Ed Lacy - The Woman Aroused

“Fight? Don't know what you're talking about, mac,” he said, obvious hostility in his voice. There was a small silence in the bar and I knew everybody knew what I was talking about.

“There was a scene outside here last night and...”

“I don't know nothing about what goes on outside,” he said. “125th Street is one of the busiest streets in...”

“Cut the chamber of commerce bunk,” I said, giving my voice a crisp executive edge, to see if he was impressed.

He looked me over for a moment, said softly, “I don't know what you're talking about, chief. We run a good place here, no fights, ain't looking for no trouble.”

One thing about real expensive clothes, their cost always stands out—in a quiet, conservative way. I knew he thought I was “class,” to use the trite word, he was impressed by the two-hundred-dollar suit, the thirty-dollar hat, and the Countess Mara tie I was wearing. He was running his eyes over my clothes. I said, “There isn't going to be any trouble. The man can help me, perhaps.”

He didn't say anything and the Saturday-afternoon drinkers were watching us with interest. The barkeep stood there, his face troubled. I snapped, “Look here, this man can do me a considerable favor, by merely talking to me. I'm rather anxious to find him. Of course if you won't help, I can go to some friends on the liquor board. That could be messy, possibly mean revoking your license or...”

“You just want to talk to him?” he asked suddenly.

“That's all. In fact, if it turns out he can help me, I'm willing to pay him for his time.”

The bartender called out to somebody at the other end of the bar, “Ed, go around 126th Street and find Ollie. Tell 'em I want to see him—now.” He turned to me as the man left the bar, said, “He'll be back in a couple minutes. Like a shot?”

I said no and lit a cigarette. He moved away to wait on a customer, then returned and put his big fat head next to mine, whispered, “You know how it is up here, got to be careful with them.” I was astonished at the fellow's gall: this was supposed to be the protective intimacy of two white skins in a black ghetto—made by white skins.

I didn't know how to answer him without getting angry, so I turned my back, glanced around the bar. It was fairly crowded and they were all watching me, without looking directly at me, of course. Although I'd been to Harlem many times, mostly to see the shows or night spots, this was the first time I felt like a white man in Harlem.

In about five minutes the man returned with Ollie, who was the fellow who had helped hold Lee last night. He came over to me, said in a surly voice, “What you want?”

I nodded toward a vacant table and we sat down. I asked, “Where can I find the man who was beaten up last night?”

“What you want with him? What you coming back to start a mess? Willie wasn't doing nothing and now...” He stopped, then muttered, “Ain't it enough he's beat up?”

“I'm sorry about the beating, and I'm not here to start anything. I want him to help me. He... eh... seemed to know the young lady. I'd like to find out what he knows about her.”

“You was with her, you ought to know about her.”

“Look, let's not argue about what I ought to know. I assure you I'm very sorry about the beating your friend Willie got last night. I don't know why it happened, but I'd like very much to find out. I won't cause him the slightest trouble. I only wish to speak to him.”

Ollie looked at me for a moment, then said, “Well... Okay, I'll take you to him. Maybe do some good. His wife is a little angry, you know, Willie coming home beat up and some big mouth telling her he was annoying a white chick. My God that gal sure hits.”

As we stood up, I said, “I'll make it worth your while, and Willie's.”

“You don't have to do that,” he said with a kind of weary dignity.

We walked down Lenox Avenue to 123rd Street, and west to a brownstone. Ollie rang the bell three times and soon a young, slender, coffee-colored girl opened the door, said, “It's you, huh.” She didn't think much of Ollie.

When she saw me her eyes became uneasy. Ollie said, “Come on, Daisy, let us in, this man wants to talk to Willie. He's the guy with the lady last night. He can tell you it wasn't nothing messy. How about that, mister?”

“That's right,” I said. “The young lady is a little... well... excitable at times, high strung. She turned on Mr.... Willie, for no apparent reason.”

“I'm Willie's wife,” the girl said, standing aside. When she moved she had a certain grace about her, and if she had the clothes, she would have been a very attractive kid.

I followed Willie inside the house. We went up two flights of stairs that were covered with a shabby green carpet, the girl following us. The inside of the rooming house seemed clean and neat, but it smelt of too much use, of too many people living there. As we turned into a room the girl said to me, “You'll have to excuse the way things look... with Willie sick I haven't been able to tidy up.”

The room was very small, with one window, and every bit of space being used. In a double bed that took up 90% of the room, Willie was lying, his face still bruised; and on the one chair, the narrow chest of drawers, and from a wire stretched across the room, clothes and towels were hanging. The room was smaller than my bathroom and I wondered how anybody could live in one room. (Of course I didn't know I was shortly to be living in rooms even worse than this one.)

Willie was astonished, and upset, on seeing me and as he sat up, he groaned, and his face filled with pain. Ollie said, “This man came over to the ginmill, said he wanted to see you, says you can help him. Says he ain't for making no trouble.”

“First he'd better explain to Daisy about...”

“He's already told me,” the girl said. “Although it don't make good sense, a woman beating up a man.” It made me sad to see she had bad teeth, when she spoke.

“She's an unusual woman,” I said. There wasn't any place to sit, so I stood. Willie, who was wearing torn underwear, pulled the sheets up to his chin, looked at me, wondering what I wanted. “About last night,” I went on. “I'd like to know what you said to the young lady that caused her to turn on you. I...”

“So you were speaking to this white chick!” Daisy said.

“Aw, take it easy, baby,” Willie told his wife. “I wasn't doing nothing out of the way.” He turned to me, “Look Mr....?”

“Lamont. Tony Lamont,” I said, giving him a phoney name for no reason.

“Look Mr. Lamont, I only asked if she was the girl we'd taken in over in Venice. That's all, and you saw what she did. She must be the same one, never mistake a girl so strong and tall as she is, built like a man—around the shoulders, that is. And no mistaking that face... I mean that nose that looks like it was just stuck on.”

I said, “I've been a friend of this young woman for some time. But she rarely speaks, acts rather strange. I thought if I could find out more about her, someone who knew her, why... I might be able to help her. Now assuming this is the same girl you think....”

“She got a tattoo on her left arm?” Willie asked.

I nodded eagerly—at last I was getting someplace.

Willie smiled. “Knew it was her.”

“Do you know her name?”

Willie shook his head. “No, we used to call her Liebchen, that's kraut for darling. See Mr. Lamont, back in '45 I was with an MP outfit in Italy. Bari, Foggia, Rome, Venice... I lived in all the big cities there. Lived fine. It was real great.”

He paused, looked around the shabby room for a moment as if I suddenly wondering why he had ever returned to Harlem.