Kagamaster spoke and I did the same.
“Ain’t you a boxer?” Kagamaster asked.
“Yessir. Name is Alvin White. I used to fight a li’l bit.”
“White, White. I know that name from somewhere.”
“The White boys. Only we ain’t white.”
“I remember y’all. Your older brother fought too.”
“Yessir. Joe-Joe was in the ring knocking ’em out until he joined the service. Went over to that Gulf War and he ain’t been right since. Those chemicals they fighting with messed him up in the head. Came back here and can’t get no kinna job. Government ain’t doing nothing to get him right.”
“Damn shame what our boys go through over there, then come back here to nothing.”
“Me, Joe-Joe, Baby Brother, all the White boys fought, just like our daddy.”
“Hold up, what did they used to call you?”
“Shotgun.”
“You that one? They said every time you hit the bag it sounded like a shotgun blast.”
“I busted quite a few bags in my day.”
“Alvin ‘Shotgun’ White. Right here in front of me as I speak.”
“That was me. I just go by Alvin now.”
Kagamaster motioned toward Alvin’s taxi. “You done retired from the ring?”
“Oh, I’ll still take a fight if I can get one. Or be a sparring partner.”
“Uh-huh.”
Alvin went on, “My sister-in-law got me on at BellSouth about five years ago, lost that when they let a buncha us go last year, and my wife lost hers at Kmart when they closed all those stores.”
Kagamaster nodded. “Hard times all over.”
“Yessir. Hard times all over.” He laughed. “But it looks pretty busy around this way.”
“The worse it gets out there, seems like the better it is in here.”
“If you need any help around here, I can paint, clean, fix just about anything.”
“You don’t say? A dump like this always needs something fixed.”
“Or if any of your customers give you a problem, I can come around and fix that too.”
Kagamaster shook Alvin’s hand, then looked behind him. “Bunny, come out here. I want you to meet a celebrity. This man is a great fighter. Comes from a family of great fighters.”
Bunny was in the back watching television. I made out the sounds of women fighting over a man, emotional screams, profanities being bleeped. An announcer said the show was
Cheaters.
Bunny lowered the volume and yelled, “Is it Holyfield?”
“Bunny, get out here and meet this man.”
“Is it Mike Tyson?”
“Get your butt out here right now.”
“Mike Tyson and Holyfield both broke, so I don’t need to meet no broke-ass man.”
“Bunny. Last time.”
Bunny mumbled something, then came out to meet Alvin.
“Bunny, this is my brand-new good friend Shotgun. Alvin ‘Shotgun’ White.”
Bunny saw Alvin’s size and her attitude adjusted, that flirty smile came back, and she pushed her chest out and said, “Wasn’t you a bouncer at one of those clubs in Buckhead before they all closed up?”
Alvin nodded. “Was. On the weekends.”
“You the one who beat my ex-boyfriend up one night.”
“I did?”
“You beat him into the ground, did him up real good. He was in the hospital for two months.”
“Tell him I said hello.”
“I don’t talk to him no mo’. Nice meeting you.”
“Nice meeting you too, ma’am.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend no mo’.”
“That’s a shame. Young woman as pretty as you with no boyfriend.”
“Especially this time of the year.”
“Gets cold at night.”
“Sure does. Gets real cold some nights. Sure could use some heat.”
They exchanged lingering smiles until Bunny pulled away and hurried into the back room, running to get back to her television show, the volume going up and revealing a catfight was still going on.
Alvin extended his hand toward me. “Forgot . . . what was your name again?”
I shook his meaty hand, said, “Gideon.”
Before we left,
AJC
in hand, the old man leaned forward the best he could and whispered to Alvin, “You hear how much that gold digger got from Paul McCartney? Read right here where the judge says that gold digger wasn’t nothing mo’ than a . . . what the judge say . . . read it right there.”
Alvin shied away from the newspaper, wouldn’t touch it, said, “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Now the judge . . . even
the judge
. . . said that gold digger had a ‘warped perception of the world and indulged in make-believe.’ . . . That heifer wanted eighty thousand dollars a year to buy wine.”
I stood to the side while Kagamaster shook his head and read Alvin the whole story, while he broke down every penny that McCartney’s ex-wife had asked for, including money for horseback riding.
Kagamaster said, “She got one leg and asking for horse-riding money. That is some bull.”
Alvin whistled. “All that money?”
“They was married, what, about two years?”
From the back room Bunny yelled,
“And his baby mama deserves every penny.”
Twenty-two
taxi driver
The rain slowed down.
I jogged out as fast as I could and sat up front in Alvin’s taxi. He asked me to. It took that mountain of muscles a moment to get in because he had to maneuver his right leg in first, then bring his body inside, then work his left leg inside. His seat was all the way back, almost against the backseat, and still could have used another foot for comfort. His head was at the roof of the car.
It wasn’t until then I noticed how much debris was scattered in the streets. Tree branches and a couple of downed trees were in sight. Lots of trash lined the boulevard, but I didn’t know if that was from the storm or if that was just the way it was on this shopworn side of town. If it was Buckhead I’d know.
Alvin laughed. “That Bunny all steaks and chops, ain’t she?”
I didn’t answer because it didn’t sound like a question. My wounds were itching pretty badly now. I was trying not to scratch too much and ride out the pain.
The inside of the taxi smelled like cigarettes and old socks, the black vinyl seats cracked here and there. A Krispy Kreme box was on the floor kissing an empty Starbucks cup. The windshield wipers worked overtime and Alvin never stopped laughing and talking to me like I was his new best friend.
He asked, “Where you from?”
Again I improvised. “Los Angeles.”
“Always wanted to get out to California. Bet there some pretty red-bones out in California.”
“Pretty women come in all hues.”
“Who what?”
“Nothing. Yeah, pretty women out in Cali.”
“Yessir, would love to get my hands on one of them California red-bones. If I ever got my hands on a Beyoncé or a Halle Berry . . .” He laughed and shook his head at his fantasy. “Lawd have mercy.”
By the time we made it two lights I knew that he’d been married for twelve years, had two kids, was from Brooklyn but had been living in Atlanta for the last ten years.
He asked, “You in trouble with Johnny Law?”
I shifted. I’d lowered my guard and fallen into his friendly trap. If I was stronger or if he wasn’t the size of Shaq and built like Luke Cage, I’d have been getting ready for another battle, a battle that I would, in this condition, have lost as soon as Alvin “Shotgun” White landed his first blow. He was a giant among men.
I asked, “You with the police?”
“No, sir.”
“Informant?”
“No, sir.”
“Associated with any branch of law enforcement?”
“No, sir.”
I looked at the meter. It wasn’t on. I brought that to Alvin’s attention.
He waved like it was no big deal. “Just give me whatever you can when we get done.”
“Turn the meter on so we can keep it honest.”
“Just give me what you can, that’s honest enough for me.”
I let it go.
Alvin said, “So you in trouble with the law.”
I said, “Not at all.”
“It’s all right if you don’t want to say.”
All words evaporated and we rested in a pool of silence for a moment.
I asked, “You done time?”
“Naw. But all my brothers and just about every other man in my family has for one reason or another. If you don’t mind me saying so, hard for a black man to stay out of jail down here. Law harder on black people than white people. Jail time longer for a black man. Mostly drinking and fighting, the kind of thangs a man does at the end of the week after he done been talked down to by Mr. Charlie every day and shortchanged at the end of the week. Or he comes home to a nagging woman. Some in for, you know, drugs. Trying to get by by doing a little of this and that. Nothing too crazy. I’ve been blessed that the law ain’t messed me around like that. Boxing kept me in the gym and outta too much trouble.”
“Hard times all over.”
“Sho ’nuff. People wake up and realize the American dream ain’t for all Americans. Like those girls back at that hotel; I can’t fault nobody for doing what they gotta do to make a living.”
I nodded, then I coughed a little.
He said, “You real sick?”
“Getting there.”
“That flu is going around. I got some chicken soup.”
“I’m cool.”
He was reaching his long arm over to the backseat, taking out a lunch pail, opening that up as he drove with one hand, the car never veering off the road.
Alvin said, “I had that flu real bad last week and my woman made me up some chicken soup.”
“Smells good.”
“That girl can cook better than the people at Cantrell’s and Q-Time. The broth is the best part. You drank some of that, you’ll be turning cartwheels in no time. That’s why that flu can’t stick to me.”
The soup he’d given me was in a Styrofoam cup. I opened it up and sipped.
I said, “Your wife makes some good soup.”
“My girlfriend made that. My wife does a’ight, but she can’t make soup as good. Now, my wife is better with cakes and pies, things like that. People at our church line up to get a piece of her cakes.”
“A girlfriend and a wife, huh?”
“You know how it is. Man needs a place he can rest his head and not hear a woman nagging.”
We both laughed the laugh of men.
I sipped a little more of the broth, then went back to scratching my itching wounds.
He said, “You don’t talk much, do you?”
“Not really.”
“A thinking man.”
“Sometimes.”
“The best kinda man to be.”
“Lot on my mind.”
“Yeah, you a thinking man.” His voice had lowered, almost to a hushed tone, like he was thinking out loud. He sucked his bottom lip, bobbed his head. “Sometimes I think I need to think more and talk less. I woulda done much better fighting if I had learned to listen instead of running my mouth so much.”
He stopped at Walgreens. I went in and picked up my prescription.
My mind on Hawks.
Back at the Alamo I paid Alvin a decent fee, plus a hundred dollars. He said that he didn’t need that much, that he didn’t want to take all of my money. I pushed it back into his huge hands.
“God bless you, Gideon. God bless you and bless you and bless you.”
“Just take care of your family. And that good-cooking girlfriend.”
“You need to go anywhere, or you need anything, make sure you call me, no matter what time.”
“Will do.”
“I promise to try not to talk so much next time.”
“No, you’re cool. On Benadryl and other stuff. World is a haze right now.”
“If you don’t mind my saying . . .”
“Go right ahead.”
He said, “You look like you work out a lot. Maybe next time you here I can take you up to Run N’ Shoot. I shoot hoops, push some weights down there. I have a friend who can get us in at the Crunch Gym over in Smyrna. I goes up there and hits the bag and do some work in the ring time to time.”
“Another girlfriend at Crunch?”
“Yeah. Slim and pretty. That one can’t cook. Most skinny girls can’t. But she real nice, though.”
“Sounds good.”
“One more thing.”
“Okay.”
“I see you got a few bruises and whatnot. If somebody bothering you and you need me to fix it for you, just let me know. I do that kinda work too. Not too much. But I can make people leave you alone.”
I nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Don’t matter who or where. Need me to fix it, I can fix it.”
“What do you charge for your services?”
“I’m reasonable. You can look at my clothes and see I’m not a rich man, so I won’t ever ask for rich man’s money. I’ll take what you can give me to do what you need to get done. No questions asked.”
We shook, his grip strong and sincere, his hand swallowing mine like a whale eating a guppy.
I asked, “Can you get guns?”
“I have a few with me.”
“You’re riding strapped?”
“Not safe out here, everybody robbing everybody, so I keeps one or two with me most times.”
“What do you have?”
He went to the car and came back with a bag. Inside he had two .38s and two .22s.
I asked, “These clean?”
“They clean.”
I bought a .38 and a .22 from him. He had ammunition and I bought that too.
Just like that we had become partners in crime.
He asked, “You ain’t planning to rob no bank, is you?”
“I’m not a thief.”
“Just asking. ’Cause I know a couple of people who are good drivers. And I know a couple of banks that would be easy for you to get in and out of, if you didn’t already have that kinda information.”
“Not robbing a bank.” I coughed a little. “I just have a couple of people after me.”
“Need me to fix it?”
“These are the type of people you have to fix with bullets, not fists.”