redhead, Lucille Ball’s look-alike, rocked on her stool to the music. The tipsy flat-backer turned her back to the bar. She zeroed in on me with hooded blue eyes. Her dress was hiked nearly to her moon, and aimed at me.
The Superfox got off her stool and wafted Chanel #5 up my nose on her way to the john. I saw Phil peer out the front venetian blinds. He spun and frantically winked his eye. A moment later a brute faced colossus, togged to the teeth in a shocking pink ensemble, stopped his six eight or nine feet of bulgy muscles past the top of the front door.
Despair descended. It had to be Ross and my stealing dream was lost. He strode the length of the joint with his Neanderthal skull swiveling as he shook down the joint. He was two booths from me when he stopped. He leaned into a booth. Moments before a pint sized loser, in a tattered vine, had slid into that booth beside a brunette silk girl. Phil had introduced her to me as one of the girls employed at Aunt Lula’s cathouse.
The loser copped a heel in terror. The alabaster beauty fled the joint like Ross had goosed her with an icepick. Ross went out behind her.
The front door was still closing when Superfox came past me from the crapper. I suffered the thought of what a miserable break it was that she didn’t dig him leaving with the white girl.
I was sitting there regretting that she didn’t have to just pee when a loud mouth ’ho called Miss Bowlegs, eased out of a booth ahead. She went to the bar grinning. She whispered into Sue’s ear. She swirled on her stool like she was making a country break for the door. Instead she frowned and hailed a bar-maid like she was settling in for some sho ’nuff tippling. The fire and brimstone patron saint of pimps was in my corner all right.
Black Sue was tossing double shots of Scotch down her gullet as fast as the harried barmaid could lug them. She had a lulu lump under her right eye. The sight of it shot a thrill my way. Had the gorilla’s right cross and the wire from Miss Bowlegs put him in the cross to blow the fox to me?
After a band break, Phil went to the bandstand and rapped with the leader. A barkeep unveiled my birthday cake and hors d’oeuvres on a table set up on a corner of the bandstand.
Lanky Phil adjusted the mike up to his jib and shouted, ‘Pallies, damper the rapping! My main man, Candy Slim, from the Big Windy is gonna cut his cake and rap a taste.’
I rose and moved out to applause. As I passed the redhead, she grabbed my arm and slurred, ‘Candy, as a pair we’d be dandy. Huh?’
Sue leaned in close, with bright racist eyes, to dig my response to the symbol of black women’s pain and mortal enemy. I nearly swooned with joy to play my opening card.
I batted the alabaster hand away and cracked icily, ‘Look you jive flat-backing zero bitch, stay out of my face! Don’t fuck with me. Huh!’
The redhead, moist eyed and humiliated, sagged and about faced to the bar. Sue’s eyes glowed with admiration as I boogied away to the bandstand. The band struck up a raucous ‘Happy Birthday.’ I polished the next card I’d play as I cut the cake. I went to the mike and swept the crowd with doe eyes. I slipped on a mournful mask, faking the emotions of a dude with hurtful blues.
I stood there in the silent red haze for a dozen heart-beats before I pitched, ‘Sugar Babies, most of you are hip that I just got up from a fall. Only Phil, my home boy, is hip that I lost my bottom rib and our daughter in a car crash a month before I split the joint. She was a thoroughbred, my woman! She stacked up long scratch in the kip for me. I’m happy if I don’t look it. Sugar Babies, you’ve lifted me like a blow of crystal. I know that somewhere way out there past the sky, my woman and angel kid are happy this morning, happy ’cause I’m honored here by blue ribbon people. You can’t stop a stepper, Sugar Babies, and I love ya!’
I went back to the booth through a chant of ‘Happy Birthday, Slim!’ back slapping and warm congratulations. Black Sue followed me into the booth like a doll on a string.
She just sat there studying me, with our eyes locked. It was a long time before she said, in a satin drawl, ‘Sugar, Black Sue is gotta tell you, you something else and then some. Them sweet words relating to your dead daughter and bottom lady nearly got me bawling like a squealer. Slim, you something else! . . . lemme buy you a taste.’
I leaned and whispered into her ear, ‘Later, I just want to be with you.’
I decided to play Sweet Willie all the way. I feather stroked the inside of her wrist with my fingertips. Her bottom lip trembled. I glanced past her. Phil glared cutthroat murder at me and whirled out the front door into the rain. That was good. Phil could pull my coat if the gorilla drove up. I pressed her hands against my lips and gazed into her eyes. She swept a fearful glance over the joint.
I crooned, ‘Baby Sue, let’s flee to a taste and some talk in my crib upstairs. I’m convinced something boss is happening between us . . . dollface, maybe you need me . . . let’s find out.’
She said seriously, ‘My old man is Jabbo Ross . . . you hip to how he is . . . about me?’
I said, ‘I’ve heard.’
She murmured, ‘And you ain’t leery?’
I said stoutly, ‘I’m not into pussy. Sugar Pie, I’m game to climb up the devil’s mother-humping ass with you this morning.’
She laughed shakily, ‘Well, let’s go, sweet Chicago Slim.’
I dropped the twister to Phil’s pad on the table top and said, ‘We might give some jokers in the joint diarrhea of the jib if we split together. I’ll cop some blow and wine and follow in a moment.’ She scooped up the key. She squeezed my hand and started to slide her awesomely curved rearend from the booth. She braked and dug into her midnight cleavage. She excavated a roll of bread. She peeled off a ‘C’ note and shoved it into my shirt pocket.
I felt my scrotum spasm. I was zeroed in on her now, reading her tactics. She was playing star ’ho test shit on me. I wasn’t uptight about that. After all she had to check out my pedigree. She was at the very least unconsciously considering me as her new boss! I leaned and eased the booby trapped ‘C’ note back down between her epic peaks. The plum colored tips gleamed through the chiffon gauze.
To certify my pedigree, I slipped on a mask of terminal pain and cracked a mild reprimand, ‘Sugar Sue, you got to know what starts right, goes right . . . up front, I’ll spring for the nitshit refreshments.’
I flashed my fake bankroll with the solid funny money guts.
I said, ‘You’re sweet to be concerned about me just out of the joint and all. Now you can stop worrying about the little things.’
She smiled crookedly and split. Phil came in from the rain with his silky black hair shining in wet ringlets. He sat down across from me.
He said, ‘Nigger, the joint sure as hell didn’t damper your speed. Too bad it’s Ross she’s gotta dump.’
Phil slipped a thirty-eight snub nose from his waistband. I took it off beneath the table top. He rammed a balloon of blow into my shirt pocket as he got to his feet.
He said, ‘Some ploy to prime the ’ho . . . I’ll send up some sauce.’
I got up and said, ‘Sugar Baby, I know you’re royal blue and I’m your horse if I never win a race.’
He said,
