The Contender (6 page)

“Time,” said Henry.

“Time out,” said Alfred. He walked to his locker, peeling off the wet gym clothes. Too hot today. Too damn hot.

He showered and dressed quickly. Henry was waiting for him at the door.

“You want to go to the movies tonight?”

“No.”

“Triple feature, be fun. Jelly says if the monster don’t win tonight he’s gonna tear the movie house down.”

“I said no.”

“You going to the clubroom?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re in training, Alfred, you better not—”

“I can take care of myself.”

He walked quickly down the steps, the long, steep, dirty steps. He wondered if Donatelli was just too cheap to fix them. A guy could break his neck.

The street was still hot, even with the sun sliding out of sight. Music blared out of open windows. Kids clattered up and down the gutter. Friday night. On every street corner people lounged and stared, waiting for something to happen. Cars cruised up and down. Men brought out the tables for cards and dominoes. Go home to an empty house, eat dinner, watch television, go to sleep early like every other night. Too hot to sleep, he thought. Sleep for what? To run tomorrow and shadowbox and count out your life in sit-ups?

He headed toward the clubroom. Wonder what James is doing these days. Never even called me back. Still mad about that burglar alarm. Straighten that out. Just drop in for a little while. See what’s happening.

M
AJOR SAW HIM FIRST
. “There’s the champ.”

“Hey, champ,” said Sonny.

“It’s my main man, Alfred,” said Major, throwing an arm around his shoulders and pulling him down into the darkened clubroom. “What’s your drink, brother?”

“I’m in training,” said Alfred. A single red bulb shone over the spinning record player. He squinted at the shadowy figures in the room, some dancing, others sprawled on floor pillows. “Where’s James?”

“He’ll be by. Wine?”

“No, thanks.”

“Take a night off, man, you’re in shape. Gotta have some kicks.”

Major’s girl, June, came out of the shadows. “You come alone, Alfred?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” she said, linking her arm in his. “Got somebody I want you to meet.”

“Can’t stay long.”

“Wait till you meet her.” She led him across the floor, weaving among the dancers, stepping over couples whispering and necking. She lit a match, and a dark, chubby girl with a curly, blond wig and thick, pink lipstick smiled up at Alfred.

“This is Arlene,” said June. The match went out, and June let his arm go.

“I’m Alfred Brooks.”

“Hi.”

“Dance?”

He was surprised at how easily she came into his arms, so close that the strong, sweet smell of her perfume made him dizzy in the heat of the crowded room. The music was low, funky blues, and he swayed to it.

“You live near here?”

She shook her head, and the stiff hairs of the wig brushed his nose. “I’m visiting June. She’s my cousin.”

Major came around with the wine bottle, and Arlene drank from it. Alfred pushed it away, twice, when Major pressed it against his chest. Then he came back with half an orange soaked in vodka.

“This is good for you, man.”

Why not, Alfred thought. He sucked on it, feeling new heat rise out of his empty stomach into his head. The party became a blur, a sweet, sticky blur. Major left the wine bottle with him, and Alfred and Arlene danced into a corner. Someone began pounding conga drums.

Hollis swam by, and punched his arm. “Good to see ya, Alfred.”

“Yeah. James come in?”

“Not yet.”

“You sure he’s coming?”

Hollis patted a jacket pocket. “You can be sure he’s coming.”

“Who’s James?” asked Arlene.

“A guy I know,” said Alfred. “Let’s sit down awhile.”

Someone began passing a cigarette around, and the way everyone dragged on it he knew it was marijuana. Alfred shook his head when Arlene put it between his lips.

“It’ll relax you, honey,” she said, stroking the back of his neck, and he inhaled.

The red bulb burned out, and it was pitch-dark in the clubroom. The wine bottles kept coming around, and the cigarettes. Except for
soft laughter, the music covered all sound in the room. Like a nice dark movie, he thought. He took longer pulls on the bottle, and deeper drags on the cigarette to keep the warm, soft feeling in his head. Once the door opened for some newcomers, and he saw Arlene smiling up at him, her face puffy, the blond wig tipped over one eye.

At dawn, an invisible fist slammed into his stomach, and he barely made it out to the alley. He leaned against a brick wall and tried to catch his breath. Newspaper pages fluttered along the street on a morning breeze. He saw a patch of pink sky between the buildings. For a moment he thought about the park, the good feeling of gravel underfoot and the wind streaming past his face. Then he went back down the basement steps.

Sonny had passed out on the couch, and Hollis’ date was slumped over the mop sink. Hollis was dancing with Arlene. There was just a little bit of wine left, and they passed it around, trying to get the nighttime glow started in the dirty glare of rising daylight. Some new people came with bottles wrapped in brown paper bags, and Major blacked out the little
basement window with his jacket. The party started all over again.

“Hey, Alfred,” mumbled Major, pulling him away from Arlene. “Your man.”

“James.”

The round face was thin, the eyes sunken. His suit seemed too big for him.

“Where you been, James?”

“Lil Unca Alfid,” said James. His teeth were yellow.

“Where you been, James?”

“I been ’round.”

“Never called or nothing.”

“What for?”

“We were partners, remember, we…” He felt dizzy, and shook his head. “James, I forgot about that burglar alarm. Honest. I didn’t mean for you to—”

“It don’t matter now.”

“Does. Don’t want you thinking—”

“I know you didn’t mean nothing, you never mean nothing. You just fool enough to forget about that alarm.” He turned his back on Alfred.

Major came over and put an arm around James’ neck. “Hollis got something for you, brother.”

The clubroom began to tilt for Alfred, but
he took a deep breath and grabbed the back of a chair. Hollis pulled a packet of white powder out of his jacket pocket. Alfred stumbled over.

“No, James, you don’t wanna mess with that stuff, you don’t wanna—”

“Go ’way, Unca Alfid.” James was almost snarling.

“No good, James,” mumbled Alfred, feeling the room sway.

James took the packet and began fumbling with it. Alfred followed him into a corner, trying to clear his head, steady himself. “You and me, James, partners.”

“That was kid stuff,” said James as his fingers, trembling, tore at the packet.

“Listen to me, James, please.” Alfred leaned against the tilting wall, his legs buckling, his eyes fogging.

“What you got to say?” asked James, suddenly staring at Alfred, waiting as Alfred’s lips moved without any sound.

He tried to clear his head, to think, to answer James’ question, but the floor came up and sent him sprawling. James looked down at him, shook his head, and went back to his white powder.

F
AR
,
FAR AWAY
, the rattlesnake was buzzing, short bursts, time to run, time to run, time, time, screamed Henry, but Jelly Belly was sitting on his head. Jose and Angel, chattering in Spanish, were jumping on his stomach. Mr. Donatelli was sitting on his legs shouting, shift your weight, shift your weight. Then they all disappeared and left him alone, lying on the linoleum kitchen floor in a pool of ice-cold sweat. The telephone was ringing. He crawled over to it and fumbled with the receiver. The phone crashed to the floor.

“Yeah?”

“Alfred?”

“Aunt Pearl?”

“You all right, Alfred? You sound so strange.”

“All right.”

“I can’t hear you.”

“Just woke up.”

“It’s nine-thirty, Alfred.”

“Slept late.”

“It’s nine-thirty at night.”

“Uh, went to sleep early. Training.”

“That’s good. Now listen, Alfred, Mrs. Elversen’s gonna need me to stay up here till Thursday.”

“Okay.”

“You still there, Alfred?”

“Yeah.”

“Now you call Dorothy in the morning, before they go to church. Tell her I’ll pick up the girls Thursday night. You got that?”

“Thursday night.”

“Right. There’s no answer there now, they must be at the movies. You sure you’re all right, Alfred?”

“Fine and dandy.”

“Now don’t forget, Alfred.”

“Thursday night.”

“Right. Bye, now.”

“Bye.”

He stumbled into the front room and turned on the television set. He passed out before the picture appeared.

He woke once to go to the bathroom, and a
cowboy was standing on top of a speeding stagecoach, shooting Indians. He passed out again in the bathroom. When he dragged himself back, the television was humming behind a flickering test pattern. He fell into the couch.

He awoke to organ music. There was a picture of Jesus in long white robes on the screen, and the words “Dawn Devotional” under His feet. Vaguely he remembered that he had to call Dorothy about something, but his body was fastened to the couch. His arms were too heavy to lift. The conga drums were pounding in his head. It seemed like hours before he was able to lift his head, hours more before he could move his arms and legs. Slowly he stood up. The organ music was swelling. He staggered into the kitchen. The clock on the cabinet was ticking off the last few seconds to seven o’clock. With hands as clumsy as boxing gloves, he fumbled a pot out of the stove and filled it with water. He dozed while it boiled away. The smell of the burning pot jerked him awake. He started all over again, spilling the instant coffee powder. It was nearly eight before he had the black coffee in a cup. It was hot and bitter, but it washed away the sandy cotton in his mouth.

The telephone rang.

“You ready, champ?”

“What?”

“Got us a car, Alfred. We’re going out to Coney Island, remember?”

“Major?”

“Yeah, man. Be in front of the house in five minutes.”

“Don’t feel right.”

“Ocean air, champ, best thing for you.”

“No, I—” Major hung up.

A wave of sickness washed up from his stomach.

“Good morning, Kiddie Klubbers, it’s Uncle Harry—”

He rushed in and snapped off the set just as a fat man with a false nose began pouring corn flakes into the screen.

Alfred made more coffee. He gulped it black and boiling. Mr. Donatelli said never have more than one cup a day, if that much. Smart-meat Donatelli, knows all. I oughta call him up and get a program for hangovers. Outside, a car horn sounded short, sharp blasts. He poured a third cup of coffee. Someone pounded on the door.

“Hollis?”

“We’re waitin’ on you, Alfred.”

“Look, I’m—”

“C’mon, man, you need a break. Been workin’ too hard.”

Alfred let Hollis lead him downstairs.

On the street, Major waved him into the red-leather front seat of a white Cadillac convertible. Hollis climbed into the back with Sonny and a younger boy Alfred had seen around the neighborhood.

“Who’s car is this?”

“Mine,” said Major, jerking it away from the curb with a screech of gears. “Loaned it off a guy.”

They cruised along the streets, past families dressed for church and winos stumbling out of alleys into the bright morning sunlight. Major lounged behind the wheel, guiding the big car with the fingertips of his right hand. His left arm dangled out, slapping the door in time to music blaring from the car radio.

“Now this is something, ain’t it?” He grinned at Alfred.

“Yeah.”

Major took his hand off the wheel and
plucked a pair of tinted sunglasses out of his T-shirt pocket. While he was slipping them on, the car veered toward a young couple crossing the street. They scrambled back to the sidewalk.

“Wake up,” yelled Major, laughing, grabbing the wheel and straightening the car.

People watched the Cadillac cruise past. Look at them wish themselves into the car, Alfred thought, phony cats with long-playing records under their arms and no machine to play them on. Just hanging around, waiting for something to happen. He leaned back into the red leather.

The car picked up speed, swinging onto a highway. Off to the right, the Hudson River lay blue-green and quiet, glinting under the sun. Small boats churned through the water.

“Now there’s some living,” said Hollis, leaning forward.

“I’ll loan one of them sometime,” said Major.

“Hear there’s some real parties on those boats,” said Hollis.

“You ever know a black man got one of them?” asked Major.

“No.”

“They won’t let you park it,” said Major. “Even if you bought one, you couldn’t park it, just have to keep goin’ up and down the river. They don’t get you one way, they get you another. Right, Alfred?”

“If you say so.”

Major laughed. “You all right, Alfred.”

The highway narrowed into a tunnel, and Major yelled, “Toll booth.” He stretched his left arm toward the back seat.

“Got no change, Major,” said the younger boy, “only dollar bills.”

“They take dollar bills,” said Major. He slowed for the toll booth, took the boy’s dollar, and paid. He pocketed the change.

Coney Island was hot and noisy, the streets off the boardwalk choked with boys and girls, white and black, marching up and down, looking each other over. Alfred began to feel cramps in his stomach at the mingled smells of cotton candy, barbecue, fried chicken, and hot dogs. He realized that he hadn’t eaten since Friday lunch, nearly two full days ago. He heard distant screams from the thundering roller coaster. Up ahead, a huge Ferris wheel spun slowly against the blue sky.

Major double-parked in front of an outdoor stand. “Go and get some food, Justin. Dogs, French fries, some a that sweet corn. You go help him carry it, Sonny.”

“Carry it,” said Sonny, climbing out.

“Mustard on the dogs, Major?” asked Justin.

“Everything on the dogs.”

Major leaned back in the seat, his arms behind his head. “We’ll get us some food, then go find us some pretty little foxes. You got that bottle, Hollis?”

“Cops,” said Hollis.

Major and Alfred turned. Two policemen were moving toward them, checking drivers’ licenses and registration papers along the row of double-parked cars.

“Don’t need that,” said Major, starting the car.

“You steal this car?” asked Alfred.

“Gonna return it,” said Hollis, “we just…”

His words were lost in the sudden roar of the engine. Major jerked the car into traffic. The policemen began to run, shouting, as Major stomped on the accelerator and pounded the horn at people crossing the street. A baby
carriage rolled up in front of the car, and Major slammed on the brakes.

“Let’s get out a here.”

Alfred vaulted over the door, into the gutter, landing hard on his right foot. The ankle twisted under him and he went to his knees, but he got up and plunged into the crowd on the sidewalk, pushing through. Keep moving, keep moving. He ducked his head at the police whistle, and rounded a corner, slamming into a hard chest, and a hand cuffed him on the head. Keep moving, and then he was on the boardwalk, and he slowed down, the ankle beginning to throb, and he let himself be carried along in the flowing crowd. He walked until every step on his right foot sent a shaft of pain up through his ankle. He sat down on a bench.

Thousands of people were jammed together on the beach. He could hardly see the sand. Men and women lay stretched out on blankets. Guys with good builds swaggered among the blankets and umbrellas, slowing down and sucking in their stomachs whenever they passed girls. Babies cried over the noise of transistors. He started walking again, until he found a food stand. He bought spare ribs, but
tered corn, French fries, and a Pepsi-Cola. Worst things you can eat, said Donatelli. Alfred gobbled it down as fast as he could. A moment later he was hanging over the boardwalk rail, vomiting.

“Disgusting,” said a voice behind him.

“Poor kid.”

“A junkie, tryin’ to beat it with food, just can’t do it, you just can’t…”

He got away from there as fast as his ankle would let him, stumbling along with the crowd. Shoes kicked at the back of his feet whenever he slowed down. His body itched from streaming sweat. His shirt and pants were damp. He got off the boardwalk, and limped along the strange Brooklyn streets. Every time he passed a policeman he lowered his head and held his breath.

He found a movie house along a wide avenue and went right inside without bothering to find out what was playing. The theater was cool and his stomach quieted down. He bought an ice cream cup and pressed the frosty paper container against his cheeks and temples until the fever in his face disappeared. The ice cream melted, and it went down easily and
stayed down. He had another, and began to feel better.

He watched the movie. Handsome, well-dressed white men got in and out of fancy cars with beautiful blond women. For a while, he tried to follow the picture, then gave it up. You all right, Alfred. Thanks, Major, thanks a lot. How long ago now, a month, two months? That last time Major used his fists and feet to bust me up. This time he…Don’t blame him, man, he didn’t pour all that stuff into you at the party. You did that. He didn’t put a knife in your throat and make you take a ride. You got in the car. Major was just being friendly. I’ll bet, said Henry. If they don’t get you one way, they get you another.

He stumbled, blinking, back into the hot street. It was like walking through an invisible curtain. He walked for a long time before he found a subway station. On the platform, people moved away from him, wrinkling their noses. He noticed there was dried vomit on his sneakers.

It was early evening before he got back to Harlem. The nationalist speakers were on their stepladders, screaming into the dying sun. “Tomorrow morning, Monday morning, you
wake up, check the baby to see if the rats bit its ears off—”

“You said it, brother.”

“—then you go on down to meet The Man…”

“Brooksy, hey, Brooksy, wanna talk to you. Heard you been…” He crossed the street, not even bothering to pretend that he hadn’t heard Harold. I heard you, smart meat, now get lost. This happy little darky just ain’t interested.

He walked aimlessly for hours. His ankle throbbed again, but he kept moving. Hungry-eyed faces filled the street corners, waiting for something to happen. Only a few hours left in the weekend, brother. If the action don’t come, it’ll be another five days before you can get back on your street corner and start waiting again.

He suddenly realized he was on the familiar block of low apartment buildings, a store-front church, a delicatessen, a pawn shop, and on the corner, a bar. The door leading upstairs was slightly open, as usual. A dim light flickered through the dirty plate-glass window on the third floor. He stared at it for a long time. Then he went home.

The telephone was ringing as he came
through the door.

“Where you been, Alfred?”

“Major.”

“Thought they got you.”

“No, I—”

“Listen, man, I don’t think there’s gonna be no trouble, but if anybody asks where you was today, we all was over your house playin’ cards. Got that?”

“Playin’ cards.”

“Right. You doin’ anything now?”

“Yeah.” He hung up.

He filled the bathtub with hot water, and stripped off his shoe and sock. The ankle was swollen and soft to the touch. He sat on the edge of the tub and soaked his foot. Couldn’t run tomorrow if I wanted to, he thought. As if I wanted to. Knock your brains out, bust your back, run your feet down to the bone. What for? The Man said, nothing’s promised you. We know that.

He lay on his aunt’s bed with his clothes on, and closed his eyes. It seemed as if it was only a minute later when they opened again. A pink dawn. Running time. His ankle was a little stiff, but the swelling was gone. No pain. He started
up, then lay back. Don’t need that foolishness. Ain’t gonna be a boxer anyway. Run for nothing. The birds are gonna have to get along without old Alfred.

Ben Epstein winked at him when he came into the store. “How was your weekend, Alfred?”

“Real fine.”

“One long party, eh?”

“You know.”

The day dragged on and on. He sorted the new crates, stacked the canned goods, lugged the filthy garbage pails out back. His muscles felt sore. He went straight home after work and opened a can of pork and beans. He didn’t bother to cook it. Cold and greasy, each spoonful dropped to the pit of his stomach and lay there. The phone rang.

“You all right, Alfred?”

“Aunt Dorothy?”

“Just talked to Pearl, she was surprised you didn’t call us yesterday. Not like you, Alfred.”

“I’m sorry. I forgot.”

“All that exercising must really tire you out. Come on out to dinner tomorrow night, been so long since you been here.”

“Well, maybe—”

“Jeff’s here, you could talk with Jeff and—”

“I’m sorry, Aunt Dorothy, I got something else to do.”

“You’re going to wear yourself out, all that exercising and running. Take a break and come on out. Jeff won’t be home again till Thanksgiving.”