Because of this code, in my time in Harlem I'd personally known a dozen hustlers who,
threatened, left town, disgraced.
Once the wire had it, any retreat by either of us was unthinkable. The wire would be awaiting the
report of the showdown.
I'd also known of at least another dozen showdowns in which one took the Dead On Arrival ride to
the morgue, and the other went to prison for manslaughter or the electric chair for murder.
Sammy let me hold his .32. My guns were at my apartment. I put the .32 in my pocket, with my
hand on it, and walked out.
I couldn't stay out of sight. I had to show up at all of my usual haunts. I was glad that Reginald
was out of town. He might have tried protecting me, and I didn't want him shot in the head by
West Indian Archie.
I stood awhile on the corner, with my mind confused-the muddled thinking that's characteristic of
the addict. Was West Indian Archie, I began to wonder, bluffing a hype on me? To make fun of
me? Some old hustlers did love to hype younger ones. I knew he wouldn't do it as some would,
just to pick up three hundred dollars. But everyone was so slick. In this Harlem jungle people
would hype their brothers. Numbers runners often had hyped addicts who had hit, who were so
drugged that, when challenged, they really couldn't be sure if they had played a certain number.
I began to wonder whether West Indian Archie might not be right. Had I really gotten my
combination confused? I certainly knew the two numbers I'd played; I knew I'd told him to combinate
only one of them. Had I gotten mixed up about which number?
Have you ever been so sure you did something that you never would have thought of it againunless
it was brought up again? Then you start trying tomentally confirm-and you're only about
half-sure?
It was just about tune for me to go and pick up Jean Parks, to go downtown to see Billie at the
Onyx Club. So much was swirling in my head. I thought about telephoning her and calling it off,
making some excuse. But I knew that running now was the worst thing I could do. So I went on
and picked up Jean at her place. We took a taxi on down to 52nd Street. "Billie Holiday" and
those big photo blow-ups of her were under the lights outside. Inside, the tables were jammed
against the wall, tables about big enough to get two drinks and four elbows on; the Onyx was one
of those very little places.
Billie, at the microphone, had just finished a number when she saw Jean and me. Her white gown
glittered under the spotlight, her face had that coppery, Indianish look, and her hair was in that
trademark ponytail. For her next number she did the one she knew I always liked so: "You Don't
Know What Love Is"-"until you face each dawn with sleepless eyes... until you've lost a love you
hate to lose-"
When her set was done, Billie came over to our table. She and Jean, who hadn't seen each other
in a long time, hugged each other. Billie sensed something wrong with me. She knew that I was
always high, but she knew me well enough to see that something else was wrong, and asked in
her customary profane language what was the matter with me. And in my own foul vocabulary of
those days, I pretended to be without a care, so she let it drop.
We had a picture taken by the club photographer that night. The three of us were sitting close
together. That was the last time I ever saw Lady Day. She's dead; dope and heartbreak stopped
that heart as big as a barn and that sound and style that no one successfully copies. Lady Day
sang with the soul of Negroes from the centuries of sorrow and oppression. What a shame that
proud,fine, black woman never lived where the true greatness of the black race was appreciated!
In the Onyx Club men's room, I sniffed the little packet of cocaine I had gotten from Sammy. Jean
and I, riding back up to Harlem in a cab, decided to have another drink. She had no idea what
was happening when she suggested one of my main hangouts, the bar of the La Marr-Cheri on
the corner of 147th Street and St. Nicholas Avenue. I had my gun, and the cocaine courage, and I
said okay. And by the time we'd had the drink, I was so high that I asked Jean to take a cab on
home, and she did. I never have seen Jean again, either.
Like a fool, I didn't leave the bar. I stayed there, sitting, like a bigger fool, with my back to the
door, thinking about West Indian Archie. Since that day, I have never sat with my back to a doorand
darsice
(darsice)
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