Tempest Rising - Diane Mckinney-whetstone [42]
“Whoa, baby. Can you at least tell me your name before you go off into a dissertation on such a, excuse the pun, baby, but such a weighty topic?”
“Mnh, dissertation, huh? Candy, my name’s Candy. And you been to college, I see. You cute, and you smart. Now ain’t no doubt in my mind that some little young chick done already nailed you.”
“Ain’t a nail been hammered that can’t be pried, uh, Candy?” His drawl slipped through as he decided not to comment on how sweet she must be with a name like Candy.
“My, my, my, and from the country too.”
“Yeah, they grow them strong where I’m from, Candy.” He smiled again.
“And hard?”
“Hard and soft, baby.”
“Give me your hand, young blood, let me touch your flesh and make sure I didn’t just dream you up. And order me another scotch and soda. You just might be coming home with me tonight.”
He motioned the bartender, pointed to her glass, and she grabbed for his hand and squeezed it, and he couldn’t hold his smile and got embarrassed again as it took over his face. He knew he wasn’t going home with her; he was after all committed to Ramona. But what a story he’d have for Perry in the morning. He’d describe the yellow headband, the chain belt, the hipster skirt, the frosted lipstick; he’d say, “Yeah, Pops, I could have had one of the hungry foxes you always talking ’bout at Brick’s after-hours spot, but Ramona’s more than enough woman for me.” She was asking him now if he ever dropped acid since he’d been a college man.
“Naw, that’s a white boy thing,” he said. “I went to a black school, Virginia Union.” He noticed the bartender set yet another fresh drink in front of her. Damn, he thought, she was on number three, and that was his last money on the bar. What was left? A dollar. He thought about what he could do. Excuse himself to go to the men’s room and then slip on out. Let her keep drinking and then feel for his wallet and pretend he’d been robbed. Or just come clean. Say something like “Hey, baby, your unquenchable thirst broke the bank.”
He was about to do just that when he felt a rough tap on his shoulder. He realized then he’d violated a primary rule of hanging on the Strip. He’d turned his back on the door.
“You the country motherfucker that threatened me over talking to my own granddaughters?”
Tyrone hunched his shoulder and turned slowly. He could smell the whiskey on Larry’s hot breath as it hit the side of his face. What had been a crowded space around the bar receded like a puddle of water evaporating from the center and left an empty circle around Larry and Tyrone. Tyrone was directly in front of Larry now, staring at the beige-colored scar on his forehead.
“Come on, you corn-fed nigger.” Larry thumbed the lapels of his trench coat. “I’ll teach you to get involved with matters between blood.”
“Awl, Larry, leave him ’lone,” Candy called from the bar.
“It’s all right, baby, I got this,” Tyrone said.
“I’m afraid you don’t.” It was one of the bouncers who’d been guarding the entrance to the card game. “Y’all gots to take it to the street.”
“Awl, let em fight,” a high-pitched voice called from the circle’s edges.
“Yeah, it’s gonna be quick and dirty anyhow”—from deeper in the circle that had grown four deep around. “Ole Larry sparred for Sonny Liston. I would put a Lincoln on him, but I know ain’t a motherfucker in here dumb enough to put their money on the young boy.”
“Naw, break it up”—from the other side of the circle. A big man, almost as big as the bouncer, wearing a red, black, and green dashiki, pushed his way through the thickening edges of the circle. “That’s why the black man on this continent is still enslaved. We’re waging war on each other instead of against the white slave master who wants to see us poison ourselves with their alcohol and drugs.”
“Shut the fuck up,” somebody called from the back of the circle.
“Yeah, didn’t I just sit over here and watch