Ishmael Reed - The Last Days of Louisiana Red

“I want to see the head man!!” Street says.

“I’m sorry, but you have to have an appointment; Papa is a busy man.”

“Be quiet, you bushwa bitch! I can see him any time I want. Do you know who I am? Don’t you recognize my picture? Haven’t you seen my picture all over?”

“I know that you’re Ed Yellings’ son, but this is a new operation.”

Ms. Better Weather tries to stand between them and LaBas’ office door. Player slaps her to the floor, threatening, “Out of my way, yo filthy ho.”

LaBas rushes into the room. “What’s going on here?”

He goes over and helps a sobbing Ms. Better Weather up, smoothing the forehead above her arched eyebrows.

“I told them you were out, Pop.”

“That’s all right. These vermin know nothing about protocol. They’re used to just popping up like burnt toast.”

“Why, you …” Almost as a reflex Shoot & Cut goes for his knife.

“Put that back, Shoot,” Street exhorts his follower, who has a real vicious look on his face.

“I thought I’d come in and look over my father’s business, LaBas, if you don’t mind. Let me introduce my Seven: Hog Maw, so-named because he carries around a greasy hog maw for good luck; Player, who at the height of his career had twenty-five hos on the block; Skag, the man who introduced uppers to Kiddie land …”

“You needn’t hand me any vile biographies. State your business and leave. I have no time to discourse with idlers. Ms. Better Weather, why don’t you go to lunch at Berkeley House? I’ll join you there momentarily. Order me a lobster.”

(Ms. Better Weather exits)

“I’ll talk to you, Street, but first dismiss your men.”

(Street pauses) “O.K., fellows, you wait outside.”

(They exit, grumbling)

Street swaggers over, all rude, punkish, smelling himself, and slumps into a black lounge placed in the outer office for the comfort of visitors.

LaBas sits on the edge of the desk, legs crossed, arms folded.

Street gazes about the room. “Nice layout you got here. Swell pictures on the wall. A sweeping view of the bay and San Francisco, outside a Japanese garden. Not bad at all. Built on the sweat and blood of the people.”

“How would you know? The heaviest thing you ever lifted was your prick. Everything you do is thought out by your prick.”

(Street glares) “You got one of them New York silver tongues. Somebody’s going to mind it one of these days.” (Lights up a joint)

“Don’t smoke that thing in here. We don’t smoke on the job.”

Street continues to smoke. LaBas walks over and knocks it from his lips. Street starts to rise, but thinks better of it.

“We’re going to have to do something about your ill-humoredness, LaBas. In fact it may not be too long before you’re out of a job. The way I see it, this Gumbo thing you got here belongs to me. My father started it. The way I figure it, you and Wolf were merely holding it for me while I was away in Africa learning theory.”

“Your father left this place to Wolf. Since he hadn’t achieved Mastery, our Board asked me to take it on. Balking, pestering creditors were lined up outside. I was the only one who could stave off the subpoenas, and get the vats boiling Gumbo again, so to speak.”

“I won’t hear any of this. Signed papers. Contracts. Lawyers. Those things mean nothing to me. Nothing. This belongs to me.” (Rises, walks over and knocks over a lamp) “Everything in here belongs to me.”

(Wolf enters)

“Pop, what’s going on?”

Street, sarcastically: “Well, if it isn’t my dear brother, Wolf.”

“How are you, Street?”

“I’m doing fine. I guess you saw my pictures in the papers, you saw all of that, didn’t you. The clapping. Everywhere I go there’s lots of clapping.”

“Your brother has called me an intruder, Wolf. He says that the Business belongs to him. He wants to have the Argivians take over.”

“He wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“Wolf, what are you saying? Why, we’re brothers. We don’t need this… this man from New York running our company. Why, he talks real fast. Real fast.”

“You don’t understand, Street. Gumbo is what’s up front, but the Business involves much more than mere Gumbo. Much more. Our Business is secret Business.”

(Street rises, walks over to his brother and puts an arm around his shoulders) “Hey, man. This is me, Wolf. This is your brother Street. Remember when we used to go to parties together? All the girls we used to take up to Grizzly Peak. The dances at the Claremont? Hiking. Wolf, you got to go with me, your brother. We have to stick together against … against them!”

“We’re grown now, Street. We are grown men, although you don’t seem to realize it. Our family has had its share of troubles. But now, for the first time, with LaBas at the helm, I feel that things don’t have to be so accursed. It’s not fate that’s holding us back. We just have to learn to cut it, Street; that’s what LaBas has taught me. Look at yourself, Street. You’re not getting any younger. Pretty soon you will be antiquated, your slogans and your ways. You can’t keep the Street Gang going forever. Already the kids are coming out — engineers and lawyers, scientists, builders, Street. All you knew how to do was to destroy. Maybe destruction was good then, it showed our enemies we meant business. But we can’t continue to be kids burning matches while the old folks are away. We have to buckle down.”

“So LaBas has got to you, huh? (pause) Well, brother, I didn’t want it this way, but this is the way it’s going to have to be. I’m going to take over this factory. Me and my Argivians. It belongs to me, and if you don’t yield what’s rightfully mine, then you’ll have to be prepared to fight.”

“But, Street (Wolf pleading), what good is bloodshed? We have contracts. You were out of the country. You didn’t take any interest in the Business, even ridiculed us behind our backs. I heard the reports from travelers how you were putting us down. Now that we are prosperous, you want to horn in on our enterprise. Our sacrifice. Street, we don’t need bloodshed.”

“We do! We always need bloodshed! You can see the blood dripping. It’s both immediate and symbolic, it moves people, the flowing red. You two have to work year round to get results; all I have to do is cut swiftly, accurately, and people will see what I mean. Pow! Bang!! Va-room!!! Boom!!!!”

(Street, angry, stalks out of the room. Wolf starts after him.)

“Let him go, Wolf.”

“What do you suppose got into him, Pop? He never even expressed interest in the Business before. Never came down here. And now he wants to take it over. Strange.”

“He’s not alone, Wolf. He’s being used. I know one thing, that’s a sorry evil crew he has with him — those seven. It’s a tribute to the people’s stupidity that they are regarded as heroes. In parts of Africa such men are stoned to death by the outraged mob, stripped and made to march through the village naked; in the Central African Republic they are beaten to death publicly — petty thieves, rapists, mackers, and all the rest of the raw sewage. Savages. True savages. I shudder to think of how they were disposed of in ancient Africa.”

“Why do you suppose it’s that way, Pop?”

“Slavery. The experience of slavery. I’m afraid it’s going to be a long time before we get over that nightmare which left such scars in our souls — scars that no amount of bandaids or sutures, no amount of stitches will heal. It will take an extraordinary healer to patch up this wound.”

(Pause)

“You know, Pop, maybe I should just tell him that we’re dissolving anyway and that there won’t be anything here for him to take over.”