The Vulture by Gil Scott Heron

time.
    I visited the bar on the Saturday night following New Year’s Day. The collecting had been light, and neither Smoky nor I had seen any reason to sit and chit-chat in Harvey’s. Fortunately, he gave me a lift down the West Side Highway and then plowed off through the slush.
    I was dipping into a Jack Daniels as the group came on. The pianist did a few light chords and the group swung into Cannonball’s ‘Mercy.’ The crowd began to warm to the strokes from the bass, and the rendition brought out the soul in the audience. Here and there you could hear a ‘Git it, baby!’ or ‘Do it jus’ one time!’ The waiters and waitresses waded through the crowd serving food and drinks from trays balanced on one practiced hand.
    From the dimness behind my corner table an arm reached over and tapped me on the shoulder. It was Howie, the head waiter.
    ‘Nissy wants to see you, man. Sez it’s urgent,’ he whispered.
    ‘What the hell about?’ I asked.
    ‘Man, I don’ know. Might be jus’ another excuse to try an’ git the hell in here, but I ain’ havin’ none a that shit.’
    I got up from the corner of the bar and waded through customers and candlelight atmosphere. Through the door that led to the small alcove I could see two struggling figures.
    My mind went out to meet them. Nissy? What the hell would he want with me? He could possibly want some wine money, but he knew better than to bother me about something like that.
    Nissy was a wino, a man dedicated to the pursuit of the grape. He was always either drunk or trying to get drunk. His whole hustle was shining shoes when somebody set him up with the equipment. And as soon as he had enough for a quart, he would be gone to get high, and a little kid would cop his polish and box and be gone. Occasionally he could get a job running messages for the numbers man or something, but once he got high, he’d quit. Money was only important because it furnished wine for today. To hell with tomorrow. His bloated face gave me a wild stare as I came through the frosted glass.
    ‘I gotta see ya, Spade,’ he squeaked breathlessly.
    ‘Thass what I hear. Cool it!’ I commanded, dropping the sarcasm. ‘Let ‘im go, Hemp.’ Hemp was one of the Cobra bouncers. He was holding Nissy at arm’s length by the front of his filthy overcoat, the smaller man’s feet practically off the floor.
    ‘I gotta see you, Spade,’ he repeated.
    I waited until Hemp had disappeared back inside. I turned and faced Nissy with contempt in my eyes.
    ‘How menny times I tol’ you not to hussle this place?’ I asked. ‘You gon’ come by here one night when I ain’ herean’ Howie ain’ gonna be for no bullshit, an’ he gonna have Hemp an’ Jason throw yo’ ass in the river. You need a cold bath?’
    ‘Naw, Spade . . . Lemme tell yeh. Then we see who’s right.’ I nodded. ‘Somebody got to Isidro t’night. They put a bullet in between his eyes. I swear! Paco an’ Jessie went to fin’ Slothead, an’ they gonna get John Lee. They said they gon’ cut his dick off!’ Nissy was panting, and his eyes were rolling in his head.
    ‘You drunk!’ I yelled.
    ‘No! Man, I seen Seedy dead wit’ my own eyes! I swear!’
    I looked him over for a second and then nodded.
    ‘Wait a second. I’ll be right back.’ I turned and went inside. Howie was standing in the corner I had occupied: his face wrinkled when I reached for my coat. I picked up my topcoat and scarf and swung over the bar and grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels Black.
    ‘I’m goin’,’ I told Howie. ‘I’ll pay you later.’
    ‘In the street,’ Howie whispered. ‘Please don’ start no shit in here t’night.’
    ‘I ain’ startin nuthin’,’ I told him.
    I slid back into the lobby and found Nissy regaining his cool, leaning against the outer door smoking a stogie. I handed him the bottle and started squeezing into my coat. I waited until he took a shot.
    ‘I need all the details you have, man,’ I told him.
    ‘Okay.