“Hi, Becky,” Corey said as he came up behind her at the server’s station. The wiggle of her butt as she wiped the bar tempted Corey to touch her. He didn’t.
Becky Williams had tight curly red hair, done up big, permed out. Her skin was a milky cream color. Her bright green eyes lay on her young face like two pieces of jade buried in soapstone. Her look lacked sharp contours, just a slight tightness at her cheekbones that broke open when she smiled. Becky wore little makeup, only lipstick, usually an off-red color that made her small mouth appear a little larger. She had a model’s body with thin, long legs and a runway walk to go with it. Her breasts were small; it was her face that caught a man’s eye. The sexiness was immediate, and there was confidence in her that signaled classiness.
Corey planned to ignore her when he first saw her waiting tables. Too pretty, he thought. It was Mike’s modus operandi in the way he wanted to push drinks. But Corey still asked about her in a casual, uninterested way.
She was Greg Zurkee’’s girlfriend, a horn player, jazz musician trying to make it in a dance-club-DJ-disco-holdover town, wanting steady work and making a name. Becky and Greg lived together. His band, Good Riddance, played the club regularly. Mike, of course, had an interest in Becky so he booked Greg’s band on weekday nights a couple of times a month as maybe a way in. The band’s following was loyal but small. The music was tight, standards, some fusion but nothing experimental or left field. Most times when Good Riddance played Corey wasn’t even needed at the door, and sometimes Becky had the night off to listen to Greg. Mike bartended, making sure he always complimented Becky on how good the band sounded. Watching Mike soften in front of Becky had Corey sometimes laughing to himself and thinking, Stand in line, man.
It was Becky who first approached Corey. It was during the band’s first gig at Repartee. Mike wanted Corey at the door, not sure how many of the city’s jazz lovers would come. He overestimated.
Becky wanted to meet Corey for nothing else than to tell him she soon would be waiting tables. She wanted him to know her so that maybe she could get a few of her girlfriends in the door without paying the cover. Musician friends had said he wasn’t a big guy or loud in how he dealt with people, and she noticed he was good-looking. Becky hadn’t had a lot of guys but she knew enough about certain types, ones she tried and wouldn’t go back to, the ones where insecurity sucked away their sweetness, leaving a mark on her face. To her, Corey was a little different. He had a softness that didn’t quite mesh with the doorman’s job.
She found Corey sitting on a stool by the front door, looking around the room and wondering why he was there for such a small crowd. When he saw her making her way across the floor, he gave her a quick legs-to-head look and a faint smile. He figured she was going to ask about where the women’s john was. Sometimes the question was for real; other times he guessed it might be an opening for something else.
“Hi, I’m Becky,” she said with a schoolgirl smile.
Corey lifted an eyebrow and then with a squint took in all of her face. “Howdy,” he answered. “What’s up?”
“I’m going to be waiting tables starting tomorrow night. Thought I introduce myself since you’re the doorman. I’m Becky Williams.”
“Yeah, I got that. Mike said something about hiring you. Nice addition, I must say.”
Becky laughed, throwing her head back, her red big hair bouncing about. “Thanks!”
Corey couldn’t help but smile back. “You part of the band?” Corey asked, knowing the answer was likely yes.
“Boy, you get right to the point,” said Becky. “No warm-up.”
“There’s plenty of foreplay under the right circumstances,” answered Corey. He couldn’t help but smile, hoping she wouldn’t walk away in a huff.
“Wouldn’t know but I’m sure others would,” Becky shot back, turning her head up a little and looking directly at Corey. Then she moved away but stopped after a few steps. “The women’s restroom down that hall?” she asked, pointing back toward the bar.
“Yeah, that way,” Corey said. “I’ll see you around.”
“I’m sure,” Becky said, looking back while bringing her hand up to her face and running her fingers under her hair and behind one ear. “Nice meeting you.”
Corey watched her walk away. He waited for an exaggerated wiggle from her. There was none.
Upstairs, above the bar, Mike sat in his office behind a metal desk. Marcus sat across from him in an overstuffed leather armchair, his muscular frame making the chair look small. He was an easy 250 pounds with a wide frame that made his six-foot-two height almost unnoticeable. “Charcoal” was his nickname in high school, and he took it as a compliment. Marcus was proud of his dark skin. He grew a beard, which he kept neatly trimmed because he thought it enhanced his color. He accepted the anger sometimes shown in his sculpted face and ebony eyes, and he knew the fear white people had of his appearance. Only men his size or bigger would challenge him, and only black women were unafraid.
The two men sat in a messy place. Stacks of band press kits, cassettes, and LPs were piled on one end of a couch. An ancient paper-folding machine sat at the end of a table near boxes of envelopes, reams of color paper, and an electric typewriter. Each month the bar did a mailing announcing the bands for the month. The walls were covered with posters and photos of Mike with various musicians. A few were comedy club posters from second-tier Chicago and St. Louis clubs. Comic “Mike Smith” always was listed below the headliner or even lower. The clutter hinted that business wasn’t bad, but Mike knew he needed it to be better.
“You got it lined up?” asked Marcus.
“Yeah, I do,” said Mike. “But what’s this sack shit going to prove?”
“Lewis wants to know if this peckerwood is okay. That’s all.”
Mike ran both his hands through his thick curly hair. He grabbed his chin with his right hand, pulling down on the skin as if he had a goatee. Then he opened his hand and rubbed his chin across the palm, and his eyes widened as he thought about the plan. “How’s giving him a sack with a rolled-up white rag in a baggie with talcum powder going to prove he’s not a narc or whatever?”
Marcus clutched the armrests. “Look, Wonder Bread,” he said, lowering his voice and leaning forward. Mike didn’t flinch. “This is what Lewis wants and what he thought up. The sack will be folded a certain way—marked or something—in a way Lewis will know if someone opened it or squeezed it or whatever. When Michelle picks up the sack and brings it back to Lewis, he can check to see if this yahoo touched it or opened it and looked in.”
“And what if he does and sees the rag in the baggie of powder? What’s that prove?” Mike asked in a way that didn’t show fear.
Marcus didn’t answer right away. He looked hard at Mike. He had sized him up before. Mike’s hands were big like his, and even though he was only a little over six feet in height, Marcus figured he could throw and take a punch. But Marcus wouldn’t let it get that far if Lewis wanted it done.
Marcus began slowly, on purpose, dragging out the words. “If he opens the sack, looks in, and sees the rag, tastes the powder, he’s going to know it’s a test…one he failed and he won’t be back here. He’ll know we’re on to him. He fucked up. We’ll know he’s working for the cops...”
“Or just stupid,” Mike interjected.
“And we can assume they’ll try something different later and we’ll be real up about it. Watching people close. Lewis says business is going to pick up and he wants this a solid enterprise. He’s got his own people to answer to. Now, do I have to keep goin’ on with this? You got it, cuz?”
Mike thought the plan was bush league, and he had wondered from the first meeting with Lewis if he someday he’d have to take on Marcus. If nothing else, Mike knew he could out-think the guy. Mike fell to the temptation to push the tension along.
“What if he looked in because he’s just curious, that’s all, and it has nothing to do with anything other than the guy didn’t listen to me about not opening the sack,” said Mike, gesturing the words out with his hand close to his face. “The guy drives a delivery van for a living, wants to be a writer, or a musician or some artsy shit. He’s an okay guy, smart but maybe a perpetual loser, but okay. Russell Manger, the guy who books bands, vouched for him.”
Marcus was getting bored. Mike reminded him of mouthy white guys he used to slap around when he loan-sharked for Lewis. And this doorman, he meant nothing. Marcus would just as soon have some fun breaking a couple of his fingers with a ball-peen to find out if he is what he is, but Lewis wants to keep it calm. “I’m gone,” Marcus said while standing up. “Like if this yahoo says anything about the sack thing, call me. You dig? If I don’t hear from you, I’ll be by tomorrow night.”
At the office door, Marcus stopped and turned back to Mike. “Let’s do this right, white man, or I might be running this joint.” Marcus then smiled.
(READERS, COMMENTS WOULD BE APPRECIATED.)