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I carry a tray of drinks and appetizers over to a table, where three servicemen are sitting around with the guy called Sammy the Pimp, a Small’s regular.

“. . . everyone except Red here,” says Sammy as I approach.

What about me?
I wonder. But I don’t say anything.

Sammy’s known around Small’s — around Harlem, really — for the women he can get for a fellow. He’s a real clean, good-looking sort of guy. Women are on him like flies on honey, and he takes them and turns them so they work with their bodies. There’s a whole crop of downtown white guys who will come uptown for the most beautiful Negro women, then head back home to their wives. Connecting them is Sammy’s bread and butter.

I pause beside the table. Sammy and the servicemen have been laughing and joking for going on an hour now. It’s the fourth round I’ve brought over in that time. I start laying out the drinks in front of each guy.

“You got a girl?” one of the servicemen asks me. “This guy says you’re so wet behind the ears, your lobes are dripping.”

I can see why Sammy might think so. When would he have ever seen me with a woman? Around Small’s, I’m always working or hanging around listening to the hustlers.

I glance at Sammy, who’s looking up at me with this half smile, one shoulder tipped up. Maybe he’s just making fun of me. No big deal. I can take it. The customer comes first, is what they always tell me. But that’s not quite how it is, I don’t think. I read Sammy’s expression like a dare or something.

I grin at the soldiers. “He’s just having fun with you,” I tell them. “Sure, I’ve got a girl. It’s his sister.”

The servicemen howl.

Sammy smacks his palm on the table. “You ain’t laid off her yet? I’m warning you, Red.”

“I’m just trying to make do with what I can get,” I say.

“Red, I swear,” Sammy cries, feigning anger. The servicemen are in stitches.

“What are you gonna do?” I clamp my empty tray under my arm and point at Sammy. “This guy’s got the finest lady friends you’ve ever seen,” I insist, putting on a half pout. “But does he ever put in a good word for the likes of me? Oh, no.”

“What would a real woman want with your lanky ass on stilts?” Sammy retorts.

“Your sister doesn’t seem to mind,” one of the soldiers chortles.

Sammy rubs his forehead and cringes, as if realizing he walked right into that one. “Get outta my sight, Red,” he says.

I shrug, backing away. “It’s like I said: sometimes you gotta make do.”

“And sometimes you just want someone for the night,” Sammy says quietly, beneath the laughter. He places three thin slips of paper on the table without saying another word about it. Real smooth.

“Can I get you gentlemen anything else at the moment?” I say. But the servicemen don’t answer. They chuckle themselves into silence. Sip their drinks. I back away, surprised at the sudden rush I got from that quick minute of banter.

I circle the room, checking on my other tables. Then I return to lean against the bar, facing the room, so I can see if anyone motions to me.

From a distance, mid-sip, Sammy raises his glass to me, ever so slightly. If I hadn’t been looking right at him, if he hadn’t been meeting my eyes right then, I would have missed it altogether.

Fifteen minutes later, Sammy’s still sitting there. The servicemen are gone, and so are the slips. I walk over and pick up the cash they’ve left on the table to cover their tab. Sammy’s bourbon glass is down to several chips of melting ice.

“Another?” I ask him.

“It’s not what I was expecting,” he answers.

“You want to settle up now?” I’m surprised — usually he stays much later.

Sammy shakes his head. Taps the rim of his glass, universal symbol for “Get me a refill.”

“I meant you,” he adds.

Oh. “Did I do something wrong?”

“You’re a pretty smart guy,” he tells me. “Real quick on your feet. Not everyone can keep up with my kind of hustle. So what are you waiting for?”

Coming from someone as seasoned as Sammy, that’s pretty high praise. “What are you saying?”

“Red, you’re too good not to be in the game.”

“The game?” I echo. “Which game is that?”

Sammy goes, “Any one.”

I grin. I’d sure enough like to get a stake in something. Listening to the old cats around Small’s, I’ve learned a thing or two about hustling. I’m a quick study.

“Cool out awhile,” Sammy says, pointing at the seat across from him. “Have a drink with me.”

My shift is about up, and I’d just as soon stay. It’s cold and a bit snowy outside, and I have nowhere to go but back to my room, alone.

We order drinks from the guy who comes on after me. The thick of the night rush is on now, and he flits from table to table, no time to stop and talk. I’m working my way up to the late-night gig that he has right now. Tipsier patrons, and more of them, means thicker tips. But I’m the new guy, so I work early.

Sammy’s fairly drunk at this point, and he starts spouting off about the various hustles I could be doing. “You can sell — I know that,” he says. “You’re not the right style for what I do in the long run. But there’s some small-time stuff. . . . You could just blow it out,” he says. “No contest.”

I listen closely to his advice. He tells me all about buying and selling, moving and shaking, numbers and pimping and every kind of hustle, small and large. But a lot of it sounds like time-consuming full-time work, and I’m liking the Small’s job.

“So you pick up something on the side,” he says. “Everyone in Harlem has a hustle. You gotta find yours, or you’ll never break even.”

There’s a lull while we order a fresh round of drinks.

“I do have a girl, you know,” I tell Sammy. “She lives in Boston.”

“What’s she like?” he asks.

I shrug. “Blond.”

Sammy raises his eyebrows. “White woman?”

“Sure.”

Sammy laughs. Loud enough that the people at the tables beside us glance over. “Well, my mistake. I underestimated you, Red. Boy, did I.”

Sammy starts quietly using me in his hustles. Kinda like how we did that first night. He starts conversations, I come over and drop a line or two that helps him make his point, real subtle.

“Listen, Red,” he says to me one night. “If we’re gonna stay associated like this, we’ve gotta get you another name.”

“How come?”

“People might confuse you with one of the other Reds around.”

I’ve heard some other guys being called Red, but I don’t really see the problem. It’s not like Sammy is the only “Sammy” in Harlem, either. But when I think about it a second longer, I realize that he is the only one they call “Sammy the Pimp.” Half the point of a street name is to make yourself stand out from every other Tom, Dick, and Malcolm.

“What do you want to call me?” I ask. Shorty was the one who named me Red in the first place, and that was good enough for Boston. I already know I need Sammy to help me get good enough to hustle in Harlem. This was just part of becoming who I needed to be next.

“We already got Chicago Red and Philly Red,” Sammy says. “Where you from?”

“Michigan.” I don’t even bother saying Lansing. Who’s ever heard of that backwoods place?

“Detroit?” Sammy says.

Close enough. I nod.

“So we call you Detroit,” Sammy continues. “Detroit Red.”

I can get on board with that.

I sweep behind the booths during a slow stretch. Midafternoon — only two customers in the whole place.

I move the broom real slow and steady, making my way toward where they’re sitting. I can sweep faster, but the longer it takes to get over by them, the longer I can linger in their area once I get there. I’ve learned to listen close to the guys around Small’s, because the old hustlers talk about anything when they’re just among themselves. I’ve picked up valuable pointers from things I’d overheard.

I’m close enough now to hear. They’re not hustlers, though. They’re straight businessmen. I can tell by the words they use. No slang, no undercurrent of secrets. Just straight talk from a couple of Harlem’s old guard. A big guy as dark as midnight and a slighter guy, also dark black.
Like Papa
. The thought slips in. They’re dressed in fine suits and drinking the sort of whiskey that doesn’t come cheap. Tipping me decently after each round.

I’ve seen them in here before, but later on in the day, when the place is busier. I’ve never talked to them or gotten their stories.

The smaller man’s in the middle of a long monologue about Negro improvement. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before, between Papa’s preaching and Mom’s lessons, not to mention Ella talking it all back to me day in and day out. Waste of time now. All of it. Negroes don’t need improvement.

Real Negroes don’t sit around and talk about how things
should
be and what they
should
have. Real Negroes — real
men
— go out and get some of their own. Get it good. Like every hustler in this place. Like Sammy. And me. I’m making decent bank, between my wages and tips and my take in Sammy’s hustles. The zoots lined up in my closet are so fly, they nearly have wings.

“It’s like Garvey used to talk about,” the big guy answers, interrupting the small guy’s rant.

“Up, up, you mighty race,” I murmur, working the broom. It just slips out. I don’t mean it to.

Both guys spin around to look at me.

“Detroit, you know Garvey?” the big guy says, not bothering to hide his surprise.

Put me on the spot, why don’t you. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No, no,” they both say, on top of each other.

“You know of him?” the big guy repeats.

“I guess,” I say.

“From where?” the big guy says. “I would think he was a little before your time.”

“My father,” I hear myself saying. Don’t know the last time I said those words. But it’s quiet in the room. No distractions, nothing to stop myself from blurting the things that come to mind.

“A fellow Garveyite!” the small guy exclaims. “I tell you, it’s good to know that the message hasn’t been entirely lost in your generation.”

I don’t really know what message they’re talking about.
Up, up, you mighty race?
The things Papa used to preach about sounded good at the time, when I was too small to know better. But since then I’ve been up the Hill, as they say, which is about as far up as Negroes ever get to go. I’ve felt the emptiness, seen everyone’s mask. There’s nothing real up there. Down the Hill, down in the streets, that’s what’s real. “My father was beat up for selling Garvey’s paper.” I don’t say Papa was one of the leaders of the Movement or that he was instrumental in getting Garvey out of jail for supposed mail fraud. Or that he actually circulated the petition against the government for violating the human rights of Negroes in the United States. I definitely don’t say that Negro improvement is what Papa died for, either. That’d be saying too much. In the end, all their kind of talk gets you is run over. Better to dodge. Hustle just enough to stay alive another day.

“Come sit with us, Red.”

“Naw.” I glance back, toward the office where Charlie works. I feel a little sick to my stomach. I haven’t thought about Garvey and Papa’s lengthy history of shaking the status quo in years. Forgot I even knew about them. In my mind he only lived six years, only did the things I saw him do. Now he seems so much bigger than he ever has, his presence stretching far before me and far after, coming at me from all directions.

“Join us for a minute.” The two guys look at me; their hopeful invitation lands on me with the weight of expectations I can’t meet. They’re old, like the hustlers, and their gaze is just as sharp. But different. Way too much like . . .

The bar’s front door creaks open, admitting a gust of fresh air and a new customer. One solid old hustler I recognize.

I stir the broom, grateful for the distraction. “Can’t sit. I’m on duty. You want another round?”

“No, son, we want to talk to —”

“All right, then.” I sweep away, faster this time. Feeling their eyes on me. Hearing them say things meant to draw me back until I’m out of earshot.

The customer who just entered hefts himself onto his usual bar stool, leans his forearms on the polished wood. He’s a thick-bodied sort but not too tall. It’s such a relief, walking over to him, knowing what I’m going to get. No Garvey talk from this cat. He’s a hustler through and through.

“Good timing,” I tell him. “In another second I was going to have to sit down with those guys. I think they’re trying to recruit me,” I joke.

He turns partway toward them and slightly lifts a hand in a half wave. The Garveyites half wave back. Sometimes it seems like everyone knows everyone in Harlem. Or maybe it’s just that everyone knows West Indian Archie.

“Nah. They’re all talk,” Archie says in his strong, quiet voice. “You look like a man of action.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “That’s what I’ve been thinking. What can we get you?”

“Pint of ale,” Archie says. I lean the broom against the end of the bar and scoot around behind it. Archie glances at me, clearly amused. “You tending bar now, kid?”

I grin. “Charlie’s in the back.” I’m supposed to call him out to mix the real drinks, but I can pull a tap handle as well as the next guy. “But I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

Archie nods. “Man of action.”

I can’t stop grinning. “Right on.”

The bar has four taps, but I know which ale West Indian Archie likes. Everyone knows. I tip the glass and let the foamy head flow off into the drain. I top it off and slide it across the bar to Archie.

“You’re a natural,” he says.

My grin starts to almost hurt. I can’t understand why I feel so good right now. West Indian Archie’s known to be the meanest, most powerful numbers runner in the racket. His turf is enormous, his power practically unlimited. I’ve seen him get a look of anger on his face that could make the toughest sort of hustler fear for his life. If the bar was full, he could command the room. No question. But in the dim light of the afternoon, with no one really around and Archie saying nice things about me . . . there’s actually something comforting about him.