Daddy Cool: A Novel (Old School Books)

  We're back and more hard-boiled than ever.

  Call us self-serving, but this time we'd like to thank some of the critics who've supported Old School Books. In case you missed it, here's what a few of them had to say:

  Spin: "Walking the mean streets with hearts set on dreams they know damn well they'll never reach, these authors keep it realer than any rapper knows how.... They testify to how much was lost when these novelists couldn't get read as seriously as they should have."

  The Source: "They take the brutality and ruin of the urban black landscape and transform them into art."

  Playboy: "One of the most exciting literary revival series since the rediscovery of Jim Thompson's novels."

  Detour: "The Old School will give the modern reader a wakeup slap, alerting them to a subversive canon too long ignored."

  Details: "Down-and-dirty tales about real O.G.'s, stories that drop you in the middle of the crumbling inner cities for a streetlevel view of the black urban experience.... If you like the pageturning pulp of Raymond Chandler, James Ellroy, and Jim Thompson, definitely add the Old School to your hard-boiled syllabus."

  Time Out: "Unflinching biographies of the streets.... a bloodsoaked landmark of crime fiction."

  USA Today: "Harder than a set of brass knuckles and pulpier than home-squeezed orange juice.... With any luck the legacy of the Old School Books writers will not be lost again."

  New York Newsday: "The editors have unearthed a motherload of revelation; a shadow tradition of hot-wired prose playing its own variations on noir with bebop abandon and rhythm-and-blues momentum."

  Kind words, and don't think we aren't grateful.

  While we've got your attention, we'd like to make this important announcement. OSB will soon unveil its first hardcover reissue: Chester Himes's lost classic, Cast the First Stone. Least that's what the world has called it until now. With a little help from some friends, we've restored one hundred (or so) pages from Himes's original manuscript, "dyed" several of the characters black as they were in Himes's earliest editions, and are publishing it under its original title, Yesterday Will Make You Cry. We consider it nothing less than a literary revelation-we hope you will too.

  Until then, we hope you enjoy our terrific trio of new titles. And be sure to keep those cards and letters coming.

  D44y Coot

  OLD SCHOOL BOOKS

  edited by Marc Gerald and Samuel Blumenfeld

  Dt44y Coo(

  Dedicated to

  my main man and his out-of-sight lady, Rickie, a tall, fine black sister who steps so fast that the only thing she has to worry about running second to is a mean-ass jet plane. The brother who is just as swift as his woman is the cool and always mellow Kenny. Here's wishing you good luck in any endeavor you and your lady might undertake. And I'd also like to wish the best of fortune to Kenny's beautiful sister Shirley, who also happens to be a very proud and lovely black lady.

  Donald Goines's life ended abruptly in Detroit in 1974 just miles from his childhood home. He was shot to death while at his typewriter as he was putting the final touches on his seventeenth novel, Kenyatta's Last Hit. It was a tragic end, to be sure, but somehow fitting for a writer whose greatest gift was his ability to search his memory and tell the story of how his neighbors lived and died.

  Goines was born in 1937 and was primed to take over his family's laundry shop. But while still in his teens, he ditched school, lied about his age, and took up with the Air Force. He returned home from Japan in 1955 a full-time heroin addict.

  For the next fifteen years, Goines supported his addiction robbing and pimping, gambling and stealing, and was in and out of jail seven times. During his final stretch at the Jackson Penitentiary, a facility in which fellow Old School scribe Clarence Cooper, Jr., had served a decade earlier, he decided to try his hand at writing Westerns. Without much luck. Introduced to the writings of Robert "Iceberg Slim" Beck, a pimp-novelist who was incredibly popular behind bars, Goines found the perfect model for the kind of blackexperience tales he wanted to tell.

  Still incarcerated, Goines wrote Whoreson, a semiautobiographical account of the son of a prostitute who grows up to become a pimp. He followed it up with Dopefiend, a raw, sordid chronicle of two black middle-class girls' descent into the nightmarish world of addiction. There are no heroes to be found here-these are not remakes of Shaft. Like all of Goines's best books, each reveals the darker and truer side of reality where the common experience shared by all is pain.

  Both works-along with the entire Goines oeuvre-were published by Holloway House, the same Los Angeles company that put out Iceberg Slim. It was a perfect match. Sold in cut-rate paperback editions in mom-and-pop, black America, they found an instant audience.

  Released from jail in 1970, Goines had a lot of making up to do, and he spent the rest of his life in a creative, compulsive fever. His schedule was relentless, and methodical as Hemingway's. Writing in the morning, shooting up the rest of the day, he somehow managed to turn out as many as eight books a year. Their number included gritty, graphic accounts of crooked deals, pimps, and gangsters and the more politically charged Kenyatta series, which he published under the name Al C. Clark.

  In the years since his death, Goines's novels have gained increasing influence in the hip-hop nation and are said to sell even better today than they did during his short, creative life. Indeed, it was recently reported that his total sales were now approaching 10 million copies. Domestically, however, critical recognition has been minimal, and white readership has been virtually nonexistent. Ironically, perhaps, the French have embraced Goines with the kind of fervor and reverence they bestow only on the greatest American icons. With the translation of Whoreson in 1993, Goines was compared to JeanJacques Rousseau; with the release of Dopefiend, he was heralded as the greatest black American writer since Chester Himes.

  Daddy Cool isn't one of Goines's best-known novels, but it is surely one of his best. It reveals a literary breadth and stylistic intensity often overlooked amid all the bodies and bullets. The ultimate Shakespearean revenge fantasy, it is also unbridled ghetto realism at its best.

  DA44 Coot

  LARRY JACKSON, BETTER known as "Daddy Cool," stopped on the litter-filled street in the town of Flint, Michigan. His prey, a slim, brown-complexioned man, walked briskly ahead. He was unaware that he was being followed by one of the deadliest killers the earth had ever spawned.

  Taking his time, Daddy Cool removed a cigarette pack and lit up a Pall Mall. He wasn't in a hurry. He knew that the frightened man in front of him was as good as dead. Whenever the man glanced back over his shoulder he saw nothing moving on the dark side of the street.

  William Billings let out a sigh of relief. He had gotten away with it. Everybody had talked about how relentless the number barons were that he worked for, but after ten years of employment with the numbers men, he had come to the conclusion that it was just another business. Like the well-talked-about Mafia, the black numbers men he worked for depended on their reputations to carry them along. And many of those frightening stories out of the past became so outrageous that separating reality from unreality often was impossible.

  Five years ago William had formulated the idea of how to rip off the people he worked for, but it had taken him another five years to get up the nerve to really put his dream to work. It had been easier than he imagined. The money had just been lying there waiting for him to pick it up. Actually, he was the accountant, so every day he was in contact with at least ten thousand dollars in cash. The problem lay with faking out the two elderly women who worked in the storefront with him. William had to hold back a burst of laughter when he went back over the events and how simple
it had been. All those years of waiting, being afraid of what might happen if he walked out with the money, had made him ashamed. He could have ripped off the money five years earlier and been in South America by now, with his dream ranch producing money. But out of fear he had waited. Now that he had done it, he realized that all the waiting had been in vain. It had only been his inborn fear that had kept him from being rich.

  A young girl in her early teens walked past, her short skirt revealing large, meaty thighs. William did something he never did. He spoke to the young girl as she went past, her hips swaying enticingly.

  The girl ignored the older, balding man, keeping her head turned sideways so that she didn't have to look into his leering eyes.

  At any other time the flat rejection would have filled William with a feeling of remorse. But now, because of the briefcase he carried, it didn't faze him at all. He even managed to let out a contemptuous laugh. The silly fool, he coldly reflected. If she had only known that I carried enough money in this briefcase to make every dream she ever had come true, she wouldn't have acted so funky. He laughed again, the sound carrying to the young girl as she hurried on her way home. At the sound of William's laughter, she began to walk faster. His laughter seemed to be sinister in the early evening darkness that was quickly falling. The sudden appearance of another man from around a parked car gave the girl a fright, but after another quick glance, she forgot about him. It was obvious that the man wasn't paying any attention to her. She glanced back once at the tall black man, then hurried on her way.

  At the sight of the young girl coming down the street, Daddy Cool pulled his short-brimmed hat farther down over his eyes. He didn't want anyone recognizing him at this particular moment.

  At the sound of Billings' voice, Daddy Cool relaxed. If William could find anything to laugh about at this stage of the game, it showed that the man was shaking off the fear that had made him so cautious earlier in the day. Now it was just the matter of the right opportunity presenting itself. Then Daddy Cool would take care of his job and be on his way home in a matter of moments.

  At the thought of home, a slight frown crossed Larry's face. His wife would be cuddled up in the bed watching the television at this time of night. Janet might be anywhere. Without him at home she would surely run wild, staying out to daybreak before coming home, because she knew her mother would be sound asleep by the time she came in. And even if she was awake, there was nothing to fear because she wouldn't say anything to her about keeping late hours. All she was interested in was having a cold bottle of beer in her hand and a good television program. That was what made her happy.

  Larry frowned in the dark as he wondered about the tricks fate could play on a man. He remembered the first time he had seen his wife. She had been dancing with a group at a nightclub. How he had wished he could make her his woman. Now, twenty years later, after getting the woman he had dreamed about as a young man, he realized just how foolish he had been. Instead of choosing a woman for her brains, he had foolishly chosen one because of the way she was built. The last fifteen years had been lived regretting his ignorance.

  Even as he followed this line of thought, he realized that he would have put her out long ago if it hadn't been for his daughter, Janet. Knowing how it was to grow up as a child without any parents, he had sworn to raise any children born to him. Janet had been the only child born out of his marriage. So he had poured out all his love for his only child, giving Janet whatever she thought about having. He had spoiled the girl before she was five years old. Now that she was in her teens, he couldn't remember when either one of them had ever whipped the child. Janet had grown up headstrong and used to having her way. Because of the money Daddy Cool made, it hadn't bothered him. Whatever the child had ever wanted, he had been able to give it to her.

  Daddy Cool noticed the man he was following turn the corner and start walking faster. There was no better time than now to make the hit. As long as the man stayed on these back streets it would be perfect. He only had to catch up with the man without arousing his suspicions. Daddy Cool started to lengthen his stride until he was almost running.

  William had a definite goal. A longtime friend stayed somewhere in the next block, but over the years he had forgotten just where the house was. In his haste to leave Detroit, he had left his address book on the dining-room table, so it was useless to him now. He slowed down, knowing that he would recognize the house when he saw it. It was on Newal Street, that he was sure of. It shouldn't be too hard to find in the coming darkness.

  Like a hunted animal, Billings' nerves were sharpened to a peak. Glancing back over his shoulder, he noticed a tall man coming around the corner. His first reaction was one of alarm. His senses, alert to possible danger, had detected the presence of someone or something in the immediate vicinity. As a shiver of fear ran down his spine, he ridiculed himself for being frightened of his own shadow. There was no need for him to be worried about someone picking up his trail. Not this soon anyway.

  Disregarding the warning alarm that went off inside his head, he slowed his pace so that he could see the old shabby houses better. The neighborhood had once been attractive, with the large rambling homes built back in the early twenties. But now, they were crumbling. Most of them needed at least a paint job. Where there had once been rain gutters, there were now only rusted-out pieces of tin, ready to collapse at the first burst of rain.

  William cursed under his breath. He wondered if in his early haste he might have made a wrong turn. It was possible. It had been years since he'd been up this way, and it was easy for him to get turned around. He slowed his walk down until he was almost standing still. Idly he listened to the footsteps of the man who had turned down the same street as he did. Unable to control himself, William turned completely around and glanced at the tall, somberly dressed man coming toward him. He let out a sigh as he realized that he had been holding his breath. He noticed that the man coming toward him was middle-aged. Probably some family man, he reasoned, hurrying home from work. He almost laughed out loud as he reflected on what a hired killer would look like. He was sure of one thing, a hit man wouldn't be as old as the man coming toward him. In his mind, William pictured the hit man sent out after him as a wild young man, probably in his early twenties. A man in a hurry to make a name for himself. One who didn't possess too high an intelligence, that being the reason he would have become a professional killer. It didn't take any brains to pull the trigger on a gun, William reasoned. But a smart man would stay away from such an occupation. One mistake and a hit man's life was finished.

  Suddenly William decided that he was definitely going the wrong way. He whirled around on his heels swiftly. The tall, light-complexioned man coming near him stopped suddenly. For a brief moment William hesitated, thinking he saw fear on the man's face. The dumb punk-ass bastard, William coldly reflected. If the sorry motherfucker only knew how much cash William had in the briefcase he carried, the poor bastard wouldn't be frightened by William's sudden turn.

  "Don't worry, old chap," William said loudly so that the other man wouldn't fear him. "I'm just lost, that's all. These damn streets all look alike at night."

  The tall, dark-clothed man had hesitated briefly; now he came forward quickly. He spoke softly. "Yeah, mister, you did give me a fright for just a minute. You know," he continued as he approached, "you can't trust these dark streets at night. Some of these dope fiends will do anything for a ten-dollar bill."

  William laughed lightly, then smiled. He watched the tall man reach back behind his collar. Suddenly the smile froze on his face as the evening moonlight sparkled brightly off the keen-edged knife that was twitching in the man's hand.

  Without thinking, William held out his hand. "Wait a minute," he cried out in fear. "If it's money you want, I'll give you all mine." Even in his fright, William tried to hold on to the twentyfive thousand dollars he had in his briefcase. He reached for the wallet in his rear pocket. He never reached it.

  With a flash, the t
all man dressed in black threw his knife. The motion was so smooth and quick that the knife became only a blur. The knife seemed to turn in the air once or twice, then became imbedded in William's slim chest. It happened so suddenly that William never made a sound. The force of the blow staggered him. He remained on his feet for a brief instant while the knife protruded from his body.

  With a quiet groan, William Billings began to fall. The pavement struck him in the back. His eyes were open slightly as he felt more than saw the silent man bending down over him. He tried to open his eyes wider as he felt the knife being withdrawn. Why? he wanted to ask, but the question never formed on his lips. The cold steel against his neck was the last thing he felt on this earth. When the tall, light-complexioned man stood up with the briefcase hanging limp from his left hand, William Billings never heard the quiet words the man spoke.

  "You should have never tried to take it, friend," Daddy Cool said as he leaned down and wiped the blood off his favorite dagger. He liked to use the knives whenever he could. They were quieter and less trouble. He glanced back over his shoulder to see if anybody had noticed the silent affair. The streets were still deserted as the cool evening breeze began to blow.

  Without another glance, Daddy Cool stepped to the curb and quickly crossed the street. His long strides took him away from the murder scene quickly. He walked briskly but not so much in a hurry as to draw attention. When he reached the corner, he took a backward glance and for the first time noticed an old black woman coming down the steps from the shabby house where the body lay.

  At the sight of him peering back at her, she hesitated and stood where she was.

  "Damn!" The curse exploded from Daddy Cool's lips as his jaw muscles drew tight. The old bitch had probably been watching the whole thing from her darkened windows. But, Daddy Cool reasoned as he continued on his way, it had been too dark for her to see anything. No matter. He began to move swiftly now toward his car, which was parked two blocks away on another side street.