Ed Lacy - Room To Swing

I drove along 125th Street, found an empty space, dropped a dime in the meter. One-twenty-fifth is something like a small-town main street; wait long enough and you must see somebody you know. I'd hardly got my pipe going when two clowns rushed over to the Jag, said, “Touie! How's every little thing?”

“I'm just here,” I said, shaking hands, wondering who they were. Turned out we'd been in the army together. I left the Jag and took them into Frank's, bought beers, and made a lot of small talk about that magic land—old times. I left after the second beer, drove back to 13151 Street, pressed the bell five times.

A small but spry-looking coffee-brown woman opened the door a moment later. Her face was old and her hands work-worn, but her eyes were young and she had an excited way of talking, gushing like an eager young thing. When I asked, “Mrs. James?” she said, “You must be the Chicago man Esther said was just here, my cousin Jane's friend. How is she? I keep meaning to write her but... Excuse me, step inside.”

The narrow hallway was in need of paint, a thready carpet ran up the wooden steps—a firetrap. We seemed to be alone and I said, “I don't know your cousin, Mrs. James,” and flashed my badge. “Ducking payment on that stove-refrigerator is the same thing as stealing.”

She seemed to age in a split second, to shrivel up as she fell against the wall—as if I'd socked her in the stomach. Her face was a sickly brown, and then her eyes got angry and she pulled herself together, was really boiling. “Why you goddam lousy stoolie! The 'man' downtown can always manage to find one of our folks to be a Judas! I never—”

“Cut that talk,” I snapped, both of us keeping our voices low, hers a hiss.

“Why?” she asked, sticking her thin face forward. “Why should I keep still? You going to hit me? Try it; I'll be the last brown woman you ever lay a hand on!”

“Mrs. James, take it easy. I'm only doing my job. Stop all the big talk about the 'man' and anybody threatening you. If you ran a store and somebody tried a skip on you, you'd be the first to raise the roof. Listen to me, you're a decent, hard-working woman, and I know you wouldn't think of stealing, but—”

“Stealing? That damn company is the crook! I paid $320 for that kitchen combination, plus interest and handling charges. Fifty dollars down and twenty a month. Now you listen to me! A month—one month, mind you—after I bought the combination I see the exact same thing in Macy's for $140! What do you think of that? I go down to the company and damn if they ain't selling it for $260 themselves. Well, I made up my mind I work too hard for my money to give it away. I've paid them f 150, plus their lousy charges, and that's all they're going to get!”

“Mrs. James, why do you get involved in these installment deals? It's always cheaper to buy anything outright from a big store.”

“You talk like you have a paper head I Where am I ever going to get $140 all at one time? I got to buy on installment. You think I have anything to spare on that little salary they pay me at the hospital? Talk sense, boy!”

I felt both lousy and angry—mad at her. Most of these installment joints make their money playing the poor for suckers. I was sore at her for being so dumb; she probably could have gone to a big department store and still bought the damn thing on time. But somehow it always turns out that the people who can afford to pay the least end up paying the most. Still, that wasn't my business. I said, “Look, Mrs. James, let's both of us talk some sense. You don't have to tell me how hard you work, that you're probably overpaying for your room, your food, and everything else. But nobody twisted your arm to make you buy this kitchen combination. Sure, you made a bad deal, but you're a grown woman and you signed a contract. I don't have to tell you the law is on their side. They can come up today and yank the combination out and you haven't a legal peep. It's a mess, but you got yourself into it with your eyes open. Now, you'd better decide what you're going to do—lose everything or get up to date on your payments.” The words had a rotten taste as I mouthed them.

She began to weep, hard tiny tears. “A person tries to live decent, get a little joy out of life and—”

“A punk sticking somebody up with a gun can say the same thing.”

“I'm not a crook! Don't you dare call me that. I never did a dishonest thing in my life! You... you... big black bastard!” Her wet eyes were glaring fiercely at me as she said, “There, I never called anybody that before— may God cut out my tongue—but I say it to you, you with a skin as dark as mine!”

I couldn't have felt worse if she'd spit in my face. I mumbled, “Lady, I'm only doing my job, a routine—”

“Job? Is it your job to torture and help swindle your own people? 'Man' downtown gets the pie and you croak about a job and take the crumbs. All right, tell 'em I'll send a money order tomorrow, get up on my payments. Now get out of my sight!”

“How much do you still owe?”

“About f 170. Get out of here, I said I'll pay.”

“How much can you pay today?”

“What you want, my blood?”

“Goddammit, stop the dramatics! I'm trying to help you. Maybe I can get them to make a settlement.”

“Well, even though I didn't intend to pay, I've been saving the payment money. I suppose I could give them a hundred dollars by the end of the week.”

“Is there a phone here?”

She nodded down the hall. There was a pay phone behind the steps. I phoned Bailey, told him, “Ted, I'm with Mrs. James. She's strictly a deadbeat. Ill and out of a job. I doubt if she'll be able to work for months. She owes $170 but thinks she can borrow $100 from a friend, if they'll settle. Otherwise, you'll have to take the combination back, and it's in rough shape. The hundred is all the dough she has in the world, all she can raise. I'd advise taking it. She can bring it down in a day or two.”

Ted said he'd check and phone me back. I told him to make it fast, to remind the company they'd already made a profit on the deal, that the combination was now selling for half of what they had charged her.

I lit my pipe and waited in the narrow hallway, neither of us talking. Mrs. James stared at me with sullen eyes, hating my guts, my good clothes. It was four seventeen. Fooling around with this two-bit case would make me miss Thomas.

Ted called back, said it was okay. He wanted to speak to the old lady and she told him she'd have the money in the mail by the end of the week. “Yes, yes. I understand. Positively. Yes!”

When she hung up, slamming the receiver down, I said, “Now, Mrs. James, when you pay make certain to get a receipt saying 'paid in full.' Or if you mail in the money, get a check from a bank and write on the back of it, 'Final and full payment for kitchen combination, as per agreement.' Next time you buy anything on time, think what you're doing first, and don't start whining afterward.”

“You, get out! You've done your 'job!'”

“I went out on a limb for you, saved you seventy bucks, Mrs. James.”

“You waiting for a tip?”

“Of course not, but at least, well... I did my best for you. I mean, I understand the spot you're in, we're all in.”

“Thank you. Thanks for nothing!”

I shrugged, put on my hat, and headed for the door. She-stood at the edge of the steps, still looking at me as if I were something a dog had dropped. I walked out, slamming the door hard, drove downtown. Traffic was heavy and it was after five when I reached the freight company. Cursing, I drove toward Brooklyn and the welding school, changed my mind, double-parked in front of the cafeteria on Twenty-third Street. Thomas was inside having supper, his bus-girl friend hovering around his table, both of them laughing and wisecracking.