The Planet of Junior Brown (8 page)

“Well, is Nightman a first name or a last name?” Franklin asked the boy.

“It's a first name,” the boy told him. “My name is Nightman Black.”

Buddy had to smile at the kid. The kid had made peace with the dark by making himself a part of it. “That's a good, tough name,” Buddy told him. “Nightman, you are real together.”

After the dishes were cleaned and put away, and the cabinet locked again, the three of them sat against the basement wall. Buddy talked quickly but calmly to the two boys. He spoke particularly to Nightman Black. It would be hard for him to catch on at first, Buddy told him. Nightman would naturally go to the sections of town where there were black people. That was all right so long as he stayed out of bars, so long as he kept himself moving. Don't stand on street corners, Buddy told him. The best place to rest was in playgrounds but only at lunchtime and after three o'clock. He wouldn't be going to school for another week or two. Buddy told Nightman that he couldn't go to school until he was safe being on his own. Because until he could get by, he would be nervous. He'd want to go home with the first teacher who was nice to him. Nightman might blurt out the fact that he didn't have a home. He might tell some kid that he had to sleep in a broken-down building. No, Nightman had to get behind living for himself; and when he could do that, he would have no trouble in school or anywhere else.

“How long do you say I have to travel with him?” Franklin asked Buddy.

“Just a couple of days. He should know enough by that time.”

“Because I got to go to school,” Franklin said. “When I'm out, they start checking up.”

“Where do you go?” Buddy asked him.

“Down on 81st and Amsterdam,” Franklin told him. “I'm doing good, too, and I don't want to miss no school!” He spoke flatly, angry that he had to have Nightman tagging after him.

Buddy looked out on the mountain of debris in front of him with cold, solemn eyes. He'd had a feeling about Franklin from the time he'd lit the candle and had begun questioning the boy. Now all his knowledge of the street and its people came together in certainty.

Without turning his head or moving the trunk of his body, Buddy reached out, grabbing Franklin by the throat. The movement was so swift and casual, Franklin was pinned down across Buddy's lap before he knew what had happened. His throat ached from the pressure on it as Buddy searched his pockets, inside his shirt and down in his socks. What Buddy found, he flipped onto the table. When he had a pile, he let Franklin sit up. Buddy held Franklin tightly in a hammer lock and forced him to face the table.

There were two expensive gas lighters, both gold-plated. There was a jeweled wristwatch and two diamond rings. There was an onyx-handled knife with the price tag still on it and a black leather wallet.

Buddy reached over to check out the wallet. It was full of money, about seventy-five dollars' worth, and credit cards. There was a receipt for a rent-a-car.

“You ain't nothing but a thief,” Buddy said, “a wet- bottomed little hustler.” He shoved Franklin against the wall and got up with the wallet in his hand. “There never was a school at 81st and Amsterdam!” Buddy added. Unlocking the cabinet, Buddy searched for and finally found a torn piece of paper and a pencil. From the cards in the wallet, he wrote down its owner's address on the paper. He had no envelope and no stamps so he would have to wait until later to mail the stuff to the guy.

Buddy counted the money again, then took twenty-five dollars of it. He put back the remainder of the money, placed the pencil and paper in the wallet's fold and stuffed the wallet inside his jacket.

Buddy's mind went quiet. He had caught the slightest sound and he was moving toward the rope ladder before he had turned himself around to face it. He caught Franklin before the kid had started up the ladder.

“You didn't think you were going to make it!” Buddy said. “You know you can't get out of that window fast enough.”

Buddy lifted Franklin away from the ladder and hit him hard across the face. Franklin shuddered. The slap had jarred him to his toes but he made no sound. Slowly he walked back to the basement wall and sat down beside Nightman.

Nightman sat with his mouth open. The look on his face was one of dread. Buddy hated seeing the fear in Nightman's eyes. Now Nightman knew how trapped he was. He knew that if Buddy wanted to hurt him, there was nothing he could do to stop him. But without panicking, Nightman sat where he was, for he had discovered that his life depended on Buddy. He had learned how dangerous it was to be small and weak.

Buddy placed two tens and a five-dollar bill on the table. He picked up the five and gave it to Franklin. “For you,” Buddy told him, looking him in the eyes. “You use that for whatever will do the most for you and Nightman in the next few days.”

Stunned, Nightman sucked in his breath. He looked from Buddy to Franklin and back to Buddy again. “You're not going to make me go—you're not going to make me steal with him!”

“See what you've done?” Buddy said to Franklin. The boy looked down, turning his head away from them.

“Tell Nightman you won't steal,” Buddy said, “and don't come on with how this is the first time. I'll break your arm, man, if you come on with how you haven't ever done it before.”

Franklin turned angrily to Buddy. “You just now stole yourself twenty-five dollars,” he said. He shook with triumph. “You ain't nothing but a thief yourself.”

“I took some money out of a wallet you stole,” Buddy told him. “I took only enough to give you all a chance to make it until Monday when I get paid.”

Buddy was tired, for it had been a long day. He was taking too much time here and he had to have it over with quickly now. “Nightman,” he said, “Franklin is going to show you how you can take from this town just enough to get you through each day as it comes around. Every morning you're going to wake up hungry and with nothing. By the evening, you'll be hungry again and with nothing. But before dark, you bring yourself back here and wait for me. When I get here, you'll eat.”

“You still got yourself some twenty dollars,” Franklin said, “not even counting the wallet with the rest of the stuff. Why you need it if you going to get paid on Monday?”

Buddy studied the boy a moment before bringing his shoes and socks from the other side of the debris. His feet were aching from the freezing cold. Hurriedly he pulled on his socks. They were cold and filthy, stiff with dirt and sweat. He slipped into his tennis shoes.

“I'll mail the wallet off when I can find an envelope and some stamps,” Buddy said. “But I need the twenty dollars. Not for myself, though, but for kids like you two who maybe will need it.” He paused. “You don't have to believe me.”

“I don't,” Franklin said.

There were some kids, Buddy knew, who you never could like and Franklin was that kind of kid. Buddy was so used to the younger boys doing exactly as he told them. The safety of the planets depended on the trust the boys had in their Tomorrow Billys. But Franklin didn't trust Buddy because he was untrustworthy himself.

You have to work with him, Buddy thought. You can't turn him loose. With what he knows, he could come down on all the planets. He could take his time cleaning them out one by one of what little they had. Then if the Billys got rough with him, he could blow the lid on them. No, you had to turn him around and get his distrust working for you.

“You want me to put all the money in the file? You want me to put the twenty dollars back in the wallet and mail it back to the cat it belongs to?”

Franklin struggled with himself. Even if he was a thief, he had been with the planets long enough to have a heart for the lost kids. He wouldn't take a few dollars away from them. But how was he going to be sure this Tomorrow Billy was straight?

Buddy could almost hear Franklin's mind clicking. He won't be able to work it out, Buddy thought. How will he, when he can't even trust himself?

“How about you, Nightman?” Buddy said. “You want me to put the twenty dollars back in the wallet?”

Nightman was frightened. He could look at Buddy but he couldn't bring himself to look at Franklin. But beyond the fear in Nightman's eyes, there was something dark. “I want you to put back the five dollars you give to Franklin.” Nightman laced his fingers together and searched his palms. “All I need is an apple or an orange and maybe a roll for breakfast and I don't need no food again until suppertime.”

“You think you won't,” Franklin told him. He had the five dollars deep in his pocket. He wanted to keep it there. “We can't come back here until nighttime and you going to be sniveling crying for some hot food way before then.”

“I never cried for no food yet,” Nightman said. “I maybe don't like being in the dark but that's because I haven't learned about it. S'nothing scares me about the day … give him back the five dollars.”

Reluctantly, Franklin pulled out the money. Rather than give it to Buddy, he slapped it down on the table. “There,” he said to Nightman. “I ain't going to be responsible for your starvation.”

“What do I do with the twenty, Nightman,” Buddy said, “and what about the wallet?”

“Well,” Nightman began, “I believe you when you say you going to mail that wallet back to the man. Because I want to believe … because I got no reason not to. And for the twenty, I think you better keep it for the others. I don't imagine you need it for nothing.”

How come one boy was so different from another when they both hurt the same? Buddy wondered. “That all right with you?” Buddy asked Franklin.

Franklin looked around at Nightman, who sat with his legs folded in front of him, a hand on each knee. If Nightman had had a throne, he couldn't have looked more like a king.

“Just like he say,” Franklin told Buddy.

Buddy moved away from the boys, placing the rest of the items Franklin had stolen in the file cabinet. Behind the file were metal folding cots slung with canvas. Buddy motioned Nightman away from the wall. Franklin followed. When both boys had moved, Buddy set up the cots. Each cot had its own sleeping bag, which Buddy shook free of dust before spreading it out on a cot.

Thoughts flew in his head as he worked, making the planet ready for the night of darkness. Is this all there is to it? he wondered. I'm to be a nurse for them and a teacher of lessons, like in Sunday school. I know my Tomorrow Billy was different. I just can't seem to remember what it was that made him different.

Buddy left the boys. He blew out the light and stood in the dark a moment. Franklin was on the cot on the outside and little Nightman was against the wall and deep inside his sleeping bag.

The place was so quiet and the boys so still, no one would ever guess they were there.

Buddy turned toward the rope ladder when Nightman said sleepily, “Tomorrow, Billy?”

Buddy grinned in the dark. “Yes,” he said. Then, he climbed up through blackness. Taking his time, he swung the ladder when he was level with the window. He got outside with hardly a sound. Replacing the boards firmly over the window, Buddy enclosed the boys far below in night.

Outside Buddy found the city of darkness awake and full of action. Buddy wouldn't have known it any other way. Bouncing on the balls of his feet like a fighter, Buddy made his way to the Port Authority Bus Terminal. He ducked in a side entrance to avoid the regulars—the homeless old men and women who waited for a chance to slip in and sleep for a while on a bench. It was getting hard for them to find a place to rest in the terminal, for the night patrol regularly passed through to keep them moving.

Instinctively Buddy took on the appearance of a traveler. Maybe he was a young soldier going back to Fort Dix over in Jersey. No, he didn't have a duffel bag or anything. Maybe a student, going across the river after a night in the Village? Buddy decided on some combination of the two. He knew he didn't need to be clearly one kind or another. He had merely to look as though he had a destination and he knew perfectly how to look like that.

In the terminal Buddy strode to the cigarette machine and bought a pack of long filters, although he rarely smoked. Carefully he opened the pack and lit a cigarette. Calmly, without glancing around to see who might be watching, he walked over to study the board listing arrival and departure times of buses. When he seemed to have the schedule fixed in his mind, he nodded to himself. He sighed and hurried over to buy a newspaper. He glanced at the paper briefly while walking toward the restrooms.

So far Buddy had acted his part to perfection. People noticed him—ticket agents, travelers—with that momentary interest people in cities reserve for one another. In one sidelong glance, they had discerned that Buddy was going someplace. He was black. He looked to be maybe eighteen or nineteen but maybe he was younger. He wore tennis shoes. He had a paper, he was smoking and he was sober. No trouble. Just a black kid going home after working in some kitchen somewhere.

I am harmless, Buddy thought. I am nothing at all.

Near the restroom Buddy found the locker where he kept his soap and washcloth. He lifted out the brightly woven knapsack in which he kept all his belongings. Any other time Buddy would have taken longer, the way he liked to. He would have touched the knapsack gently, feeling the bright threads with the tips of his fingers, the way some folks handle old photographs which represent the best of their lives. But tonight he had to hurry. The time was nearly midnight. The morning newspapers were thrown from the delivery trucks by two o'clock. Soon after he would have to be at work.

One moment Buddy was standing in front of the locker, shoving his knapsack back in it, and the next moment he was gone. He might have melted into the stream of people heading for the subway or he might have gone to line up for a bus. So adept was he at taking on the mood and pace of any group of people, it was hard to tell where he had disappeared to. But he had cleared his mind of everything save the object of his intention. He made no mistakes because he allowed himself no anticipation of trouble. Even when Buddy was in the pay shower, he concentrated solely on the hot water beating down on him and the cleansing aroma of Fels Naphtha soap.