James Sallis - Black Hornet

He scared me, too. I remembered Esme’s face, her hand clutching at mine. I remembered the shooter scrambling over a Dumpster and through the delivery door. Remembered the cab driver’s baseball bat swacking into me.

Felt like the bat was still swacking into me, every breath I took.

I had a drink, had another. Ought to carve notches in the neck of the bottle.

About four P.M. I got up and took one of the capsules the doctor had prescribed. Washed it down with gin and went back to bed.

Woke up hours later with Hosie Straughter crouched over me. Wet rag on my face. Dark outside.

“You all right, Lew? You in there, buddy? I need to call an ambulance?”

“ Murgh. ” Something like that.

“Getting pretty scary here, Lewis. You okay or not, man?”

I struggled toward the surface. Dark up there, not light. Layer of ice I couldn’t break through, but a space between water and ice, air there I could breathe.

“God damn it, Lewis.”

I pushed the wet rag off my face.

My heart pounded. Acrid taste far back in my throat. Stomach aflop. Urgent messages dove and turned like sharks in my intestines.

“ Murgh, ” I said, hand wrapped around his throat.

“Okay, okay. ”

I rolled away. Ears ringing. Every nerve ending felt as though sandpaper had been taken to it.

“Tea on the floor by your right hand.”

I groped and found it. Drank it off in four swallows. It got refilled. It got redrunk.

“You half human now? Regained the power of speech, at least?”

I thought so. But when I opened my mouth, we found out I hadn’t.

“Let’s try it again, then.”

Coffee this time, black and strong. I heard cars tearing past outside, ten o’clock news from the radio in the front room. New riots on college campuses in California and the Midwest. An investigation of alleged racial discrimination on military bases in Vietnam. Twelve “Freedom Riders” in Alabama had been pulled from their bus and beaten.

“Welcome back, Lewis. Had me worried.”

“I feel like hammered horse shit. Like the inside of someone’s shoe.”

“Well, there’s an empty gin bottle and an open bottle of some kind of pills here by the bed. Could have something to do with that.”

“Kind of dumb, huh?”

“Kind of. May not be the dumbest thing you’ll do in your life, but it’s on the list.”

I put an experimental leg over the edge of the bed. Then another. Hoisted myself experimentally to a sitting position. Had to remember: keep good notes. The experiment was a success. I was reinventing the world.

“I don’t suppose you looked in the icebox.”

“As a matter of fact I did, hoping for beer.”

“Anything in there?”

“A pizza with green stuff growing on it. Lots of green stuff. Not oregano or basil, far as I could tell. And a pot of something that may once have been chili.”

“Green stuff on that too?”

“No. But it’s got a nice thick layer of white on top. Penicillin, possibly.”

“I need food.” For the love of God, Montressor.

“Thought you might.”

The experimental legs managed to carry me behind him into the kitchen. I smelled it before we got there. Looking down to be sure I wasn’t drooling all over my feet.

Fried chicken from Jim’s. Frankie DeNoux’s home away from home. Bottom part of the paper bag several shades darker from grease.

“You want plates?”

Yeah, right. And get down the crystal and china too.

Next morning, I called Sam Brown from a phone booth on Claiborne by a school painted pale blue and tangerine, the kind of color scheme I always think of as island pastel, part of the city’s Caribbean heritage.

I said who I was and asked if he had anything for me.

“For you? You better believe it. You’re tall man in the forest right now, Lewis. Word came down. Happen to be free this afternoon about two?”

I told him I thought I could arrange it.

“You sure you don’t need to check your schedule, now?”

“Well, you know how it is: business first.”

“I do, I do. Shame so many people’ve already forgotten that.”

“What’s on?”

“Second.”

It took me a moment. “And who’s on first.”

“Why you are, man. I just told you that.”

“You know, Brown, maybe we’re in the wrong line. We could work up a few more gags, get us some bowlers and checkered suits and have our own TV show.”

“Or at least a guest spot now and then on some white man’s.”

“There is that.”

“And of course we’d have to be careful what we said, or we’d wind up blackballed like Bobbye Belle, having to move overseas because we couldn’t get work in clubs here.”

“Never happened. I read an article about it. All just a misunderstanding.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“So what work do we have?”

“Straight escort job. In and out, an hour, hour and a half tops.”

“Whose pony are we riding?”

“Elroy Weaver.”

A few years back, with a couple of other guys Weaver had formed Black Adder. It was the first truly militant organization for blacks, short on rhetoric, long on action. Adder had lots of enemies both inside the establishment, where the three of them spent a lot of time, accompanied by their Harvard lawyer, in court proceedings, and alongside the establishment, where repeated threats and escalating violence issued from white individuals and groups. Adder probably had as many enemies among its own community: older blacks terrified of rocking the boat any harder, younger ones convinced all we could do was burn the whole field down and start with a new crop.

“Big pony,” I said.

“Ain’t it though? A real dark horse. Weaver’s coming in for a strategy-and-position conference with an undisclosed local organization. The Black Hand, we think. Whole thing’s been kept quiet, Weaver’s even using an assumed name. We pick him up at Moisant, deliver him to a motel out on Airline. That’s it. From that point on, the local group takes over.”

“Who’s picking up the tab?”

“Not a question I ask.”

“Who’s on this, and how many?”

“Six of us. Our best men. I’ll be out there myself-though you won’t see me till we shut it down. Maybe after that we can talk about your future here at SeCure.”

“Where am I in the line-up?”

“Honor guard, Lewis. Man says he wants you there in the car by him.”

Which is where, four hours later, I found myself.

Elroy Weaver was a small man, wiry, with still, dark eyes that stayed on whatever he directed them toward, and below those eyes, a mouth quick to smile or laugh. He’d come off the plane with only a shoulder bag, down the ramp directly to me.

“Glad you made it, Lewis.” He held out his hand.

Not much talk in the car. He asked me a few questions about myself, told me how much he missed his family, being away so much like this.

“You have family, Lewis?”

I told him about my parents and sister Francy up in Arkansas.

“See them often? Keep in touch?”

I shook my head, and he didn’t pursue it.

“No family of your own, then.”

No. Though not long after this, much to my surprise, there would be.

Just past Williams Boulevard a station wagon had tried to beat an oncoming van and got caught halfway through its turn, racking up a couple of other vehicles as it slewed across two lanes and into the cross street. We pulled up and took our place in line. Police and wreckers were clearing the road. Elroy sat watching the operation quietly.

This is what would happen: I’d go into the downtown library to look for another book by Camus and the librarian at the information desk would be named Janie. She’d be getting ready to leave for the day, for some reason I’d ask her, and before I knew it we’d be across the street drinking coffee.