Walter Mosley - The Last Days of Ptolemy Grey

“How long before we can go back in?” Robyn asked.

“Twenty-four hours, no matter what,” he said. “Then you go in an’ open the windahs, let it air out a hour or two and it’a be fine.”

“You got windahs, Mr. Grey?” the girl asked.

“Out on the back porch. Sensie an’ me’d open the back windahs and the front do’ in summah an’ it was bettah than air conditionin’.”

“What’s your name?” the freckled clerk asked Robyn.

“Chili Norman,” she said easily. “I live in that green house ovah on Morton.”

“You gotta phone?”

“Uh-uh,” she said coyly. Smiling as she did so. “I’ll take two’a those little electric fans you got on sale. And I’ma need some wide tape too.”

“How come you don’t have no phone?” the goofy boy asked.

“Money.”

“Could I come by and knock on the door?”

“Ain’t no law against that,” the lying child said.

From there they went to Baker’s Inn on Crenshaw. It took three busses and more than an hour to get there. They had to walk six blocks at either end of the long ride. At first Ptolemy carried one of the three bags they had, but he started slowing down and Robyn took his load too.

They paid for two nights at the motel in cash up front and left the groceries in the room. There was a small refrigerator for the milk and beer and butter they’d purchased.

“You can stay here if you want, Uncle Grey. I just got one thing to do and then I’ll come back.”

Ptolemy looked around the motel room. It smelled of chemicals, and the two beds looked like the slabs in the undertaker’s room where he swept up the dust that collected around the dead. The ceiling was low and he was again reminded of a coffin.

“How long you be gone?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Couple’a hours at least.”

“I’ll come with ya. No need just to sit in here. I don’t even know how to work the TV.”

Robyn carried the fans and the insect bombs in three white plastic bags. She and Ptolemy didn’t talk much on the walk to the busses or on the rides. Young men talked to her. Older men did too. She smiled at them and told lies about her name and address. She gave them phone numbers but Ptolemy didn’t think that they belonged to Niecie.

On the last bus a young man came to sit opposite them. He was dark-skinned and pretty the way young men can be. He was no more than thirty and could have passed for twenty-two.

“Mr. Grey?” he said after staring for a moment.

Ptolemy looked at the young man. His face was familiar, but that was nothing new; almost all faces looked both familiar and strange to him.

“I’m Beckford,” the man said, “Reggie’s friend.”

“I know you,” Robyn said then. “You used to come by on Thursdays when you worked on that fishin’ boat. You smelled bad.”

“Robyn, right?” Beckford said. “The cute little girl Reggie’s aunt took in.”

As the bus turned, the young man stood up and let the gentle centrifugal pull swing him across the aisle until he was on the seat next to Ptolemy.

“Yeah,” he said as if someone had just asked him a question. “I was up in Oakland for the last two years or so. I remember one time me an’ Reggie went to your house, Mr. Grey, and you bought us a pizza. How is Reggie?”

“He daid,” Robyn said, showing no emotion. “They kilt him in a drive-by not two blocks from his house.”

“No,” Beckford said. “Who did?”

Robyn shook her head.

“Damn.” Beckford sat back in his seat. “Damn. Why anybody wanna kill Reggie? He ain’t in no gang. He ain’t mess wit’ nobody.”

The bus driver hit the brakes and Ptolemy swayed into the young man’s shoulder. In that moment he was back in the little room that Coydog called home behind the colored barbershop. Coydog was talking and through Ptolemy the words came out. “Don’t worry, boy,” he said. “Man do sumpin’ wrong, man pays for it. There ain’t a surer truth on God’s green earth.”

“Niecie still live at the same place?” Beckford asked.

“Uh-huh,” Robyn said, and then she added, “We gettin’ out here.”

She helped Ptolemy to his feet and they went toward the exit.

“Nice to see you, Mr. Grey, Robyn,” Beckford called after them.

The old man waved. Robyn was holding his other hand and watching his feet while negotiating her three bags and so did not speak to Beckford.

That was a nice boy,” Ptolemy said as they walked toward his house.

“Yeah,” Robyn replied, “we’ll see.”

“Pete!” a familiar voice bellowed from across the street.

Melinda Hogarth came at the man and girl like a freight train that had jumped its track at full speed. She had a broad grin on her face and her mannish hands were balled into big hammer-like fists.

“Oh no,” Ptolemy whispered. His sphincter tightened and his chest ached. He didn’t run but he wanted to. He didn’t fall to his knees but his legs shivered.

“That her?” Robyn asked when Melinda was half the way to them, roaring in the middle of the street like a wild beast that just caught the scent of blood.

Ptolemy nodded and Robyn moved to stand between them. The teenager turned so that her left shoulder was pointed at the approaching juggernaut. Melinda was wearing blue jeans under a faded navy-blue dress that came down to her knees. She was two and a half times the size of Robyn, the color of a wild bull, and three sheets to the wind. Robyn could smell the alcohol when the woman got near.

“Move out my way, heifer,” Melinda Hogarth cried, and then Robyn swung, starting from her hip. The bag holding both of the electric fans moved in a small quick arc, slamming the drunken mugger in the center of her forehead. The first blow set Melinda back a step. The second put her right knee on the ground. The big woman was on both knees and an elbow, screaming, by the fourth swing. That was when the bag tore open and the broken fans went flying.

Robyn reached into her shoulder bag. Ptolemy put a hand on her forearm. He didn’t have the strength to stop her, but Robyn stopped anyway. She turned her face to the elder.

At first sight she looked like a demon to the old man. The slants of her eyes were reminiscent of horns, and her teeth showed without making a smile. And then she changed. She was the sweet girl again, a mild worry showing in her eyes and on her mouth.

“Don’t worry, Uncle,” she said. “I know what I’m doin’.”

Ptolemy took a step backward and Robyn pulled out her six-inch knife.

“Look up here at me, bitch!” Robyn commanded.

The pile of quivering womanhood made sounds that were like the snuffling cries of a wounded animal.

Robyn kicked Melinda Hogarth’s fat shoulder.

“Look at me or I’ma stab you up,” Robyn promised.

Melinda threw herself away from the threat, landing on her backside. Her eyes were wide with the fear and the possibility of death.

“What’s your name?” Robyn said, moving closer.

The prostrate woman was too frightened to speak.

“Tell me your name or I’ma cut yo’ th’oat right here.”

“M-m-m-melinda.”

“Linda,” Robyn said. “Linda, if I evah see you talkin’ to my uncle again, if he evah tell me you even said a word to him, I’ma come out heah wit’ my girls an’ we gonna cut yo’ titties right off. You hear me?”

Melinda Hogarth didn’t answer the question. She walked backward on her elbows and heels until somehow she was on her feet. Then she ran down the street, screaming high and loud like a woman miraculously transforming into a fire truck.

After a long minute Robyn put her knife away. She picked up the fans. Now they were just blue and silver plastic pieces.

“Damn,” she said. “Now we got to go back to that hardware sto’ an’ that yellah niggah gonna start slobberin’ on me again.”