Death Wish (30 page)

Authors: Iceberg Slim

BOOK: Death Wish

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I couldn't have run another foot when I fell through the jalopy's open door and collapsed beside Willie at the wheel. Willie's face was poxed with sweat as he ground the starter furiously. We stared at the mark growing to the size of King Kong and heard his number thirteens grenading against the sidewalk. I got the window up just as he reached us.

I said, “Oh Mama!” over and over at the awful sound of the hatchet as he ran around the car smashing glass. His frothy mouth was quivering with madness as he chopped a confetti of glass into the car. He was reaching through the shattered window to unlock the door when the starter caught and Willie bombed the heap away.

At that instant I made an obvious vow that I've kept to this moment!

We got a pint of tranquilizer on the far Westside and sloshed the first hits down our chins.

Willie suddenly laid out a bandana on the seat between us. He pulled out his boodle-wallet, slipped out of his overcoat and said, “Pal-of-mine, we oughtta separate the boodle from the thirty-five-hundred frog-skins so we can split right down the middle.”

I stiffened at the thought he might try to switch me out of my end in the murk of fallen dusk. I placed all I held on the seat. And I was determined to challenge any suspect moves he made with the money before I had my end safely in hand.

With his overcoat off, I wasn't really worried that he was slick enough to burn me in his sweater sleeves. He shook his head as he
looked at the score. He straightened out the bills. Then he made a flat package of the money. He tied it up in the wide bandana.

He glanced at a passing police car and said, “Shit, Slim, we could get busted counting the score. Here shove it under your seat until after we cop some ribs and a motel room for the split.”

I x-rayed his hands as he passed the bandana. I pushed it under the seat. He pulled away and parked behind a rib-and-burger joint on Lake Street.

He sat there for a long time before he said, “Slim, you gonna cop the pecks?”

I was racked with closet laughter. Did he believe I was sucker enough to leave him tending the score?”

I said, “Cop for yourself, WillieÂ .Â .Â . I ain't hungry.”

He said, “I ain't got a âsou' to cop with,” and leaned down and pulled out the bandana.

He untied it on the seat and removed a ten dollar bill. He put our score back under the seat and his mitt was clean coming out, except for the sawbuck.

I hawk-eyed him as he got out and shut the door. He shivered elaborately and opened the car door. He leaned into the car and reached for his beeny, draped across the back of the front seat. For only a mini-instant was his overcoat a curtain blocking him from view, as he lifted off the seat.

I thought, Houdini, with four-foot arms, couldn't have plucked that score from beneath my seat at that range. Anyway, I bent over and probed until my finger tips touched it. He slammed the door shut, I felt a twinge of guilt, watching the wind flap his overcoat tails, that he was trusting me with the score.

In a couple of minutes, I heard the thunder of the Lake Street El Train pulling into the station down the street. I looked up at it passing on the way to the Loop. Was that Willie wrapped in his blue plaid benny grinning down at me from a window in the last car?

I tore open the bandana! It was a dummy loaded with funny
money. I dug beneath the seat like a pooch for a buried bone. Nothing! I raced around the car and pawed beneath the driver's seat. Something sharp gouged blood from my thumb tip. It was a fishhook tied to a length of twine that was tied to an anchor post beneath the seat.

The cunning sonofabitch had probably choreographed the rip-off while we were in the cell. With vivid hindsight, I knew why he pretended he needed the sawbuck from the bandana. He wanted to get the fish hook into it when he put it back. Then he could reel it in with his left hand when he leaned into the car for his benny. The dummy bandana was preplanted to “blow me off” smoothly just in case I got suspicious, as I did, before he hit the wind.

I leapt behind the wheel. Maybe I could catch him in the Loop, or at one of the El stops along the way. The gas gauge was on “E,” and J didn't have a cent.

I got out. I inhaled. I felt my belly jitterbug in the greasy clouds of soul-food aroma floating from the rib joint. I straightened my tie in a gum machine's fractured mirror. I psyched up the mirrored mack-man staring back. “You a bad, sugar rapping 'ho stealing motherfuckerÂ .Â .Â . ain't you? Ain't nothing can stop a 'ho stalking stepped like youÂ .Â .Â . Ain't that right?” Frantically I nodded “yes” and turned away.

I was lucky! It was black ghetto Christmas. Saturday Night! Easy to cop a 'ho! I'd guerilla my Watusi ass into a chrome-and-leather 'ho den and gattle-gun my pimp-dream shit into some mud-kicker's frosty car.

I pimp-pranced toward a 'ho jungle of neon blossoms a half mile away. Some ass-kicker was a cinch to be a 'ho short when the joints folded in the
A.M
.