Joe Lansdale - Mucho Mojo

“Bullshit. I know you. You got pride.”

“Not everyone has had the chance to have pride, Captain Know-It-All. You don’t come with it built in. Like new cars, there are some options got to be installed.”

“Yeah, but there’s them that go out and get the options, use their own tools to put them in. Like your dad and my uncle. From what you’ve told me, your dad didn’t have it so easy.”

He hadn’t. His mother had died when he was eight, and his father had put him to work in the cottonfields, and when Dad didn’t pick the same cotton as a grown man, his father had put the horsewhip to him. I remember as a child seeing my father without his shirt, lying on the floor in front of the TV after a hard day’s work at his garage, and there were thin white lines across his back, scars from the whip. My father could neither read nor write. He never missed a day’s work. He never complained. He died with mechanic’s grease on his face and hands. I’m glad I never met my grandfather. I’m glad he was dead before I was born.

“I had advantages still, Leonard. I’m white. Even the worst of the whites, the white trash, have had it better than minorities.”

“Minorities are one thing. Choice is another. Check and see how many Orientals are on the welfare rolls. You ain’t gonna find many.”

“Check and see how many of those Orientals have ancestors were owned by white folks and sold on slave blocks. Frankly, Leonard, I think a Bible quotation is in order here. ‘Judge not least ye be judged.’ That’s close, anyway.”

“Yeah, well, I got one too. ‘Decide to be a fuckup, you’re gonna be a fuckup.’”

“What bible’s that in?”

“Leonard’s Bible.”

I shut my mouth and brooded. There was some truth in what Leonard said, but ultimately, in my mind, there’s no one more obnoxious and self-righteous than the self-made man. And no one more admirable.

Leonard told me to take a right and I did and we rolled off the ravaged blacktop and onto a smooth cement street with beautiful sweet gum trees and broad-limbed pecans skirting it on either side. The sunlight made bruise-blue shadows out of the trees and laid them on the street and behind the trees on either side were nice, inexpensive houses with clean side-walks leading up to them.

Leonard looked at the house and said, “See, ain’t everybody down here got to live in the garbage and walk the streets.”

“They got jobs, Leonard.”

“My point exactly.”

“Remind me to kill you in your sleep,” I said.

Soon the street gave up its trees, and there was just the blistering sunlight and on the right a couple acres of land and on it a parking lot and a whitewash church with a plain black-and-white sign out front that read FIRST PRIMITIVE BAPTIST CHURCH. REVEREND HAMIL FITZGERALD OFFICIATING.

Behind the church was a simple blue frame house with a well-tended lawn with a sprinkler spitting on it and onto a number of circular, brick-enclosed flower beds. In the driveway was a recently washed last year’s blue Chevy and parked nearby was a small blue-and-white bus with FIRST PRIMITIVE BAPTIST CHURCH painted on the side. The bus looked fairly old, and a few of the back windows had been replaced with plyboard. I figured if you scratched the blue-and-white paint deep enough, you’d find a yellow school bus underneath – one of those they used to call the short bus, the one the retarded kids rode to school.

I pulled up in the lot and parked.

Leonard said, “I see a church and I get to thinking how black folks are mostly taught how to accept their misery through God. It pisses me off.”

I didn’t say anything. We got out of the truck and Leonard looked at the church sign, said, “Never can figure that ‘Primitive’ part out. What’s that mean? Everybody carries spears?”

“Leonard,” I said. “You got a bad attitude. We find the Reverend, maybe I ought to do the talking.”

“A white guy?” Leonard said. “I don’t think so. Trust me, I know how to warm a guy like the Reverend up. I grew up here, remember. I can play the game, I have to.”

We walked alongside the church and on toward the house out back. Back of the church was green grass and a playground that broke into the side yard of the house. The air smelled like mowed grass and floral perfume.

We could hear a sound coming from the back of the church, a thumping sound, so we stopped to listen to it and to the sound of the sprinkler sputtering, and within seconds we both knew what the thumping sound was because we had both made that sound before.

It was the sound of fists striking a speed bag, quick and rhythmic, sweet and sure.

The sound came from an elongated, low-roofed addition to the back of the church, and from where we now stood, we could see the church was much larger than it appeared from the street. We walked toward the sound.

The back door was propped open, and we went in and down the hall, following our ears. We came to a closed door on the right, and the sound came from behind it. I opened the door and looked inside and felt the air-conditioning and liked it.

It was a small but nice gymnasium. The floor was smooth and shiny and there was a basketball goal at one end, and against one wall some pull-out bleachers. In a corner of the gym was a speed-bag prop, and striking the bag was a bare-to-the-waist black man wearing blue jogging pants and black boxing shoes. He was fortyish, about five-ten with thick shoulders and sweaty skin and close-cropped graying hair. He looked strong, if a bit thick in the middle, but the middle was solid as a truck tire, and the muscles in his arms and chest coiled and released as he hit. He moved quickly and expertly and the bag sang to him as he did.

We stood there for a moment, watching him work, admiring it, then he paused for a moment, caught the bag with one hand, blew out some air, turned his head and saw us.

“I do something for you gentlemen?” he asked, and started slipping off the bag gloves.

We walked over to him and he tossed the gloves aside and we shook hands and introduced ourselves. He turned out to be the Reverend Fitzgerald, his own sweet self.

“You look pretty good,” I said.

“Golden Gloves when I was a kid,” he said, but not to me. He was studying Leonard. “I teach some of the neighborhood boys. I know you?” he asked Leonard.

“I don’t think so,” Leonard said.

“Mr. Fitzgerald,” I said. “We’re looking for a man we’ve been told works here. Illium Moon.”

“Illium?” he said. He used his hands to wipe sweat from his chest, then wiped his hands on his pants. “Haven’t seen him in days. Does a bit of handy work around here now and then. He’s retired, so he doesn’t want anything steady. Sort of chooses his own hours. I pay him a little. He helps run some of the children’s programs from time to time. Assistant-coaches volleyball and baseball.”

“Drives a bookmobile too,” I said.

“That’s right,” he said. “But not for the church. That’s his own project. He’s got all manner of projects.”

“When did you see him last?” Leonard asked.

“I don’t know,” Fitzgerald said. “Week or two ago. You men don’t look like cops.”

“Aren’t,” I said. “We just need to find him on a personal matter.”

“Serious?” Fitzgerald asked.

“He was a friend of Leonard’s uncle. We’d just like to talk to him. Know where he lives?”

“Out in the country. Somewhere off Calachase Road. To be honest, I’m not entirely certain. Here, let’s step into my office.”

We followed Fitzgerald out of the gym and down the hallway and into a small paneled room with a desk and the expected religious paintings: Jesus on the cross. Jesus being baptized by John the Baptist. Some guy wrestling with an angel. On his desk Fitzgerald had one of those old clay ash-trays like get made at camp. It was gray-green and cracked and I had an idea about it and thought I’d warm him up. “Your kid make that?” I said.