Runaway (19 page)

There was a warehouse off 125th down near Lex, was it? Or was it 126th, or where was it exactly? He'd find it, that was for sure. A warehouse where one of the furniture stores kept all its new goods. There was a window the guys used to sneak in through, where one of the bars was loose and capable of being swung out of position. They'd taken Carmen Diaz there once when they were just kids, and they'd had a jolly old time on the mats the movers used to wrap around the furniture. He wouldn't forget that time so easily because Carmen had really known the score, and even if the other guys were yelling for him to hurry up it had still been damned fine. Nor would he forget how they had got into the warehouse, because that had been the trickiest part, and he could rememeber seeing Carmen's backside under her skirt as she squeezed through the bars. There was no watchman because all the windows were barred, and who the hell would want to steal furniture, anyway? (He forgot that Mikie the Turk, for one, had wanted to steal furniture, and that he'd lugged an end table all the way downstairs, only to discover he couldn't get it through the narrow opening the loose bar presented.) One of the guys had lived down there, near the Triboro, on the colored fringe bordering Wop Harlem. They'd kidded with the guy about not being high-class enough to move into what was
really
Harlem. They'd kidded him until the guy came up with the little spic whore, and then they didn't kid him any more.

He reversed his course abruptly, heading east. It was probably best, anyway, to stay out of the Harlem he knew well. In fact, what was he doing on a main drag like 125th? He cut down to 124th, and then turned left on Third Avenue, noting the mixture of whites and blacks and spics. He kept walking uptown, and he spotted the warehouse when he looked up one of the side streets. The street was very dark, and that was just the way he wanted it. He saw a cat cross the street, and then run when she spotted him. There wasn't a human being in sight. He walked to the fence surrounding the warehouse and climbed over it rapidly, dropping to all fours on the other side. The yard was empty and silent. He looked around for a few moments, probing his memory, getting his bearings, and then he went directly to the window with the loose bar.

Suppose they fixed the bar? he thought suddenly. It was a long time ago. Suppose …

He began trying the bars, losing hope almost before he started. And then suddenly the fifth bar came free under his hands. He moved it to one side, and then jimmied open the window, expecting an alarm to go off. He waited, listening. There was no alarm. Quickly he squeezed through the window. It was a tighter fit than it had been when he was a kid, but he got through and dropped to the concrete floor, reaching up to close the window behind him.

There was the smell of dust all around him, and a silence like being underwater at the beach. Like suddenly ducking your head under the water, cutting off the locust hum of people that hangs over the sand and the air, hearing only the cool vastness of the ocean. The furniture was stacked all over the place, covered with mats and sheets. The windows were dirty, and he could barely make out the headlamps of passing cars through them.

It was warm. He was thankful for that. It was warm, and maybe there were rats in furniture warehouses, too, but he doubted it. Why would a rat go where there was no food? Besides, he could pull one of the heavy mats over his body and head, and then he wouldn't have anything to worry about, even if there were rats.

He was looking forward to a good night's sleep. In the morning he would … In the morning. There was always the goddamn morning.

He found the old iron stairs, and he began climbing to the third floor, where the mats had been stacked that time with Carmen. He could remember the incident as clearly as if it were happening now, the gang of them stealing up these same iron steps, Mikie shushing everybody, and Carmen's skirt flashing around her mature legs. There had been a high, excited flush on her face, and she had giggled all the way upstairs. He climbed steadily, lost in the memory. When he heard the sudden voice, he turned and was ready to run, but he'd already been spotted and he didn't want a bullet in the back now.

“Hold it, Mac,” the voice said.

A watchman, he thought.

He froze solid because there was no sense running now. Maybe he could bull it through, and if not, he still had a good left arm, and he still knew how to throw a fist. He waited in the darkness, hearing the footsteps ring closer on the iron stairs. The man came up to him, a big man barely visible in the dimness.

“Whattaya want, Mac?” the man asked.

A white man, Johnny thought, a white man. This makes it even better. This makes it just grand.

“You the watchman?” he asked.

The big man laughed. “Watchman, huh? A watchman? You on the bum, too, kid?”

He felt immensely relieved all at once, so relieved that he almost smiled. “Yeah,” he said, “I'm on the bum.”

“Come on up,” the man said. “You want a cup of java?”

“Man, I could use some,” he said.

The big man laughed again and reached out for Johnny's arm. He tried to pull away, but he wasn't quick enough, and he winced in pain, and when the strangled cry came from his throat, the big man looked at him curiously.

“You hurt, huh, kid?” he asked. There was no sympathy in his voice. There was, instead, a crafty sound, as if the man had made a very valuable discovery and was putting it away in a deep, black satchel.

“Come on,” he said, his voice oily now. “We'll get you that java.”

They started up the steps together, the man walking several paces behind Johnny. When they reached the third floor, he took Johnny's elbow and said, “This way, kid.”

Johnny peered into the darkness. He could see a glow in one corner of the room, and he could make out the muted hum of voices coming from that corner. The heavy mats were stacked all around the room, and he glanced at these briefly and then turned his attention back to the big man. The man led him to the circle of men huddled in the corner of the huge, concrete-floored room. An electric grill was plugged into an outlet, and a battered coffeepot rested on the glowing orange coils. Johnny looked at the circle of bearded faces, four men all told, four white men, five counting the big man who'd led him to the group. The men were smiling, but there was no mirth on their faces.

“Who you brung for dinner, Bugs?” one of the men asked.

“A nice young coon,” the big man answered. “Hurt his poor little arm, though, didn't you, sonny?”

The eyes of the men fled to the bulkiness of the bandage under the shirt. He tried to move his right arm, but the eyes followed the movement and calculated the size of the bandage, and then shifted to his face, the mouths still smiling, but the smile never reaching those calculating eyes.

“Didn't you, punk?” Bugs asked. “Didn't you hurt your arm?”

Johnny wet his lips. “Yeah, I … I got cut.” He didn't like the sound of the conversation, and he knew what “punk” meant in prison jargon, because he knew enough guys who'd been in and out of Riker's Island.

“Well, now, that's too bad, punk,” one of the men in the circle said. “Now, that's too bad you got a cut on your arm.”

“Maybe we got a nurse here can fix it up,” another man said.

“Sure, we got a lot of nurses here, kid. We'll fix you up fine, kid. Hey, how about a cup of coffee for the coon?”

He wasn't sure now. He wasn't sure what they meant, and he wasn't sure whether they intended him harm or whether they were giving him sanctuary. He knew only that there were five of them, all white, and that he had only one good arm.

One of the men put a spoon into the pot and began stirring the coffee. Johnny watched him, saying nothing.

“How'd you hit on this place, punk?” Bugs asked.

“I just knew it, that's all.”

“Oh? You from the neighborhood?”

“Harlem,” Johnny said.

“Oh? A little far east, ain't you?”

“I guess,” Johnny said.

“Well, don't you worry, kid. You come to the right place, didn't he, fellers?”

“He come to the right place, all right,” one of the men in the circle said.

“You're just what we been needin',” another man put in.

Bugs chuckled. “Yessir, it was real lucky, you coming here. You don't know how lucky you are.”

One of the men poured the coffee into a tin cup, and the strong aroma reached Johnny's nostrils, clung there. He wanted that coffee very badly, he wanted it almost desperately. There was an empty hole in his stomach, and he thought again of how little he'd eaten since he began running, and the hole seemed to enlarge itself. The man handed the cup to Bugs, and the steam rose in the orange glow of the grill, curling up around his smiling face.

“Harry makes a good cup of coffee,” Bugs said. “Harry should have been somebody's wife, eh, Harry?” Bugs winked at the other men, and Johnny's eyes watched the circle. He spotted Harry then, a skinny guy with hardly any beard, a skinny guy with frightened eyes and a narrow mouth. Harry winced when Bugs spoke, and then he shrank farther back out of the circle.

“No more now,” he said pleadingly, “huh Bugs? No more now?” He looked hopefully to Johnny, and Johnny felt the panic rise in him again, and he counted the men once more. Five of them. That hadn't changed. Not one bit, it hadn't.

“You can still make our coffee, can't you, Harry?” Bugs asked tenderly. “Now you can still do that for us, can't you, boy?”

“Sure,” Harry said, almost eagerly, smiling. “Sure, Bugs. You know that.”

“Makes a good cup of coffee,” Bugs said, facing Johnny squarely now. “You want the coffee, punk?”

“I'd like a cup,” Johnny said warily.

“Well,” Bugs said, “he'd like a cup, fellers.”

“Go on, Bugs, give it to him.”

“Oh, now, wait a minute, just wait a minute. I mean, coffee is coffee, now ain't it? You got the money to pay for this, punk?”

Maybe that was it. Maybe all they wanted was money.

“No,” Johnny lied. “I'm broke.”

“Well, now, ain't that a shame?” Bugs said, winking again at the other men.

“That's a real shame,” one of the men in the circle said.

“My heart bleeds for the punk.”

They sat around the orange coils, grinning like demons, leaning forward eagerly now, enjoying the way Bugs was handling this.

“How you 'spect to get any coffee unless you pay for it?” Bugs asked. “Coffee don't grow on trees, now.”

“I guess not,” Johnny said slowly. “Forget the coffee. I'll do without it.”

“Aw, you hurt the punk's feelings, Bugs,” one of the men said.

“Well, I didn't mean to do that. I sure didn't mean to do that.”

“But you did, Bugs. Look at how he's sulkin' there.”

“Now, now,” Bugs said, “no need to take that attitude, is there, boys? We'll let you have the coffee, won't we, boys?”

“Sure, Bugs,” one of the men said. “Hell, the punk don't need no money.”

“That money you use up in Harlem prolly wouldn't be no good here, anyway.”

“Why, sure,” Bugs said. “Naw, you don't need no money, punk. We willing to barter. You know how to horse-trade, punk?”

“I don't want the coffee,” Johnny said firmly. He was already figuring how he'd make his break, because he knew a break was in the cards, and the way the cards were falling, he'd have to make the break soon. The orange glow of the grill was the only light in the room, that and the feeble moonlight that came through the window. He calculated this, and he watched the other men, all seated crosslegged like Indians. They'd have a tough time getting up once the fireworks started, especially in the dark. He had one guy to worry about, and that guy was Bugs, and that guy was big, and that guy didn't get the name Bugs for nothing. There was a “Bugs” in Harlem, too, and the kid was as loony as April Fool's Day.

“Come on, punk,” Bugs said. “Take the coffee.”

“I don't want it,” Johnny said.

“You see?” one of the men said. “You hurt his feelings.”

“Aw, you take the coffee,” Bugs said. “Here, punk, take the coffee. You drink it and get nice and warm, and then we'll see about paying for it. Go ahead, kid.”

“Go ahead, kid,” Harry said eagerly, thankful for the substitute Johnny had presented. “Go ahead, kid, drink it.”

Johnny wet his lips and moved closer to the glowing grill. Bugs eyed him steadily, a stupid, vacuous smile on his face.

“All right,” Johnny said nervously. “Give me the cup and I will.”

Bugs extended the steaming tin cup. “That's a good little punk,” he said. “That's the way we like it. No arguments. Now go ahead and drink your coffee, punk. Drink it all down fine. Go ahead, punk.”

He handed the cup to Johnny, and Johnny felt the hot liquid through the tin of the container, and then he moved.

He threw the coffee into Bug's face, lashing out with his left hand. He heard Bugs scream as the hot liquid scalded him, and then Johnny's foot lashed out for the grill, kicking wildly at it, hooking the metal under the glowing coils. The grill leaped into the air like a flashing comet, hung suspended at the end of its wire, and then the wire pulled free of the outlet, and the grill plunged down, and another man screamed. The grill glowed hot for an instant, with the man still screaming so that Johnny knew he'd been burned, too, and then the orange glow began to dwindle and the coils turned pale.

He did not hang around for the Technicolor exhibit. He started to run.

He passed Bugs, and Bugs screamed and grabbed for his right arm. He felt the big man's fingers close just below the elbow, and he opened his mouth, but his own scream was drowned in the bedlam around him. He threw his fist at Bugs's face, but the man clung to his arm, and he felt the tightening fingers there, felt the cut rip open in protest. He began to get weak. He felt his head spinning, and he kept throwing his left fist at Bugs's face, but Bugs would not let go. The arm felt as if it would fall off now. He knew he had to do something. The other men were getting to their feet now.