just upset that Quincy didn't discuss your moving in with us.”
“I could leave.”
“Don't be silly.” He slaps me on the back and we're in the kitchen. “Quincy makes breakfast for everybody, if you'd care for it.”
“Thanks.”
“There's a beer in the fridge. Feel free.”
I nod. “Why are Mike and Larry dressed like that?”
“They're in a Mao study group.”
“Oh.”
“More social than anything.” He pushes his fat fingers through his thick black hair. “Where are you from?”
“Spokane,” I tell him.
“Oh, yeah? How long do you plan to stay around here?”
“I don't know yet.”
“Business?”
“Huh?”
“Business bring you down here?”
“No, uh ⦠vacation.”
Thomas reaches into the refrigerator and pulls out a beer and offers it to me. I take it and he pulls out another one for himself. “You like baseball?” he asks.
“What?”
“Baseball?”
“It's okay.”
“The Portland Beavers are playing tomorrow ⦠if it doesn't rain. Wanna go?”
“Sure.”
The following day I sleep until late morning and when I finally make it downstairs everybody is gone. So, I start digging through the icebox and I really have a taste for bacon, but there ain't a scrap of meat to be found. There ain't nothing in the refrigerator but yogurt and beer, so I have a beer. I go back to my room.
I'm upstairs in my room playing my saxophone and there's a knock at my door and it's Thomas.
“You still want to catch the Beavers?” he asks.
“What?”
“The baseball game.”
“Sure.”
We leave the house and walk about a mile to the stadium and pay a buck apiece to get in. It's a real cloudy day, but it ain't raining and that's all that matters. Thomas and I head up the bleachers behind home plate and his leg goes through a gap between the boards. I reach down and catch him and his hand closes around my upper arm and he's got his balance again.
“You're very strong,” he says, slowly releasing my arm.
I don't say anything. I just move up, grab a seat, and look out over the field. It's funny; there's a lot of folks out for the game, but we're the only ones sitting behind home plate. I'm about to ask Thomas why we're all alone where we are when I notice how low the screen is between the batter and the bleachers. I think that many a foul ball must have come whistling back into the crowd.
“Thomas,” I says, “you may not want to sit here.”
“Why?”
“We might get a few balls our way.”
His eyes grow large. “What?”
“Foul tips might come buzzing over that low screen and pop you in the face. I just figured you should know.”
“Oh.”
I'm not sure he understands just what I'm saying, but I drop the subject.
The game starts and there ain't much to see; just a load of fellas dressed alike, embarrassing their loved ones. Then some fella's up and the count is full and he keeps tipping the ball straight back over the screen and I keep catching them and Thomas is real excited. Thomas is giggling and telling me how marvelous it is that I can catch like that. Finally the guy at bat pounds a long ball to left and every body cheers. So does Thomas and he stands up and when he comes down his hand lands on my leg.
“Excuse me,” he says and pulls his hand away.
It starts to rain and the game is called and Thomas and I walk back down Burnside toward home. It's a real busy street and the rain doesn't keep people in these parts inside. I see, in the street ahead, a man leaning over, talking to somebody in a car and it's Sid Willis. I duck into a doorway and pull Thomas with me.
“What is it, Craig?” Thomas asks, smiling.
I don't say anything. I am peering around the corner and I see Sid climb into the car and ride off.
“What is it?” he asks again.
“Nothing.”
We walk home and Mike and Larry are sitting in the living room, reading. They look up at me but they don't say anything, and so I just go up to my room and listen to the song.
It's just starting to get dark outside when Thomas walks into my room and sits on the bed.
“You like jazz, huh?” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Dizzy Gillespie's playing at the Opus Club.”
“Really?” I says, sitting erect. “Where's that?”
“Right here in Old Town. Would you like to grab a bite and hear him?”
I pause. “Yeah.” I grab my phonograph and my record and my saxophone and I'm ready to go.
“Why're you bringing those things?” Thomas asks.
“I haven't played the song for you, have I?”
He shakes his head.
I plug in the record player and drop the needle down.
“Damn,” I says. “That's something, ain't it?”