For one thing, my "career" only defined a minor part of me. I strove hard to craft Tommy Mack Zane into a well-rounded gentleman who was more complex and sophisticated than just some jackal's button man. I devoured books (I owned dog-eared copies of Iceberg Slim, Donald Goines, and Henry Dumas gunned down at 33 by a white NYC cop mistaking him for a criminal). The hard bop jazz played from the grooves on vinyl LPs pleasured my ears. I sat in the theater's front row seats watching plays (the last stage production I attended was an all-black cast in
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
). I read and wrote modern poetry, or I used to enjoy doing it.
Why had my poetry composition gone on hiatus? Apathy, I guessed. So much of my joy depended on tapping into the romantic vein rooted deep in my lyrical nature, and poetry provided my best taproot. Matter of fact, this felt like the right juncture to resurrect some poetry. The sun visor flipped down where I unclipped a sheaf of hotel stationery. My eyes darted between looking out the windshield at the street and at the page—the pencil erasures had worn the threadbare spots—brandished in my hand.
Another Song for Clarissa
Come, Clarissa, come down,
sister to the funky dragonfly,
your yoni pot brewing a vex,
a hoodoo in hot, hot
Selma
.
Snakebitten hips, pepper lips;
the Real Thing from Motown.
I kiss you sweeping the dusty
yard, dangling out poppy red
shirts to flap in the gaudy sun,
bid the weathervane's squeak:
he's-tha-one-yesh-he's-tha-one.
I let out a wistful sigh before I finished reading the verse.
A mockingbird atop the mimosa
trills: "Don't ever forget why
you turn his heart valentine red."
Inhale the corn tassel's pollen
urging a plain-speak between us.
Call me the grandson of a gandy
dancer, the steel rhythms surging
to my fingers greasy on a gold
car
horn by the gate of a chicken
packing plant to woo-woo you.
Catch me, Clarissa, fetch my
song from a Zulu blue
Pontiac
blown glorious as Mr. Coltrane:
I dig U-I dig U-I dig U-I so do-o-o.
Ah yes, Clarissa. Oh yes, what memories. You sweet baby of mine. We'd mapped out a future, one made all roses and mimosas by your mere presence in it. She blew up on a languid summer breeze from down South, and love graced me at first sight. I knew I'd found my soulmate for life. This shy boy steeled his nerves and introduced himself to her.
She smiled, coy and coquettish. I was hers, she was mine, and that was that. Some August afternoons all we did was cuddle under the shade of the ancient chinaberry tree. We entered each other's souls through our rapt eyes. The only hang up with my Clarissa was she existed only within the realm of my fertile imagination.
All red-blooded boys cultivate them, and Clarissa was my "it" girl, my dream girl. I'd written this poem to give voice to my romantic ideal of her. I relished how the lyrics rolled off my tongue—
“to woo-woo you”
—as I reread them. Someday in the near future I vowed to find my actual Clarissa. Or else I'd settle for as close as I could get to her. My poems returned to their rightful place on the coupé's sun visor.
Sometimes, like now for instance, my dangerous job felt as if I was playing hacky sack with a live grenade cooking to blow up at any time. Retirement lurking within earshot crooned its Siren's song to me. But how did I get there with no money or valid passport? I fantasized to zoom off on a 747, lounge sun tanning on a private beach in México, and then at twilight broil T-bone steaks over a driftwood fire. I torched a
Blue
Castle
, and the tobacco smoke brushed the taste of burnt cork on my tongue. I cranked down the coupé's window and spewed the smoke from my pursed lips. Smoking was a risky vice to indulge at 54 since I hoped for a lot of living still in front of me.
E
squire was the hulk standing outside of his auto upholstery shop when I scuffled into the parking lot. He'd changed into beige chinos and a zip-up windbreaker as well as applied mousse to spike his short, jet hair. My chuckle came. If I got a flat tire, who needed a bumper jack? He grabbed the door latch, thumped down into the shotgun seat, and the coupé's leaf springs moaned to the ground.
"Did I see you laughing at me, sweetheart?"
"Just a funny thought I had." I sped up the side lane. "If I run over a tack or nail and the tire blows out, I'll skip dragging out the bumper jack. You can lift up the coupé while I swap out the tires."
"Piece of cake. I dusted off the bench and got out the Olympic iron weights and bar. My weightlifting regimen is back on."
"Doctor's orders?"
"No, you're our only hypochondriac. My muscles are going flaccid, so I'm toning them up."
"I bumped into Arky at the Afghan bodega."
"He's the little worm, isn't he?"
"Right. He said Mr. Ogg is now after me. Here’s my take. What if Mr. Ogg decided Gwen was an albatross that he no longer wanted hanging around his neck? It was a cinch to get rid of her. He just set up her murder plot where I was made the flunky fall guy."
"Why did he pick you of all people?"
Because murder is my occupation
, I thought. "Because I'm expendable, at least in his eyes."
"What is it you really do for Mr. Ogg?"
"Oh, a little of this and a little of that. Come on, you know I won't talk about that stuff."
He quirked his lips. "After you're free of this trouble, sweetheart, my advice is to quit Mr. Ogg's outfit and wangle a regular nine-to-five like the rest of us work."
"I'm a 54-year-old black man caught in an economic downturn. What job do you suggest I apply for? Paper or plastic? You want fries with that? Cash or charge?"
"I'm short a trimmer at the shop."
"Do you offer any OJT for your new trimmer? My knowledge of upholstery is that it feels good to sit my ass on it."
"You must have some skills. Do you use hand tools in your current job?"
"In a manner of speaking, yeah, I do."
"Do you interact with the public?"
"Not with any positive outcome."
"You'd still excel as a trimmer because I'd teach you the inside trade secrets."
"Let me think on it."
"Okay, but I'll expect an answer from you, sweetheart, and no waffling either."
"I give you my word, and that's gold."
"Fool's gold," I overheard the doubting Esquire murmur under his breath.
M
y inaugural job as a pro in the only trade I ever plied took place on an oak-lined avenue over in
New
Yvor
City
. It's a ritzy-titzy
Virginia
suburb (not to be confused with my neighboring
Old
Yvor
City
) of
Washington
,
D.C.
where all the "Mr. Big Ikes hang their hats." Later Mr. Ogg would also crow he'd picked up a vibe—"my nerves of frozen steel"—in the big kid who was mowing his lawn vast as a 9-hole golf course.
My mother, Amanda, had befriended his Filipina maid, Juana, who knew he wanted some yard work done. That's how I came to be cutting his grass. His faith in me felt flattering, especially after he quoted me a hefty fee if I got rid of "a pest" for him. The pest was "a recalcitrant business associate" who resided in
New
Yvor
City
, and she just wouldn't listen to reason, and she'd exhausted his patience.
I'd no questions except the burning one: when did I get paid? Even at 18, I heard the
ka-ching
chime its clear, seductive notes. The money was my only thing. I'd grown sick of trundling the smoky power mower back and forth over grassy acreage day after day. Mr. Ogg gave me a "clean piece"—a 5-shot .22 bearing a 2-inch stainless steel barrel, custom-made PVC silencer, and textured rubber grips—with specific instructions on how to put it to effective use.
First, I was to ride, he told me, in a yellow-top taxi to her enclave, hop out three blocks away from her mansion, and stroll off, clipboard in hand. I played a meter reader or pollster. Was I with him? I nodded I was. At that hour of the day, she'd be at home alone when I knocked. After she answered the door, I chunked two caps in her heart. Did I know where the heart was in the chest? I nodded I did. I then pocketed the .22 and strolled away, the clipboard still as my prop. This ballsy drama unfolded in broad daylight. I knew the deal was legit when he paid me half the cash (one tax-free grand) up front. No wad that big had ever greased my palm. We shook on it. Mr. Ogg lit up a jay (he smoked grass back then), but I passed on his offer for a toke.
The job started out as we'd planned it. The yellow-top taxi was air-conditioned. You had to like that. The cabbie didn't say squat until he braked and barked out my fare. I over-tipped him to forget my face, and we’d never met. The day was brisk, the sky painted china blue. For a more realistic touch I'd clasped a few tally sheets to the clipboard.
If I'd any second thoughts, I kept no memory of them. My skin rash would ravage me later. Still a virgin, I gripped the gun steel, and my skin was unblemished. How did I feel? Later on I'd drop Ecstasy, and the tingly bliss buzzing through my body felt as I did on that morning.
Naturally I got turned around on the unfamiliar streets. Lame, right? After I looped the same block twice, I paid a yardman pruning a rose on a trellis for the directions to the mansion I sought.
Noting the demolition red TR7 parked at the mansion's curb, I knew Mr. Ogg's pest was at home.
Game on, Tommy Mack
. I consulted my clipboard as if verifying I had the correct address. Unlike Mr. Ogg's big lawn, hers was a strand of manicured green centered by a blue stone fountain of nude cherubs spritzing up chlorinated water. I wondered if lovers flipped their lucky pennies into the pool. Sticking on the dull but able face of a pollster, I clacked a pewter horseshoe, her notion for a door knocker.
The pest matching Mr. Ogg's photo appeared in the doorway. She was a tall drink, and a whiff of a pre-lunch gin wafted off her. She'd financed several face-lifts, stretching her mottled skin to the point where her ears jugged out near the back of her skull. That amused me, but I didn't laugh. I wasn't clear on why she had to die, but I wasn't paid to ask questions. My hand slithered into my pocket, and my fingers wrapped to the grips of Mr. Ogg's clean piece.
She switched on a look of pained annoyance. "You people again?"
"You people…?" I said.
"You pollsters are terribly inefficient. This is too much. I'm having a No Soliciting sign staked out by the fountain."
"Just a few more questions for the record."
"Why? My opinions haven't altered."
"We're double-checking. The computer data has to be accurate. Garbage in, garbage out. See? Please bear with us."
"Perhaps you misunderstood your supervisor." Her condescending tone griped me. "We use our best patience with
you
people
."
There she went again. "You people…?" I said.
"Don't be disingenuous. You know.
You people
. Negroes. Blacks. Afro-Americans. Or whatever you go by now."
"Do you like it living in this 'hood?"
"It's neighborhood, and, yes, I do like it fine. Work hard, and someday all this can be yours, as well."