She looked off and shrugged. 'Old Tired.'
Carney tossed his hat onto the table beside the sofa. 'It is kind of warm in here. Either that or I'm having hot flashes.'
The old man returned bearing a bottle and a cloth sack. He set the bottle down on the table. He raised the bag, fiddling with the drawstring until he had it open. He reached inside, felt around, and took out a darkly gnarled object and handed it to Carney.
Carney looked at it. It was some sort of root or twig, almost black, of a hardness not usual for wood or plant material.
'High John's root?'
'Uh-uh. No, suh. That be Black Benjamin. You can't hardly find that.'
'Really.'
'I spent a week in the woods, just sneakin' up on it. You gots to sneak up on Black Benjamin. You turn around, you think you know where it is, and it gone, man. Gone. After I dug it up and brung it home, it just sit there and stew. It was madder'n hell I dug it out. It don't wanta be out. It don't want no one't'see it.'
'It's sentient, then. It thinks.'
'Yessuh. It knows. Got a mind of its own, Black Ben.'
The old man rooted in the bag again and brought out a lump of a grayish substance. Carney took it. It was iron-heavy, and looked the part.
'Just a guess. Meteorite?'
'Yessuh. That's what they calls it. Sky iron. I found that forty… no, forty-five years ago. Just layin' on the ground. Sittin' there lookin' up at me.'
'Nickel-iron,' Carney said. 'Partially melted.'
The old man rummaged again. He brought forth a succession of odd stones, various roots, sprigs of henbane and liverwort, a bit of bone ? other talismans.
Carney examined each item and pocketed it. When there was no more, he said, 'Thank you.'
'But that all don't mean a damn you not in the spirit. You gots't'get in the spirit.'
Carney picked up the bottle. The glass was old and dark. There was no label. He popped the cork and sniffed it.
'I get you a glass.'
'No, don't bother.' Carney sniffed, then took a long pull on the bottle. He swallowed and started coughing.
The old man smiled with satisfaction.
'Jesus!' Carney gasped.
The old man cackled.
Carney caught his breath. 'That went down hard.' He looked at the bottle. It was about three-quarters full. 'Applejack?' he asked.
'Ain't applejack.'
'Tastes like it, a little. Stronger. Apple brandy with hydrochloric acid, maybe. Damn.'
'You gots to drink it. A lot of it. The spirit's what does it.'
'Yeah.' Carney drank again. This time the stuff coursed down easier, like lava down the slope of a volcanic cone. He drank again; then one more time. His eyes were watering.
'I think I'm going to be in the spirit very soon.'
'It do you good.'
Carney offered the bottle. 'Join me?'
The old man shook his head. 'I ain't the one for it, either. Too old. Too used up. I threw it all away. I didn't use it to no good at all. Can't use it no more. You got to be careful with it. It use you like you use it.'
'Oh, yes.'
'It turn on you, you don't watch out.'
'I can imagine.'
'Yessuh.'
The old man sat back down on the easy chair. 'My granddaughter,' he said. 'She need a job. Can't get no work.'
'What does she do?'
'She went to school. She gots some education. College. Scholarship.'
'Wonderful.'
'She quit. Took up with some friends. They take her out drinkin'. All night sometime. She come home, sleep all day. She say she can't get no work. Ain't nothin' she wanta do anyway, she say. No good jobs for colored girls. Don't wanta make no beds or scrub no floors.'
'Can she write?'
'Yes, suh. Has a fine hand.'
'Yeah. I didn't mean quite that. There's a position open in one of my companies here in Dutchtown. Importers. They need someone to write brochures and catalogues. A little college is all a person would need.'
'These people… they colored?'
'Yes.'
The old man nodded. 'She might like that. She one smart little girl. She could do it.'
'She'll have to do her own typing.'
'She can do that too.'
'Castle Imports, East One Hundred Forty-fifth Street. Tell her to tell them I referred her.'
The old man nodded. 'Thank you, suh.'
Carney took another swig. The stuff was flowing smoother now. 'I'm beginning to like this.'
'It get better and better.'
'I'll bet.' Carney set the bottle down. 'I have to use your bathroom.'
'In the hall.'
The bathroom door was ajar. He opened it and stopped. There, on the floor in front of the commode, lay a girl of about nineteen. Her head was wedged between the seat and the wall. She had vomited and missed the bowl.
Carney checked her. Her eyelids fluttered and she moaned.
The woman was standing at the door.
'I don't put her to bed no more. She can stay there all night for all I care. She can live in there.'
Carney picked her up. She was light, a soft bundle in a cerise cotton party dress, one shoe dangling.
He carried her into the bedroom and put her on the big bed. There was a quilt at the foot of the bed; he unfolded it and covered her. He looked at her face for a while. The girl was pretty.
Velma was standing behind him. He turned and she gave him his hat. She was holding the bottle.
'Let's get out of here,' she said.
He took out a wad of bills and offered it to the woman. She regarded him gravely, looked at the money, then took it.
'Good night,' Carney said, putting on his hat. 'Say goodbye to Mr. Hamilton for me.'
The woman nodded silently.
Tony woke up when the car door opened.
'Have your beauty rest?' Velma asked, sliding in beside him.
'Jeez, musta dozed off.' He rubbed his eyes.
Carney got in and shut the door. 'Let's get over into Hellgate.'
Tony watched Carney drink from the bottle. 'You come all the way up here to buy some bootleg hooch?'
'Yeah. Start the car, you dumb guinea jerk.'
Chuckling, Tony turned the engine over. He was adjusting the choke when a car went past. Something made him lift his head.
'There's Riordan.'
He gunned the motor, pulled out of the parking spot, made a U turn, and raced down the street, making the Leland's engine whine and roar. He tore around the corner, left, raced a block, careened right, and nearly collided
