Mister’s in the back of his store slapping bones with old heads. A quartet roosted around the table with piles of cash at hand. All told, it’s ends that could probably pay off what I owe him and replace most of what I might’ve lost to Jude. A come-up, I’m thinking, which means it’s true, it’s true, that bad luck can hatch a wrong idea, yank all the scruples out of even the purest of motherfuckers. There’s Mister. Does he see himself as the man with an IOU on my life? A hoary old head calls domino, smashes the table, and the bones leap and fall rearranged. The players swap bills, and Mister gets up and motions me out of the room.
He tells me he’s been calling, asks why I’ve been hard to find to which I explain about the house and Jude. Mister rubs his slick head and rubs the face of his watch with his shirt. Hate to hear that, he says. But what that have to do with what you owe me? That don’t have nothing to do with my money.
I quote him all I have to my name, which is thousands less than I owe, and ask him for few more days to pay in full. He pushes up close and pats my cheek, tender. Time, he says. And patience. In time all patience wears out. He tells me to go and bring what I have, all I have, to go and bring it back tonight. Bill’s due, he says. Past due. I nod and drop my eyes to the floor. Counting the most that’s inside my safe, what’s left of my last package. He stops by his safe and twists it open, takes out a wrapped stack of bills, turns them into a fan, waves the fan. You see this? he says. You don’t get this by giving it out. He stuffs the stack in his pocket and marches me to the front and unbolts the door, sounding that fucking bell. A van stutters down MLK, its taillight bandaged with duct tape. Mister claps me on the back. Trust me, he says. Trust me, you don’t want this problem.
Tonight’s as wet and warm a Saturday as any this month, but MLK is cold and empty, and I stumble to the car with a rock the size of Augustus lodged in my gut — or maybe, just maybe, it’s my heart. Half Man snaps up in his seat when I climb in. Damn, homie, that was quick, he says. What’s the word?
The word is you go home, I say.
You can guess what time it is when I get home. It’s late. Alibilate. No-excuse-late. I hit the lock praying Kim’s asleep, but my girl is wide awake, vivid, with all the lights up in the room. I shuttle in, slide the closet, crank open the safe, empty it but for a few bills, and tramp into the front room. I lay it on the counter and count (it’s less than I thought — anemic) and she stalks in behind me and hovers, her belly pressed against my back. She don’t say nothing at first. Lets me count and recount in what, on another night, could be peace.
What’s this?
This, I say. Is business.
At this hour? she says.
My business, I say.
I grab a paper sack and load the cash in it: the rent, light bill, re-up, the rest.
What business?! she says. Champ, you need to explain.
Look, leave me the fuck alone, I say. Not tonight. Of all the nights, not tonight.
Mister’s brother Red lets me back into the store. You can hear the bones sliding across the table in the back and the same old heads barking at one another. I slug into the back room and stand against the wall while someone washes the bones, while they pull their hands, while they eye the black dots as if them shits are talismans. Mister lays big six, lays the rest of his hand facedown, tells Red to stand watch. Give me a sec, fellas, he says, and gets to his feet.
He takes me into the basement and wades between delivery boxes to the bistro where his money counter sits. I pull out the bag (it may as well be a sack of blood) and give it to him and he drops it on the table. He asks how much is there, how much I’m short. I tell him and he warns me to have the rest next week. Oh, for sure, I say, though I’m not and he knows it. He clicks the overhead bulb, turns the basement blackish, leaves me groping behind him through a maze of dark. He stops in the stairwell and turns to me, the light sourcing behind him. Everybody ain’t built for this, he says, and glides the rest of the way up.
Outside the store I get a page. It’s a lick, my regular, the one with a spot. One of the ones who buys his work already rocked, and shit, shit, all I have left is soft. All I have left is stashed at Beth’s crib. She don’t pick up (a theme) when I call, but that don’t no matter, I ain’t about to miss his bread. Damn right, I can’t afford to miss this bread. Under a dying quarter moon, I fly out 26 west, a lone traveler part of the way, to her place. She answers, thank God, (Why is a nigger thanking God?) in a loosened robe and nothing else. She makes a face, asks what time it is. Late, I say. No, early. Time to handle business. She shakes her head and tells me to come back later — this afternoon or this evening, says she’s got company. But I need it now, I say. Just give me a few and I’ll be out your hair. Just keep him in the room and let me grab my things. She concedes, strolls into her room, pulls her door shut. Swift I gather the work, the scales, the Pyrex, the baggies, an unopened box of baking soda, and I whisk outside in the claws of paranoia. Tough to know whether it’s day or night.
It’s Sunday. Early Sunday, when I get in, and the apartment’s teeming with the orange of dawn. I hustle into the kitchen and empty the backpack. I find a pot, fill it, set it to boil. I knock a chunk off the work (the smell, a nigger never can get used to the stench), weigh it, and dump it to boil. This feels like day one. It feels like the end. I stand by the stove, stirring, adjusting the heat, praying Kim don’t wake, wondering what I could say if she does. There’s a knock at the door that, on my life, shoots my heart up into my throat. I freeze and wait to see if whoever it is has the wrong place. The next knock is a statement. She calls my name, and I creep to the door.
Who is it? I say.
The voice is garbled. I crack the door and here she is, my mother, rancid, her eyes glassy, charred lips slopped with gloss.
Son, I don’t know what I wanna be when I’m all grown up, she says. And I’m all grown up.
What? I say.
What do you want me to say? she says. Can’t you see? She has as much chance as earth does of keeping still.
You bringing this here? Where I lay my head? I say, like I can. I look to see who else in the hall.
No lectures, please. Just give it to me. I need it. Let me have it.
Have what? I say.
Champ, don’t make me go through changes, she says. Okay, I can’t right now.
You come to my door at the crack of dawn.
She fixes her shirt. Please, Champ. Give it to me and let me go.
Give you what? To do what?
The water splashes out of the pot in hi-fi. Much longer, and I’ll lose grams, longer than that it might cook down to paste and come back at almost naught.