Runaway (14 page)

You ran up there whenever you were chased. Once when the Golden Guardians had come down from 144th Street, all carrying knives and broken bottles, he and the other kids had taken to the roofs and stayed up there all day. They'd gone up to the roofs the second time the GG's raided their block, too. Only this time they'd gone up there with rocks and bricks and empty gallon jugs, and they'd given it to the GG's right from the rooftops, throwing it all down on them, splitting a few skulls like they did in the old times when there were knights and besieged castles. One of the bricks had hit an old lady, too, and fractured her skull, and when the bulls showed, they'd all run like bastards over the rooftops until they were far away from the block. The bulls knew the rooftops, but they never chased you up there unless it was real serious. They knew you could run faster than they could because you'd had a lot of practice at it. And they also knew you knew the roofs better than they did, so there was no sense in a prolonged chase.

When you got hip to M, you used the roof for another purpose. You drifted up there with a bunch of the boys, and maybe sometimes a chick or two in the crowd. You handed out the reefers, or maybe a goofball or two, or sometimes even a sniff of C. And then you just lay back and blew your cork. The high was the end, man, because it took you away from everything down there, and you weren't running from anything, you were just sort of floating around, and sometimes the chicks helped you float. Sometimes you got caught when you were high, and then you were running again. This was serious stuff, and the cops chased you on this serious stuff, even if they didn't know the roofs as good as you did.

You did a lot of running in Harlem.

Most of all, you tried to run away from the fact that you were black and 'most everybody else in the world was white. He knew most of the chicks used skin bleaches, and even some of the guys he knew used them, though they didn't much talk about it. And there were hair-straighteners, and he'd heard of black men passing as whites for years, but he didn't go for none of that crap, he didn't want to change the color of his skin or the kinkiness of his hair, he didn't want that at all.

He just wanted to be … somebody. Something. A person. In Harlem, in his home, in the place where his roots ran deep, he was a person. But once he stepped outside of Harlem, once he went down to a movie in Times Square, or a ball game at the stadium, or anything like that, anything that took him away from Harlem, he became painfully conscious of the color of his skin.

He had never met a white man with whom he could be comfortable. He tried to tell himself that he was being stupid, that not all white men looked at his skin first and then the rest of him, but he could not believe himself. He still remembered the beating he'd got that time in Wop Harlem when a white girl stopped to ask him for a match. He'd lighted her cigarette for her, and his mind told everyone he was just performing a courtesy, just lighting a cigarette for a stranger who didn't happen to have a match.

But his skin was saying another thing entirely. His skin was telling everybody that he was annoying this white girl, and all the wops came off their stoops with chairs and beer bottles and whatever they could get their hands on, and they proceeded to beat the hell out of him.

Later, when he had a chance to think about it, he did not blame the wops at all. He knew that a white man in Harlem would be running the same risk if he got friendly with a colored girl, unless he did it on the Market, where it was for sale, and some colored guys didn't even like whites doing it there.

So he blamed the skin. It was all the skin's fault, and a white man's skin in Harlem lied just as much as a black man's skin outside of Harlem.

And so while Johnny Lane knew the sensible thing to do, he ignored it. The sensible thing to do was go to the cops. The sensible thing to do was show them that he could not possibly have had anything to do with the killing of Luis.

That was the sensible thing. But Johnny remembered the words of the cop when they'd argued near the park bench on the Golden Edge.

“What're you wastin' time arguing with a nigger for?”

Maybe the cop meant nothing by it. Maybe the cop was just one of those white men who automatically, through training or exposure or both, called all Negroes “niggers.” Maybe so. Maybe his use of the word had meant nothing at all. Maybe he was anxious to get this thing over with, anxious to get a cup of coffee or something, who the hell knows or cares?

The word was a bullet aimed at him, and the word ricocheted there inside, and the answering word was
run!

He'd run, and he was still running.

And as he stood on the rooftop now, looking down at the Harlem he loved and hated, hearing the sounds below him hushed by early winter, feeling the mildness of a day that was anything but winter, another thought came to him, and his brow furrowed for a moment, and then his eyes got a little cloudy.

For Johnny Lane had just realized with sudden clarity that he'd actually been running all his life.

The bar on Seventh Avenue was set right next door to a store-front church, and Hank Sands could hear the congregation singing next door as he sat at the bar and toyed with a jigger of rye.

He stared into the small amber eye of the glass thoughtfully and then twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. Expertly he lifted the glass and tossed off the shot, and then he made an “Ahhh” sound and wiped his lips. The liquor traveled down to his gut, and he felt it nestling there, warm and glowing. He had really needed that shot.

He thought of Cindy Matthews again, and a smile formed on his face. Cindy Matthews, the snootiest broad he knew. Always with the cold shoulder, always treating him like dirt. Except now he had what she wanted, and brother, was she going to pay for it! And let Johnny Lane try to stop it. Just let him try.

The smile expanded unconsciously, a pleased smile that covered half his face. Abe, the bartender, strolled over to where Sands was sitting.

“You care for another, Hank?” he asked.

“No,” Sands said, still smiling. “No, thass quite enough. I had quite enough, thank you.”

“Strange t' see you in here so early, Hank,” Abe said.

Sands' smile turned into a secret one. “Got a big deal cookin'.”

“Oh, that right?”

“Thass right. Got to close this deal in a little while, so I figgered I'd grab a pick-me-up first.”

“Sensible idea,” Abe said, nodding. “Have another, Hank.”

“No, no, I need a clear head for this deal.”

“Important stuff, huh?” Abe asked.

“Man,” Sands said, chuckling, “this is the most importanist stuff I can think of. This is a deal I been dyin' to close for a long time now, Abe. Funny thing, I never thought I
would
get to close this deal, y'know what I mean?”

“Didn't have the money; that it, Hank?”

“No, money didn't enter into this deal a-tall, Abe. No, that wun't no consideration. Wun't money holdin' me back, nossir.”

“What then, Hank?”

“Well, le's say I lacked the bargaining tools, Abe. Le's say that.”

“And you got those now, huh?”

Sands couldn't hold back the chuckle. “Man, have I got the bargaining tools now! Man, have I got them! Never was a man with such bargainin' power, believe me, Abe.”

“Well, good. I like to see a man get ahead,” Abe said seriously. “Me, I guess I'll always be a bartender.”

“You jus' got to look for your opportunity and grab it,” Sands said. He held both hands out in front of him, as if he were weighing the air, and then he suddenly clenched his fingers. “Jus' grab it, that's all.”

“You going to close the deal this afternoon?”

“I am,” Sands said. “I am that. An' you know sutthin', Abe? I goan enjoy this. I really goan enjoy it.”

“It's important for a man to like his work,” Abe said glumly.

“Oh, I goan like this work, all right. This the work I was cut out for.” Sands chuckled again, and Abe looked at him quizzically. “Say, what time's it?” Sands asked.

Abe looked at his watch. “Almost one-thirty,” he said.

“My party might be back by now,” Sands said. “I better run 'long. I sure don't want to miss out on this.” He nodded his head. “No, not after all that waitin'.” He slid off the bar stool and paid for his drink.

“Well, so long, Abe. I'll be seein' you.”

Abe smiled and waved. “Good luck, boy.”

Sands walked out of the bar and past the store front next door. He could hear the congregation praying inside, their voices rising in unison. No amount of prayin's gonna help Cindy, he thought. No amount of prayin' at all.

He walked with a brisk stride, enjoying the way the day had changed, enjoying the mildness of the air. There were a lot of people in the streets now, and he watched the women and the young girls go by, and he smiled unconsciously because he saw Cindy Matthews in every woman he passed. It was almost like spring, and as Sands walked he felt this overpowering love for every woman he saw, this feeling that he actually loved each and every one of them, that he could see beauty in the ugliest woman who passed, but not a beauty like Cindy's, and still he could love each and every one of them, he could see in each something that some man, somewhere, could love.

He was surprised to find himself thinking this way, because love did not enter into his plans at all. He was honest enough to admit that. He did not love Cindy Matthews, nor had he ever entertained such high-flown ideas about her.

He had thought about her often, yes. He had first spotted her when she was just a kid first flowering into womanhood, the straight lines of her body yielding to soft curves. He had watched her walk down the street, a snooty little thing even then, with her nose high in the air, and her small pointed breasts showing under the thin dress because she was still too young to wear a brassiere. He had watched her a good deal, but he hadn't made any move because she was still just a kid, and he didn't want trouble.

And then, all of a sudden, she wasn't a kid any more. She was a stripper at the Yahoo, and he went there often to watch her undress. He tried to be nice about this one. He played up to her, and he smiled, but she always cut him dead. She preferred Johnny Lane, a young snotnose, how old could he be, twenty-one, twenty-two? It had irked him. He had wanted her very badly, and the want had expanded in his mind until it became almost a thing of hatred, until he'd thought many times of taking her by force.

Until this better way had come along. Until Frankie Parker had dropped this better way right into his lap, and oh, what a honey this better way was! What a lovely little honey Frankie Parker had given him!

He turned left on 142nd Street and walked directly to Cindy's building. He tried to be casual about it, but the excitement flared within him, and he found his hands trembling as he mounted the steps to the stoop. He went into the hallway, and then began climbing the inside steps. He was, breathing hard, and he knew it wasn't from the climb, but that would be all over soon, all of it.

He reached her doorway and knocked.

He heard a rustle inside, and he wondered for a moment what she'd be wearing. This was almost like going to the Market, except better, because he didn't have to pay anything for it, and Cindy was a hundred times better than any slut on the Market.

“Who is it?” she asked from behind the closed door.

“Me,” he said. “Hank.”

“Oh.” Her voice sounded disappointed. The bitch was probably expecting Johnny back. Well, Johnny was gone now. He'd waited downstairs until he saw him leave, and then he'd gone to the bar for his shot. Johnny was gone, and now there were just the two of them, and that juicy piece of information, that big bargaining tool.

“What do you want, Hank?” Cindy asked.

“I got some news for you, Cindy,” he said. Careful now, he warned himself. Don't go spilling it. It's not a tool if you let it out before you get what you want.

“What kind of news?” she asked suspiciously.

“God, can'tcha open the door even?” he said.

“All right, just a minute.”

She opened the door, and his eyes roamed her body candidly. She was wearing a skirt and a silk blouse, and the blouse was unbuttoned at the throat, and his eyes fled to the deep valley between her breasts. Her hand went to her throat self-consciously, covering the cleft.

“What is it, Hank?”

“Let me in, Cindy. This is important news.”

Cindy looked extremely disturbed, and she glanced off down the hallway and then said, “You'll have to make this fast.”

“Why, sure,” he lied, “sure.” He stepped into the apartment and then went to the table, taking off his coat and sitting.

“Don't make yourself too comfortable,” Cindy said.

“Got to be comfy to give news,” Hank said.

“What's your news?”

“Now, ain't you goan offer me some coffee?”

“What's your news, Hank?”

“This news, honey, this news is sutthin' I think might interest you,” he said. “Now, whatcha think might interest you?”

“I don't know,” she said warily.

“Well, now, think. Think hard.”

She stared at him levelly, and he saw that she was beginning to understand. She was beginning to realize he wasn't going to tell her right away. She was a smart girl, and she read that in his eyes, and he saw her reading it.

“I can't think of any news,” she said. “What is it?”

“Aw, now, you ain' half tryin', Cindy.”

“What is it, Hank? Are you going to tell me?”

“Why, sure I am. Thass what I come here for, Cindy, to bring you this news.”

“Then what is it?”

“I ast you to try an' guess, now din't I? Well, I doan hear you guessin' none, Cindy.”

“Is … is it about Johnny?” she asked.