A skinny black man in a T-shirt and shabby dungarees, thirty-some years of age, stood in the center of the room, just under the hanging light, as if contemplating tying its cord around his neck. His eyes were muddy, his posture stooped, his greased-back hair the only remaining sign of the street-smart slick hep cat he had been not. so long ago.
"The man," he said, hollowly, looking at Toussaint.
"Hello, Eli."
"Can't offer you nothin'. Nothin' to drink right now."
"We'll just sit, then."
Johnson motioned to Curry and the two cops sat on the shabby sofa; a spring jabbed Curry in the ass, and he moved quickly to one side.
Eli stood before them. He looked weak, but he wasn't shaking, and he wasn't tottering,
"Are you on the sauce, Eli?"
"No, sir."
"Stickin' anything in your arm? Up your nose?"
"No, sir."
"What are you doin', then?"
"Tryin' to get myself back on my feet, sir."
"Looking for work?"
"I will be, sir. Can't go back to numbers runnin', not in this town."
"I hear Scalise had some boys beat you up, while back."
"Yes, sir."
"Why is that, Eli?"
"I was diddlin' this little high-yeller gal."
"Ah. Dancer at the Cedar Garden nightclub."
"Yes, sir. They calls her Ginger. Mr. Scalise was diddlin' her, too. I didn't mind. That comes with the territory, don't it?"
"Seems to, Eli."
"But he minded me diddlin' her. They busted me up pretty good."
"What about the girl?"
"She left town. She went to Chicago town. I might look her up there, when I gets on my feet."
"Did Scalise do any beatin' on you himself, Eli?"
"Yes, sir, he did."
"Would you testify to that?"
"No, sir, I would not."
"What if you had immunity?"
"What's that, sir?"
Johnson told him.
"I likes the sound of that. But Mr. Scalise is a bad motherfucker. He'd kill a black man soon as look at him."
"That right there is a good reason to testify, Eli. You heard of Eliot Ness?"
"Sure."
"How 'bout Reverend Hollis, the Future Outlook League?"
"Everybody heard of Reverend Hollis."
Johnson patted the sofa cushion next to him. "Sit down with us, Eli. This is Detective Curry, from the office of Eliot Ness. We want to talk to you."
In the car, Curry said, "I think that fellow could clean up into a damn good witness."
"So do I."
"He'll talk, won't he?"
"If he don't kill himself first."
"Kill himself?"
"He been curled up in that rat-hole healing himself. From that beating. Scalise took his girl, took his pride. Some wounds don't heal over."
Their next stop was a yellow Victorian on 46th off Carnegie, just west of Central-Scovill. The neighborhood was just one small grade up from the nearby slum, and many of the houses-single-family dwellings intermingling with larger rooming-house buildings-were pretty run-down. But the house that belonged to John C. Washington, retired policy king, was well kept-up; it even had a picket fence to make it seem almost idyllic-and to separate it from its more ramshackle neighbors.
When Washington had bought this property years ago, this neighborhood was a real step up from the slums; but the slums had spread like a disease, though Washington's dwelling had remained immune, an island of relative affluence. In the last several years, some buildings of the nearby slum area had been, and continued to be, torn down, as the WPA housing projects inexorably took their place.
"Toussaint, you are always welcome here," Washington said warmly, ushering Johnson and Curry through the vestibule, past the second-floor stairs, into the living room.
The living room was a small but beautifully furnished affair, floral wallpaper, oriental rugs, fringed draperies, wood-and-cut-glass bookcase, fireplace, on the mantel of which were portraits of relatives as well as a large one of elaborately uniformed Marcus Garvey of Back-to-Africa fame. Through a wide archway was the dining room, another small but perfect room, with a long window seat where potted plants sat near sheer drapes.
Dignified and well-spoken, Washington was a lanky, handsome man of fifty-some years; his skin was a dark, lustrous black, his hair short, his apparel immaculate and expensive-he wore a white shirt and blue silk tie with tiny white polka dots, an English-tailored suit and white-and-black shoes. He had a superficial air of culture and the faintest southern accent, hinting at his illiterate sharecropper roots.
"Please sit down, gentlemen," Washington said, settling himself in an overstuffed green chair with doilies on the arms. A standing lamp with a fancy fringed shade looked over his shoulder.
Johnson and Curry sat on a nearby divan.
"You look well, Johnny," Johnson said.
"Life is sweet," Washington said solemnly.
"It could be sweeter."
Washington gestured around himself. "How?"
"You could still be policy king."
He waved that off. "I'm retired from that field."
A small, beautiful mulatto woman in her late thirties floated in from the dining room. She wore a pink crepe dress with a pearl necklace and a floral brooch. A handsome woman with a big fine ass, Johnson thought; Washington's former-showgirl wife Velma.
There were no introductions; Velma knew Johnson, and Curry was regarded as an invisible man.
"Would you men like some coffee, or tea?"
Washington requested tea and Johnson said that would be fine, too. Curry added a nervous third to the tally.
When she was gone, Washington said, "I can anticipate what you're after, Toussaint-the good Reverend Hollis paid me a visit late last night."
"So you know the score."
"I always do. What good does rocking the boat do? I have no yearning to get back in that business. I have legitimate interests now-real estate, a few restaurants…"
"You might be livin' in a better neighborhood, if Lombardi and Scalise hadn't come along."
"I have a nice home."
"What'll this neighborhood look like in five years? Ten? You got a young pretty wife, Johnny."
Irritation creased Washington's smooth, seemingly unused face. "I can take care of myself and my wife, Toussaint."
"You and your bodyguards, maybe. Why does a man who ain't in the rackets no more still move about with body-guards?"
Washington shifted in his chair. "Any successful businessman is at risk. We live and work in a community that has more than its share of risks. You know that better than most-you're in the police business."
"I think it's 'cause you a nervous man, Johnny. Nervous ever since Scalise beat the hell out of you."
"Toussaint… I invited you into my home…"
Mrs. Washington returned with a silver tray on which were three cups of tea and a small bowl of sugar.
"If anyone would like cream," she said, "I can oblige."
No one did. The woman picked up on the tenseness in the air, quickly and efficiently served the cups of tea around, and left with grace and haste.
Johnson sipped his steaming tea. "I think you're still afraid, Johnny."
Washington's tea sat on a coaster on the small table beside him. His face was as blank as a baby's.
"No denying it, is there, Johnny?"
Washington looked at the floor. He seemed to be trying to decide whether or not to get mad.
Johnson sat forward. "There's a goddamn good reason why you should testify. Reasons beyond the fact that you're gonna be safe. Reasons beyond the fact that it could pay off for you, financially."
Washington smiled humorlessly. "And what reason is that, Toussaint?"
"The best reason there is, Johnny. Revenge."
Washington thought about that.
"If black men wasted time revenging themselves on white men," Washington said finally, "where would we be?"