Farther down the block, he comes to a record shop, speakers over the door shouting music onto the street, and he opens the door and walks inside. Everyone in the shop — three teenaged boys, a pair of young women, a bearded man behind the counter — stops talking and proceeds to examine a product, records, needles, plastic disks for 45s, microphones, until Bob leaves, when they resume their loud, quick conversations, and the music plays raucously over and over.
He enters a restaurant on Fifty-fourth with closed Venetian blinds facing the street. A slender brown woman holding long, narrow menus greets him at the door and in French-accented English politely asks how many people are in his party. Bob peers across the room, sees large, beefy black men in three-piece suits, fashionably dressed women, a few children at table, and he says, “I’m … I’m looking for someone.” He pretends to search the room for a friend, then says, “No, sorry, he’s not here yet, thanks,” and ducks out.
In a bar, seated on a stool at the far end, Bob orders a Schlitz from a short, stocky, mustachioed man wearing a cream-colored silk vest buttoned tightly across his belly. There are a dozen or more booths and small tables behind him, where three or four women, young and pretty, wearing heavy makeup and miniskirts and glittery, low-cut blouses, sit alone, one woman to a table, drinking. At the bar, four or five young men, boys almost, who seem to know each other and the bartender as well, talk, drink, smoke cigarettes and snap fingers in time to the music blatting from the jukebox in the corner by the open door. It’s what brought Bob in from the street in the first place, the music, Haitian, loud, friendly, warm and available to anyone willing to listen.
The bartender brings the beer and glass and sets them down in front of Bob without once looking at him.
“How much?”
“One dollar fifty.”
Bob hands two ones over. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks,” the man says, and starts to move away.
“Quiet tonight.”
“Yes. Well, Wednesday, you know. It’s late.”
“Say, listen. Ah … I was wondering,” Bob says.
“Yes?”
“You’re Haitian, right? That’s a Haitian accent, right?”
The man examines Bob for a few seconds, this battered white man, large, unshaven, eyes in caves, clothes dirty and rumpled, and he says, “Yes, I am Haitian.”
“Cigarette?” Bob says, pushing his pack forward.
The man hesitates, then takes one. “Thanks.”
Bob lights his cigarette. “You probably know about those Haitians that drowned day before yesterday, right?”
The man steps back. “Well, yes. From the newspapers.” He eyes Bob warily.
“Me too. From the papers, I mean. Sad, isn’t it?”
“Ah, yes. But it happens. Such things happen.”
“But some get through anyhow, right? Some of them make it to shore. I read that.”
“I suppose so.” The man starts to leave. Farther down the bar, the young men have ceased talking and have taken up watching Bob and the bartender. There are four of them, two with bushy Afro haircuts and long sideburns, the other two, younger, with short haircuts. All four are dressed up for a night out, billowy nylon shirts cut and unbuttoned to expose their chests, tight, bell-bottomed slacks, slipon shoes with pointed toes. Two of them wear heavy gold chains around their necks and copper bracelets on their wrists. All four are faceless to Bob, kids out looking for some action. He supposes they have a car parked outside, a beat-up Olds or Pontiac with elaborate hub caps, the dash and rear deck covered with pile carpeting.
“Listen, friend, can I ask you something?”
The bartender returns, and Bob slides a ten-dollar bill across the bar. “I was wondering …” he says in a low, confidential voice, “if you could tell me something.”
The bartender palms the ten and pockets it without changing his expression of calm, mild curiosity.
“Those Haitians who drowned the other day. I wondered if there were any survivors. You know?”
“I think not. No survivors. The sea was rough. Why do you ask?”
“Well, see, I got a friend, Haitian guy who works for me, out on the Keys, and he’s looking for his people, his family, see, and he was wondering.”
“Why will he not come and ask himself, then? Why do you ask?”
“Yeah, I understand that, I realize how it looks, me doing the asking and all. But, y’ see, he’s got to be careful about that sort of thing. You know. Because of his papers not being so good. You understand.”
“Ah. Yes.” The man turns away again. “I am sorry, mister, I know nothing of the people from the boats.”
“Wait!” Bob says. Reaching into his pocket and drawing out the packet of money, he peels off a twenty and lays it on the bar.
The bartender stares for a second at the thick wad of bills in Bob’s hand, then at the twenty before him. “I know nothing of those people. You should drink your beer and go. We close soon,” he says, and walks slowly but emphatically away.
Bob picks up the twenty and wraps it around the others and shoves the money back into his pocket. Finishing off his beer in one long gulp, he slides off the stool and makes for the door. As he passes the young men at the bar, they turn and watch him.
“Hey, mister!” one calls. He’s tall and broad-shouldered and wears a thick denim cap nested in his huge, bulbous Afro.
Bob turns and says, “Yeah?”
“You want something? Maybe you want a girlfriend, eh?” he says, winking and flashing a wide grin.
“No, thanks,” Bob says, and he steps outside to the street. Behind him, the youths laugh and start talking in Creole to the bartender, who ignores their questions and proceeds to grab up their glasses and empty bottles and hurry them out the door.
Down on Fifty-fourth, a few blocks east of where I-95 soars overhead, Bob spots in the distance a small clot of people, a few women and children, but mostly old men, shaky, decrepit-looking, dressed in rags and ill-fitting castoffs. The people have gathered on the sidewalk beside the open side door of a large brown and white Dodge van. Attached to the top of the van and running the length of it, like a political poster, a large, hand-painted sign cries: The Kingdom of Heaven is at hand! Repent! Matthew 10:7.
As Bob nears the group beside the van, he sees at the center a tall young white man, blond and wearing jeans and a hooded gray sweatshirt with Florida State emblazoned across the front. Inside the van, a woman, also in jeans and sweatshirt, with the hood pulled over her head like a monk’s cowl, hands the young man, in sequence, parcels wrapped in brown paper and then what appear to be paper cups of hot soup. The young man in turn passes the goods to the people gathered around him, first a parcel, then a cup of steaming soup, which the recipient, tucking the parcel under his or her arm and stepping away from the van, slurps down in relative privacy and furtiveness, as if hunger were a slightly embarrassing secret.
Bob edges up to the van, hears the young white man speak Creole to the people, who remain silent, who simply reach out, take the parcel with one hand, the soup with the other, and back away to make room for the next person to come forward. And in a few moments, Bob himself is the next person.
The white man is in his early twenties and extremely tall, several inches taller than Bob. He’s gaunt rather than skinny, a physically strong man overworked, and his short, straight hair is thin and already disappearing at the temples, giving his face an unnatural boniness for one so young. His bright blue eyes are small and deepset, a Swedish or Norwegian face, with large bones and delicate skin. Holding a parcel in one long hand and a cup of soup in the other, he says to Bob, “Praise the Lord, brother,” as if it were a command, the price of the gifts.