The punk looked back at his friends for approval, all alone in his power-world now, never seeing the human wall closing around him. I looked past Bones to where Virgil, my cellmate, was closing in. Virgil wasn't raised to take up for blacks, but he'd back my play like he was supposed to when it went down. I hated Bagoomi-or whatever the fucking fool called himself-anyway. His revolutionary mission didn't stop him from raping fresh young kids when they first came on the cellblock.
But I was too late. The ancient guitar snapped across his knee as easily as a toothpick and he held one piece in each hand, his gold-toothed mouth grinning down at Bones. The old man's hand flashed and the fool's smile died along with the rest of him. By the time the guards smashed through the dense clot of prisoners, all they discovered was one more weasel who'd found the only true path to the Promised Land, a sharpened file sticking deep between his ribs. The guards paid no attention to Bones holding the pieces of his guitar and crying to himself. Their investigation determined that someone had settled a gambling debt with the punk, prison-style, and that the old man's guitar had been a casualty of the collection method.
I didn't know Flood when I was doing time-I didn't know there were women like her on this earth. I should have known that when love came to me, it would only be for a visit.
When the blues come down on you this hard, you don't want to be locked up. In prison, I had no choice. But in prison, I never had the blues like this. It was time to hit the streets.
4
I CALLED Pansy down from her roof, locked the place up, and climbed down the stairs to the garage. Sometimes when I get the blues I sit and talk with Pansy, but she was being a real bitch lately. She was in heat again-I didn't want to have her fixed-and every time she went into heat she'd rip up pieces of the office until she got over it. It didn't change the look much, and my clients aren't the particular type anyway.
The docks were quiet-a few sorry hookers hiding empty faces behind cheap makeup, a leather-laced stud hustler not smart enough to know the action didn't start until it got dark, a few citizens late for work. I was looking for Michelle, but I guess she'd taken the day off.
I thought about going up to the Bronx and scaring up the Mole, but I wasn't in the mood for a conversation about Israel today. The Mole loved the
Then I thought I'd find Max and go on with our gin game. We'd been playing almost a dozen years now, and he still had every single score-sheet. I was about forty bucks ahead. But the warehouse was empty.
The light at Bowery and Delancey held me up-long enough for one of the bums to approach the Plymouth with a dirty rag in one hand and a bottle of something in the other.
'Help me out, man?' the bum asked. 'I'm trying to get together enough to get back home.'
'Where's home?' I asked him.
'Used to be Oklahoma -I don't know.'
'This is home now, brother,' I told him, handing him a buck and watching his face light up. Maybe I'll never buy the world a Coke-although I know some Colombians trying to do just that-but at least I can buy a man a drink. Even so, the blues were still winning.
Across Fourth Street near Avenue C, another light, another stop. Paul Butterfield was singing 'I've got a mind to give up living' through my car's speaker and the music wafted out into the thick city air. I had lit a smoke, and was thinking my thoughts, when I heard her voice-'You like that sad old music,
'The blues are the truth, little girl,' I told her-and she swivel-hipped her way up to the Plymouth to hear what else the stranger had to say.
She was fifteen years old-or thirty-I couldn't tell. But she'd never again be as beautiful. Every eye on the street followed her. I looked over to the stoop where she'd been sitting and I saw four men sitting. Watching.
The Puerto Rican flower was no whore-she was a fire-starter. She bit into her lower lip, making it swell against the pressure, leaning one perfect hip against the Plymouth.
I only had a minute to make up my mind, but it was no contest-she was for sale all right, but the price was a war with at least one of the watching young bloods. I wasn't buying-young blood gets hot, and hot blood gets spilled.
'What's your name, honey?' she wanted to know. And I knew she never would. I took one of her hands in mine, the red-lacquered nails gleaming in the sun. 'Make today last, beautiful girl,' I told her. I kissed her hand, and drove off.
It wasn't going to be my day-I knew the feeling. I drove aimlessly, the music playing, getting it under control. It wasn't nice, but I'd do the time-I'd done it before.
I went back across the bridge, past the House of Detention, telling myself that being depressed on the street was better than being depressed in jail, but it only worked for a couple of blocks.
I parked on Nevins Avenue to get some smokes, sat on the hood of the Plymouth, and lit one up. In no hurry to go nowhere. Right across from me were three old black guys-impossible to tell how old-wearing winter coats in the warm weather, sitting on some milk crates, passing around a bottle of wine, talking to each other about something. Minding their own business, sitting in the sun. Not all clubhouses have doors and windows.
Then I saw the pack of punks bopping up the street on the same side as the old men. Four white kids; they all had those weird haircuts, short and spiky in front, long in back, streaks of bright color and sticking up. They were dressed in short-sleeved leather jackets. One sported a long black cane with an eagle's head on top and probably a sword inside. Another one had a collar around his neck that looked like it belonged on a bulldog. They all were wearing black half-gloves, the kind that leave your fingertips out and knuckles bare. The punk with the cane came first, the others fanning out behind him. Then the biggest one moved up on the outside wing of the flying wedge, bouncing up the street throwing left jabs at anyone who came by-the others laughing as people fell over themselves to get out of the way.
As they passed by the old men, the big one fired a vicious jab square into the chest of one of them, knocking the old-timer right off his crate. I stepped off the hood of the Plymouth, reaching into my pocket for the roll of quarters I always keep there to pay tolls-but before I could move, the old man shook his head violently and struggled to his feet. He rubbed his face with both fists, drew a deep snarfling breath through his nose, and shuffled forward, suddenly hooking with both hands. The big kid threw up his own hands in some feeble imitation of boxers he'd seen on television, but he never had a chance. The old man drove the kid back against the side of a van like it was the ropes in the ring he must have fought in years ago, firing punch after punch to the kid's unprotected face and stomach-hard, professional punches, coming unpredictably from both hands. The big kid dropped to the street; the old man turned and went to a neutral corner, running on automatic pilot.
The street was quiet, but you could feel the joy swelling out of the bodegas and the bars. The big kid lay where he dropped-I scanned the street, but his running buddies were nowhere in sight. About what you'd expect. And the old man was back on his milk crate, being with his friends.
When the old man heard the bell, he knew what he had to do. Maybe he was past talking about it, but he could still do it. When I looked around again, the big kid was gone. And so were my blues.
