Standing at the Scratch Line (18 page)

“Is you talkin’ about somebody seein’ the future, or is you talkin’ about everythin’ that’s gon’ happen tomorrow is already set?”

Mamie opened the door and they started up a narrow staircase. “I’m talking about a bit of both. Two months ago, a palm reader told me about you. She said that a younger man was going to come into my life and change it. Are you the one?”

“I sho’ can’t answer that, but what I can say is most people who predicts the future is shammin’. I got two aunts who makes their living doin’ it and they can’t find their own butts without help. They say things could be true for anybody.”

“This palm reader doesn’t just read palms, she reads sign and omens. You tell her what has happened to you and she explains it. Like, do you remember before you drove me home today there was a break in the clouds and a shaft of sunlight came through like a holy spotlight?”

“You saw that too, huh?”

“How it almost came up and touched you? Yes, I saw it. She said there would be a sign.”

“Then you saw Leah and Big Ed drive away before you came out of the house.”

“Is that a question?” Mamie asked as they stopped in front of her apartment and she unlocked the door.

“Naw, it ain’t,” King said after they had stepped into the apartment and closed the door. He spun her around and pressed her shoulders back against the wall. “But I do got a question,” he said as he opened her coat and let his hands softly caress her breasts. He stepped closer to her until their bodies were touching. “What if I am the one?” he asked as his lips brushed hers.

She stared at him with a little smile. “Then you’ll get it all, until you holler.” She opened her mouth and kissed him in return, pressing her pelvis against him.

As they made their way into the sitting room, King thought that maybe it wasn’t a bad omen that the shaft of sunlight didn’t touch him.

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Don Vitorio Minetti ran his fingers through his gray hair and sighed tiredly. Everything was so damned complicated. It appeared that every decision within his family empire had to come before him for approval. He stood up and moved his slight frame toward the window. He was in his late fifties and dying from a consumptive cough. As if the routine chores were not enough, his younger brother’s son had attacked a lieutenant of the Milano Family and killed several of their soldiers. Consequently, the Milanos had struck back, killing three of Minetti’s men. He was on the precipice of a full-scale war. But Vitorio was ready for it. He had been watching how the Milanos had been pushing the lines of their territory. So he had begun stockpiling weapons and making plans. He stared out the window at his carefully planted garden. It and its ornate fountain brought him no pleasure. A war, even if it was won, was always costly.

Vitorio returned to his desk and shuffled through some papers. Trouble came not single-handed, but in battalions, he thought as he picked up his revenue sheet. He had problems collecting in Harlem. No payment had been received from the newly opened Rockland Palace. On top of that, Vitorio was in the midst of negotiations with the Guistis because his hard-headed eldest son had beaten his own wife, Maria Guisti Minetti, with a belt buckle, and she had returned to her family with bruises and scars. It was too much. Now he had his cousin waiting in his anteroom to see him about her daughter, who had been impregnated by a goddamned Irishman. But the most pressing thing on his mind was that the payment was late.

He couldn’t allow late payments. Rest easy on the whip and niggers got lazy. He had to put some pressure on the owners of the Rockland Palace. He didn’t know whether his nephew, Tino, had actually gone to the Rockland before he had attacked the Milanos. Nonetheless, his reputation was at stake. The Palace was one of the three major clubs in Harlem that was not paying protection. The other two were owned by powerful white men. He couldn’t allow niggers to resist paying protection without spilling some of their blood.

The door opened and one of his lieutenants entered the room. Vitorio was pouring himself a glass of grappa from a crystal decanter. “What is it, Marco?” he asked, swishing the wine around in his glass.

“It’s about your nephew, Tino.”

“Finally you have come up with something! Was there any evidence of money in the wreckage?”

“No, and I had Sergeant Murphy sift through it. You know, Don Vito, Tino was hotheaded but I don’t think he would have attacked the Milanos like this and sacrifice his own life.”

Vitorio looked at Marco contemplatively. “Who do you think might have benefited from such an act?”

“I don’t know yet. Maybe one of the other families. It was definitely a cold-blooded and professional hit.”

Vitorio set down his glass, as his body was racked by coughs. “You don’t think the Milanos could be behind this?” gasped Vitorio. “Tino was a major lieutenant in our organization.”

“No, it doesn’t seem like their work. Why would they sacrifice Carlo Petino and two of his best soldiers? Tino isn’t worth that! No offense, sir.” Marco bowed his head respectfully.

“Find out what you can! Question everybody! Hurt some people! I don’t care if we kill the innocent. And I want you to take some men and kill a couple of the owners of the Rockland too! The world isn’t going to be any worse off with a few less niggers. I want to send a message to these people!”

“Okay, sir. Is there anything else?”

“Yes, Marco, be careful that my brother, Antonio, doesn’t hear you saying such things about his son! He is already jealous of the trust I place in you. Your candor will get you in trouble one day.” Vitorio sipped his grappa, then said, “Send some nice flowers to my brother’s family and make arrangements. Tino’s death deserves a first-class funeral! Thank God, someone else killed the little shit before I had to.”

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Tyrone Thigpin shivered in the front passenger seat of the Packard as a stinging rain pelted him through the half-open window. He was watching the people entering the Biloxi Roadhouse Café. Next to him on the driver’s side, an Italian named Lefty smoked a lumpy, hand-rolled cigarette. Behind him sat two other Italians armed with machine guns. He didn’t know their names or even what they looked like because their overcoat collars were turned up and their hats were pulled down. When he had first gotten into the car earlier that evening, he had tried to look at the men in the backseat, but all he saw was the glinting reflection of weasel-like eyes in the vehicle’s semidarkness.

Tyrone wondered if the Italians planned to kill him. He wiped the water off his face and stared at three colored men who stood under the restaurant’s canopied entrance talking. He could not see their faces for the only light came from the tubes of blue and red neon that ringed the entrance. Nonetheless, he could tell by posture and size that King was not among them. The Italians were waiting to kill King. His soul purpose for being in the car was to point King out.

Tyrone had heard from his brother that King was seeing Mamie Walcott and that the “Maid of Harlem” cast was having a party at the Biloxi for one of the dancers who was leaving the show. Tyrone had put two and two together and had figured that King would attend with Mamie. He sure hoped that his guess was right. They had been sitting in the car across the street from the restaurant for more than an hour. It was nearly ten o’clock. Sitting in the darkness intermittently illuminated by passing cars, listening to the breathing of men who did not care whether he lived or died, was frightening to Tyrone. He wished he was somewhere other than the damp, cramped darkness of the Packard.

When Marco Volante had first placed five hundred dollars in his hand and said there was five hundred more when the job was done, Tyrone didn’t think it was going to be at all difficult setting up King for a hit. He received the money from Volante with the understanding that all he had to do was point out King and that would be it. He soon found out he had it all wrong. They wanted him present at the time of the hit. He had argued to no avail and soon was sporting a huge black eye for his resistance. Tyrone did not like his new friends and decided to volunteer nothing additional.

He was beginning to wonder whether or not it had been a godsend that he had been waiting in the alley when King Tremain and his friend brought out a semiconscious Tino Minetti and placed him in a truck. He also saw Tremain and his friend carry out two lumpy bundles of carpet. Right away Tyrone knew he had some valuable information. He had recognized Tino Minetti when he and his men had first gone into Europe’s office.

Tyrone stared out into the rain. He tried hard to stop his teeth from chattering. This was the second attempt at getting King and he could see that their patience was wearing thin. An unshaven, dark brown face suddenly appeared at the window. The eyes looked half-glazed and disoriented. “You got money for soup?” the beggar demanded.

Tyrone nearly leaped out of his skin from fright. “Go away! Go away!” he sputtered, drawing away from the window.

“All I needs is a nickel,” the man whined as rainwater dripped down his face, falling in rivulets from the straggly ends of his beard. “Just give me five cent, please! I done fallen on hard times!” The smell of cheap whisky escorted the sound of his words.

“He’s blocking my view of the door, Ferdie,” Lefty said in a low tone.

The man behind Tyrone rolled down his window and growled. “Beat it, nigger, if you know what’s good for you!”

The beggar drew back at the sight of the white man in the rear seat. His eyes shifted past Tyrone to Lefty and then back to Ferdie. “Okay, white mens, okay. Anything you say. I’s outa here pronto!” Before he turned away he had a good long look at Tyrone. Then he stumbled into the sluicing rain.

Tyrone sank down in the seat; he was made. He had seen the old drunk many times before and the man had had a good look at him as well. If anything should happen to King tonight, it would take no brains to connect Tyrone and his companions to the crime. Tyrone wasn’t hot, but he began to sweat. The news of his involvement would be on the streets before morning. What would his life be like if it was known that he had assisted the mob with a hit?

•  •  •

When King assisted Mamie out of his car, holding an umbrella over her head, he did not see Tyrone get out of a black sedan and follow him into the restaurant. The rain was still falling steadily. King’s only thought was to get Mamie inside before her beautiful linen dress was ruined. He grabbed her arm and escorted her into the restaurant and then returned to move his car.

As he walked out into the rain, three shiny black sedans pulled up. White people dressed in evening clothes began to get out of the vehicles. They were obviously a group from the Upper East Side who were intent on enjoying every nook and cranny that the dark brown arms of Harlem had to offer. They had stopped at a number of other places before the Biloxi. Several of the couples were already drunk and were talking loudly, as if all the colored people around them didn’t exist. King did not waste a glance on them, but got into his car and drove around the corner into the alley by the restaurant’s back entrance.

Although King would have spurned the thought, he owed his life to the loud-talking whites; but for them, Lefty and his men would have opened fire. Lefty had no hesitation in killing four or five innocent colored men and women, but it was different with whites. Lefty knew that if some socialite’s daughter or businessman’s son was killed there would be a very thorough investigation. He cautioned his men to wait. It was his intent to follow King’s car down the alley, but one of the sedans blocked the entrance to the alley while its driver had a shouting exchange with someone on the sidewalk. Lefty pounded his horn and cursed. When the sedan moved out of the way, Lefty accelerated into the alley, then decided to slow down to a reasonable pace. He saw King through the obscuring rain get out of his car and enter the back door of the restaurant.