Authors: Iceberg Slim
“No, Joe didn't die a natural death. He was proud and fit for better, and he hated the filthy garbage and the slimy sewers he worked. He just lay down that night and died of hopelessness and a broken heart.”
Mama jut sat there with a pained look on her face like she was hurting to hear the North wasn't paradise after all. Bunny fingered a policy slip on the table and looked at it wryly.
Mama said, “Bunny, yu bin frum down South a long time. An' yu ain't nevah done no share croppin' an' raisin' younguns. Ah knows up heahs bettern down South. We havin' good luck up heah. Frank's workin' a'ready, an' we ain't jammed up in no one room hearin' one anuther breakin' win', thanks tu yu, uv cose.
“Ain't nuthin' real wrong up heah. A day don' pass, ah ain't seen big shot niggers drivin' great long cahs pas' this buildin'. Up heah a
po' nigger got a hope tu hol a big 'mount uv money. Yu jes' drinkin' an' missin' Joe, an' it got yu en th' dumps.”
Bunny waved a flesh bare hand through the air and said, “Sedalia, I'm funky drunk, and there's no doubt the North is better for some spooks than the big foot country. Only time will tell whether or not it's better for you and Frank.
“Those dapper niggers didn't get those pretty cars shoveling snow or shining shoes. They are policy wheelmen, pimps, dope peddlers and hustlers. All of nigger Chicago is lousy with policy stations, gambling joints and whore cribs. So Sugar, stop dreaming and play policy. It's the only way a poor honest nigger can hope to get big money.”
Mama got up and headed for Bunny's carpet sweeper.
Mama laughed halfheartedly and said, “Oh, Heifer, save thet breath. Ah ain't takin' yur jinky talk serious.”
Bunny squealed and jerked her feet in the air as Mama raced the sweeper past the sofa. I got a rag and dusted. Mama was massaging Bunny's scalp when the sound of loud quarreling came from the hall.
A guttural female voice shouted, “Get the hell off my property! I've changed my mind. I don't want to rent to you. You better get the hell out. I've called the police. Now go on! Get out! Get out!”
A man's trembling voice protested, “Miss, Ah ain't movin' a peg 'til yu gimme back mah thurty dollars deposit. Ah be gladder than yu tu see th' law come. They gonna' tel yu yu ain't actin' legul latchin' on tu mah money th' way yu is. Yu ain't mah woman. Ah ain't got nutin' tu give yu. Now gimme back mah money, lady.”
The woman laughed contemptuously and said, “Baloney, the law says I don't have to give a refund without return of a receipt.”
The man said, “Shit, lady, don' jive me. Cose ah ain't got no piece a paper. Yu an' me know yu ain't give me none. But me and yu damn sho know yu got mah money. Ah don wanta' get mad so unass mah money, lady.”
There was a frantic scrape of feet and the hysterical voice of the landlady screamed, “Don't you speak to me that way. Stay away from me. Don't you touch me, you nigger sonuvabitch.”
Cousin Bunny and Mama went to the half-open door. I followed and lay on the floor looking out between Mama's ankles into the hall. The twins and Junior were standing in the doorway of our apartment across the hall staring at the tense scene.
A small black man in a leaky blue overcoat held out his demanding palm toward the rigid figure of the landlady glaring down at him like a curved beak bird of prey, vivid blue eyes round and cold and unblinking.
There was the screech of brakes in the street. The vulture's eyes lifted from the excited face of the little black man and looked through the glass of the vestibule door. Her mean little mouth shaped a sick smile. The black guy read the smile and spun around big eyed toward the door.
Two burly white cops in blue police overcoats stormed into the hall. The black guy snatched out his wallet and held several pieces of ID in his shaking palm.
He skinned back his fat lips in a wary smile and blurted, “Ofcers, Ah'm so glad yu done come. Ah' Woodrow Spears, an' Ah want yu tu make thet lady gimmee back mah thurty dollars down pay on thet flat upstairs since she ain't gonna' rent it tu me.”
They ignored him and looked at the landlady with odd grins on their hard red faces.
The taller one winked and said, “Connie, is this the nut that you called in about?”
She plunged her splotchy hands into the pockets of her monkey fur jacket and said, “Carl, this crazy shrimp has bugged me all afternoon. He's followed me from this building to my home down the street a half-dozen times. He has the hallucination that he gave me a deposit on an apartment several days ago. He didn't, of course, and . . .”
Woodrow Spears sprang forth and shouted, “Lady, why yu say sumpin' lak thet? Ah give yu mah money an' yu promis tu paint up an' clean up thet greasy flat so me an' mah famli ken mov in tuday. Ah ain't lyin', Ofcers. Thet ole broad thinks she slick, an' Ah ain't holdin' stilâ”
One of the cops hooked a fat paw into the coat collar of the bantam victim and flung him violently away against the wall. The vulture's round blue eyes glowed with pleasure.
She said, “Carl, as God is my judge, I swear none such occurred. I did show this fellow an apartment several days ago. He had been drinking and was critical of the color scheme and all. I was relieved when he told me he'd get his paycheck and be back later to give me a deposit.
“I rented the apartment an hour after he left to a clean-cut religious man. You can imagine how afraid I was when this bird turned up today trying to extort refund of a deposit he never gave me. Carl, I should make a complaint against this crook, but if you can persuade him to leave me alone, I'll forget the whole affair.”
The victim's mouth was gaped open about to speak.
Carl grinned and poked his club hard against the little guy's belly and said, “Boy, show me a deposit receipt or get your black ass out of my sight fast.”
Woodrow's face faded to gray. His throat made a choking sound as his head revolved from the cops to the landlady. Tears rolled down his face. He gave the white trio a hateful look and opened the door to the vestibule.
He stood in the doorway like an ugly child and blubbered, “Thet's all right. Thet's all right. Ah ain't nuthin' but a fool. Ah ain't holdin' no piece of paper. Yu all right tu bump mah head, but yu dirty paddies will git yourn down th' line.”
He turned and took a step through the doorway. Carl, the cop, bared his teeth and raised his club high. The twins screamed across the hall when the club sledged down on the back of Woodrow's bare head.
He shivered and reeled back into the hallway. An eerie thing was that the loose metal fasteners on his galoshes jingled merrily.
He clapped his hands over the sudden red spurting from his skull and bleated pitifully, “Oh Lawd, hav mercy, Ofcers. Ah ain't don nuthin'. Don whup me no mo'.”
Both cops bludgeoned his head and shoulders with their clubs like he was some ferocious wild animal or poisonous viper they had to smash.
Awful shiny scarlet covered his face and head. As he fell to the floor he clutched the front of Carl's overcoat. Brass buttons bounced on the tile. The vulture held the door open as the cops each grabbed a leg and dragged the little black guy to the vestibule.
I heard his skull clunking against the vestibule's stone steps. Junior's face was a hard mask of hatred as he pushed our apartment door shut.
I followed Mama and Bunny to the front window. It was snowing hard, but I could see the cops drag Woodrow to their car at the curb.
Carl, the cop, had the burlap feet wiper from the vestibule under his arm. He stooped down and wrapped the sack around Woodrow's bloody head before he flung him onto the rear floor of the police car. The three of us squeezed ourselves together and watched the police car speed away.
It was the first really horrible sight I'd ever seen. It really was.
Bunny called the district station and complained about the bloodletting. A captain told her to mind her own fucking business.
The terror and excitement of what the landlady and the cops had done to the little black guy really upset Mama and me. Mama gave Bunny some soup, put her to bed and we went home.
Junior and the twins were huddled silently at the front window staring out at the snowy dusk. Mama and Carol went to the kitchen to fix supper. Bessie turned on the living-room lamp and stretched out on the floor with a dog-eared high fashion magazine.
Junior and I were playing checkers on the sofa when I saw Papa and Soldier Boy trudging down the snow-clogged walk. I shouted Papa's coming and ran to unlock the front door.
After Papa and Soldier Boy had washed up they sat down at the kitchen table and destroyed Mama's smoked neck bones, navy beans, and cornbread.
The fresh memory of the bloody little black guy had killed the appetites of the rest of us. Later in the living room, Soldier Boy entertained us by acting out some of his exciting battlefield adventures as a foot soldier in World War I.
He had to be at least forty, but he pantomimed his lean six-feet-two inches across the floor like a twenty-year-old. Soldier's face had a powerful American Indian cast with its high cheekbones, lustrous piercing black eyes, buffalo nickel Indian nose, a full but delicately shaped mouth. The deep red in the velvet brown complexion and the luxuriant mop of curly blue black hair completed the strikingly handsome effect of African and Indian bloodlines coalesced.
I watched fascinated as he lost himself in vicious hand-to-hand combat with an imagined German soldier. The friendly face twisted in hate as he straddled his enemy and bayoneted the phantom soldier.
Papa shook Soldier's shoulder. Soldier shifted his enormous black eyes to Papa.
Papa said loudly, “Sojer, yu don kilt him an' the wah bin over.”
Soldier's snarl softened to a grin. He and Papa sat down on the sofa beside Mama. There was a long silence.
Finally Mama said, “Two white law wuz heah an' beat a lil' man's head tu jelly out en the vestabul.”
Papa frowned and said, “Whut he don?”
Mama replied, “He ain't did nuthin' Ah seen but deman his rightful money from thet ole crooked lanlady he put on thet flat upstairs. Ah wish cullud law had come en place uv white.”
Soldier's hearing had been damaged in the war. He leaned forward intently as Mama spoke.
He shook his head and said in a loud bass voice, “Mrs. Tilson, please don't ever wish for nigger cops. They're worse than the gangster white cops.”
Papa blinked his eyes and looked at Mama.
Mama laughed nervously and said, “Frank, lissen tu Sojer talkin'.”
Soldier said, “I wish it was a lie, but every black soul in Chicago knows it's true. I was born and educated here, and I want to tell you nice folks about this big funky town and the police department.
“Sometimes fairly decent human beings join the force. They don't stay long after they find out they're a part of a vicious system that has a license to maim and murder black people in the street.
“But too many white cops in the ghetto are just thugs. They try to kill hope in black people so that the black man especially is niggerized and becomes a drunken bum in the ghetto.
“Now you take the nigger cops. They're so mean and brutal because they are ashamed of their uniform and they know how much they are despised by their own kind.
“A lot of them don't let their neighbors see them in uniform. They change at the station. The maniacs help the white hoodlum cops to suppress and humiliate their black brothers imprisoned in the ghetto.
“There are only a few cops black or white who don't go on duty in the ghetto with a thirst for blood or their hands out for a bribe or shakedown. One of these days black people will crawl out of their ratty tenements and destroy the hoodlum cops in the streets. I'm going to soil myself in joy when it happens.”
Mama looked embarrassed and bluntly changed the subject.
She said, “Sojer, yu know 'bout rats?”
Soldier said, “I have lived with them all my life. They carry diseases like typhoid, typhus and jaundice. This is the season when rats desert the alleys and dumps to get in out of the cold.
“It's almost impossible to keep them out of these old buildings.
They gnaw and tunnel through wood, plaster and even decaying cement. A female rat can get pregnant several times a year and have up to two dozen young.
“Many city rats, especially the older ones, are too cunning to fall for traps and poison. The best you can do is keep all food away from them and your sink and drain boards wiped dry because they can live on only crumbs and drops of water each day.
“That way you will force them to go elsewhere where pickings are better. Does that cover the rat question for you, Mrs. Tilson?”
Mama smiled and said, “It sho do. Ah got roaches too.”
Soldier said, “Powdered borax spread along the woodwork and under the sink in the kitchen is the only way a poor person can deal with them. The only sure-shot remedy for roaches and rats in these old buildings is to burn them to the ground.”
Mama said, “Thank yu, Sojer. Yu sho is smart.”
Papa had started to say something when there was a knock on the door. Carol opened the door. It was Cousin Bunny in a pink housecoat and matching fluffy slippers. She staggered into the living room and plopped down on Soldier's lap.
Papa frowned and waved us from the room. We went to bed. The twins and I slept in the bed. Junior slept on a pallet on the floor. But none of us could sleep.
We listened to Bunny's crying about the little black guy, and then her cursing of the police. And then she wailed about how guilty she felt because she hadn't blown the white cops' heads off with her dead husband's shotgun since she was dying anyway.
I heard Papa go into the bedroom across the hall. For what seemed like hours I heard Soldier and Bunny briefing Mama about the treacherous black ghetto.