Rhozier Brown - DC Noir 2 - The Classics

“Now what you getting mad at? You mad at me, Billy?” Ringo said.

“What you doing with that suitcase?” Billy asked. “You going to catch a train?”

“Ain’t this Union Station?” Ringo said, smiling at everyone.

“You ain’t funny, Ringo. You just ain’t funny,” Billy said. “Give this man his suitcase.”

“You got to be serious about everything. Nobody can take a joke,” Ringo said, handing me the suitcase without looking at me.

“We seen the whole thing,” Billy said. “We seen this man drop you, Ringo.” Billy looked at me. “He deserved it,” he said.

“You got that same tricky style, Ringo,” one of the other Negroes said.

“He sure know how to fall,” Billy said. “He an expert at that.”

“Aw, man,” Ringo said. “We wasn’t in no fight. I teaching him some things.”

“Yeah, you a real teacher, all right,” Billy said. “You teach any man alive how to fall. But fighting something else.”

Billy smiled at the other men, and then he looked at me. “You been sick, right?” he said.

I said yes, that I had an upset stomach. Billy said there was a bathroom in the back of the store, and that I could use it if I wanted to. I thanked him and said that I would like to clean up.

“I give you something for your stomach when you come back,” Billy said. He took my suitcase and put it behind the counter, and then he led me back to the bathroom and switched on the light for me.

When I got back from the bathroom, Ringo was shadowboxing in the middle of the room.

“Go. Go. Go. Hey!” one of the men said.

I walked over to Billy and stood beside him, watching the performance. Ringo was putting together some combinations to the head and body. “He won’t go down. This sucker’s tough,” he said.

“They all tough, Ringo, for you,” Billy said, and then he turned to me. “I lost more damn money on him,” he said.

I asked Billy if Ringo had fought in Griffith Stadium.

“Yeah, I guess so,” he said. “That was a long time ago. He look pretty good when there ain’t nobody in his way. Say, how you feeling?” Billy looked seriously at me. I told him I was feeling a little tired.

“Well, I got something for you,” he said, walking over to a shelf and taking down a large bottle of Coca-Cola syrup. He poured a little into a paper cup and handed it to me. “Drink that down and you be all right,” he said.

I drank the syrup slowly and watched Ringo jump rope without a rope. His footwork was very good.

“See how his eyes is half closed,” Billy said. “He really happy and stupid.”

The three Negroes who had been leaning against the case stood up, nodded and smiled at Billy, and went out into the rain. Ringo continued to jump rope, but when he noticed that they had gone he seemed to lose interest. Looking distracted, as though he were trying to figure out what he could do next, he came over to Billy and me and broke out into a wide smile. “Hey, Billy, how about making me and John a sandwich,” he said, tilting his head a little in a mock coyness that I hadn’t seen before.

Billy turned to me, and I told him I didn’t want a sandwich. Billy looked at Ringo and slowly shook his head. “Of course, you got the money. Right?” he said.

“John here, he carry the money,” Ringo said.

I told Billy that all I had was a quarter.

“Even if you have the money, I ain’t gonna let you buy him no sandwich,” Billy said.

Ringo looked down at the floor and tapped his right foot nervously and scratched his leg. Then he put both hands over his eyes. Nothing happened. When Ringo finally took his hands away from his eyes, he said, “Billy, but I hungry.”

“Hell, you always hungry, Ringo,” Billy said. “But that don’t mean you starving. It obvious you ain’t no middleweight no more.”

“That ain’t nice,” Ringo said, looking pained. “Why the world full of bad feeling?” He put his hands over his hat, crossing his fingers, and closed his eyes and began to twist and contort his mouth. He began to shake his whole body, without moving his feet or changing his position, and then, with his eyes still closed, he smiled. I looked over at Billy to see how he was taking it. He was leaning on the counter, reading the Washington Post . I went behind the counter and picked up my suitcase.

Billy looked up from his paper. “Well,” he said, “you looking better. How you feeling? ”

“Much better,” I said. “Thanks a lot, Billy.” We shook hands.

“Look at that fool!” Billy said.

Ringo was still vibrating and smiling, but his eyes were open now. “What you doing with that suitcase?” he asked.

I didn’t say anything, but moved toward the door to watch for another bus.

Ringo came up to me and put an arm around my shoulder. “So you going home,” he said.

“That’s right,” I said.

“What you in a big hurry for?” he asked.

“So long, Ringo.”

“I don’t see no bus coming,” he said.

I made sure I had a firm hold on my suitcase; then I tried to walk away, but he had a strong grip on my shoulder. “There ain’t no bus coming,” he said, smiling.

“Get lost, Ringo,” I said.

“Go on, Ringo. Go on, now,” Billy said. He came out from behind the counter.

“Look, there your bus, John,” Ringo said.

I turned and looked out the window, but the street was clear. While I was looking down the street, Ringo slipped his forearm under my chin and pressed it against my throat. With his free hand he pressed the back of my head forward. “Now what you gonna do?”

I couldn’t talk, because he was pressing too hard on my throat. I swung my suitcase, trying to hit him with it, but could only manage a light, slapping blow to the back of his legs.

Ringo began to laugh. “You can’t do nothing, see? You can’t do nothing.”

Then he suddenly yelled and let me go.

I turned around, rubbing my throat, and saw Billy just back of Ringo, holding a large soda bottle. Ringo was grabbing at his ankle and hopping on one foot.

“Goddam, Billy,” he said. “You nearly break my leg.”

“Next time I break your head.”

Ringo hopped over to the refrigerated case and sat on the front edge of it, holding his ankle. He looked from me to Billy, then back to me again. His eyes were half closed; his mouth was turned down exaggeratedly, like a clown’s. “I just tired to death,” Ringo said. “Man, you coulda hurt me, Billy.”

“Yeah, sure,” Billy said. “Now, why don’t you shut up.”

“I mess around,” Ringo said. “But I don’t hurt nobody.”

“That’s what you say,” Billy said, putting the soda bottle back on the shelf.

I stood by the door, and finally I saw a bus turn the corner three blocks down. I pulled the quarter out of my pocket, grabbed my suitcase, and turned around for a final goodbye. “So long, Billy. Thanks,” I said.

Billy waved and smiled at me. “So long, now.”

As I backed through the door, I waved, knocking my hand against the doorframe. I dropped the quarter and it rolled under the refrigerated case, and I missed the bus again.

“Now, ain’t that a damn shame!” Ringo said. He was all lit up, and had recovered his vitality.

Billy came over with a wooden yardstick to see if he could get the quarter out; it had become lodged between the case and the wall. He worked the yardstick in the crack until he had moved the quarter out onto the open floor. He picked it up, dusted it off on his apron, and handed it to me. “You having a bad day,” he said. “Next time you keep it in your pocket.” He slapped me on the back and told me I was going to make it.

Ringo looked at me with a wide and happy grin. “Well, Charlie, you having some rough luck,” he said.