nigger.
Card chuckled, and it was as if he could hear George saying, “What do you mean, ‘second-best organizer?’ “It had been a joke between them, because Card had been the best and George knew it. But the two of them together had been something to see, Card recalled with pride.
He turned off the water, climbed into the tub and bathed quickly. He found a half-dirty towel in a cabinet beneath the sink and dried himself. He shaved and then took a pair of lightweight brown slacks and a pink shirt from the hangers on the back of the door and dressed. Shoving his feet into his sandals, he took his wallet and keys from the jeans lying on the floor, took a look around the room and left.
The street was quiet. The only person out was the old Italian man sitting on a folding chair in front of the mortuary. He looked like a corpse waiting for the casket to come.
“Buon giorno, Signor Ghiraldi,” Card called, waving.
The old man looked up, smiled and waved. “Whadda you say, Card?” he answered in a voice stronger than his frail body should’ve been able to hold.
Card held out his arms and shrugged. “It’s going to be another hot one.”
“Whadda you ‘spect? It’s summer.”
Card laughed, waved and continued down the block. He smiled. He still did automatically the things a good organizer was supposed to do. He doubted if there was a person on the block he didn’t know, at least to speak to. Ten years ago he could’ve gone to any town in the South and by sundown been able to tell you who held the power, how they used it and what he would have to do to get them to use it to get Negroes some freedom.
He crossed Avenue A and continued on to First Avenue where the uptown traffic was beginning to build toward the morning rush hour. He continued a block up First Avenue to a nondescript diner in the middle of the block.
“What’s happening, Maureen?” he said to the dark-haired woman behind the counter.
“You sick?” she smiled. “Haven’t seen you in here this early in a while, Card.”
“Thought I’d come in early and make your day,” he laughed, strolling to the back of the diner and sliding into the last booth where he could look out on to the avenue. It was a typical New York diner, with a counter and stools running the length of the room and booths along the windows. He felt more at home there than in his apartment. He ate there everyday. The food was adequate, if plain, and the servings were almost more than he could eat, and his appetite was not small.
“Coffee?”
“Who made it? You or Patrick?”
A husky man with dirty gray hair and a white apron covering the lower part of his body stepped out of the kitchen behind Card. “You don’t like my coffee?” he asked. “That’s what’s wrong with you coloreds. You got no taste.”
“If I had taste, honky, I wouldn’t eat here. What I want to know, Pat, is when are you going to die and let Maureen put some class in this roach trap.”
“I can’t do that, Card. If I die you’ll marry her and I couldn’t rest easy in my grave knowing my own sister was married to a colored.”
They laughed.
“You having the usual?”
Card nodded. He settled back in the booth and smiled. It was good having a place where nobody wanted anything from you except that you be well. There’d been weeks when Pat had carried him on a tab, and Card had always paid him back — and with a little extra. Sometimes when Card came in the afternoon, he’d help out in the kitchen to give Pat a half hour or so to sit down and smoke a cigarette.
Maureen brought two cups of coffee to the booth and slid in opposite Card. She took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her beige uniform, shook two out, lit them and handed one to Card.
“It’s going to be hotter ‘n hell today,” she said.
“Least you’ll be in here with the air conditioning.”
She shrugged. “Another hour and this place will fill up and from then until three or so, I’ll be running back
Card chuckled, and it was as if he could hear George saying, “What do you mean, ‘second-best organizer?’ “It had been a joke between them, because Card had been the best and George knew it. But the two of them together had been something to see, Card recalled with pride.
He turned off the water, climbed into the tub and bathed quickly. He found a half-dirty towel in a cabinet beneath the sink and dried himself. He shaved and then took a pair of lightweight brown slacks and a pink shirt from the hangers on the back of the door and dressed. Shoving his feet into his sandals, he took his wallet and keys from the jeans lying on the floor, took a look around the room and left.
The street was quiet. The only person out was the old Italian man sitting on a folding chair in front of the mortuary. He looked like a corpse waiting for the casket to come.
“Buon giorno, Signor Ghiraldi,” Card called, waving.
The old man looked up, smiled and waved. “Whadda you say, Card?” he answered in a voice stronger than his frail body should’ve been able to hold.
Card held out his arms and shrugged. “It’s going to be another hot one.”
“Whadda you ‘spect? It’s summer.”
Card laughed, waved and continued down the block. He smiled. He still did automatically the things a good organizer was supposed to do. He doubted if there was a person on the block he didn’t know, at least to speak to. Ten years ago he could’ve gone to any town in the South and by sundown been able to tell you who held the power, how they used it and what he would have to do to get them to use it to get Negroes some freedom.
He crossed Avenue A and continued on to First Avenue where the uptown traffic was beginning to build toward the morning rush hour. He continued a block up First Avenue to a nondescript diner in the middle of the block.
“What’s happening, Maureen?” he said to the dark-haired woman behind the counter.
“You sick?” she smiled. “Haven’t seen you in here this early in a while, Card.”
“Thought I’d come in early and make your day,” he laughed, strolling to the back of the diner and sliding into the last booth where he could look out on to the avenue. It was a typical New York diner, with a counter and stools running the length of the room and booths along the windows. He felt more at home there than in his apartment. He ate there everyday. The food was adequate, if plain, and the servings were almost more than he could eat, and his appetite was not small.
“Coffee?”
“Who made it? You or Patrick?”
A husky man with dirty gray hair and a white apron covering the lower part of his body stepped out of the kitchen behind Card. “You don’t like my coffee?” he asked. “That’s what’s wrong with you coloreds. You got no taste.”
“If I had taste, honky, I wouldn’t eat here. What I want to know, Pat, is when are you going to die and let Maureen put some class in this roach trap.”
“I can’t do that, Card. If I die you’ll marry her and I couldn’t rest easy in my grave knowing my own sister was married to a colored.”
They laughed.
“You having the usual?”
Card nodded. He settled back in the booth and smiled. It was good having a place where nobody wanted anything from you except that you be well. There’d been weeks when Pat had carried him on a tab, and Card had always paid him back — and with a little extra. Sometimes when Card came in the afternoon, he’d help out in the kitchen to give Pat a half hour or so to sit down and smoke a cigarette.
Maureen brought two cups of coffee to the booth and slid in opposite Card. She took a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her beige uniform, shook two out, lit them and handed one to Card.
“It’s going to be hotter ‘n hell today,” she said.
“Least you’ll be in here with the air conditioning.”
She shrugged. “Another hour and this place will fill up and from then until three or so, I’ll be running back
Similar Books
