The Nigger Factory by Gil Scott Heron Page B

key belonged to Sheila Reed, the SGA secretary. The demands listed by MJUMBE resembled so closely the things that the three men had been working on that they could not help but suspect that they had somehow been betrayed.
    â€˜What about MacArthur?’ Odds asked.
    â€˜Naw, man. Not Mac. He couldn’ let nobody in. That job iz all he got.’
    â€˜So if Mac didn’ do it, it wuz Sheila.’
    â€˜We’re jumpin’ to conclusions,’ Lawman said. ‘We seem to be assuming that MJUMBE got inta our files.’
    â€˜Listen to Mr Law Major,’ Odds said, pointing a crooked finger at Lawman. ‘Whatta hell it look like ta you?’
    â€˜Fuck whut it looks like,’ Lawman exclaimed. ‘How do we know that they been in the files?’
    â€˜Go check?’ Odds asked.
    â€˜What good would that do?’ Earl asked. ‘If they got in to take the stuff, they could git in to put it back.’
    â€˜Somehow we got to know whether or not they been in there,’ Lawman realized. ‘We gotta know whether or not they got all our info or what.’
    Earl got up stiffly. ‘I gotta make a call,’ he said. ‘I came in here ta eat, but I don’ feel like I could take a bite without throwin’ up all over this joint. Matter of fact,’ he added, ‘when I dug this list I almost upchucked then.’
    â€˜I bet’choo did,’ Odds laughed.
    â€˜Get another round a beer,’ Earl said dropping a dollar on the table. ‘I’ll be right back.’
    O’Jay came by. He was a big man with a charcoal tan. His face was battered by the six years of professional fighting he had endured. O’Jay had been the fighter’s fighter. In thirty-nine fights he had never been knocked out. He had lost sixteen, but all of them had been by decision. He was very proud of that. Though he had never been ranked or made anything that resembled a main event, he had been in demand because he came to fight. He was never one for much cute, tricky punching. It was all or nothing for him. When he had acquired enough money and enough beatings to feel that his call was elsewhere he gave up the ring and bought himself a tavern.
    â€˜Hi iz it, brothuhs?’ he drawled as he made his way toward the oval bar in the front of the tavern. He was hassling with an apron string that was frayed at the end and difficult to make stretch around his rather imposing stomach.
    â€˜Better for us than you, Orange Juice,’ Odds laughed. ‘Na it ain’ but so much you kin ask of a damn apron.’
    â€˜Iss gon’ fit,’ O’Jay chuckled.
    â€˜Look like a rhino inna bikini,’ Odds retaliated.
    The four men all howled. O’Jay, at length, tied the apron around himself.
    â€˜Gonna have a good weeken’?’ Lawman asked.
    â€˜Wuz goin’ fishin’ tuhmaruh,’ O’Jay said scratching his head, ‘but the way I hear it, alla yawl may be livin’ wit’ me come the weeken’. I heard people tryin’ ta git some things done ’roun’ here.’
    â€˜Tryin’ to.’
    â€˜That means who ever doin’ the tryin’ bes’ be packed. Calhoun ain’ noted fo’ playin’ that young man revolution shit. HAHA!’
    â€˜We’ll see.’
    â€˜Yeah. Lemme run up here an’ help out at the bah.’
    â€˜Right on!’ Earl said as O’Jay made his way between the rows of tables.
    â€˜Hey!’ Earl called, ‘when you gonna git some new furniture. I’m back here gittin’ splinters.’
    â€˜Where at? In ya elbows?’
    The three students laughed again.
    â€˜Lemme make this call,’ Earl said.
    â€˜Hello?’
    â€˜Shorty? This iz Earl.’
    â€˜Shorty? I like your nerve.’ The tone became softer. ‘How are you? I heard you’ve had some trouble.’
    â€˜No real trouble. Not yet.’
    â€˜You comin’ to see