Around noon of the fourth day of his absence, Junior came home. Mama had stayed home from work and was in her bedroom with the door closed.
I was in my bedroom lying across the bed. Junior spoke to me and started packing a woman’s bright green suitcase with his things from the closet and drawers.
There was the stink of bootleg whiskey about him, and his clothes looked bedraggled like he had slept in them. He was hollow eyed and jerkily nervous, like he had been on a long drunk.
I started to tell him about Bessie. But he told me he had found out from Railhead. He heard Mama open her door, and his befuddled look showed he was surprised she was home and that he had really wanted to avoid her when getting his clothes. Mama came into the room and stood beside him.
He kept his eyes averted as he packed hurriedly and said, “How yu, Mama?”
Mama said, “Ah ain’t ben no gud since yu lef en uh huff. Honey Pie, Ah’m goin’ tu lay down an’ die if them clothes uv your’n go frum th’ flat. Yu ain’t nevah goin’ tu have no gud luck an’ see yo’ Mama livin’ again, an’ yu be tu blame.”
Junior’s hands trembled and froze in the action of shutting the packed suitcase.
He sank down weakly on the side of the bed and whined, “Mama, yu oughta stop talkin’ thet junky jive. Whut Ah don? Po’ Carol en her grave an’ Bessie whorin’ en them streets. Ah’m feelin’ so sad an’ sorry fo’ them lak Ah ken lay down an’ die. Mama, don’ yu feel sorry ’bout them gone frum th’ flat? Yu ain’t spectin’ tu lay down an’ die ’bout them, huh?”
Mama’s face was covered with such fury that Junior cringed away and flinched when she leaned close to him and said harshly, “Shet up yu stooped-piss britches, ’cose mah haht is achin’ fo’ mah gurls an’ fo’ Papa thet yu druv uhway thet night.”
Mama sat on the side of the bed between us and said passionately, “Ah’m goin’ tu tel yu uh sekrit ’bout mah life thet Ah ain’t nevah tole yu, an’ ’ceptin’ Cousin Bunny, ain’t nobody knowed it. An’ mebbe yu bouf ken be uh li’l sad fo’ yo’ po’ wukhoss mama thet luvs yu an’ mabbe yu ken luv me mo’ an’ won’t nevah turn yu back on me.”
Junior and I sat stunned on the edge of the bed as Mama rose and walked past us several times with a strange faraway look on her face.
Then finally as she continued to walk slowly to and fro she said in a choked voice, “Ah wuz eight en Georgia, an’ Ah seen mah sleepin’ papa kilt by uh white man wif uh mask an’ uh bonin’ knife he lef en Papa’s throat.
“Mama wuz layin’ side uv Papa screamin’, but thet butchah didn’t harm uh hair uv her’n. He run frum th’ cabin entu th’ moonlight an’ Ah seen frum his built an’ the ways he moved thet it wuz Mistah Dawkins, th’ ownah uv th’ sawmill thet Papa wuked at.
“Ah tole Mama it wuz Mistah Dawkins, an’ she whupped me an’ tole me Ah wuz mistaken, thet she knowed it wuz uh stranguh.
“Some white men frum th’ mill put Papa en th’ groun en th’ woods behin’ th’ cabin lak uh dead dog th’ nex’ day. Mama was shaped bettah then eny woman Ah evah seen, an’ all th’ mens, white an’ black, wuz sniffin’ her trail ’til we moved en wif Mistah Dawkins.
“We wuz s’posed tu be sumpthin’ lak housekeepahs, onliest thing Mama wuz en his bed lak his wife an’ Ah did th’ scrubbin’ an’ cleanin’ while Mama didn’t do nuthin’ ’cept res’ an’ dres’.
“Mama died when Ah wuz ten. Mistah Dawkins put me en his bed an’ used me lak uh woman ’til Ah run uhway two years latah wif uh ole scuffin’ niggah tu Baton Rouge, Louisiana.
“Th’ law throwed him en jail an’ me en ten fostah homes ’fore Ah wuz foteen, slavin’ fo’ po’ white trash, an’ starvin’ ’til Ah wuz nuthin’ but uh skelefin.”
Junior and I started bawling.
Junior jumped up and threw his arms around Mama and wailed, “Mama! Please! Don’ tel’ no mo’.”
Mama slipped out from under his arms and pushed him firmly back to the side of the bed and continued. “Th’ las’ famli Ah wuz wif wuz th’ crooless. Thet wuz jes’ befo’ Ah gut uhway tu New Orleans an’ met up wif mah play Cousin Bunny, an’ she taken me tu Vicksburg, Mississippi, wheah Ah fust seen yo’ Papa preachin’ on thet cornah.
“Gittin’ back tu thet las’ famli, them white devuls used tu beat me an’ lock me en uh pitch-black root cellah. But uh sweet ole black woman always come tu me wif uh bright candle an’ kind wurds tu keep me frum bein’ scahed an’ lonely.
“Thet same ole woman ain’t nevah deserted me aftah all these years. She still come now wif her candle when evah Ah’m lonely an’ got uh troubled soul.
“Now lissen hard ’cuz Ah’m g’ttin’ tu uh mattuh fo’ th’ las’ time an’ Ah ain’t talkin’ ’bout it no mo’. Ah hates white folks worsen they hates mercy and jestus fo’ black peepuls.
“Ah whupped Carol fo’ lettin’ uh peckahwood big her. But Ah luv her en her grave, an’ Ah so wuzn’t aimin’ tu hurt mah angel gurl bad. But Ah ain’t sayin’ Ah wouldn’t whup her agin if she cum frum th’ grave an’ let thet peckahwood big her again.”
Mama stopped pacing and looked sternly at Junior’s face for a long moment, and then she riveted her eyes to the suitcase on the bed.
Junior said quickly, “Mama, dahlin’, Ah ain’t goin’ no place. But whut yu gonna do ’bout Bessie?”
Mama turned toward the door and said over her shoulder, “Bessie bad lak mah Mama. Ain’t nuthin’ Ah ken do ’cept hope she cum tu hersef befo’ sumpthin’ turrabul happun tu her en them streets.”
Railhead and Junior worked feverishly on the Buick in the daytime, and at night they went on foot and searched likely sections of the vast Westside fruitlessly for a glimpse of Bessie, Sally or Grampy Dick.
Two weeks after Bessie left home, a master mechanic from down the block stopped and saw the shambles of the Buick’s disassembled engine and took pity on the bumbling neophytes.
He took some vital moving parts of the Buick’s engine and machine tooled them in his garage shop to proper precision. In a day and a half, the Buick’s engine was running like a fine Swiss timepiece.
Around seven P.M. on the day the Buick was repaired, Railhead came to our flat to get Junior for an all-out search for Bessie.
His eyes were bloodred like he had been smoking reefers, and he brought a half-gallon jug of port wine with him. He and Junior talked heatedly about dirty low-life pimps and Bessie.
They guzzled the jug dry and flashed their weapons. Railhead had a butcher knife and a snub-nosed .38 pistol stuck in his waistband hidden by a seersucker jacket. Junior had a switchblade knife and a blackjack.
When they got ready to leave, I asked if I could go along. They both hollered no. I begged and cried, and finally they told me I could. But they warned me that if I got underfoot and did or said anything stupid they would put me on a streetcar for home.
I wrote Mama a short note telling her I had gone with Junior and Railhead to bring Bessie home. I put it on her bed and raced to the Buick where Railhead was already under the wheel revving the motor. Junior was on the front seat beside him sucking noisily on a long fat reefer.
As Railhead rocketed the Buick down the street, he said, “Jack, I’m gonna’ make The Pink Angel on Roosevelt Road. If we run into that pimp sonuvabitch, let me put my foot in his ass first.
“Jack, you better hold my heater. If I lay eyes on that bastard that stole Bessie from me, I might play the murder game. I’ll keep the blade. Maybe he’s got a shiv and enough heart to fight back, and I can chop his pretty face up.”
Railhead gave his pistol to Junior who shoved it into his own waistband. I started to wonder if it had been a good idea to come along.
Railhead got a parking place in front of The Pink Angel. A pale pinkish neon sign atop its weather-mauled facade blacked out and burst on in frenzied sequence.
It bounced greasy light off the lacquered noggins of two cruel-faced black guys decked out in psychedelic slax suits who got out of a lavender Caddie convertible in front of us. They s
trutted across the sidewalk and into the sinister murk of the bar.
A rusty tin angel hanging askew above the doorway seemed to gaze down in awe at the blood-and-puke-stained sidewalk.
We sat in the Buick for an hour and watched pimps and whores, dope peddlers and square john suckers parade in and out of The Pink Angel.
Several of the pimps I had seen before, hanging around Madison Street and cruising by our apartment building. I saw a skinny, fair-complexioned guy with a wolfish face coming from across the street toward us.
I was trying to think where I had seen him before, when Junior pointed and said excitedly, “Rail, Ah seen thet stud wif Grampy uh hundurd times.”
Railhead turned his head and looked at the dapper skeleton nimbly jaywalking through the stream of traffic.
Railhead hammered the heel of his palms against the steering wheel and said joyfully, “I’m hip to the stud! He’s Kankakee, an H-connection. Gimme back my heater. I’m gonna’ make him tell me where to find Grampy.”
Kankakee was maybe twelve feet from the Buick when Railhead stuck his head out and shouted, “Howya doin’, Kankakee? Come here a second.”
Kankakee frowned and stiffened and walked hesitantly to the side of the Buick. He ignored Railhead’s extended hand and stooped down and quickly swept his crafty gray eyes over the interior of the car. He then scrutinized Railhead’s up-turned face.
His long keen face creased to a sneer as he backed away and said, “Later, pally. I don’t know you.”
Railhead quickly blurted, “Goddamn, Jack, I’m Rajah’s brother. Remember? I was with him a couple of times when he usta cop stuff at your pad on Cottage Grove.”
Kankakee backed away another foot and said, “Maybe I do remember you. So what, pally? I’m not dealing a speck any more, and I ain’t hip to no sources whatsoever.”
Railhead half opened the car door. He had a wide smile on his face.
He said, “Kankakee, don’t be leery. I ain’t a hype. I don’t wanta’ cop no stuff. I want you to hip me where to find a stud we both know. I gotta’ find Grampy Dick tonight. Where is he, Kankakee?”
Kankakee’s lupine mouth curled in grotesque contempt that Railhead was stupid enough to violate him with the question. Kankakee removed his snow-white Panama hat and looked inside it mockingly as if searching for Grampy. Then he peeped in his shirt pocket and patted the pockets of his sky blue gabardine suit.
He hunched his shoulders and said, “Pally, you stumped me.”
He walked away toward the front of the Buick. Railhead grabbed the .38 from Junior, leaped to the street and Junior jumped to the sidewalk.
Kankakee spun around and froze at the sight of Railhead racing toward him and pointing the snub-nosed .38 at him. Railhead rammed the muzzle against Kankakee’s chest as Junior stood grimly behind him with the blackjack in his fist.
They roughly prodded Kankakee into the Buick on the front seat between them. Junior patted and searched him from shoe to coat collar.
I was drawn into a palpitating knot in a corner on the backseat. Junior rested his left arm on the back of the front seat as he pressed the blade of his switchblade knife against the side of Kankakee’s throat. Railhead tore the Buick from the curb and drove in silence to a dark side street and parked.
Railhead said coldly, “Motherfucker, where is Grampy Dick working his girls? Where’s his pad?”
Kankakee said shakily, “Pally, I swear to Christ I don’t know where he’s cribbing. I ain’t seen him in a month. I got a wire off the vine his whores are humping somewhere on the Southside. How about cutting me loose, pally?”
Railhead leaned forward and looked at Junior as he removed the ignition key and jerked his head toward the street.
Railhead opened the door and said, “Nigger, you get cut loose when we find Grampy.”
He and Junior went to the front of the Buick and looked through the windshield at Kankakee while they held a lively discussion. Finally, Railhead came and opened the car door on the driver’s side.
He pointed his pistol at Kankakee’s head and said, “Where is Grampy?”
Sweat rolled down the side of Kankakee’s face.
He squeaked, “Pally, I hipped you to all I know. Gimme a break.”
Railhead waggled the pistol and said stonily, “Come outta’ the car, cunt. I’m gonna’ make you find him.”
Kankakee slid gingerly out of the car and stood facing Railhead with his back turned to Junior who was leaning against the front fender.
Railhead smiled oddly and said, “Cunt, you sure look like a peckerwood standing there. I’ll bet your mammy is a white bitch. She’s gonna’ read the paper about your dead ass if I don’t find Grampy Dick over there tonight.”
Railhead kicked Kankakee in the belly. And on the violent cue, Junior leaped forward and smashed the blackjack down on Kankakee’s head and shoulders.
His Panama hat sailed into the air, and he wobbled like a slowing top and fell on his back. Railhead and Junior grabbed under his armpits and lifted him to his feet.
They walked him between them to the rear of the Buick. Through the rear window I watched Railhead support Kankakee while Junior snatched off Kankakee’s necktie and tied his hands behind him. Then Junior gagged him with a handkerchief and opened the car trunk.
I heard a bumping sound in the trunk just behind the rear seat, and then the slamming of the trunk lid. Railhead and Junior got in the car and ignored me as they lit reefers and smoked in silence. I had a funny floaty feeling from the acrid smoke hanging inside the car. Railhead started the motor and pulled away.
Junior said, “Rail, we gotta’ find Bessie an’ git off thet Southside fas’. Them studs whut runs them gamblin’ jints we heisted is achin’ tu fuck us up lak they did Rajah.”
Railhead said, “We ain’t gonna’ be over there that long. That dope-dealing bastard back there knows every whore, street and pimp hangout on the Southside. He’s gonna’ beg to help us when we let him outta that funky trunk.”
I was like in a nightmare that I wished would end and I would find myself back at the flat. We passed police cars several times on the way to the Southside. Each time I broke into a cold sweat.
I was certain the police would notice the hard mean look on the faces of Railhead and Junior and stop us. And when they found the weapons and Kankakee bound in the trunk, I knew they would beat us to death. The whole experience in that Buick from beginning to its horrible ending was the most harrowing and unforgettable of all my life’s cruel happenings combined.
Railhead pulled into an alley at Wentworth and Twenty-ninth on the Southside. He and Junior went to the trunk and brought Kankakee to sit shaken and rumpled between them. Railhead and Junior just sat there glaring at him. Kankakee massaged the back of his neck, and then jiggled his head as if to shake it clearly.
He croaked, “Maybe his girls are humping on ‘Four Trey.’ ”
Railhead cruised up and down Forty-third Street from South Parkway to State Street for over an hour. We saw pimps and whores galore, but we didn’t spot Grampy, Bessie or Sally. Railhead began cursing and threatening Kankakee.
We were passing Spiro’s poolroom under the El tracks for the tenth time when Kankakee said, “Pally, pull over in front of the poolroom and hit your horn.”
Railhead did. A slender black guy lounging near the poolroom doorway and chomping on a hot tamale came across the sidewalk to the car. He bent over and peered into the Buick.
Kankakee leaned across Junior and said, “How ya doing, Willy?”
Willy’s face showed instant and dramatic suffering.
He moaned, “Kee, I ain’t got no bitch, no wheels, and no scratch. I ain’t forgot that I’m kin to you for a fin. I’m gonna’ mash it on you next time you show.”
Kankakee said, “Pally, forget the fin. Where in the hell is Grampy Dick and his girls?”
Willy said, “Ain’t you heard? Grampy’s on his ass. He got trimmed in a blackjack game by a mob of slick niggers from New York. They sw
indled him for his bankroll, jewelry and wheels. He blew whoreless. All them whores got in the wind when they got hip how he chumped off. He hangs out on ‘Five One’ greasy as Porky Pig.”
Railhead stuck his mouth close to Kankakee’s ear and whispered.
Kankakee said, “Willy, you hip to where them two latest and youngest packages he copped before he blew whoreless are humping?”
Willy said, “Yeah, I’m hip. I dug them freak bitches on ‘Trey One’ humping their asses off for the paddy pimp Toronto Tony. Oh yeah, that paddy shot at Grampy night before last and run him off ‘Trey One.’ ”
Junior stiffened. Then he pushed his head and shoulders out of the car and jabbed his switchblade toward Willy’s throat.
Junior snarled, “Git outta’ mah face, niggah, crackin’ ’bout mah sistah ’fo Ah stick mah shank en you goozul pipe.”
Willy threw his hands up and scuttled backward as Railhead jerked the Buick from the curb. Railhead put Kankakee out of the car at South Parkway and drove toward Thirty-first Street like a madman.
Railhead shook his head and said over and over, “A lousy peckerwood pimping on my woman, ain’t that a sonuvabitch?”
Junior’s hand trembled violently as he pulled heavily on a fat reefer. Thirty-first Street was uproarious from Prairie Avenue to State Street. Railhead cruised slowly past myriad drunks, whores, hustlers and suckers laughing and cursing and clogging the sidewalks.
Several times Railhead and Junior went into noisy bars and searched for Bessie. Around three A.M. they bought a fifth of gin and parked on Thirty-first Street near Indiana Avenue.
They had emptied the bottle and Railhead was about to U-turn back toward State Street when Junior pointed and hollered, “Ain’t thet Sally?”
Railhead eased the Buick toward the intersection. It was Sally! She was twisting her big rear end and hanging on the arm of a paunchy middle-aged white guy in work clothes.
They crossed Indiana Avenue and walked down Thirty-first Street toward Prairie Avenue. Railhead followed a half block behind them until they went into a basement apartment beneath a dilapidated house on Prairie Avenue near Thirty-second Street.