flipped it back into
place with an erotic challenge in her eyes, and rubbed a stretched
bandanna back and forth across her rump while she oscillated her hips.
At first the other dancers pulled back in awe or shock or
perhaps even in respect; then they began to leave the dance floor two
at a time and finally in large numbers after Clete backed with his full
weight into another dancer and sent him careening into a drink waiter.
The Fat Man finished, wiped his sweating face at the
microphone with an immaculate white handkerchief, and thanked the crowd
for their ongoing roar of applause. I followed Clete and his girl to
their table, which was covered with newspaper, beer bottles, and dirty
paper plates that had contained potatoes French-fried in chicken fat.
Clete's face was bright and happy with alcohol, and the seams of his
Hawaiian shirt were split at both shoulders.
'Martina, this is the guy I've been telling you about,' he
said. 'My ole bust-'em or smoke-'em podjo.'
'How about giving that stuff a break, Clete?' I said.
'I'm very pleased to meet you,' she said.
Her face was pretty in a rough way, her skin coarse and
grained under the makeup as though she had worked outdoors in sun and
wind rather than on a burlesque stage.
'Clete's told me about how highly educated you are and so well
read and all,' she said.
'He exaggerates sometimes.'
'No, he doesn't,' she said. 'He's very genuine and sincere and
he feels very deeply for you.'
'I see,' I said.
'He has a gentle side to his nature that few people know
about. The people in my herbalist and nude therapy group think he's
wonderful.'
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Clete study the dancers out
on the floor as though he had never seen them before.
'He says you're trying to find the vigilante. I think it's
disgusting that somebody's out there murdering colored people in the
projects and nobody does anything about it.'
'Clete doesn't seem to give it much credence.'
'Look, mon, let me tell you where this vigilante stuff came
from. There's a citizens committee here, a bunch of right-wing douche
bags who haven't figured out what their genitalia is for, so they spend
all their time jacking up local politicians and judges about crime in
the streets, dope in the projects, on and on and on, except nobody
wants to pay more taxes to hire more cops or build more jails. So what
they're really saying is let's either give the blacks a lot more
rubbers or do a little less to stop the spread of sickle-cell.'
Martina had taken a pocket dictionary from her purse. She read
aloud from it: '"Credence—belief, mental acceptance or
credit."
That's an interesting word. It's related to "credibility," isn't it?'
Clete widened his eyes and looked at her as though he were
awakening from sleep. Then somebody on the opposite side of the dance
floor caught his attention.
'Dave, a guy's coming over to our table,' he said. 'He just
wants to talk a minute. Okay? I told him you wouldn't mind. He's not a
bad guy. Maybe you might even be interested in what he's got to say. It
doesn't hurt to listen to a guy, right?'
Through the layers of drifting cigarette smoke my eyes focused
on a man with two women at a table. His solid physique reminded me of
an upended hogshead; even at a distance his other
features—his
florid, potato face, his eyes that were as blue as ice, his meringue
hair—were unmistakable.
'You shouldn't have done this, partner,' I said to Clete.
'I provide security at two of his clubs. What am I supposed to
say to him, "Drop dead, Tommy. My buddy Dave thinks you're spit on the
sidewalk, get off the planet, sonofabitch"?'
'He's not just an eccentric local character. He was up on a
murder beef. What's the matter with you?'
'The guy he did with the fire hose was beating up old people
in the Irish Channel with an iron pipe. Yeah, big loss. Everybody was
real upset when they heard he'd finally caught the bus.'
'Fire hose?' Martina said, and made a puzzled face.
There was nothing for
place with an erotic challenge in her eyes, and rubbed a stretched
bandanna back and forth across her rump while she oscillated her hips.
At first the other dancers pulled back in awe or shock or
perhaps even in respect; then they began to leave the dance floor two
at a time and finally in large numbers after Clete backed with his full
weight into another dancer and sent him careening into a drink waiter.
The Fat Man finished, wiped his sweating face at the
microphone with an immaculate white handkerchief, and thanked the crowd
for their ongoing roar of applause. I followed Clete and his girl to
their table, which was covered with newspaper, beer bottles, and dirty
paper plates that had contained potatoes French-fried in chicken fat.
Clete's face was bright and happy with alcohol, and the seams of his
Hawaiian shirt were split at both shoulders.
'Martina, this is the guy I've been telling you about,' he
said. 'My ole bust-'em or smoke-'em podjo.'
'How about giving that stuff a break, Clete?' I said.
'I'm very pleased to meet you,' she said.
Her face was pretty in a rough way, her skin coarse and
grained under the makeup as though she had worked outdoors in sun and
wind rather than on a burlesque stage.
'Clete's told me about how highly educated you are and so well
read and all,' she said.
'He exaggerates sometimes.'
'No, he doesn't,' she said. 'He's very genuine and sincere and
he feels very deeply for you.'
'I see,' I said.
'He has a gentle side to his nature that few people know
about. The people in my herbalist and nude therapy group think he's
wonderful.'
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Clete study the dancers out
on the floor as though he had never seen them before.
'He says you're trying to find the vigilante. I think it's
disgusting that somebody's out there murdering colored people in the
projects and nobody does anything about it.'
'Clete doesn't seem to give it much credence.'
'Look, mon, let me tell you where this vigilante stuff came
from. There's a citizens committee here, a bunch of right-wing douche
bags who haven't figured out what their genitalia is for, so they spend
all their time jacking up local politicians and judges about crime in
the streets, dope in the projects, on and on and on, except nobody
wants to pay more taxes to hire more cops or build more jails. So what
they're really saying is let's either give the blacks a lot more
rubbers or do a little less to stop the spread of sickle-cell.'
Martina had taken a pocket dictionary from her purse. She read
aloud from it: '"Credence—belief, mental acceptance or
credit."
That's an interesting word. It's related to "credibility," isn't it?'
Clete widened his eyes and looked at her as though he were
awakening from sleep. Then somebody on the opposite side of the dance
floor caught his attention.
'Dave, a guy's coming over to our table,' he said. 'He just
wants to talk a minute. Okay? I told him you wouldn't mind. He's not a
bad guy. Maybe you might even be interested in what he's got to say. It
doesn't hurt to listen to a guy, right?'
Through the layers of drifting cigarette smoke my eyes focused
on a man with two women at a table. His solid physique reminded me of
an upended hogshead; even at a distance his other
features—his
florid, potato face, his eyes that were as blue as ice, his meringue
hair—were unmistakable.
'You shouldn't have done this, partner,' I said to Clete.
'I provide security at two of his clubs. What am I supposed to
say to him, "Drop dead, Tommy. My buddy Dave thinks you're spit on the
sidewalk, get off the planet, sonofabitch"?'
'He's not just an eccentric local character. He was up on a
murder beef. What's the matter with you?'
'The guy he did with the fire hose was beating up old people
in the Irish Channel with an iron pipe. Yeah, big loss. Everybody was
real upset when they heard he'd finally caught the bus.'
'Fire hose?' Martina said, and made a puzzled face.
There was nothing for
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