Andrew Vachss - Two Trains Running

1959 October 05 Monday 12:29

“Take the chair, child.”

“Oh, no, Daddy. That’s your chair. I’ll be fine on this,” Rosa Mae said, carefully perching herself on an upended crate.

“Bother you if I smoke my pipe?” Moses asked, holding up a long-stemmed white clay model as if for her inspection.

“Daddy, you know I love the way that cherry tobacco smells.”

“Never hurts to have manners,” the old man said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Come on, gal. I know you didn’t give up your lunch break for no reason. What you want me to help you with?”

“Daddy Moses, what do you think of Rufus Hightower?”

“That boy? Why you be asking-? Oh, I see…”

Rosa Mae lowered her head for a moment, then turned her amber eyes on Moses. “That’s what I want to know, Daddy,” she said, very softly. “What do you see? Because, sometimes, I see him… different than the way other people do. At least, I think I do.”

“Rufus is a very intelligent young man,” Moses said, cautiously. “A lot smarter than he let most folks know. But that’s nothing so strange, gal. Our people been doing that since we was on the plantations.”

“Oh, I know that,” Rosa Mae said. “But that’s for dealing with white folks, not our own. Rufus, he… Daddy, sometimes, it seems like he is two different people. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“One minute, he all diddybop, right?” Moses replied. “Got his mind on nothing more than a bottle of wine, some sharp clothes, a nice car, and a piece of-excuse me, gal-and as many women as he can catch. Next minute, he all serious. Not preacher-serious, all righteous and stiff: serious like he got plans.”

“That’s it!”

“He been talking to you, child?”

“Well, sure. I mean-”

“Don’t go all country-girl on me, Rosa Mae,” the elderly man said, sternly. “You know what I mean when I say ‘talking to you.’ ”

“Yes, Daddy,” she said, meekly. “He’s been talking to me.”

“Both parts of him?”

“Yes! Oh, Daddy, I knew you’d understand. Sometimes when Rufus talks to me, he’s like all the others. You know what I mean.”

“Wants to be the boss rooster.”

“That’s him. That’s him sometimes. But other times, it’s like he really, truly… sees me. Not just… you know. Me. The real me.”

“You know what they say about a good burglar, little girl?”

“No, Daddy.”

“He can’t get in the door, he’ll try the window.”

“Yes,” Rosa Mae said, sadly. “My momma always told me that, only she said it different.”

“Your momma was done wrong by a man, honey. She just don’t want you to make her same mistake. That’s natural.”

“You know my momma?”

“Know her story, is all. She’s a whole lot younger than I am. We don’t be going to the same places.”

“My momma goes to church,” Rosa Mae said, tartly, smiling to take the edge off her words.

“So did I, child. Went every day when my Lulabelle had the cancer. Prayed and prayed. Spent so much time on my knees, I wore out the pants of my good suit. I promised God, You let my woman live, You can have whatever you want from me. Take me instead, You want that. But He didn’t listen to me then. And I don’t listen to Him now.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” Rosa Mae said, eyes misting. “I was only playing. And I should know better.”

“That’s all done, gal,” Moses said, drawing on his pipe. “Now it’s time for you to tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Whatever Rufus asked you. Or told you. Whatever it is that’s got you all upset.”

“You know the man who stays in 809? His name is-”

“Yeah, that’s Mr. Dett.”

“Yes. Rufus, he is very interested in that man. And what he asked me… what he asked me, would I look around his room. Not take anything,” she said, unconsciously putting her hand over her heart, “just tell him what I saw while I was cleaning.”

“Rufus don’t steal,” said the elderly man, surprising himself with his spontaneous defense.

“Oh, no, Daddy. It wasn’t nothing like that. I know it wasn’t.”

“So you did it.”

“Yes, sir. Yes, I did. And Rufus paid me, too. So I figure someone must be paying him.”

“Now, that sounds like the boy.”

“You mean, a hustler? I know he does that, Daddy. I know he brings things to men in their rooms. Even… you know. But that isn’t why he has me so confused. See, other times when Rufus talks to me, it’s… it’s like I said, he’s got plans.”

“And you in those plans?” Moses said, catching on.

“I… I think that’s what he’s saying. Daddy, did you know Rufus was a race man?”

“A lot of those young boys say they race men, but that’s just putting on a show for the girls.”

“I know. But Rufus, when he talks, it feels like truth to me, Daddy. I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, at least you told me something, child.”

“What’s that?”

“You got feelings for that young man. Real feelings. And you know what that means?”

“No…”

“Means I got to make it my business to take a closer look at him.”

1959 October 05 Monday 12:34

This is beautiful! Ace thought, as he was escorted into a large room with freshly painted white walls, furnished with a couch and two easy chairs, all covered in the same tan leatherette. A blond wood coffee table was set in front of the couch, a matching set of red glass ashtrays positioned at each corner.

“This is the President’s office,” Sunglasses said. “Just have a seat,” indicating one of the easy chairs. “He’ll be here in a few.”

The escort team positioned themselves at various points around the room.

“This is some setup you got here,” Ace said.

Nobody answered.

Like that, huh? he thought to himself. Okay, motherfuckers. You want ice, you got ice. He lit a Camel, leaned back in the chair, half-lidded his eyes.

As Ace ground out the butt of his cigarette in the red glass ashtray, a man of average height entered the room. He was wearing a fingertip-length black leather jacket over a black dress shirt, buttoned to the throat. His dark-blond hair was worn long on the sides and square-cut across the back. He looked to be in his early twenties, with what Ace thought of as a hillbilly’s face-narrow, long-jawed, with suspicious brown eyes. Lacy Miller himself, Ace thought. President of the Gladiators. Should I…?

The man in the leather jacket crossed the room and held out his hand, interrupting Ace’s thoughts. Ace got to his feet, and they shook. Lacy’s grip was perfunctory. Got nothing to prove to the likes of me, Ace thought, resentfully.

The President of the Gladiators stepped back and took the un-occupied armchair. As he settled in, the other gang members took seats, too. All except for Sunglasses.

“It’s still on for Wednesday night?” Lacy asked.

“The Hawks will be there,” Ace assured him.

“How many Hawks?”

“Well, I can’t say exactly. We’ve got seventeen counted, but there could be more. There usually is.”

“The Kings have got at least thirty men,” Lacy said, his tone indicating that he would not entertain a contradiction.

“Thirty niggers,” Ace said.

Sunglasses snorted.

“You think a nigger’s blade doesn’t cut as deep?” Lacy said, his voice mild and unthreatening.

“I didn’t mean nothing like that. Just that, well, the Hawks can hold their own, even if we’re outnumbered. We done it before. Plenty of times.”

“You know what that comes from, ‘holding your own’?” Lacy asked.

“Comes from?” Ace said, confused.

“Where it started,” Lacy said, patiently. “It came from the pioneers. The ones who went out west, a long time ago. They went out there to farm, or ranch, or pan for gold. To do that, you had to stake a claim. Sometimes, people would try and take it from you. Indians, maybe. Or white men too lazy to work for what they wanted. You had to fight them off your land. Hold your own, see?”