8

 

        Where we headed was a place a lot of blacks and whites called “Nigger Town,” a five block stretch along River Street known for its whore houses, saloons and violence – the scent of perfume mingling with the smell of alcohol and blood. I was scared and kept looking over my shoulder for signs of an attack.

        No white boys my age had any business being in this part of town at that time of night.

        Yet if Puck was afraid, he showed no sign of it, strutting down the center of the bottle littered sideway as if he belonged there instead of everybody else – his wet sneakers still leaving a mark with each step.

        Clumps of black men halted their conversations to watch us pass – so did a few scantily clad women with their eyes aglow with promise of blood shed.

        Neon bar lights set the sidewalk on fire ahead of us as the smell of hops oozed out open tavern doorways along with the scent of cigarette and cigar smoke, perfume and cologne, and body odor.

        “Why did you bring me here?” I asked finally when we were far enough away from anyone to keep my whisper from being overheard.

        “I told you. I’ve got to meet somebody,” Puck said.

        “What for?”

        “I need clothes, dope and a place to stay.”

        “You expect to get those here?”

        “You can get anything you want here, if you know who to ask.”

        “And you do?”

        “I know the best.”

        The fact was Puck seemed less a stranger to the people around us than I first thought. Some of the more savvy street people nodded at him while others whispered the name “Red Ball: to their companions.

        Puck growled at me. “Will you please keep up. All I need is for you to get mugged or something.”

        I hurried my pace until he slowed, and I stopped when he stopped in front of a dark apartment building.

        “In here,” Puck said, indicating the dark doorway and the even darker foyer beyond.

        From somewhere on the upper floors, the rumble of soul music sounded, more vibration that sound, coming at me through the walls and cracked floor tiles.

        “Ring number three,” Pick said, pulling out his pistol, which no longer dripped, but was unlikely to function if he pulled the trigger.

        I found the button above the mail box with the corresponding number and pressed it.

        No bell sounded, but the music ceased.

        A harsh voice squawked out from a small speaker near the door.

        “Who is it?”

        “Who do you think?” Puck barked. “Get your nigger ass down here.”

        A pause filled the next moment, although the person on the other end still has his finger pressed on the speaker button. We could hear him breathing, and finally he said, “I’m not dressed.”

        “I said get down here,” Puck snapped.

        The transmission from above stopped and a moment later, a door opened and the sound of bare feel sounded slapping their way down the stairs.

        A tall, very muscular and completely naked black man emerged from the darkness.

        “You son of a bitch!” Puck said, lifting his position with his uninjured arm. “The cops nearly caught me tonight. You said you would keep them off my back.”

        “I said I would protect you if you laid low,” the black man said. “You killed a store clerk, killed a drug dealer and then took a leap off the Great fucking Falls. You call that laying low?”

        Puck grinned and lowered the pistol.

        “You heard about all that?”

        “And more. Earlier in the day you did a few more noteworthy deeds that did not result any deaths – though stealing a police car and ramming it into the mayor’s wife’s car caused the most stir. Everybody’s talking about it.”

        “Is that a fact?” Puck said, his expression beaming.

        “Don’t be so goddamned proud of yourself, asshole,” the black man said. “You’re so hot you wouldn’t have gotten here except everybody thinks your dead – or should I say thought you were. Coming here blue that. The cops are bound to hear about it and come here looking for you.”

        “Protect me,” Puck said. “That’s what I pay you for.”

        “I’m telling you,” the naked black man said, “Nobody can protect you with the way you act. You don’t see me sweating any local heat, do you?”

        “No, but you keep going off to the county lock up. Is that how you work the system?”

        “Absolutely. I get out every time I go in. If I didn’t have the system working for me, they’d keep my black ass locked up.”

        Puck started to say something, but the whoop of a police siren interrupted him.

        “Quick,” the black man said, yanking Puck in by the uninjured arm. “Get up the stairs.”

        “Like hell,” Puck said, yanking his warm free so he could lift his useless pistol. “If they want me, let them…”

        “Don’t be a bigger ass than you already are. Get up the stairs,” the black man said. “You said you wanted me to protect you. So let me do it. And take your skinny cracker friend up there with you.”

 

 

 

 


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