Racehoss Page 6

  “Cum here, you lil’ priddy thang. Where you been hidin?”

  “I ain’ hidin Miz Baby Norze. I jes been settin on th’ back steps.”

  “Cum here an give me sum sugar an hug my neck. An you betta quit callin me MIZ Baby Norris. Jes leave off that Miz shit. It makes me sound too damn old.” Pinching my cheeks, “Don’tcha know I’m waitin on you to grow up an be my sugar daddy?”

  She held out her arms and gapped her legs open for me to walk between them. Reluctantly, I did. She grabbed me like an octopus. She hugged and kissed me and even stuck her tongue in my mouth. The way she was smacking and carrying on sounded like I was being eaten up.

  Finally, Emma said in a joking tone, “You betta leave that baby alone.”

  Baby Norris untentacled and pushed me back a little. “You might be actin shy now, but jes wait a few mo years. Yo mama’ll havta git a shotgun to keep them black heifers away. An I’m gon be one uv ‘em! Puss, he almost too priddy to be a boy.”

  They sat on the bed drinking and bullshitting and drinking some more until, “Gotdam Puss, this fuckin whiskey do shit to my brain. I damn near forgot whut I wuz gon tell you. I ain’ never seen so many Meskins in my life.”

  “Where at?”

  “Cotton Street. When I wuz on my way over to the sto’ this mornin, I seen one a them work trains sidetracked over by Cotton Street. It wuz three cars an I seen all them Meskins standin round on the outside. I went over an ast one a the white mens whut it wuz there for. He say they’d be there for a few days takin up an layin sum mo tracks. I lef there in a hurry to tell my man Jake. Do you know I couldn’ git that no good bastard to go over there wit me. Even knowin he wuz gon take whut I made. He tole me I didn’ have no bizness down there fuckin wit them Meskins. Shit, tough as times is now, a dollar’s a dollar. Damn who it useta b’long to.”

  “Thangs been slow roun here an I need some money to git my whiskey stocked back up. Baby Norris, les me an you go down there an make that money, lak we useta.”

  “Fuck that shit!” Baby Norris exclaimed loudly. “If sump’n happen an that fool fount out I had went down there afta he tole me not to, that sonuvabitch’ll kill me. Hey, is that the only bottle you got?”

  “Yeah,” Emma replied, which I knew was a lie. She was ready for Baby Norris to leave and that was one sure way of doing it.

  “Well, it’s gittin late Puss. Guess I best be gittin on befo that damn ol’ man a mine thanks I’m off givin sump’n away. I be seein you gal.”

  Night had fallen and with it came the late autumn chill. Emma got off the bed, put on her coat and tam, and grabbed one of her sweaters. “Put this on an cum walk wit me. Baby Norris is gittin to be a squeamish bitch, too scaid to make money. I don’t give a damn if a hundred Meskins is in that railroad gang, if they wanna buy somethin, we got somethin to sell. Ain’t we, Big Shot?”

  “Yes mam, Mama.”

  “I tole you to stop callin me that!”

  “Yes mam, Emma.”

  She knelt down to my size and handed me her switchblade, “Put this knife in yo pocket an keep it open. We goin down there an make that money.”

  “Yes’ m,” I said, and put it in my pocket.

  We walked out of the house, hand in hand, heading for the tracks. I was frightened at first, but after she told me how important my part was, I was glad she chose me. With every step, she told me over and over what I was to do.

  We walked side by side in the darkness, her sweater down to my knees. The only sound when she stopped talking was our feet crunching the gravel as we neared the tracks. My short steps were no match for her long, determined strides. We followed the tracks until we reached Cotton Street.

  We crossed and stopped about a hundred feet from the long Carson fence running beside the tracks and ending at Cotton Street. It separated the railroad right-of-way from the three warehouses on the other side. Straight ahead were the train cars.

  “I’m goin down there,” pointing, “an I want you to stand right here,” she said placing me on the warehouse side of the fence. “Turn aroun an keep yo face turnt to the street. Don’t look back. When I cum back, I’m gon git close to you as I kin. If I call you, don’t try to fight ‘em, jes put the knife in my hand. I’ll git us outta here.”

  She began walking toward the train cars, but stopped. She turned and asked, “Know why I’m doin this?”

  I looked over my shoulder at her, pondering the question. Before I could answer, “For you,” she said and hurried down the tracks.

  I turned my face back to the street. Always the good little soldier, I did exactly as she instructed. My heart was trying to pound its way out of my chest. I gripped the knife so tightly my hand was sweating on its cold steel handle. Her feet crunching the gravel grew fainter and fainter with every step she took, and then it stopped. For an instant I quickly glanced around.

  I saw her climbing up into the rear of the work train. In a few seconds, I heard loud shouts. I didn’t know what they were saying, but I could tell they were shouting acceptance. Still, I gripped the handle tighter and tighter.

  After a few minutes, I heard footsteps in the gravel and glanced back long enough to see her and a man walking toward me. She was slightly ahead of him. He must have seen me standing in the shadows because he said something. I don’t know if she understood him but I heard her say, “It’s awright, thas jes my boy.”

  I kept my eyes glued to the dark street; I never looked back. I couldn’t hear what she told him, but soon after he left, there came another and another and another and another and another …

  I did not want to hear, but I heard. I wished my ears were deaf to all the sounds on earth, except her voice should she call out. My chest was on fire and my neck ached from trying to choke back the swelling tears. I couldn’t stem the flood and they soaked my face. I didn’t know how long or how many. I only knew the very weak voice calling, “Baby, cum help me.”

  I ran to where she lay. The back of her head was resting on one of the rails and her ankles were lying across the other. “Emma, you awright?” I asked worriedly.

  Barely a whisper, “Yeah,” she said struggling to get up. I reached down and began pulling her by the arms. “Cum closer baby. There you go,” she said holding onto my shoulders and pulling herself up. “We gon make it, ain’t we?”

  Her legs trembled and her hands shook as she leaned on my shoulders. One of her shoes was off. I stooped over to pick it up and saw the blood coming down the inside of her legs. “Emma, you got a hankie?”

  “Yeah, they’s one in my coat pocket.”

  I got it and began wiping at the blood. “Don’t throw it away when you git thru, I need it.” I handed her the handkerchief and she put it inside her panties.

  Kneeling down, she pulled me close and hugged me tightly. “You Emma’s buddy, ain’tcha?”

  “Yes mam, Emma. Yes mam,” I repeated, reaffirming our buddyship.

  “Now, buddy, les me an you go party!”

  The “party” didn’t last but a hot minute. The next day I came in the house, there sat Arthur Johnson with Emma on his lap. He was a bald-headed railroad porter who wore his navy blue uniform even when he was off duty, sporting a big set of “important” keys from his belt.

  “Mr. Johnson’s yo new daddy an he’s gon live wit us. He laks little boys. So you be nice to Mr. Johnson an behave yoself, you hear.”

  “Yes’m.”

  All the men Emma fucked with couldn’t stand me, including Arthur Johnson. She liked dark-skinned men, and they looked at me as if I were dog puke. I had already noticed how he stared at me the other times he came to the house. And those weren’t looks of love. Even though he was a top church deacon, he was a cock hound from way back. He had tricked on my cot many times, and not just with Emma.

  The house schedule changed overnight. Whenever he got a layover she was up every morning at the crack of dawn to fix his breakfast. I had to serve his coffee. When I lay back down on my cot, he sat at the table staring at me.
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  One night on the other side of the curtain I heard him telling her about his high standing in the church and, “it jes don’t look right when the three uv us be’s out together. I don’t lak tellin people he’s my stepboy.” She said she would leave me at home from now on when they went out.

  When she left the house to take care of her tricking-on-the-side business (namely Mr. Albert) and left me with him, he told her some big lie when she got back. He said I wouldn’t behave and “didn’ do a thang I tole him.” She’d beat the dogshit out of me in the kitchen. After the beatings I passed through the room on my way outside and he poked fun and made ugly faces at me.

  He was a sly old bastard. One day while we sat at the table eating, right out of the clear blue sky he told her, “Emma, how on earth kin I set heah an enjoy my meal wit that boy rollin his eyes at me.”

  She slapped me across the mouth and my chair went over backwards. I felt dizzy and tasted the blood seeping on my gums. “Git yo muthafuckin half-white ass up off that flo an take yo Gotdam plate out on the back steps to eat! You the Gotdam reason why I can’t keep no man! You run ever one I ever had away wit yo peckerwood-lookin ass. You gon treat Mr. Johnson right! You hear me?”

  “Yes’m.”

  From the back steps I heard her say, “He’s gon mind you or I’ll wear all the hide off his ass.”

  He’d been gone a week when he got his next layover. He ate supper and left. Emma left a few minutes later. She was gone about thirty minutes and returned. When he came back, all hell broke loose.

  “Where you been MISTER muthafucka?! I know where you been, you Gotdam, sorry, lowdown, bald-headed, shit-eatin bastard! Here I am treatin you right, sleepin witcha, feedin yo muthafuckin ass an I ketchcha comin outta Red Sarah’s back door!”

  He mumbled something and she yelled back, “You jes a muthafuckin liar! Whut th’ Gotdam hell wuz you sneakin out the back for if you wudn’ tryin to hide?! You can’t keep shit hid cuz it stanks! An I’m gon see that bitch too! She knows I don’t let no hoe fuck wit my man.”

  The more she cussed the angrier she got, and started throwing his clothes out the front door. He wasn’t saying a word. While she was getting his things in the kitchen, she grabbed the butcher knife lying on the table and broke through the doorway curtain like a mad bull.

  When she rushed at him with the knife, his eyes got as big as silver dollars. He was trying to get out as fast as he could, but just as he wheeled to run, she whacked him across the cheeks of his ass with the knife. I could hardly wait for Old Arthur Johnson to come running by me outside. When she had started cursing I piled some rocks by the front steps, hoping for a shot. I managed to zero one in, right on the back of his shiny black bald head. His “important” keys rattled noisily as he ran down the road.

  Chapter 4

  Two things our house was never without, dice and men. Old Arthur Johnson was gone, but I knew it wouldn’t be long before another took his place. Whenever there was a lull in the action and all was quiet on the southern front, Emma pulled out her old crap blanket. We got down on our knees and she taught me.

  “See these burn holes? I always keep ‘em spread out to my right. Them holes is my measurin stick an I use ever one uv ‘em when I’m shootin for a point. It’s a secret, so don’t tell nobody.”

  “I won’t, Emma.”

  Taking the dice in her hand, “See, when I’m shootin for fo, I roll ‘em even wit this first one. An when I’m shootin for five an six, I roll ‘em up to these two. Eight’s a long-range point, so I roll ‘em all the way up to this last hole.” After the strategy lesson, she explained how to “gitcha man,” what combinations to use.

  Emma bought a pair of pee-wee dice for me to practice with, saying, “When you learn how to roll them little suckers, you’ll have a real good touch when you start shootin big craps lak we use.” She taught me how to grip and roll them so that what I set in the middle would stay there. Besides shooting marbles, shooting craps became my favorite game. Now when I watched the shooters, I knew exactly what was going on. And when the blanket cleared, I practiced.

  The drinkers, gamblers, and whores had been flocking to the house all day. I almost wore a hole in the floor between the front room and the flour barrel in the kitchen retrieving half-pints. Baby Norris paid me four times and Aunt Elzado three times for using my cot. If they were using it and I had to get something from the kitchen, Emma told me, “Don’t look, jes go on thru.” Terrell, the nuisance, got the “gimmes” (begging) and Emma stopped the game to throw him out. She wouldn’t let him come back in the house and he finally staggered away.

  It was unusual to have such a large crowd on hand in the middle of the week, but the crosstie loaders had come to town. Their crews were transferred from Beaumont and would be loading railroad ties in Longview for the next few days. Since early morning they’d been at our house drinking and gambling.

  Emma had been down on her knees shooting craps all morning. She took a few seconds to look around the blanket at the onlookers who were already broke, “Say.” He raised his eyes. “Whut’s yo name, baby?”

  “George.”

  “Well George, you look lak a honest man,” putting them eyes on him (dropping her eyelids like shades half-pulled). “Kin I git you to run the game an git my cuts for me so I kin go pee?” Squirming and holding herself, “I’m bout to bust!”

  “Sho I will, ain’ nuthin a good-lookin woman lak you can’t axe me.”

  She flashed him a smile acknowledging the flattery, got up and stretched right in front of him, and headed for the outhouse in the back yard. I watched him while she was gone. He didn’t miss putting a single one of her cuts (a nickel from every bet for the “wear an tear” on the house, blanket, dice, lamp, and for running the game) in the cigar box. When she returned to the game, George had cut off more than six dollars.

  She kept all the small change and pitched him the green across the blanket, “Here George, take some uv this money to play wit. Maybe it’ll make you lucky,” she said teasingly.

  He scooped up the dollar bills, “I sho thank you Miz Emma, I could use sum luck.”

  Looking into his eyes, she reached over and patted his hand, “I think yo luck jes changed,” sprinkling the words with plenty of sugar. Finding me in the room, “Baby, hand Emma her bottle.”

  “Yes’m.”

  She took a BIG swig with nothing for a chaser, and gave it back to me. “Hand it to George.”

  “No, I thank you jes th’ same, Miz Emma, but I ain’ much uv a dranker.”

  When he refused, “Well, I’ll jes be damned! He don’t wanna drank wit me. Hand it back here.”

  “Don’t take me wrong, Miz Emma. It ain’ that I don’t wanna drank wit you, SPECIALLY,” he said smiling, “but that whiskey will sho tell off on a man when he got a three-hunnert-pound green tie on his shoulder goin up a gangplank in one uv them boxcars.”

  “Suit yoself,” she smiled back, saluted him with the bottle and took another slug.

  It didn’t take him long to lose the few bucks she had tossed, and he was back to onlooking. By nightfall the crowd had moved on. There were only three players left in the game and they were just about broke too. This had been another one of those games where Emma had wiped them out with her Hudson shot. But she wasn’t about to quit until the last dollar was in her hand and she heard them sing her favorite song, “Well Emma, you got me! I’m broke!”

  Looking up from the blanket at George again, “Say sweet thang, I bet them crossties do git priddy heavy. Ain’t you tired uv totin ‘em, baby?”

  She was pouring on the syrup and George was no star-natal fool, “I sho as hell is, Miz Emma.”

  “Well, kin you cook?”

  “As a matter uv fact, Miz Emma, I’m a real good cook.”

  “Whut kin you cook?”

  “Anythang you kin eat.”

  “Well, maybe you the man I been lookin for. I need a man roun here that kin cook an don’t drank.” It was her turn to shoot the dice.
All the while she was shooting she was talking to him in between her dice verses. “If you tired uv totin ‘em, maybe you’d lak to hang roun here wit me awhile an sort uv help me run thangs. An do the cookin. I’ll give you part uv whutever we take in. How’s that sound?”

  “Sounds jus fine wit me, Miz Emma. When does you wont me to start?”

  “Soon as you quit callin me MIZ Emma.”

  “Awright Emma, thas a deal.”

  “Say George, I’m gon be thru here in a few minutes. Me an my boy ain’ had a bite all day. I ain’ had time to stop an fix us nuthin. Look aroun in the kitchen an see if you kin rustle up somethin.”

  He wasn’t in the kitchen very long, “Emma, I looked everwhere. I didn’ see nuthin in there to cook.”

  Slightly embarrassed, “Well, don’t worry bout it. Here,” tossing him a ten from the bills she kept stuffed between the fingers of her left hand, “the store’s aroun th’ corner, why don’tcha go git us somethin.”

  The game was over. Emma was folding up the crap blanket and I was sweeping the cigarette butts out the front door when he returned. He cooked smothered cabbage, fried pork chops, made a big pan of cornbread, and fixed a peach cobbler. It was the best meal I’d ever eaten. George stayed. Nine months later, my half-sister was born.

  He talked Emma into convincing Mr. Booth, the rent man, to add another little room onto our kitchen which became the cafe. When completed, we had bragging rights to the only three-room shotgun house in the Junction. Long before Emma was due, the cafe part of the business had really picked up. George cooked big pots of chili, stew, chittlins, pinto beans and ham hocks, and all kinds of greens. He even built a barbecue pit out back. Emma helped prepare the meals and I waited tables. Every day at lunchtime the house was packed with railroad workers, filling station attendants, porters, and others there to get a good, cheap meal.

  We were living high on the hog and the integrated cafe went almost unnoticed until a white man brought two white ladies over to eat. That night we had a visit from the Ku Klux Klan. They banged on the front door, “Hey! Y’all nigguhs inside! Open up this Gotdam door an cum on outta thar!” George opened the door and stepped outside. I peeped through the window and saw five men wearing white hoods over their heads. “This is a warnin, nigguh. Next time y’all git a bunch uv white women over heah minglin wit them black bucks, we’re gonna cum back an tar an feather you an yore whore.”