She began to weep, hard tiny tears. “A person tries to live decent, get a little joy out of life and—”
“A punk sticking somebody up with a gun can say the same thing.”
“I'm not a crook! Don't you dare call me that. I never did a dishonest thing in my life! You... you... big black bastard!” Her wet eyes were glaring fiercely at me as she said, “There, I never called anybody that before— may God cut out my tongue—but I say it to you, you with a skin as dark as mine!”
I couldn't have felt worse if she'd spit in my face. I mumbled, “Lady, I'm only doing my job, a routine—”
“Job? Is it your job to torture and help swindle your own people? 'Man' downtown gets the pie and you croak about a job and take the crumbs. All right, tell 'em I'll send a money order tomorrow, get up on my payments. Now get out of my sight!”
“How much do you still owe?”
“About f 170. Get out of here, I said I'll pay.”
“How much can you pay today?”
“What you want, my blood?”
“Goddammit, stop the dramatics! I'm trying to help you. Maybe I can get them to make a settlement.”
“Well, even though I didn't intend to pay, I've been saving the payment money. I suppose I could give them a hundred dollars by the end of the week.”
“Is there a phone here?”
She nodded down the hall. There was a pay phone behind the steps. I phoned Bailey, told him, “Ted, I'm with Mrs. James. She's strictly a deadbeat. Ill and out of a job. I doubt if she'll be able to work for months. She owes $170 but thinks she can borrow $100 from a friend, if they'll settle. Otherwise, you'll have to take the combination back, and it's in rough shape. The hundred is all the dough she has in the world, all she can raise. I'd advise taking it. She can bring it down in a day or two.”
Ted said he'd check and phone me back. I told him to make it fast, to remind the company they'd already made a profit on the deal, that the combination was now selling for half of what they had charged her.
I lit my pipe and waited in the narrow hallway, neither of us talking. Mrs. James stared at me with sullen eyes, hating my guts, my good clothes. It was four seventeen. Fooling around with this two-bit case would make me miss Thomas.
Ted called back, said it was okay. He wanted to speak to the old lady and she told him she'd have the money in the mail by the end of the week. “Yes, yes. I understand. Positively. Yes!”
When she hung up, slamming the receiver down, I said, “Now, Mrs. James, when you pay make certain to get a receipt saying 'paid in full.' Or if you mail in the money, get a check from a bank and write on the back of it, 'Final and full payment for kitchen combination, as per agreement.' Next time you buy anything on time, think what you're doing first, and don't start whining afterward.”
“You, get out! You've done your 'job!'”
“I went out on a limb for you, saved you seventy bucks, Mrs. James.”
“You waiting for a tip?”
“Of course not, but at least, well... I did my best for you. I mean, I understand the spot you're in, we're all in.”
“Thank you. Thanks for nothing!”
I shrugged, put on my hat, and headed for the door. She-stood at the edge of the steps, still looking at me as if I were something a dog had dropped. I walked out, slamming the door hard, drove downtown. Traffic was heavy and it was after five when I reached the freight company. Cursing, I drove toward Brooklyn and the welding school, changed my mind, double-parked in front of the cafeteria on Twenty-third Street. Thomas was inside having supper, his bus-girl friend hovering around his table, both of them laughing and wisecracking.
I felt a little better until a cop came over and asked what I was doing. He was an old cop, with a red-veined white face and a lousy set of false teeth. When he talked just the lower part of his mouth moved. I told him I was waiting for a friend and he said I couldn't double-park on Twenty-third Street, didn't I know that? I said I was sorry and started the Jaguar and he asked for my license. If he had a cellophane head I couldn't have seen his little bird brain working any clearer: a coloured man in an expensive car —S.O.P.—it must be a stolen heap. I showed him my license and registration, praying Thomas didn't look out the window and see me.
The cop grunted, “I'll give you a ticket the next time I catch you double-parking,” as he handed my license back.
“I don't doubt that you will.”
“Get fresh and I'll give you a ticket right now!”
“Who's 'fresh'? You said something and I answered you,” I said, crawling slightly, all the anger I'd felt at Mrs. James welling up in me.
He took out his notebook, muttered, “I'll just take down your name and license number, smart guy. Be sure I remember it.” His lower lip was moving like a ventriloquist's dummy.
I shut up; no point in talking myself into a ticket. When he finished scribbling I asked, “Can I go now?”
Another grunt: “Yeah.”
I found a parking space over on Ninth Avenue and walked back to take a plant across the street from the cafeteria, telling myself I was a dummy to talk to the cop; if he saw me now it might start another verbal fight.
Thomas took his time eating and I was getting hungry myself. Finally he and Miss Burns checked their watches and he walked out and up to his room. I stopped at the corner, where I could keep an eye on his house without being conspicuous. He came out at seven, wearing a shirt and tie under his windbreaker, his blond hair carefully brushed. He picked up his girl in front of the cafeteria and they went across the street and into a movie.
I phoned Kay but Barbara said she wasn't in and I left a message that everything was under control. Bobby didn't ask any questions. I phoned Sybil to ask if she wanted to eat Chinese food. She said she'd already eaten but would have supper waiting for me, and to bring in some beer.
After circling Sybil's place several times in even larger circles, I found a parking space, brought in a couple bottles of High Life. Sybil gave me a plate of reheated stew with gummy rice, garlic bread, and salad. She had her hair up in curlers, which I hate, but otherwise she was in a good mood, didn't even mention the P.O. once. I kept thinking about Mrs. James and I told Sybil about it and she said, “What can you expect from poor Negroes?” Only she didn't say Negroes and I got boiling and she sat on my lap, kissing me slowly and asking between each kiss, “What's the matter with my big Touie?”
Of course it was corny as the devil, but it worked. I looked at Sybil's pretty face, and I thought about the TV job and wondered what I had to be angry about.