Andrew Vachss - Two Trains Running

“His name?”

“Tom. That would be his name. Uncle Tom.”

“You know that’s not… I mean, look at you, in this hotel. The way you talk to the guests, butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. Is it Tomming when you do that, Rufus?”

Rufus tilted his chin up, as if regarding the young woman before him from a new perspective. A smile no hotel guest had ever seen softened his eyes.

“No, baby,” he said. “That’s called putting the dogs to sleep.”

“Rufus,” the young woman said, as she stepped very close to him, “if you be so two-faced, why do you want to show me the secret one?”

“Because a woman like you, a fine, strong woman, an African woman, she doesn’t want a clown for her man.”

“You’re not my-”

“Not now, I’m not,” Rufus said. “But, one day, I’m going to be.”

Rosa Mae’s amber eyes widened in surprise. “Just like that, you say it.”

“Just like that, I mean it.”

“I know what you want, Rufus Hightower. Tom or no, a man’s a man.”

“A Tom’s no man, honeygirl. Anyway, you can’t be lumping us all together in your mind. That’s the way Whitey thinks about us, right? Niggers, all they want to do is dance, eat watermelon, get drunk, and make babies.”

“I don’t like that kind of-”

“That’s what they call us, girl. And they don’t care if you like it.”

Rosa Mae put her hands on her hips. “What does that have to do with-?”

“It’s the same kind of being dumb, Rosa Mae, no matter what you call it. Just ’cause you know some men, that don’t mean you know all men. You think what I want from you is under that skirt, you’re wrong.”

“You mean you’re like Mister Carl?” she said, grinning, trying to move the conversation to a safer place.

“I mean what I say, girl. I want you to be my woman. And not for one night, or one week.”

“We never even been-”

“What? On a date, like kids? I’m not a kid, I’m a man. A full-grown man. But I’ll take you anyplace you want to go, little Rose. Do anything you like to do.”

“You know what I really like to do?”

“Yeah,” he said, holding her eyes. “You like to read.”

“How did you-?”

“Because I know you,” Rufus said. “I really know you, Rosa Mae. And all I want is for you to know me.”

1959 October 04 Sunday 12:40

“How do you think he does it?” Cynthia asked.

“I don’t know, honey. I think it has something to do with the wiring in his brain. One time, when we were kids, I was trying to help him with his homework. It was arithmetic, I remember. Long division. Luther would just stare at the paper for hours. Like he couldn’t read numbers, or something. I told him Miss Bayliss-you never had her; she came in after you were past her grade-would never know who did the homework, just write down what I told him. And Luther, out of nowhere, he says to me that Miss Bayliss has a baby.”

“What was so-?”

“Miss Bayliss wasn’t married, Cyn. But she left, in the spring, before school was out. To have the baby, people said.”

“You’re saying Luther knew that?”

“He did. And right after that, he started to know when people were lying, too. He’d just blurt it out. One time, Victor came to the clubhouse with this whole stack of magazines. He said he stole them, right out of Mr. Titleman’s store. He had candy, too. Enough for everyone. And a model-airplane kit. Now, Victor wasn’t just bragging, Cyn. He had the loot, okay?

“Out of nowhere, Luther pipes up, ‘No!’ We asked him what he was talking about, and he said Victor never stole that stuff. Victor hauled off and punched him, right in the face. But Luther didn’t cry. He never would, no matter what anybody did to him.

“I was… upset, I guess. I mean, I could stop outsiders from picking on Luther, but Vic, he was with us. In our club and everything. So I… I had to find out. I went down to Mr. Titleman’s store myself. I could always get people to talk. Probably they felt sorry for me, being a cripple and all.”

“Beau!”

“Come on, Cyn. We don’t hide from the truth, you and me. Anyway, I said to Mr. Titleman, Gee, Victor sure had himself a lot of magazines, and a new model airplane, too. I was a little worried, saying that, because if Victor really had stolen the stuff it would be like ratting him out. I had a whole story ready, about how Victor had gotten it all from some big kid none of us knew. But Mr. Titleman just busts out laughing. He says, ‘Yeah, that boy walked in here with a five-dollar bill, and walked out broke.’

“After that, I got Victor alone. He didn’t want to tell me, but I got him in a lock and told him I’d break his arm if he didn’t. That’s when he admitted he’d gotten the money when his uncle came to visit the family for the first time ever. A big shot, from Chicago, the uncle. He gave Victor a fin, just like that.”

“How come Victor lied about it?”

“All the kids were stealing stuff then. But Victor, he was too chicken to do it himself. When his uncle gave him that money, he saw his chance.”

“That was horrible, hitting Luther like he did.”

“Yeah. But I could see, right then, it could get even worse if I didn’t do something. So I told Luther it had to be a secret, just between us. Luther, he could keep a secret. I told him, anytime he knew someone was lying, he could tell me, but nobody else. And ever since then, he never has.”

“But, Beau, you already knew Lymon was-”

“What Luther’s got is a gift, Cyn. I figure, a gift like that, it just shows up one day; it could just as easy go away, too. So, every once in a while, I like to check.”

“You’re not fooling anyone, Beau.”

“What?”

“You didn’t want Lymon to be lying. You wanted there to be some… explanation, for him talking to Shalare. If Luther had said he was telling the truth, you would have… I don’t know.”

“You always know,” Beaumont said.

1959 October 04 Sunday 12:58

“Tomorrow’s my night off,” Tussy said.

She listened silently as the voice at the other end of the line droned on, occasionally nodding her head as if the speaker were in the room with her.

“I’m sorry, Armand. You know I’d do it if I could. Have you tried Wanda?”

She sipped her coffee from a daisy-patterned mug, the receiver held against her ear by an upraised shoulder. A cigarette smoldered in an ashtray on the yellow Formica counter.

“What about Ginny?” she asked.

As Armand continued to plead his case, Tussy put the cigarette to her lips and took a shallow drag.

“I have a date,” she finally said. “No, it isn’t anyone you know.”

You never miss your water until the well runs dry, she thought to herself, remembering one of her mother’s favorite sayings.

“No, I can’t make it another night, Armand. We’ve got reservations.”

Another shallow drag. Another sip. Then, “What difference does it make where, Armand?”

Tussy poured the dregs of her coffee into the sink, ran the tap to clean out the cup before she placed it on the rubberized drying rack.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” she said. “I’ll see you Wednesday night, okay?”

1959 October 04 Sunday 14:01

“You work for Mr. Beaumont?” the willowy brunette asked. She was dressed in a tasteful dark-cranberry business suit over a pale-pink blouse, wearing a minimum of expertly applied makeup. Her heart-shaped face was fine-boned, dominated by deceptively vulnerable eyes the color of burnt cork, framed by a pair of cat’s-eye glasses. “I’ve never seen you before,” she said.

“You see everybody who works for him?”

“Probably everybody but that sister of his, sooner or later,” the woman said, her face composed, not reacting to Dett’s ignoring her question. “And the big man himself, of course. Most of them aren’t regulars. After all, this is the highest-priced house in the county. Most of those boys, they can only come here when they’re flush.”