“Home,” I said.
“Oh yeah? Where’s home?”
“Couple blocks up Broadway.”
She thought about that a moment, smoking her cigarette, looking me up and down, not saying nothing. Her eyes was fingers, searching me.
“I seen you gliding by,” she said finally. “On your pretty bike. In your pretty uniform. Watching me. You been watching me, sweetie?”
“No ma’am,” I said. “I just be going home. I don’t look at nobody.”
“Don’t look at nobody, huh?” she said laughing. “Well, you ain’t having no trouble looking at me now. Is you, cutie?”
“No ma’am,” I said.
“What’s your name?”
“Theus. Theus Drummond.”
“Work at the Dunbar?”
“Yes’um,” I said.
“Man, I’d love to go there. I hear it’s like a palace. A palace run by colored folks. I just love thinking about that.”
She got serious a minute, smoking her cigarette, then she said, “Say, Theus, you think maybe one night when you ain’t got nothing to do, and I ain’t got nothing to do, you can maybe show up and take me out to see what’s going on at the Dunbar? Mix in with all those rich folks and celebrities? I’d like that fine if you could.”
She said that, then turnt away real quick, then back, like she was ’fraid I was fixin’ to say no. Instead, I said, “Yes’um. We can do that.”
“Oh Theus,” she said, like a little girl, amazed at what I said, and before I could say nothing else she’d threw her arms ’round me and kissed me full on the mouth.
I ain’t never been kissed like that.
I suspect nobody has.
She fixed her dress where us mashed together had mussed it, then looked at my busted tires. “I see you got work to do. I won’t keep you. Just wanted to make your acquaintance — Mr. Theus Drummond. I been wishing for a strong handsome man to squire me ’round this fabulous city. Back home they say Central Avenue is glamorous and fun. But it ain’t been no fun for me so far. Anyways, a girl without a companion is looking for trouble. Can’t be too careful, y’know? With that killer on the loose. Raping and killing women who’s unprotected and all alone. Alone like me.”
“Yes’um,” I said.
I don’t remember walking the Flyer home. Only that when I got there, and fixed the busted tires, I was too happy to sleep. All I could think about was the lady in yellow. I popped open a Coke-Cola, pulled up the window, and listened to my neighbors fussin,’ playin’ music, and laughin’ outside. Listened till the sun came up. Then I realized, Damnit, Theus, you ain’t got her name.
17
Whenever I rode past Pink House, I was on the lookout for the lady in yellow. Didn’t see her nowheres. I started to fret she left town. Finally I got up the gumption to knock on her door at Pink House. I tapped real polite-like, at first. Could hear folks stirring. Nobody came to the door. I gave it a bang. Could hear Madam Sweet howling inside, like she’d been shot. “Bust that door, boy, and you done bought it,” she said through the closed door.
“Sorry, ma’am, I was huntin’ for one of the ladies that stays here.”
“What lady?”
“The pretty girl in yellow,” I said.
Madam Sweet was quiet a minute, pretending she was looking for something. Then said, “Ain’t nobody here matching that description.”
“Y’mind if I come in? Look around?”
“Fuck yeah, chile. ’Fore you can step up in here you gots ta show me the dough-ray-me.”
“I got money,” I said.
She cracked the door open. “Show me.”
I pulled out my wallet, fat with greenbacks.
Madam Sweet pulled the door wide open. Inspected me head to toe. “Why, you just a baby. How old is you, son?”
“Almost twenty-two.”
“And youse a lyin’ sack a shit,” she said. “Come back when yo’ dick grows big as yo’ feets.”
She slammed the door.
18
Uncle Balthazar allowed me to work the graveyard shift Thursday night, December 12. I could spend all my time Friday shopping for Christmas gifts. Mostly, I was trying to figure what the glamorous lady at Pink House would like — something shiny and expensive, I was thinking.
I decided to take a break from all that thinking and hunting, and rode the Flyer over to Komix & Kandi. I happened to glance in my mirror: I was being followed.
A Model A, long as a boat, had eased up behind me. It was still light out, and plenty of folks was on the street. The driver paid ’em no mind. Like there wasn’t nobody on the street but me — and him. I hollered at the creep. He ack like I was talkin’ French. ’Round 55th, that raggedy boat jumped right onto the sidewalk. Penned me against the fence. The driver left the motor running. Jumped out. Ran around. Jerked me off the Flyer.
It was the phony cop from Zimmerman’s. I felt the cold edge of a straight razor layin’ against my throat. He took his time. Made the blade flash and flare under my chin.
“Now listen, you pissant beanpole,” the phony cop said. “I know you been following me.”
“Following you?”
“Yeah, following me!” he shouted. “Like you don’t know. I gots eyes every-fuckin’-where. Don’t you think I seen you? And you tryin’ to ack like you ain’t doggin’ me? Snapping nasty pictures. Niggah, please.”
I was tryin’ to tell him I ain’t never followed nobody, and even if I did, I... The pig-ass punk hauled off and punched me in my eye. I fell hard. My beatdown commenced from there.
Folks yelled. Honking they horns. Telling the man to let me go. But nobody got out to help me.
When the phony cop was done whuppin’ me, he kicked me in my eye. Got in the car.
“If you know what’s good for you, ya little roach, you’ll keep my activities out yo’ mutherfuckin’ brain. You dig?”
I did.
He drove off.
That was December 13 — the night of the Louis fight. A right uppercut to the body stopped Paulino Uzcudun at the Garden in four rounds. From the main stem, all the way downtown, the streets was swarming with fans. Cheering the champ. Dancing wild. Crazy drunk. Acting a fool. Like nothing serious was going on, ’cept the fight.
They fount another murdered girl that night, off Avalon, behind the dugouts at Wrigley Field.
I learnt about the murder Saturday morning after I got to work. Uncle Balthazar made me wear an eye patch all day. Just before my shift ended he called me into his office. Officer Kimbrow was there. Wasn’t in uniform. Was dressed like a colored banker: briefcase, Borsalino, pin-striped blue suit, beat-up brogans.
He couldn’t stop staring at my busted eye.
“Lord amighty, Theus, is you missing a headlight?”
“I rather not talk about it,” I said.
“Well then, let Officer Kimbrow talk,” my uncle said. “Tell him.”
“I’ve been fired,” Officer Kimbrow said.
“Cops get fired?” I responded.
He explained all the troubles he’d been having as a colored cop, serving a force openly hostile to colored folks. Following the noninvestigation of the Magnolia Teal murder, Officer Kimbrow launched his own investigation. Snuck ’round, copied files, surveilled suspects, took photos. All firing offenses.
“I started to notice a pattern,” Officer Kimbrow explained. “All the killings was at nighttime. On some festive occasion that brought large crowds of Negroes together. All the killings was perpetrated on pubescent girls, helpless and alone.