Freaky Deaky Read online

  Say to Cochise, "What's it remind you of?" Cochise would see it, sure, like the pig cartoons used to be in The Black Panther. Pigs squealing, a big black fist holding them up by the tail. Pigs hanging from a tree, lynch ropes around their necks. Pig in a cop uniform sweating bullets, going "Oink," a brother holding a pistol in the pig's face.

  It was Cochise Patterson had brought him into the Panthers, Cochise telling him the basic tool of liberation was the gun. Cochise reading to him from the minister of defense, Huey P. Newton: "Army .45 will stop all jive. A .357 will win us heaven." It was all to do with the gun and it was cool. Justify packing. Have a reason. For only with the power of the gun could the black masses halt the bullshit terror and brutality perpetrated against them by the jive racist power structure. Cochise telling him they would never stop till they had destroyed and committed destruction on capitalism.

  Except Cochise was back in the slam doing fifteen to twenty-five, saying fuck it and reading comic books. Some had learned, some had come around and joined the other side. Look at Eldridge Cleaver, the most famous Panther of all. After running as a fugitive, hiding out in Canada, Mexico, Cuba, North Africa, over in Asia and then France, he had found Jesus and was praising the American Way as the only way. Being called a "world-record-breaking belly crawler" didn't seem to bother him one little bit.

  Donnell, too, keeping his eyes open to opportunity, had come around since those revolutionary times. He hadn't found Jesus as his redeemer, but somebody who might be even better.

  "Mr. Woody," Donnell said to the white mound on the raft, "you haven't told me what you want for your supper."

  The man floated in the steam mist with his eyes closed, hands trailing in the warm water. What would he be thinking, his head all fucked up from booze? What would he see in there? Sights maybe from a long time ago still clear, but the recent shit gone, not having made a good impression in his mind. What had the man done lately that was worth remembering?

  "Mr. Woody?"

  "What?" Eyes still closed.

  "You thought about supper?"

  The man worked his mouth like he was getting a bad taste out of it, but no words came from him.

  Donnell put the tips of his fingers behind his ear and leaned out over the tiled edge. "Ain't that your tummy I hear growling?"

  No answer.

  "You upset about your brother, huh?"

  No answer. The man was asleep or didn't know what he was talking about. What brother?

  "You gonna be hungry you finish your swim. I'll fix you some chicken. How's that sound?"

  No answer.

  Call the Chinaman, pick up a load of chicken lo mein and pile the shit on a dinner plate for the man. Order some of that shrimp wrapped in bacon for himself. Sometimes they would eat together in the kitchen, the man calling him his buddy.

  "You have a funeral parlor you want to use? . . . I'll look up see who did your mama. Don't you worry about it. I'll take care of everything."

  Donnell had been doing most of the man's thinking for the past three years now, since one night at All That Jazz on Cadillac Square, never expecting to see somebody like Mr. Woody Ricks in a mostly black lounge. But there was the limo out front, a white boy with a chauffeur hat behind the wheel. Inside the piano bar drinking gin, dropping a ten in the tip bowl each time he spoke to Thelma Dinwiddy playing nonstop nine till two, Thelma playing under the name of Chris Lynn with her satin headband and her lovely smile, playing the ass off those show tunes the man requested. All That Jazz had once been a hotel coffee shop; now it was done-over dark to look like a nightclub: a place black entertainers came to sit in with Thelma's piano or to sing a number. Thelma would find the key and smile as she wrapped chords around a voice doing maybe "Green Dolphin Street" like they'd worked together forever.

  Donnell went to the bar that time where he noticed Juicy Mouth was sitting and took the stool next to him, but didn't speak till an old man finished with "Tishamingo Blues," Thelma riding along, the old man saying he was going to Tishamingo to get his hambone boiled, on account of Atlanta women had let his hambone spoil.

  Juicy was a Pony Down runner then, selling on street corners before getting promoted, because of his size and meanness, to Booker's bodyguard. Donnell finally said to Juicy, "See that fat man there? Lives in the biggest house you ever saw. His mama gave a party for the Panthers one time, not knowing what she was getting into. Thought it was to raise money for the zoo or some shit. Can you see her friends, these people trying to smile? Like they partied with brothers every weekend? Only you know they never been close to one less it was at the car wash or was a sister cleaned their house." Donnell said to Juicy, who was a kid and didn't know shit about Panthers or any of that, "I want you to do something for me. When the man goes to the men's room, I want you to follow him in and start to vamp on him. Tell him it's fifty bucks to take a piss or you gonna cut his dick off. See, then I come in just then and throw a punch at you like in the movies, dig? And save the man's ass. I don't hit you, I pretend to."

  The men's room was out the door of the club and across the lobby, kept locked, so people wouldn't come in off the street and use it. You told the club doorman you were going to the men's and he buzzed the men's door open for you when you got to it. Mr. Woody finally went and Juicy followed.

  Then Donnell walked over to the doorman, handed him a ten and said, "Let me have a few minutes' peace in there doing my business." He slipped on black leather gloves before going in and hit Juicy hard, the knife flying, blood flying, hit him in his surprised face again and got the man zipped up and out of there.

  Sitting in the back of the man's car with him, Donnell pointed to the guy in the front seat with the chauffeur hat on and said, "What good is he? He drives you, yeah, but what good is he?" Sounding mad because someone wasn't looking out for the man.

  The man said, "You saved my life," reaching for his wad of money.

  Donnell stopped his hand and said, "I saved you better than that. Now I'll tell you who I am and what I'm willing to do for you out of respect for your mother, a woman I think of and admire to this day."

  In the following months Donnell, wearing a tailored black suit now, white shirt, black tie but not the chauffeur hat, would sit down with Mr. Woody from time to time, look the man in the eye with sort of a puzzled frown and ask him:

  "What do you need a cook for living here only cooks white Methodist food and acts superior, won't talk to nobody? I happen to learn food preparation in the slam. I cook good. . . .

  "What do you need a fat maid for living here watches TV upstairs all day? I can get us a maid to come in, clean up and get out. A cute maid. . . .

  "What do you need to write checks for, pay bills, be bothered with all that picky shit? Excuse me. I can do it for you. . . .

  "What do you need to put up with your brother whining at you for? You the one has the musical ear. He don't like it, tell him go do his cock rock someplace else. . . .

  "What do you need to call your mother's lawyer for, get charged two hundred dollars an hour? I learn food preparation, I also happen to learn about legal affairs. Most time you don't need to get in it, have to sign all those papers. I can talk. I can make deals. I can tell people how it is. . . .

  "What do you need to go to court for, have that redhead bitch call a fine man like you a rapist in front of everybody in town? I can talk to her for you."

  Coming up pretty soon he would have to look the man in the eye and ask him:

  "Don't you need to change your will, now that your brother's gone?" Ask him: "Anybody else you want to put in it?"

  Being subtle wouldn't pay, the man spaced on booze and now and then a 'lude slipped him to keep him mellow and manageable, the man always in low gear with his dims on.

  It might have to be put to him: "Mr. Woody, I would consider it an honor to be in your will." Play with that idea. Say it in a way to make the man laugh and feel good.

  There was a possibility with the redhead bitch to make some good money
. If he could get her to go along. He could always write himself a nice check if he ever had to leave in a hurry. No, the deal was to get in the man's will for a big chunk and then work out the next step. Having Markie out of the way should make it easier to become the man's heir. Except, shit, what took Markie out was somebody doing a bomb, and that didn't make any sense however Donnell looked at it. Somebody wanted to kill the man and the man didn't even know it. Floating there this enchanted evening, dreaming all alone. . . .

  The front doorbell rang.

  Donnell left the swimming pool room, went through the sunroom and along a dark hallway to the foyer. The news people had stopped calling and knocking on the door. He'd watched them out front. He'd watched the dude cop talking to the hard-nose cop, Donnell wondering whose Cadillac that was, and couldn't believe it when the hard-nose cop, the now out-of-work cop, drove off in it. That had been about a half hour ago. Donnell was thinking about it again, wondering how it could be as he bent his head to peek through the peephole in the door, took a look and straightened quick.

  The hard-nose cop was back. Standing there with a can of peanuts in his hand.

  Chapter 15.

  Chris said, "I hear you're out of these," offering the can of Planters Cocktail Peanuts.

  Donnell didn't move to take it, Donnell in a loose white outfit doing his cool look with the heavy lids, the look saying he wasn't surprised, he wasn't entertained or impressed, either. Reserving judgment.

  Chris said, "I hear if you hadn't run out of nuts the guy's brother would still be alive. Gives you something to think about, huh? If he hadn't gone out there--what's his name, Mark? Somebody else would've opened the car door."

  Donnell stared, thumbs hooked in the drawstring on his pants. Or pajamas, or whatever they were.

  Chris said, "I can't imagine Woody opening the door. That's what he's got you for, right? Open doors, drive him around. . . . What else you do for him? Call up a young lady, tell her there appears to be some kind of a misunderstanding?"

  Donnell kept staring at him.

  "That what you do? Ask her to call you? Tell her you have a way to settle the matter and make her happy?" Chris tossed the can of peanuts in the air, not high.

  Donnell caught it in two hands at his waist, staring back, eyes never moving. "You believe I called some woman?"

  "Hey, come on, I heard you. I know it was you. I'll get a court order for a voice print if you want and we'll nail it down."

  Donnell, frowning, raised one hand in slow motion, holding the peanuts in the other, saying to Chris, "Wait now. What is this shit you giving me, what I did?"

  "You phoned Greta Wyatt."

  "Tell me who she is."

  "The one you're gonna see in court, asshole, when your boss stands trial."

  "Oh, that Greta. Yeah, see, I call her Ginger. Now what was it I said to her?"

  "You're gonna make her happy," Chris said. "What we want to know is, how happy?"

  "What you saying to me, you speaking for the lady."

  "Like you seem to represent Woody," Chris said. "Who needs lawyers?"

  Donnell said, "Yeaaah," and then paused, thoughtful. "I see you come to visit, policeman that use to be into high explosives, interested in such things--I thought you want to ask about this bomb business."

  "I'll be honest with you," Chris said, "I don't give a shit about the bomb, that's your problem. You're gonna offer Miss Wyatt a payoff. I want to know what you have in mind."

  "Let me look at it again," Donnell said, beginning to smile a little. "Drive up in a Cadillac you manage on about maybe six bills a week take-home. Yeah, I can see you interested in payoffs, rake-offs and such. Come on inside."

  They walked through to the library, Chris reminded of Booker's house where the old woodwork and paneling had been painted an awful green. Here, there was the feeling nothing had been changed in the past fifty years or more. Chris chose a deep chair, watching Donnell reach beneath the shade of an ornate lamp close by. Low-watt lights came on to reveal the brass figure of a woman, dull, tarnished. Chris asked Donnell if those were pajamas he had on. Donnell gave him a dreamy look, patient, came over and sat on the fat cushioned arm of a chair facing Chris.

  "Now then. What I get into first with the young lady, I let her know this kind of situation is not anything new to Mr. Woody. Being a wealthy man, getting his picture in the paper, the man has games run at him all the time. You understand? People looking to score off him. He knows it, he say to me, 'Donnell, it's a shame how people have to be so greedy. Even good people, they see the chance. What is somebody trying to stick me for this time?' I say to him, 'You recall this young lady name of Ginger?' Mr. Woody say, 'Ginger? Do I know a Ginger?' I say to him, 'Remember the party you had, this young lady took all her clothes off?' "

  "You're telling her," Chris said, "what you're gonna say in court. Is that it?"

  "I haven't even come to the good part."

  "You're threatening her."

  "I'm only saying what I could say."

  "Instead of doing the whole skit, let's get to the payoff."

  "Don't rush me, man. See, I could go on to tell how I happen to notice her fishing out Mr. Woody's dick, taking him upstairs by it, leading him along, you dig? That's the key word, leading. You understand what I'm saying? Means it was her idea, not his."

  "So Mr. Woody's willing to pay," Chris said, "to stay out of court."

  "Now you with it. Avoid the embarrassment, even though he's not to blame."

  "How much?"

  "We come to the part ain't none of your business. I tell her the numbers. She the only one."

  "If you can find her."

  "She don't call me, I call her. Mention the figure, see where her values lie."

  "She's moved," Chris said.

  Donnell took a little time. "She move in with you?"

  Chris nodded and Donnell, watching him, took a little more time.

  "I don't suppose you in the book. Being a cop, type of person could get shot through his window." Donnell said, "Hmmmm," thinking about it. "See, I understand where you coming from. You like the idea of the payoff. But see, look at it from my side, I don't need you fucking up the deal, getting the bitch to hold out when I'm willing to make a fair offer."

  "What'd you call her?"

  "Hey, shit, you her lawyer, what else? Gonna protect her good name? I tell you right now I saw her in bed with the man, doing a job on him, too."

  Now Chris had to take a moment, settle down.

  "Where is he?"

  "Who, Mr. Woody? Having his swim."

  Chris got out of the chair. "Let's go talk to him."

  Donnell, sitting relaxed, round-shouldered on the arm of the chair, didn't move.

  "Man, you love being a cop, don't you? I notice it the other day in the street. Come down on me like an old-time dick, being the man, huh? You play it a little different, more quiet about it, you don't get that mean red flush come over your face. But it's the same shit. Long as you have the big pistol you get anything you want. That's where it's at, the gun. I learned that many years ago, in my youth."

  Chris said, "Is that it? You through?"

  "Oh, man, you gonna work that hard-nose routine again?"

  "Now're you through?"

  Donnell said, "Shit," taking his time coming off the chair arm. "You want to see Mr. Woody? Come on, let's go see him."

  They stood at the edge of the pool watching the naked man on the rubber raft.

  "Is he all right?"

  "All the way live as he wants to be."

  "I don't see him breathing."

  "Watch his tummy you see it move. . . . There. You see it?"

  "That's what it's like to be rich, huh?"

  "Have anything you desire."

  "Why does somebody want to kill him?"

  "The dude cop ask me that every way he could think of. Wants to know was it me. I ask him, what's my gain? Check it out."

  "You know how to set explosives, don't you?"


  "How would I?"

  "You were in the Panthers."

  "Never blowed up nothing in my life. I'll take a polygraph on it."

  "What'd you do, in the Panthers?"

  "Worked on our free breakfast program, for the kids."

  "That what you got sent away for, making breakfast?"

  "So they don't go to school hungry. You ask me a question, but you don't want to hear the answer."

  "You did time."

  "Got along fine. Left that behind and never look over my shoulder. I remember to speak politely. Not hit or swear at people. Not damage property or crops of the poor oppressed masses. Not take liberties with women."

  "You learned that in the joint?"

  "In the Panther Party, man. We had rules for clean living we had to learn verbatim by heart. Like no party member have a weapon in his possession while drunk or loaded off narcotics or weed."

  "Okay, I believe you," Chris said.

  "Like no party member will use, point or fire a weapon unnecessarily or accidentally at anyone."

  "The key word being 'unnecessarily.' "

  "And that would include a bomb. Even if I knew how to make one, what would be the necessity of it? You understand what I'm saying? What is my motive? What do I stand to gain?"

  "It comes back to Mr. Woody."

  "Every time. With the dude cop, too. Does he have enemies? Went all through all that, back and forth."

  "How far back?"

  "He does better going back than trying to remember what happened yesterday."

  "He doesn't seem worried," Chris said, watching the man floating in a mist of steam, body glistening white.

  "Mr. Woody can't think of anybody doesn't love him."

  "He's sweating . . ."

  "Want to say, like a pig, huh?" Donnell raised his voice. "Mr. Woody, you awake?"

  Chris watched the man on the raft lift his head. He began to move his hands in a feeble paddling motion.