Leonard Michaels - The Collected Stories

“It’s much too hot, but the glove is mine, mister.”

She rested her weight on one leg and wiped her brow with the glove she had. They watched her do it, the smallest of them watched her, and she moved the glove slowly to her brow again and drew it down her cheek and neck. She could think of nothing to say, nothing to do without expressing impatience. Green eyes changed the subject. “You live there.” He pointed toward her building.

“That’s right.”

A wooden front door with a window in it showed part of the shadowy lobby, mailboxes, and a second door. Beyond her building and down the next street were warehouses. Beyond them, the river. A meat truck started toward them from a packing house near the river. It came slowly, bug-eyed with power. The driver saw the lady standing in front of the boys. He yelled as the truck went past. Gears yowled, twisting the sound of his voice. She let her strength out abruptly: “Give me the glove, Francisco.”

The boy shook his head at the truck, at her lack of civilization. “What you give me?”

That tickled the hat. “ Vaya, baby. What she give you, eh?” He spoke fast, his tone decorous and filthy.

“All right, baby,” she said fast as the hat, “what do you want?” The question had New York and much man in it. The hat swiveled to the new sound. A man of honor, let him understand the terms. He squinted at her beneath the hat brim.

“Come on, Francisco, make your deal.” She presented brave, beautiful teeth, smiling hard as a skull.

“Tell her, Duke. Make the deal.” The hat lingered on “deal,” grateful to the lady for this word.

The sun shone in his face and the acknowledged duke sat, dull green eyes blank with possibilities. Her question, not “deal,” held him. It had come too hard, too fast. He laughed in contempt of something and glanced around at the wings. They offered nothing. “I want a dollar,” he said.

That seemed obvious to the hat: he sneered, “He wants a dollar.” She had to be stupid not to see it.

“No deal. Twenty-five cents.” Her gloves were worth twenty dollars. She had paid ten for them at a sale. At the moment they were worth green eyes’s life.

“I want ten dollars,” said green eyes, flashing the words like extravagant meaningless things; gloves of his own. He lifted his arms, clasped his hands behind his head, and leaned against the knees behind him. His belly filled with air, the polo shirt rolled out on its curve. He made a fat man doing business. “Ten dollars.” Ten fingers popped up behind his head, like grimy spikes. Keeper of the glove, cocky duke of the stoop. The number made him happy: it bothered her. He drummed the spikes against his head: “I wan’ you ten dol-lar.” Beans caught the beat in his hips and rocked it on the stoop.

“Francisco,” she said, hesitated, then said, “dig me, please. You will get twenty-five cents. Now let’s have the glove.” Her bag snapped open, her fingers hooked, stiffened on the clasp. Monkey leered at her and bongoed his knees with fists. “The number is ten dol-lar.” She waited, said nothing. The spikes continued drumming, Monkey rocked his hips, Beans pummeled his knees. The hat sang sadly: “Twany fyiv not d’nummer, not d’nummer, not d’nummer.” He made claves of his fingers and palms, tocked, clicked his tongue against the beat. “Twan-ny fyiv — na t’nomma.” She watched green eyes. He was quiet now in the center of the stoop, sitting motionless, waiting, as though seconds back in time his mind still touched the question: what did he want? He seemed to wonder, now that he had the formula, what did he want? The faces around him, dopey in the music, wondered nothing, grinned at her, nodded, clicked, whined the chorus: “Twany fyiv not t’nomma, twany fyiv not t’nomma.”

Her silk blouse stained and stuck flat to her breasts and shoulders. Water chilled her sides.

“Ten dol-lar iss t’nomma.”

She spread her feet slightly, taking better possession of the sidewalk and resting on them evenly, the bag held open for green eyes. She could see he didn’t want that, but she insisted in her silence he did. Tito spread his little feet and lined the points of his shoes against hers. Tomato noticed the imitation and cackled at the concrete. The music went on, the beat feeding on itself, pulverizing words, smearing them into liquid submission: “Iss t’nomma twany fyiv? Dat iss not t’nomma.”

“Twenty-five cents,” she said again.

Tito whined, “Gimme twenty-five cents.”

“Shut you mouth,” said the hat, and turned a grim face to his friend. In the darkness of his eyes there were deals. The music ceased. “Hey, baby, you got no manners? Tell what you want.” He spoke in a dreamy voice, as if to a girl.

“I want a kiss,” said green eyes.

She glanced down with this at Tito and studied the small shining head. “Tell him to give me my glove, Tito,” she said cutely, nervously. The wings shuffled and looked down bored. Nothing was happening. Twisting backward Tito shouted up to green eyes, “Give her the glove.” He twisted front again and crouched over his knees. He shoved Tomato for approval and smiled. Tomato shoved him back, snarled at the concrete, and spit between his feet at a face which had taken shape in the grains.

“I want a kiss,” said the boy again.

She sighed, giving another second to helplessness. The sun was low above the river and the street three quarters steeped in shade. Sunlight cut across the building tops where pigeons swept by loosely and fluttered in to pack the stone foliage of the eaves. Her bag snapped shut. Her voice was business: “Come on, Francisco. I’ll give you the kiss.”

He looked shot among the faces.

“Come on,” she said, “it’s a deal.”

The hat laughed out loud with childish insanity. The others shrieked and jiggled, except for the wings. But they ceased to sprawl, and seemed to be getting bigger, to fill with imminent motion. “Gimme a kiss, gimme a kiss,” said the little ones on the lowest step. Green eyes sat with a quiet, open mouth.

“Let’s go,” she said. “I haven’t all day.”

“Where I go?”

“That doorway.” She pointed to her building and took a step toward it. “You know where I live, don’t you?”

“I don’t want no kiss.”

“What’s the matter now?”

“You scared?” asked the hat. “Hey, Duke, you scared?”

The wings leaned toward the center, where green eyes hugged himself and made a face.

“Look, Mr. Francisco, you made a deal.”

“Yeah,” said the wings.

“Now come along.”

“I’m not scared,” he shouted, and stood up among them. He sat down. “I don’t want no kiss.”

“You’re scared?” she said.

“You scared chicken,” said the hat.

“Yeah,” said the wings. “Hey, punk. Fairy. Hey, Duke Chicken.”

“Duke scared,” mumbled Tito. Green eyes stood up again. The shoulders below him separated. Tito leaped clear of the stoop and trotted into the street. Green eyes passed through the place he had vacated and stood at her side, his head not so high as her shoulder. She nodded at him, tucked her bag up, and began walking toward her building. A few others stood up on the stoop and the hat started down. She turned. “Just him.” Green eyes shuffled after her. The hat stopped on the sidewalk. Someone pushed him forward. He resisted, but called after them, “He’s my cousin.” She walked on, the boy came slowly after her. They were yelling from the stoop, the hat yelling his special point, “He’s my brother.” He stepped after them and the others swarmed behind him down the stoop and onto the sidewalk. Tito jumped out of the street and ran alongside the hat. He yelled, “He’s got the glove.” They all moved down the block, the wings trailing sluggishly, the young ones jostling, punching each other, laughing, shrieking things in Spanish after green eyes and the lady. She heard him, a step behind her. “I give you the glove and take off.”