“Have you notified the phone company?”
“No.”
She seemed startled, either that she hadn’t thought of it, or that I had.
“You should probably do that,” I said.
“He never says anything when he calls.”
“Most people don’t,” I said.
If she thought I was amusing she didn’t let on.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Hawk and I went to call on Amir Abdullah in his offices at the African-American Center at the university. A couple of hard-looking young guys in black suits and white shirts let us in. They eyed me like I was a case of the clap.
“Teaching fellows?” I said to Hawk.
Hawk smiled and let his stare rest on the two men.
“Dr. Abdullah,” I said. “He’s expecting me.”
They looked at me some more and at Hawk, who smiled at them engagingly.
Then one of them said, “Down this hall, third door on the left.”
Hawk and the two young men kept eye contact until we were past them and headed down the hall. There was African art on the walls, and some splashy posters advocating action. Everyone I saw was black.
“I feel like Casper the friendly ghost,” I said.
“You a pale one, all right,” Hawk said, and we knocked on the half-open door of Abdullah’s office.
A voice said, “Come!” And in we went.
The walls of the office were covered with some sort of pan-African proletarian art in which magnificent black men were throwing off yokes of oppression. The white men in the posters were all mean-looking fat guys. None of the white guys looked like me. None of the magnificent black men looked like Abdullah. Abdullah was very light- skinned. In the old days, before tans were unhealthy, Susan, in summer, was darker than Amir. He was skinny, and quite tall. His hair was short and militant-looking. He wore round gold glasses and a saffron-colored robe and sandals. His nails were long and clean and looked manicured. He wore rings on all four fingers of each hand. A Rolex watch peeked diffidently out from under the sleeve of his robe. He was smoking a long curved meerschaum pipe, and the room was rich with the pungency of his tobacco. A six-foot shield made of ornamented hide stood in the corner, with two long-bladed spears crossed over it. The bookcases were full of books. Many names I didn’t recognize, a few I did, Frantz Fanon, Ralph Ellison, Richard Wright.
Abdullah nodded at Hawk.
“Do I know you?” he said to me.
“My name’s Spenser,” I said. “This is Hawk.”
Abdullah looked thoughtfully at Hawk, and nodded.
“S’happenin‘, bro?”
Hawk didn’t say anything. He moved to the left of the door and leaned on the wall. Abdullah looked back at me.
“Don’t get many white men in here,” Abdullah said.
“Too bad,” I said.
“Why?”
“I hate segregation,” I said.
“Don’t need no smartass honky jivin‘ me ’bout segregation,” Abdullah said. “Nigger’s got to get on with life. He do that best if he keep Whitey at a distance.”
I didn’t see anything there to help me with Robinson Nevins’ tenure problem so I let it slide.
“You’re on the English department tenure committee?” I said.
“Why you axin?”
The strain of talking like a homeboy was palpable in Abdullah, you could tell he had to rephrase things in his head so he wouldn’t sound like Clarence Thomas. Leaning against the wall, Hawk looked like he was fighting a yawn.
“You caught me,” I said. “Actually I know you’re on the tenure committee of the English department, I guess I was really wondering why you don’t have an office there.”
“Ain’t my business solvin‘ yo’ problems,” Abdullah said.
“Of course not,” I said. “You ever see Robinson Nevins in a sexual circumstance with the late Prentice Lamont?”
“You ain’t no cop,” Abdullah said.
“How can you be sure?”
“You’da hassled me when you came in.”
