South Street by David Bradley Page A

factory or drive a truck or a taxi. No, he’d work in a gas station, own a piece of it, maybe. Be a partner. The best mechanic around. He’d go in in the morning and sit around the office, and folks would bring in their cars and try to get him to work on ’em, an’ he’d just set there drinkin’ a Coke an’ smilin’, talk to ’em all about the weather until ’bout ’leven o’clock, an’ then he’d get up an’ eat his sandwiches an’ go to work. Man, he’d run them cars outa there like they was on a conveyor belt. Folks that didn’t even own a car would stand around just to watch him work. They’d ast where he learned to fix cars like that, but he wouldn’t say anything; he’d be too busy fixin’ to bother. So they’d ast each other, Hey, where’d this nigger learn to fix cars like that? An’ somebody’d tell ’em, Aw, he fixed tanks in the Ko-reen war. Man knows how to fix a tank ain’t gonna be worryin’ ’bout no Ford long. Goddamn! folks’d say, that cat sure do work! ’Long about four o’clock, after he’d done fixed half a dozen cars, he’d quit an’ go in an’ set around the office for a while, drinkin’ a little more Coke an’ listenin’ to the bell ring every time a car ran over the hose in front of the pumps. He wouldn’t pump no gas, though—he’d have a boy to do that. ’Long about five-thirty the phone’d ring an’ the boy’d answer it an’ say there was somebody needed a tow, an’ Rayburn’d tell him to go on out an’ bring it on in, an’ the boy’d go off in the wrecker. After a while he’d be back, haulin’ a long pink Caddy. Rayburn’d take one look at the Caddy an’ tell the boy to take it on down the street to the next station. There’d be this big man settin’ up next to the boy an’ he’d say, I thought you was gonna fix ma car. Rayburn’d spit on the sidewalk an’ look at him an’ say, I don’t fix no Caddys. The dude’d say, But, goddammit, I got a date an’ I’ma be needin’ ma car, an’ Rayburn’d tell him, Walk. If she really loves you she’s gonna want to see you, car or no car. Now, boy, take the man on down the street. Tow’s free. After a while the boy’d come back an’ ast could he get off early. The boy’d say he had a date with his girl. Rayburn’d say sure, only go on home now an’ clean up an’ come back by a minute ’fore he left. Then he’d just set there, smilin’ an’ thinkin’ while the boy run off, smokin’ a cigar an’ maybe drinkin’ a beer now that he wasn’t gonna have to be workin’ much longer. Pretty soon the boy’d come back, all turned out in his knits an’ a leather, an’ Rayburn’d smile an’ tell him he looked real fine. Then he’d say, Gone, now, an’ take ma car. I ain’t gonna be needin’ it tonight. The boy’d look at him like he didn’t think he heard right. Rayburn’d watch the boy pick up the keys an’ go walkin’ around the back like he was scared he might wake up, an’ pretty soon he’d be back with the car. Rayburn’d wave at him an’ the boy’d say he was gonna be careful, an’ Rayburn’d tell him he better be careful or he’d end up married an’ the boy’d grin an’ get it in gear, an’ Rayburn’d chuckle when the kid gunned it at the light an’ caught rubber in second.
    “Shit, nigger, you dreamin’! You ain’t never gonna make that.”
    Cotton turned his massive head on his short thick neck and glared at Willie T.’s smooth coffee-colored face. “I’d make it if you was to let me alone long enough to get it lined up.”
    “Listen to him,” crowed Willie T. “‘Lined up,’ shit. Nigger can’t shoot no pool.”
    “Let him shoot now, Willie,” said Leroy absentmindedly. He pulled a cigar from his breast pocket, stuck it in his mouth, and inclined his head toward Willie T., who produced a match as if he had been waiting for the opportunity.
    “He ain’t gonna make it,” said Willie T.
    “That’s ma business,” said Cotton. “You