Clara knew then and there that she had to leave and leave fast. Eventually, for some reason unbeknownst to the young boys, little Henry left with the wise woman and her boy. After a few weeks on the road, from farm to farm, the trio eventually landed in Alabama.
Finally ending up in South Carolina, the young mother, always brave and courageous, lost her battle to live. Mama Clara died of tuberculosis, leaving the boys at the age of fourteen.
From there, destiny took hold once again. Henry, whom would later be known as ‘Blood Slick’ because of his razor skills, and Benjamin, fought the world to survive, literally. Both joined gangs, becoming head of those gangs. Each known for their brutality and skill in killing and fighting.
For Slick and Benjamin, it always seemed that fate threw her worst in their direction, only to have the men threw their worst right back. From moonshining, card sharking, hustling, even selling sex to wealthy woman whom were lonely, the young men grew into hardened criminals.
But somehow, through it all, both managed to hold on to their humanity. Or atleast a gentile delusion of such.
Benjamin grins as he pouring another cup of coffee. “You rememb’a why I start’d call’in ya’ ‘Slick’ ?”
“Yeah - the Murto Twins,” the blue eyed hustler laughs.
“I sliced both’em fuck’as up like steak at’a slaught’a house.”
“So much damn blood on tha’ flo’.... it was slick to our feet. Yo’ dumb ass start’d call’in me tha’ shit,” Slick grins.
“Badge of honor nigga. Badge of honor,” Benjamin grins.
Looking over to a picture, the creole thinks. The woman in the black and white fine framed picture is pretty in a plain way, barely smiling. As if hiding secrets like a southern Mona Lisa.
Slick looks to the portrait as well, noticing a quick look on Benjamin face. One of which he dismisses with a sip of coffee. “That’s Kelly’s mama,’ he says.
As the hustler’s intelligent blue eyes studying the portrait, slick instantly remembers a woman that hated him with an awful passion.
Slick first met Kelly at the Sunday horse tracks, a huge after church affair for wealthy socialites. Always dressed in his finest, accented with a gold pocket watch and brass tipped ivory cane, the lovable killer hs always been a sure catch. Though dressed casket sharp, Kelly’s mother would always had something snide and demeaning to say Slick each time she met him. Never fail.
At that time Kelly was in the young hoods sights. Slick loved the young woman dearly and had the money to support a family.
By working hard and smart, the young hoodlum was already a millionaire by the age of twenty through the bountiful dark fruits of the southern underworld.
Each Sunday the hood would leap out of bed, knowing he would see the girl of his dreams. Benjamin would simply sleep in, since coloreds were not allowed at the tracks. And sure enough, dressed in his best, the young man, always with flowers in hand, was treated like dirt by Mother Kelly.
One time the hateful wench even called Slick a ‘ high yellow mongrel nigger’ trying his best to pass for white. Slick guessed this was because it soon got out that Benjamin and he were actually blood brothers with the same father.
Each Sunday, called the worst of the worst by a woman whom had more money that God, Slick smiled brightly because none of it mattered.
Kelly was always behind the evil woman, smiling sweetly. It was as if Kelly’s simple smiles were a type of armor. As acidic words of hate and vitriol came his way, all Slick did was imagine Kelly’s sweet face while he was riding deep within her young thighs.
Turning from the old bats’s picture, the hoodlum thinks back to a woman whom was a lot kinder to him than the one in the portrait.
Instantly Mama Clara on her death bed comes to mind. In her last moments the loving woman was barely able to talk. Mucus in had gathered in her lungs. The woman was literally slowly drowned.
The last time Slick and Benjamin saw their mother, Clara was courageous, almost angelic, as if not effected at all by the fact that she was dying.
Heaven was calling the good woman home.
Peering over, enjoying his last cup of coffee, the young hustler is amazed. The creole resembles Mama Clara so much. The only woman of whom Slick will ever remember as his mother.
As if a slight gentle feather, light and ethereal, Mama Clara’s face flutters across Slick’s mind once again. Making the killer instantly melancholic.
“You miss mama .... ?,” he asks solemnly.
Benjamin turns with a grin. “Which one nigga?”
“You had two mama’s. One that aint want'cha’ and my mama.” The creole looks away, sadness in his handsome face as well.
“Every fuck’in day bro’ ...... every damn day,” he says gently.
Slick turns away, remembering the last time he saw birth mother.
Amitola Igasho was a woman to reckon with in her day. Dark haired and strong, the powerful woman was the product of a white gold mining father and a Tonkawa mother. An ancient Native American tribe out of Texas.
Always one to speak her mind, as well as use her fist, Amitola was a strong woman whose eyes blazed with the fire that was her home and long linage.
It was 1912, the broken woman was being carted off to a lunatic asylum. Too much drink and not enough hope.
Slick was at the stage when a boy turns into a young man. Watching as his mother was taken away, slobbering incoherently, eyes wild and crazy. His sister was sent to orphanage, the last the blue eyed hustler ever heard from both.
On a job in Alabama, the hired killer was in a local bar, around rowdy types like himself. He was watching as a blonde man played pool that looked very familiar. Slick stared at the man all night, off and on. The man looked just like Slick. Right down to the thick muscular build and light hair.
Finally, after enough drink, the man approached Slick, thinking he was queer.
A fight broke out and Slick remembers breaking the man’s wrist, beating the stranger badly.
Later, through contacts, Slick learned he had beaten a brother he had never known he had.
Turning to the sunny window, the hustler looks to the only brother he has ever known. A black man.
“Yo’ really kick ya’ brotha’s ass,” Benjamin asks, knowing the glazed look .
“If that fuck’a was my brotha’. That fuck’a got his ass handed to him on a platta’. Don’t play tha’ queer shit,” Slick sneers, looking back outside, wondering.
Benjamin
