William Kennedy - Chango's Beads and Two-Tone Shoes

When they left the church basement Quinn said, “Do you want to die, Tremont?”

“Not me. I want to go get a taste and then the world’s gonna look just fine.”

“The world’s after you. You’re a wanted man and sooner or later they’ll find you. You have to surrender yourself. I talked to Lieutenant Fahey about you and your gun, and I also talked to a top lawyer who’ll represent you. If you come in on your own they treat you differently than if they find you on the street with a machine gun.”

“AR-15 ain’t a machine gun.”

“You want to die, Tremont?”

“I’m gonna live to be ninety-seven like John D. Rockefeller. Me and him got a lot in common.”

“John D. didn’t drink.”

“Yeah, we didn’t agree about that one.”

“All right, we get the gun and meet Doc Fahey and you tell your story. Tremont, this is a way out; or else they’ll be on you in packs. It’ll be like a foxhunt.”

“They shoot the fox?”

“The dogs get him.”

They were walking on Chapel Street, half a block from the Times Union , and Quinn considered going up to the city room to brief Markson on his encounters. But another reporter was covering the Palace, and Quinn had time to write everything else for the final before deadline. If not, he’d call and dictate it. Except for Tremont’s story. Now he had to put Tremont together with Doc. A car pulled to the curb alongside them and Matt leaned out the window.

“Hey,” he said, and he got out of the car. “Tremont, you keep disappearing. Where’d you go after Trixie’s? We looked all over.”

“Came to the protest,” Tremont said.

“He sang a song,” Quinn said. “They would’ve lynched him if I didn’t get him out of there.”

Matt reported to Quinn on getting George and Vivian to the Cody concert, and the surprise arrival of his father, after being kicked out of the Ann Lee. “More payback by the machine,” Quinn said.

“Where’s your gun?” Matt asked Tremont.

“Down on Bleecker Street.”

“You took it out of the locker?” Quinn said.

“He took it and he used it,” Matt said. “Didn’t you tell him, Tremont?”

“Never got a chance. I shot two fellas beatin’ on Rosie. Didn’t hurt ’em much.”

“The police gotta be looking for him,” Matt said.

“I was with the Mayor when he got a call about a political assassin at the Four Spot,” Quinn said. “But they had you wearing two-tone shoes, Tremont.”

“That ain’t me,” Tremont said. “I got me these holy priest shoes.” He lifted his right foot toward Quinn.

“I got Tremont’s two-tones,” Matt said. “We swapped.”

“The priest is a sport,” Quinn said. “Listen, I set up a meeting with Doc Fahey. We need that gun.”

“I’ll come along,” Matt said, and he told Nick Brady he was off duty as a chauffeur, and the three walked to Quinn’s car and headed toward Bleecker Street. Downtown was as empty as four o’clock in the morning.

“I don’t like this surrender business,” Tremont said.

“You don’t like dying either, am I right?”

“They ever get me inside they’ll keep me there.”

“You’ve got a sharp lawyer, Jake Hess. He’s close to the Mayor, but he’s a straight arrow, and he’s taking you on. He knows your whole story.”

“Nobody knows my story.”

“We’re trying.”

“You talked to the Mayor about me?”

“I did. I told him you were being set up. It’s out in the open.”

“He know my name?”

“Only your shoes.”

“I saw Zuki at the protest,” Tremont said.

“You should’ve told me,” Quinn said. “Roy is in jail.”

“What happened?”

“They arrested him at the Palace after that kid died.”

“What kid?”

“White kid. Hit on the head or pushed down balcony stairs by black kids.”

“They ain’t sayin’ Roy pushed him.”

“I don’t know.”

“Roy didn’t do that.”

“All I know is they busted him and five other black guys.”

“Open season on the Brothers,” Tremont said.

On Bleecker Street maybe ten men were drinking on the sidewalk in front of Hapsy’s. Hapsy never let customers linger after they made a buy. He was a supply depot — booze, wine, and sneaky pete after hours, but tonight he was the emergency room, only place open down here. Quinn parked a block away. Chloe’s Diner on the corner of Green was open, a pay phone.

“Where exactly is that gun, Tremont?” Quinn asked.

“I couldn’t describe it. I gotta show you.”

Quinn parked and slid the notebook he’d been scribbling in all day into his suitcoat pocket and the three walked to the corner. Quinn went into Chloe’s and called Doc and told him where they were, then they walked up Bleecker, Tremont leading.

“This is where Tremont shot those thugs,” Matt said. “That’s their truck.” He pointed to the corpse of the white panel truck — shattered windshield, three flat tires, holes in the hood. “Tremont left his mark.”

“Impressive,” Quinn said, trying to calculate what this freelance shooting might do to Tremont’s surrender.

A black Chevy with four white men came up Bleecker from Green, moving slowly, the whites looking out at the black men on Hapsy’s sidewalk through closed windows. People were sitting on the stoops of the old brick houses, some of the oldest in town, basking in tension. The light was almost gone, streetlights on now. The men at Hapsy’s were in their twenties, a few teens (Hap didn’t card people), some middle-aged, no women. Matt recognized three youths from the Four Spot. Music was blaring from a parked car and Stevie Wonder was uptight, everything’s all right.

Tremont stopped at an alley three doors east of Hapsy’s and greeted one of the drinkers, none of whom Quinn knew, and they were not smiling. What’s whitey doin’ on this block tonight is their question. Quinn saw another car parking behind his car, no one getting out of it. Tremont walked into the shadows of the alley toward a backyard piled with trash and a mountain of cardboard, Hapsy’s bottle boxes? Quinn and Matt followed but Quinn turned back to wait on the sidewalk, and three young blacks moved toward him with querulous eyes, and now comes the game. Quinn has been walking this block for two years, writing about blacks, and who gives a goddamn? Well, a lot of blacks, some whites, a few editors, no politicians. Most people were antagonistic or skittish about what he wrote, knee-jerk racism, fear of the pols. But no amount of allegiance to black life could prevent Quinn from being a target of black rage here tonight, because he’s just another white mother. Don’t give me any progressive bullshit, shove your sympathy, get off my streets is the departure point for the future, the abiding revolutionary code, I love you, brother, but I’ll meet you on the barricades. Nothing to be done. Quinn is as color-coded as they are.

One black youth said, “What’s happenin’?”

“Where?”

“In the alley.”

“They’re investigating.”

“What?”

“The situation.”

“What situation?” The man tucked in his shirttail, streamlining.

“Nobody knows the situation.”

“What situation you talkin’ about?”

“There’s a dead baby,” Quinn said.

“White baby?”

“Nobody knows. My friend’s looking for it.”

“Which friend?”

“The black man.”

“That’s Tremont,” another black said. “It’s Tremont’s baby?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then why’s he lookin’ for it?”

“Ask him. The baby means nothing to me. It’s dead. There’s a good chance it isn’t even there.”