The Silver Bullet

those henry street guys were tough, the conchos were tough, the protection boys were tough, but the toughest of all was the dude in the deep-green suit

When Willis Davis tried to join up with the Henry Street guys, they told him that first he had to knock over Slick's Bar & Grill to show them what kind of stuff he had. Actually, they needed the money for the stocking of new equipment to be used in a pending reprisal against the Conchos over on the West Side. News of a Concho spring offensive was in the wind. But they did not tell Willis this. They told him they had heard he had no stuff. Willis protested, saying that he was ready to prove himself in any way but this one. He said that everyone knew Slick was in the rackets and that was why his bar had never been hit. As a matter of fact, he did not know this for certain, but did not really want to do the job. Also, no one could remember having seen Slick around the neighborhood for the past three years.

"Slick ain't in no rackets!" Dewey Bivins had screamed at Willis. "You just tryin' to get outta it on a humble! Slick died of t.b. over in Jersey two years ago. And don't come tellin' me you don't know that." Dewey was recognized as the war lord of the group, and there were many stories circulating, some dating several years back, about the number of dedicated Concho assassins who were out to get him. Some said that at least two of the Concho membership had taken a blood oath and waited at night in the darker areas of Henry Street for Dewey to pass. Others maintained that the Concho leadership, fearing disproportionate retaliations, had given orders that Dewey, of all the Henry Street guys, should go unmolested. Dewey himself argued that at least four guys were looking for him, day and night, and liked it known that he walked the streets unarmed, all the time. In fact, each time he was seen walking, his reputation grew. People feared him, respected his dash, his temper, the way he cocked his purple beret to the side. The little fellows in the neighborhood imitated his swagger. He was a dangerous enemy, but a powerful associate. So Willis decided to give it a try.

But first he went around to see Curtis Carter, hoping to get him to go along. Carter wanted no part of it. "I know for a fact that Slick ain't dead," he pointed out. "You'd be a fool to mess with his establishment."

"Aah, bullshit!" Willis replied. "When was the last time you seen Slick? There's another guy runnin' the joint now." But his voice was not as convincing as he wanted it to be. And Carter was not moved, not even when Willis suggested that this job could lead to a closer association for both of them with the Henry Street guys.

Carter was not impressed. "If Slick takes after you," he said, "how can them guys help you run any faster than you'll have to run by yourself?" Willis did not like to think about that possibility, so he called Carter a ball-less son of a bitch and announced that he would do it alone.

• • •

But now that he was forced to do it alone, Willis began to really wonder about Slick's connections with the rackets. He remembered hearing stories about Slick in the old days. These stories frightened him. And even with Slick gone for good, the bar might still be covered. He wanted to ask around about it, but was afraid of calling attention to himself. Instead, he made several brief trips into the place to check out the lay of the land. The bar opened sometime between 11 and 12 o'clock, when Alphaeus Jones, the bartender, came in; but it did no real business, aside from the winos, until well after three. He figured that two o'clock would be the best time. By then the more excitable winos would have come and gone and the small trickle of people who went in for the advertised home-cooked lunch would have died away. Alphaeus Jones took his own lunch around one-thirty or two, sitting on the stool at the end of the counter, just in case any customer entered. And the cook, Bertha Roy, whom Willis recognized as a neighbor of his aunt's in the projects over on Gilman, left the place around that same time to carry bag lunches to the ladies at Martha's Beauty Salon down the block. This kept her out of the place for at least half an hour. He did not want Bertha to see him, so he decided the best time would be the minute she left with the lunches.

Again he went to Curtis Carter, begging for help. Curtis worked in an auto-parts warehouse about four blocks away from Slick's. Willis told him that the job would be much softer if they could pull it off together and then make a run back to the warehouse to hide out until after dark. But Curtis still did not want any part of the operation. He made a long speech in which he stressed the importance of independent actions, offering several of his own observations on the dependability of the Henry Street guys; and then disclosed, by way of example, that he already had a nice steady income produced by ripping off, from the stock room, new accessories and mended parts, which he sold to a garage over on the West Side. "There ain't no fair percentage in group actions," he concluded, the righteousness of a self-made man oiling his words. Willis called him a milk-fed jive and said that he was after bigger stuff. Curtis checked his temper and wished him luck.

The following afternoon, Willis waited across the street, leaning against the window of a barbershop and smoking a cigarette, until he saw Bertha Roy come out the door with the lunch bags. When he was sure that she was not going to turn around and go back, he threw the cigarette into the gutter and crossed over, trying to work up a casual amble. But his knees were much too close together. He pushed through the door, sweeping with his eyes the few tables against the wall on his left. The place was empty. Alphaeus Jones, a balding, honey-colored man with a shiny forehead, looked up from his lunch. A blob of mustard from the fish sandwich he was eating clung to the corner of his mouth. "What you want?" he asked, chewing.

Willis moved closer to the end of the bar and licked his lips. "What you got?" he asked.

Jones raised his left arm and motioned to where the sunlight glittered through the green and brown and white bottles on the shelves behind him. With his other hand, he raised the fish sandwich and took another bite. Willis licked his lips again. Then he shook his head, trying hard to work the amble up into his voice. "Naw, man," he said, his voice even but still a bit too high, "I mean what you got in the register?" And he made a fist with his right hand inside the pocket of his jacket.

Jones eyed him, sucking his teeth. Then he said, "A silver bullet." And, looking up into the space above Willis' head, his right hand lifted the sandwich again. But just before it reached his mouth, he looked Willis directly in the face and asked, impatience hurrying his voice on, "You want it, Rosco?"

"It ain't for me," Willis said very fast.

"Ain't for nobody else. You the first fool to come in here for years. You want it now, or later?"

Willis thought it over. Then, ever so slowly, he took his right hand out of his jacket pocket and laid both hands, fingers spread, on the bar.

Jones sucked his teeth again. "You done decided?" he asked.

"A beer," Willis said.

• • •

When he reported to the Henry Street boys what had happened, Dewey said: "You a silver-bullet lie!" The other guys crowded round him. They were in the storage basement at 1322 Henry. There was no door. "Chimney" Sutton, high on stuff, stood by the stairs leading up to the first floor, smashing his fist into his open palm. Besides needing the money for the coming offensive, they did not like to have an initiate seem so humble in his failures. "First you come with that mess about Slick," Dewey said. "Now you say old Jones bluffed you outta there on a bullshit tip." He paced the floor, making swift turns on his heels and jabbing an accusing brown finger at Willis, who slumped in a green-metal chair with his head bowed. Sutton kept slamming his fist. The others--Harvey Gomez and Clyde Kelley--watched Willis with stone faces. "I know what your problems is," Dewey continued. "You just wanna get in the club without payin' no dues. You didn't never go in there in the first place."

"That ain't true," Willis protested, his hands spread out over his face. "I'll pay. You guys know how bad I wanna get in. But there wasn't no sense in takin' a chance like that. A guy would have to be crazy to call a bluff like that," he said, peering through his fingers at Dewey. "I tell you, his hands was under the counter."

"Aah, get off my case!" Dewey shouted. He jerked his head toward the stairs where Chimney Sutton was standing, still pounding his fist. Willis slid off the chair and eased across the room. Sutton was about to grab him when he saw Dewey wave his hand down in a gesture of disgust. Sutton moved a few inches away from the bottom step. Willis got out of the basement.

He hurried away from Henry Street, thinking it through. He still wanted to get into the organization. He felt that a man should belong to something representative. He was not against people going to work or joining churches or unions if these things represented them. But he wanted something more. And the Henry Street guys were not really bad, he thought. The papers just made them out to be that way. Several of them were family men. Dewey himself had been a family man at one time. That showed that they respected the family as an organization. But this by itself was not enough. There was not enough respect in it. And after a while you realized that something more was needed. Willis was not sure of what that thing was, but he knew that he had to try for it.

In the late afternoon, he went back around to the warehouse to see Curtis Carter. It was near closing time, but Curtis was still sorting greasy valves and mufflers into separate piles on the floor. His blue overalls were dirty and rust-stained. When Curtis saw him come in, he motioned him over to the john in the rear of the shop, where McElrath, the manager, could not hear them. "You do it?" Curtis asked, his voice hollow with suppressed excitement.

"No."

Curtis grinned. He seemed relieved. His mouth was smeared with black grease from his hands. "Couldn't get up the balls by yourself, huh?"

Willis told him about the silver bullet.

Curtis laughed aloud and said, "That's some more jive. Jones wouldn't never shoot nobody in there. In the afternoon they wouldn't have no more than fifty dollars in the register, anyhow. You think he wanna get in the news for somethin' like that?"

Now Willis felt bad. He knew that, from all angles, Curtis was right. He could see that Curtis knew it, too. He began to feel cheated, tricked, a laughingstock. "What can I do now?" he asked. "The guys are gonna be hard on me 'cause I didn't deliver."

"I told you so in the first place," Curtis said. "Now you go'n get it, no matter whichaway you turn. Don't think that old Jones go'n keep his mouth shut about what happen today."

"What can I do?" Willis asked, his lowered voice begging support.

"Get yourself some protection," Curtis said. "Maybe try a new approach."

"Like what?"

Curtis, still with the air of an objective advisor, told him about some guys with a new approach. They were over on the West Side. He offered no names but gave Willis the address of an office that, he suggested, might be friendly to Willis' situation.

• • •

On Wednesday morning, Willis took the bus over to the office. Once he had located it, he began to suspect that he might have been given the wrong address. This office had the suggestion of real business about it, with large red lettering on the window that read: W. Smith Enterprises. When Willis entered, he saw two new hardwood desks and tall gray file cabinets on either side of the small room. On the floor was a thin, bright-red wall-to-wall carpet; and behind one of the desks sat a man who wore a full beard, with a matching red shirt and wide tie. The man was watching him and looking very mad at something. Willis approached the desk, holding out his hand as he introduced himself. The man ignored the hand and continued to look very mad. The new hand-carved name plate on the desk said that his name was R. V. Felton. He was the only person in the office, so Willis had to wait until Felton was through surveying him. Finally, still not seeming to focus on the physical presence before him, the man named Felton asked: "What you want?"

Willis said what he had been told to say: "I got a problem in community relations."

R. V. Felton looked even madder. His cheeks puffed out. His nose widened as he sat erect in the brown-leather chair. Then, as if some switch had been clicked on, he began to speak. "Well, brother," he said, "that's our concern here. This office is committed to problems vis-à-vis the community. That's our only concern: an interest in the mobility of the community." His voice, as he talked, seemed tightly controlled and soft, but his hands suddenly came alive, almost on their own, it seemed to Willis, and began to make grandiose patterns in the air. The index finger of his right hand pumped up and down, now striking the flat palm of his left hand, now jabbing out at Willis. The hands made spirals, sharp, quick cutting motions, limber pirouettes, even while the fingers maintained independent movements. "There are profound problems that relate to community structure that have to be challenged through the appropriate agency," he continued. "We have friends downtown and friends in the community who see the dynamics of our organization, vis-à-vis the community, as the only legitimate and viable group to operate in this sphere. They support us," he said, his eyes wandering, his hands working furiously now, "we support the community dynamic, and together we all know what's going down. That's our dynamic. Dig it?" And he fixed a superior eye on Willis' face.

"Yeah," Willis said.

Now R. V. Felton relaxed in the chair and lifted a pencil from the new brown holder at the edge of his desk. "Now, brother," he said, "suppose you articulate the specifics of your problem."

• • •

At one-thirty that same afternoon, Willis, with R. V. Felton behind him, walked into Slick's Bar & Grill. Bertha (continued on page 198)The Silver Bullet(continued from page 122) Roy was back in the kitchen, preparing the bag lunches; at the end table in the far left corner of the room, a single customer was getting drunk. Jones was pulling his own lunch out of the kitchen window with his back to the door. When he turned and saw that it was Willis standing by the bar, he smiled and asked, "A born fool, hey?"

R. V., looking especially mean, came up to the bar and stood beside Willis. Jones sighed, laid the plate on the bar and dropped both hands out of sight. "How much this place earn in a week?" R. V. demanded. He had puffed out his cheeks and chest, so that he now looked like a bearded Buddha.

"We eat steady," Jones told him, still smiling.

Bertha Roy looked out at them from the kitchen, her sweating face screwed up in puzzlement.

R. V. sighed, intimating ruffled patience. "A fat mouth make a soft ass, brother," he said to Jones.

"What you boys want?" Bertha called from the kitchen. Her voice sounded like a bark.

"Tend your pots, Momma," R. V. called to her. Then he said to Jones: "How much?"

"You better get on out," Jones told him.

Willis, standing beside R. V., tried to look as mad. But his cheeks could not hold as much air, and without a beard, he did not look as imposing.

"Now, listen here, brother," R. V. said to Jones. "As of this minute, I declare this joint nationalized. Every dollar come in here, the community get back twenty-five cents, less three cents for tax. Every plate of food pass over that counter, the community get ten percent of the profit, less two cents tax. Paying-up time is Friday mornings, before noon. You can play ball or close down now."

"Can I ask who go'n do the collecting for the community?" Jones asked, his voice humble.

R. V. snapped his fingers twice. Willis moved in closer to the bar. "This here's our certified community collector vis-à-vis this bar," R. V. announced. "Treat him nice. And when he come in here on Friday mornings, you smile."

"Why wait for Friday?" Jones asked. "I'll smile right now." And he raised his hands from under the bar. He was holding a 12-gauge shotgun. "See how wide my jaws are?" he asked. "I'm smiling so much my ass is tight. Now, what about yours?" And he lifted the gun and backed off for range.

"Let's go, man," Willis said to R. V. He was already moving toward the door.

But R. V. did not move. He held up one long finger and began to wave it at Jones. "A bad move, brother," he said.

"Why don't you boys go on home!" Bertha Roy called from behind Jones. "You oughtta be shame of yourselfs!"

"Bertha, you don't have to tell them nothin'," Jones said over his shoulder. "They'll be goin' home soon enough."

Willis was already at the door. He did not mind being the first one out, but then, he did not want to leave without R. V. "Let's go, man," he called from the door.

"Tomorrow's Thursday," R. V. said to Jones, ignoring Willis. "We'll be in to inspect the books. And remember, if you get any ideas about disrupting the progress of our dynamic here, there'll be some action, vis-à-vis you." Then he turned sharply and walked toward Willis at the door.

The drunk over in the corner lifted his head from the table and peered after them.

"You boys need a good whippin'," Bertha Roy called.

Jones just watched them go, smiling to himself.

• • •

That night, Willis went into Stanley's pool hall and told Dewey Bivins what had happened. He explained that since R. V. Felton and his organization had taken over, there would be a guaranteed cut of 12 percent for him, Willis, every Friday. And since he had decided to join up with the Henry Street guys, rather than with R. V., this would mean a weekly income of from $20 to $30 for the gang. He said that he envisioned new uniforms for the guys, better equipment and a growing slush fund for more speedy bail bonding. But Dewey did not seem to share his enthusiasm. He laid his cue on the table, frowned and asked, "Who is these guys, anyhow? They don't live round here. This here's our territory."

Willis tried to explain, as concretely as possible, the purposes of the organization. And though he made a brave effort to repeat, word for word, the speech that R. V. had given him, he could tell that without the hand movements, it sounded uninspiring. In fact, Dewey said as much even before Willis had finished. "That's bullshit!" he said, his face going tight. "They ain't go'n pull that kind of shit round here. Any naturalizin' that's done, we'll be doin' it!"

"Nationalization," said Willis.

"And we'll be doin' it, not them phonies."

"But then I'll be in trouble," Willis explained. "These guys have already taken over the job. If I let you take it from them, they'll be after me."

"That's your problem," Dewey said, his eyes showing a single-mindedness. "You wanna be with them or us? Remember, we live round here. If you join up with them, the West Side ain't go'n be far enough away for you to move." He allowed a potent pause to intervene, then asked. "Know what I mean?"

Willis knew.

• • •

The following morning, he waited outside the barbershop across the street from Slick's. He smoked, walked up and down the block several times, then got into a throw-to-the-wall game with the boy who worked in the shop. He lost 17 cents, and then quit. The boy went back into the shop, shaking the coins in his pocket. Willis waited some more. He had planned to go in with the group that arrived first; but as the wait became longer and longer, he began to consider going in alone and apologizing to Jones for the whole thing. He decided against this, however, when he saw Bertha Roy leaving to deliver the lunch bags. The place seemed unsafe with her gone.

Finally, a little after two, R. V. Felton and another fellow drove up in a dark-blue Ford. R. V., behind the wheel, was wearing green sunshades. He double-parked and kept the motor running while his man got out and went into Slick's. Willis crossed over and leaned against the car. R. V. was looking especially mean. He looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror, and then looked at it in the side mirror. Willis waited patiently. Finally, R. V. said, "We talked it over. Six percent for you."

"You said twelve!" Willis protested.

"Six," R. V. said. "This here's a small dynamic. Besides, I had to cut Aubrey in on your share. You'll get twelve, maybe more, when you line up some more of these blights on the community."

"I don't wanna get involve no more," Willis said.

"I figured that. That's why it's six."

Willis was about to make further protests when Aubrey came back to the car. He opened the door on the curb side, leaned in and said, "R. V., you better come on in, man. That dude done pull that heat agin."

"Aah, fuck!" R. V. said. But he got out of the car, pushing Willis aside, and followed Aubrey into the bar. Willis entered behind them.

Jones was standing behind the bar, holding the shotgun.

"You want some trouble, brother?" R. V. asked.

"There ain't go'n be no trouble," Jones said.

"Then let's have them books."

"We don't keep no books," Jones said.

"A strange dynamic," R. V. said, pulling on his beard. "Most strange."

Jones cradled the gun butt against the bend of his right arm. "And here's somethin' stranger," he said. "If I was to blast your ass to kingdom come, there wouldn't be no cops come through that door for at least six hours. And when they come, they might take me down, but in the end, I'd get me a medal."

Now R. V.'s lips curled into a confident grin. He shook his head several times. "Let me run something down for you, brother," he said. "First of all, we are a nonprofit community-based grass-roots organization, totally responsive to the needs of the community. Second"--and here he again brought his fingers into play--"we think the community would be very interested in the articulation of the total proceeds of this joint vis-à-vis the average income level for this area. Third, you don't want to mess with us. We got the support of college students."

"Do tell," Jones said. "Well, I ain't never been to college myself, but I can count to ten. And if you punks ain't down the block when I finish, that street out there is gonna be full of hamburgermeat." He braced his shoulder and lifted the gun. "And one last thing."

"You better say it quick, then," R. V. told him.

"I'm already way past five."

Willis, backing off during the exchange, had the door almost open when it suddenly rammed into his back. Before he could turn around, Dewey Bivins and Chimney Sutton pushed him aside and stepped into the room. As Sutton pushed the door shut again and leaned his back against it, Willis glimpsed Bertha Roy, her face a frightened blur, moving quickly past the window and away down the block. He turned around. Dewey, a tight fist pressed into either hip, stood surveying the room. Both he and Sutton were in full uniform, with purple berets and coffee-colored imitation-leather jackets. Dewey swung his gaze round to Willis, his eyes flashing back fire. Alphaeus Jones, still in the same spot behind the bar, held the gun a bit higher.

"Who are these dudes?" R. V. asked Willis.

Willis, trying to avoid Dewey's eyes, said nothing.

"Who the hell are you?" Dewey asked.

"Nine," Jones said.

Willis was still trying for the door. But Sutton moved up behind him, forcing Willis to edge almost to the center of the room.

Dewey walked closer to R. V. "Where's the money?" he demanded.

R. V. began to stroke his beard again. He looked more puzzled than mad. "Brother," he said, "there's some weird vibrations in here. What we need now is some unity. Think of the ramifications that would evolve from our working together. This here's a large community. The funds from this one joint is pure chicken shit compared to the total proceeds we could plow back into community organizations by combining our individual efforts into one dynamic and profound creative approach."

"Yeah?" asked Dewey, his head cocked to the side.

R. V. nodded, looking less puzzled. "Our organization, for example, is a legitimate relevant grass-roots community group," he said, making hyphens with his downturned fingers. "We have been able to study the ramifications of these here bloodsucking community facilities. We have the dynamic. You have the manpower. Together we can begin a nationalization process----"

"You a naturalizin' lie!" Dewey screamed. "We the only group operate round here. You better take that bullshit over to the Conchos."

"Let's git 'em," Chimney hissed, moving forward and pounding on his fist.

Jones grinned and raised the gun.

The room tensed. Chimney and Dewey stood close together, almost back to back. Similarly, Aubrey inched closer to R. V. and both stood facing Chimney and Dewey, their backs to Jones. Eyes narrowed in assessment, hands began to move toward pockets, fingers twitched. Dewey turned to Willis, standing near the door. "Which side you on?" he asked through his teeth. Without answering, Willis began to move toward the center of the room.

"Hey, Alphee!" someone said.

They all looked. A man was coming through the door. "Hey, Alphee," he said again, seemingly unaware of the fury he had temporarily aborted, "a cop out there writin' a ticket on that car that's double-parked. The owner in here?" He walked past the group and over to the bar, his face betraying no curiosity.

"Could be," Jones told him, now lowering the gun. "But you know how these big-time businessmen can fix tickets."

The man smiled, then, in the same loud voice, asked, "What you doin' with that gun, Alphee?"

"Fixing to swat some flies," Jones answered.

Now the man turned and looked at the five in the middle of the room. "Them?" he asked, nodding his head as he surveyed the faces.

Jones smiled. "That's right."

The man smiled, too. He was dressed in a deep-green suit and starched white shirt open at the collar. "Which one's the big businessman, Alphee?" he asked, the suggestion of amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"You got me," Jones said.

"Is it you?" the man asked R. V. "You the only one in here don't look like a bum."

"Lemme take 'em, R. V.," Aubrey said.

But R. V. didn't answer. He was obviously in deep thought.

Dewey and Chimney began to look troubled. Willis' mind was racing. He looked out the window. The cop was standing with his left foot on the bumper of the car, writing. He began to wish that Bertha Roy would come back or that the cop would finish quickly and then go away.

"Now, a real businessman," the man was saying to no one in particular, "he would own him at least six cops, a city councilman, one and a half judges and a personal letter from the mayor. He wouldn't have to worry about one little old cop writin' a ticket." He paused and the smile left his face. "You own anything like that?" he asked R. V.

"Let's go, man," R. V. said to Aubrey in a low voice.

The man walked over and slapped R. V. across the face. "You own anything like that?" he asked again, his voice suddenly dropping the hint of amusement.

R. V. stiffened and drew back his fists. The man slapped him again. "What you wanna do that for?" R. V. whimpered.

"Floor the mother!" Dewey said. "He come in here tryin' to take over."

The man turned to Jones. "Who's that?" he asked.

"Some of them punks that hang out on Henry Street."

"Get out," the man said to Dewey.

"For what?" Dewey asked. "We on your side."

"No you ain't," the man said. "Now, get out before I change my mind."

Dewey and Chimney headed for the door. Willis followed them.

"Not you," the man called after Willis. "You with these other businessmen, ain't you?"

Dewey turned at the door. "Yeah," he said, malice in his voice, "he ain't wearin' our uniform."

"I told you to get out," the man called.

"You go'n let him talk that way?" Chimney asked Dewey.

"Shut up!" Dewey hissed at him, an unfamiliar fear in his eyes.

Willis watched them go out the door. He felt trapped. Now there was only Bertha to hope for. Through the window, he could see that the cop had already left the car. Turning to the room, he saw R. V. and Aubrey standing unnaturally straight, like mechanical toys. R. V.'s lips were pushed out, but now the mean look had been replaced and R. V. was sulking like a little boy. The man stood at the bar, seemingly engaged in some private conversation with Jones. But after a few seconds, he turned to R. V. again. "Alphee, here, says I should just let you fellows go. He got a good heart and don't want to see you boys in any more trouble." Then he hit R. V. again, this time a quick, hard blow with his fist. R. V. screamed as the knuckles thudded into his face. "Waste him, Aubrey!" he moaned, his face turning deep brown.

But Aubrey did not move. He was looking past the man. Willis looked, too, and saw Jones holding the shotgun again and smiling. "Ten," Jones said.

R. V.'s head fell. He backed off, roughly pushing Aubrey aside. "You go'n be sorry you done that," he muttered, fighting to contain his rage. "We got----"

"Give the boys a beer before they go, Alphee," the man said.

"Let 'em pay," Jones said, following R. V. with the gun.

The man smiled. "Just a regular businessman, huh?"

"We don't want nothin' from here," Aubrey said. R. V. was standing behind him, nursing his face. He didn't say anything.

"Then take that dummy out of here," Jones ordered.

R. V. and Aubrey slowly moved toward the door. Again, Willis followed.

"Not him," Jones said. "He been in here three times already. I want to make sure he don't come back."

Willis stopped. The two others went on out, R. V. pausing only long enough at the door to say, "You ain't seen the last of our dynamic," and to shake his fist vengefully.

"Punks," Jones said.

Now Willis stood alone, frightened and frozen, eager to be going, too. He faced the man. "I didn't know," he said, his voice little more than a tremble.

"Know what?" the man asked in a softer tone.

"That this place was covered by the rackets."

The man laughed. He closed his eyes and kept the laugh suppressed in his throat. He laughed this way for almost a minute. "You hustlers kill me," he said at last. "All that big talk and you still think a black man can't have no balls without being in the rackets."

"I didn't know," Willis said again.

"Aah, go on and get out!" Jones said.

"Let him have a beer, Alphee," the man said, still containing his laughter.

"No," Jones said. "Go and get out. You give me a pain."

"They just young," the man told Jones.

"The hell with that," Jones said.

Willis moved toward the door. Any moment he expected them to call him back. But all he could hear as he moved was the jerking laughter coming up from deep inside the man as he made low comments to Jones. When he was going out the door, he heard Jones say, "Sure, I was young. But I ain't never been no fool."

Willis ran down the block. As he passed Martha's Beauty Salon, Bertha Roy saw him and raced to the door. "You!" she called after him. Willis turned. Bertha's face was stern and her eyes flashed. "Your momma oughtta give you a good whippin'," she said.

Willis pretended he had not heard and ran faster down the block.