Freddie looked more surprised than hurt. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
Milkman couldn’t answer, he was laughing so hard.
“Okay,” Freddie said, and threw up his hands. “Okay, laugh on. But they’s a lot of strange things you don’t know nothin about, boy. You’ll learn. Lot of strange things. Strange stuff goin on right in this here town.”
Milkman’s laughter was under control now. “What? What strange stuff is happening in this town? I haven’t seen any white bulls lately.”
“Open your eyes. Ask your buddy. He knows.”
“What buddy?”
“Your buddy Guitar. Ask him what strange stuff been happenin. Ask him how come he runnin round with Empire State all of a sudden.”
“Empire State?”
“That’s right. Empire State.”
“Nobody runs around with Empire State. He’s a nut. He just stands around with a broom, dribbling spit. He can’t even talk.”
“He
“Well, what’s Guitar doing with him?”
“Good question. Police would like to know the answer to that too.”
“How’d you get from Empire State to the police?”
“You ain’t heard? People say the police is lookin for a colored man what killed that white boy in the schoolyard.”
“I know that. Everybody knows that.”
“Well, the description fits State. And Guitar been takin him places. Hidin him, I believe.”
“What’s so strange about that? You know Guitar is like that. He’ll hide anybody the law is looking for. He hates white people, especially cops, and anybody they’re after can count on him for help.”
“You don’t understand. Him and State ain’t actin like they just hidin him. They actin like he did it.”
“You a little drunk, Freddie?”
“Yeah, I’m a little drunk, but that don’t change nothin. Look here. Remember when Emmet Till was killed? Back in fifty-three? Well, right after that, a white boy was killed in the schoolyard, wasn’t he?”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember the dates of murders I haven’t committed.”
“You don’t know?” Freddie was incredulous.
“No. Are you saying State did it?”
“I’m sayin he acts like it and I’m sayin Guitar knows, and I’m sayin somethin strange is goin on. That’s what I’m sayin.”
He’s mad at me, thought Milkman, because I laughed at his mother and that white bull story. So he’s trying to get back at me.
“Keep your eyes open,” Freddie went on. “Just keep them open.” He looked in the pint bottle, saw it was empty, and got up to leave. “Yep. Some strange goings on round here. But don’t put my name in it if you hear anything. Was just like this when that insurance man jumped off the roof. Ever hear tell of him?”
“Seems like I did.”
“That must a been when you was a little bitty baby, 1931. Well, it was some strange stuff then too.” Freddie buttoned his coat and pulled his flap-eared cap down as far as it would go. “Well, thanks for the coffee, boy. Did me a lot of good. A lot of good.” He took his gloves out of his pocket and moved to the door.
“You’re welcome, Freddie. Merry Christmas if I don’t see you before that.”
“Same to you. And your folks. Tell Mr. Dead and your mother I said Merry Christmas.” He was smiling again. When he reached the door he put on his gloves. Then he turned his head slowly and faced Milkman. “Tell you somebody else might know about what’s goin on. Corinthians. Ask Corinthians.”
He flashed his gold merrily and was gone.
Nothing happened to the fear. He lay in Guitar’s bed face-up in the sunlight, trying to imagine how it would feel when the ice pick entered his neck. But picturing a spurt of wine-red blood and wondering if the ice pick would make him cough didn’t help. Fear lay like a pair of crossed paws on his chest.
He closed his eyes and threw his arm over his face to keep the light from overexposing his thoughts. In the darkness that his arm made he could see ice picks coming down faster than raindrops had when he tried as a little boy to catch them with his tongue.
Five hours ago, before he knocked on Guitar’s door, he had stood on the top step, dripping in the summer rain that still patted the window, imagining that the drops were tiny steely picks. Then he knocked on the door.
“Yeah?” The voice was lightly aggressive; Guitar never opened his door to a knock anymore before finding out who it was.
“Me–Milkman,” he answered, and waited for the clicking sounds of three locks being released.
