Robert Tanenbaum - Reversible Error

Maus said in a not unfriendly tone, "Chile, get outta my face. I'se working."

"Oh, listen here, the man's tryin to talk black," she sang out, a look of mock amazement on her face.

"How I s'pose to talk, chile? Ain I soul?" replied Maus.

"Shit, no! You whiter 'n rice!"

"How you know that? Is you my momma?"

At this, a little kid giggled and there was a sprinkling of laughter from the crowd on the stoop. The black man with white pretensions was a familiar figure of fun in the community; this was a twist that some were prepared to find amusing.

"Hey, Sherril, tell him to show you his dick!" someone shouted from the car. The thin girl grinned and said, "Yeah, you got one o' them white-boy needle dicks?"

Maus said, "Honey, if I flash my rod, you think I was God. The sight of my meat would make you drop in the street. But you can't see how I hung, 'cause you too damn young. I don' wanna take the chance, I might scare you out yo' pants."

At this, general laughter, and a voice called, "He soundin' on you, Sherril."

The girl's mouth dropped and she placed her balled fists on her hips, preparatory to returning fire, but at that moment Maus stiffened and moved away from the car. At the same time he pulled out his police ID card and clipped it to the front of his sweatshirt and drew his.38 from its belt holster.

The girl gave a little yelp of alarm and backed away. The crowd followed the direction of Maus's gaze upward, to where a window on the third floor had opened. Tecumseh Booth was out on the fire escape and looking out heavenward.

Some people stepped out on the street to get a better view, and somebody must have spotted Jeffers' head poking above the roof parapet, because the crowd started yelling to Booth that there was a cop above him. Booth reversed direction and began to climb down the steel flights.

Maus moved into position to intercept him and suddenly became aware that, as often happens in Harlem, about a thousand people had appeared on the street in the past five seconds. A broad man with a beard and wearing a knitted green-red-and-black tarn pushed in front of him, shouting, "What you want with him-what's he done?" Others in the crowd took up the cry. Someone yelled, "Get his gun!" Maus looked the man in the eye and said, "Hey, let me by, fella! I'm just doing the job here. We just want to talk with the guy."

The guy in question was stalled on the second-floor escape platform. Maus could barely make out the flapping glow of his white shirt. Some people were urging him to come down now, telling him he could get away, that there was only one cop on the street. Others were whistling and cheering. Maus heard a bottle smash behind him. His belly started to get tight.

Maus didn't hear the first shot. He saw Booth grip the platform rail and look around wildly. The second shot hit the platform itself and made it clang like a broken bell. The third shot ricocheted off the building, leaving a bright scar on the tan masonry. A woman screamed like a siren and the crowd went totally silent for a weird instant. Maus felt the pressure of a dozen pairs of angry eyes. "Motherfucker shot her!" shouted the bearded man.

Maus reached out and grabbed the man by his shirt and stuck the muzzle of his revolver under the man's nose. "Fool! Smell that gun! Did I shoot it?" The man's eyes went wide and he tried to back away. Maus gave him a push, which cleared a space in the middle of the crowd. He filled his lungs and shouted, "Somebody's tryin' to shoot him…"

The space disappeared as people swirled around him. His arms were pinned to his sides. He smelled sweat, perfume; he saw a huge black shape coming down the fire escape, shaking the whole structure; there were more shots, closer this time.

Maus fell, was trampled, he staggered to one knee. He saw Mack Jeffers lift Booth like a child up on his hip and fire shots down the street. People were yelling and running around in circles. Horns blared from the stalled traffic and there were sirens in the distance. Maus heard another shot and the scream of tires from a car tearing off down 144th Street. "Someone's coming," she blurted. "My boyfriend…"

He waved the knife in front of her face. His smile was a terrifying parody of the social expression he had flashed moments before. "Your boyfriend will have to take sloppy seconds today, bitch. I'll make sure you're greased up good for him, you whore! Get into the bedroom and take your clothes off!"

She wasn't wearing panty hose under her jeans, of course. He made her take a pair out of a drawer. He wanted a dirty pair, but she didn't have any. That made him angry.

He made her lie on the bed, cursing her all the time, saying the foulest things in a quiet conversational tone. He wrapped the panty hose around her head and then made her lie back and draw her knees up to her chest so that she was fully exposed.

The telephone rang. With the blood pounding in her ears and the wrapping around her head, she heard it only faintly. It must be Seth, she thought. He always calls before he comes over and he's only fifteen minutes away. She felt a thrill of hope; whatever he did, it couldn't last very long. Maybe the phone would frighten him away.

But he leaned over her and placed the tip of his blade hard against her chest, under the breastbone. "Make a noise and I'll cut your heart out," he said, and then he answered the phone.

"Hello," he said. A pause. "This is the TV repairman." She heard the faint burble of Seth's voice from the phone speaker. The knife pressed harder. She felt a tiny trickle of something wet roll down her ribs, but whether it was sweat or blood she could not tell. "No, I don't think she can come to the phone now. I heard the shower going. Uh-huh. Well, sometimes these new sets go on the fritz right away, y'know? OK, I'll tell her. Bye."

He hung up. She felt the bed move. Her legs were getting stiff in the exaggerated sexual position he had demanded and she tried to ease them down, but he saw it and it made him angry. He moved closer to her on the bed. She felt the knife running lightly over her genitals. He was speaking hoarsely now, obviously excited, "You cunt, slut, you want it, you can't wait for it, can you?" She heard his zipper open. She felt his weight on her. She was being raped.

Maus climbed to his feet, shaking with the aftereffects of terror. Whatever it was, the incipient riot, was over. People stood on the street in small clutches, talking, and every doorway and window was thick with watchers. Booth was sitting in the unmarked car, shaking, holding his face, which had been cut by flying brick. Dugman was in the front, talking quietly into the radio, telling the dispatchers that no help was needed.

"What the fuck was that all about?" asked Maus.

Jeffers answered, "Ask Tecumseh, here. I think your friends don't like you anymore, Tecumseh."

Maus said, "Son-of-a-bitch! Needless to say, the shooter skipped."

Jeffers nodded and pointed across the street. "He shot from the first-floor window of that vacant building. The tin over the window's bent back. He took four shots and he stopped when I started shooting."

"Any chance…?"

"No way. He coulda gone out the back or up the roof. He coulda just walked out on the street and lost himself."

"How about that car that took off in a hurry? You think he was on board?"

Jeffers exchanged a look with Dugman, who put down his microphone and turned his attention to Tecumseh Booth.

"You know who it was, don't you?"

Booth looked at him mutely. Dugman reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette pack and matches, which he handed to Booth. The man lit one up and drew deeply on it. Dugman waited a minute or so and then repeated his question. Outside, the life of the street resumed as if nothing had happened.

Booth said, "Yeah, I guess."