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Mr. Sparks by SF Johnston
(Installment THREE of FOUR)
They'd run through the rain back to Auburn Avenue, Joe having lost the use of the Coupe. Joe opened the door to Fay's, stopped like he suddenly didn't want to go in, and then slowly entered. Bobby followed him over the threshold, and then jumped as the glass-paneled door shut heavily behind him. He shook the rain off his coat and looked around. The restaurant was crowded and a close humidity hung in the air––many of the customers' wet wool clothes were actually steaming.
He felt a sudden wave of emotion, and couldn't figure out what it was he was feeling. It was like he was homesick and afraid at the same time, and then he got it. Somebody was frying onions, and it reminded him of the grill in the bowling alley under the apartment in Atlantic City. It's okay, this isn't Atlantic City. And Joe's here.
A set of booths ran along the right wall, full of men drinking coffee out of thick ceramic mugs. Many of them looked up as Joe and Bobby came in, and then quickly looked away again. At the back of the room was a door that said Toilets, and a wooden telephone booth beside that. Somebody was inside the phone booth waving an arm wildly behind the frosted glass.
A lunch counter ran along the left of the room, but despite the crowd, it held only two people: an old man in a dirty work shirt with an unkempt gray beard stained with cigarette smoke, and a very fat, middle-aged woman with overly styled hair and too much makeup. She was shoveling pie into her mouth with a fork.
Joe led Bobby over to the counter and sat him down at the stool closest to the large window facing out to the street. A swing panel had been fitted into the counter at that end providing access to and from the grill area and the rest of the restaurant. Joe sat down between Bobby and the strange looking couple.
Bobby saw where the smell was coming from: A short, thin woman was cooking a huge pile of chopped onions on a flat metal grill, her hand flipping and re-flipping the spatula with quick, efficient flicks. As Joe and Bobby sat down, she looked over and did a double-take. The hand with the spatula in it hovered motionlessly over the steaming onions. Then she pushed the onions to the back end of the grill, hung the spatula on a wall hook and walked over.
"Joe," she said, and Bobby saw something unsaid pass between them.
"Fay. It okay I came in here?"
Fay's eyes grew sad for a moment and she scanned the faces of her customers, most of who were now looking at her and Joe and Bobby.
"I don't want to hurt your business any," added Joe quietly, obviously aware of what Fay was thinking.
"It's okay, Joe." Her eyes welled up, but she forced a laugh. "Hey," she said, "where else they gonna go for grub as good as mine. And I think I know who this handsome young devil is."
"I'm Bobby. Joe's my uncle."
The old man at the counter stiffened in his seat.
"Well, Bobby," said Fay, wiping the corner of her eye, "You look half-starved."
"Yes ma'am," said Bobby, nodding, feeling nothing of the kind.
"Okay then. You just sit right there and I'll fix you up one of my world-famous, people-come-from-miles-around turkey sandwiches in no time." Her levity was forced, but Bobby appreciated it, and when she smiled at him again he noticed that her teeth were perfect. "Joe?" Joe shook his head.
"Just coffee, Fay. Thanks. We have to be down the road at 9:30."
"Okay. The car is out back." Fay got Joe his coffee and then turned her back and busied herself fixing Bobby's sandwich.
Bobby looked down the counter at the old man, who stared back at him with two fish-cold eyes, and then spoke.
"So." His voice was gravelly, and cigarette smoke streamed out of his mouth and nose as he spoke. Bobby thought of a dragon. "What in the name of all that's wrong with this world do we have here."
The fat woman was still forking pie into her mouth, and when the old man spoke, she snorted. Crust flew across the counter and into her coffee. She didn't look up.
Joe placed his hat on the counter in a slow deliberate movement.
"Evening, Biggs."
Biggs just kept staring, a long, thin wisp of smoke rising from his cigarette. He raised his hand to his mouth, bared a set of foul, blackened teeth, and took a pull on his cigarette.
"I'm showing the boy what Fay can do with a bit of turkey," said Joe. "You have a problem with that?"
"Turkey turkey, turn-key turn-key!" shouted the fat woman. She had a high, shrill voice, and it cut through the noise of the crowded restaurant. Conversations stopped. She stood up from her stool. "Get out," she yelled. "And take that boy with you."
"Now, Frida," said Joe. "We have just as much right as ––"
"Right?" screamed Frida, throwing her fork down on her plate with a clatter. Her cup jumped in its saucer. "There's nothing right about any of this!" Fay came over and put her hand on Frida's arm, but Frida shrugged it off and whirled to face her.
"You gonna serve this sorry excuse for a man, Fay?" she said. "Him with a killer brother? Him bringing Robert's family in here?"
"Now Frida," said Fay, walking down the counter to Bobby. "The boy didn't do nothing. How can he help it if ––"
"Sweet Jesus!" snapped Frida. "I don't give a steaming pile of horse droppings what this boy can or cannot help. He's Robert's family, and in my book that means he's not welcome here. His father goin' against nature, like that…you know it's not right, Fay. Everybody knows it's not right."
Biggs stroked his beard and glared. "Joe, your brother don't know right from wrong. That's just the plain truth. And you come in here with his son? What is this kid, ten?"
"I'm eleven," said Bobby, standing up from his stool. "And you should shut up, moss-mouth. Ever hear of tooth powder?"
Laughter rose from a group of young men in one of the booths. "Ooh. Moss-mouth," one of them said. "You gonna take that, Biggs?"
Bobby whirled around and was met by a sea of faces. "Shut up!" he yelled. "Shut up, shut up!"
Joe put his hand on Bobby's shoulder. "Fay," he said tersely across the counter. She had her hands up to her mouth. "We'll take that sandwich to go." Then Bobby felt Joe's hand tense as an ungodly scream burst from the back of the restaurant. The screaming stopped as suddenly as it had started, and then door to the telephone booth swung open violently. Everybody was watching as the wild-haired man stepped out.
"What are you looking at?" he said to nobody and everybody. He was soaked to the skin, and his matted hair pressed against his scalp like a wet mop. He started making his way across the floor, heading for the door. When he was about halfway there, passing the middle of the counter, Biggs thrust his cigarette into a pile of cold mashed potatoes on the plate in front of him and spun around in his stool with surprising grace.
"Henry," he said to the man.
"I'm Henry," the man said through clenched teeth. "Who are you?"
Biggs smiled. "It doesn't matter who I am, Henry." He raised his hand and pointed at Bobby. "What matters is that I would like to introduce you to Bobby Drake."
Henry tensed, then looked confused, searching Bobby's face with wildcat eyes.
"What did you say?"
"Little Bobby," said Biggs, "has decided to grace us with his presence. Seems that our Robert Drake has a family of his own. What do you think of that?"
Henry remained motionless for a second or two, and then charged for Bobby, a bull thundering across the floor.
Joe went for his nightstick automatically, but it wasn't there. When Henry got to within two feet of Bobby, Joe stood up and shoved him back with a both hands. Henry swatted Joe's hands away and started walking back and forth in front of them, like a rogue jackal whose prey had been stolen away. His eyes were ringed by raw, red eyelids.
"You're dead, you little––" Henry yelled, trying to get around Joe. Then he charged again.
Joe shot his right arm out and grabbed Henry's left wrist, twisting it. Sidestepping behind him, he grabbed Henry's thumb and bent it backwards forcing his arm up behind his back. Henry shrieked and dropped to his knees. Joe pushed him on to his stomach, placed a knee on his back, and grabbed a handful of his wet, greasy hair, pulling Henry's head back. Henry struggled like a demon, and Joe could barely keep control.
"Need a hand, here," said Joe, an edge of panic to his voice. Bobby started to move forward.
"No, Bobby, not you! Stay back!" Every fiber of Bobby's being screamed at him to help his uncle, but he took a reluctant step back.
"Fay, take the boy."
Fay opened the swing panel, ran out onto the floor and swept Bobby into the grill area. She shut the panel again and pulled him close, wrapping her arms around his neck and chest protectively.
Joe was still struggling against Henry's efforts to get free, the tendons in his neck straining against Joe's hold. Joe looked up at the booths. "Fitch, you were deputized a while back."
A willowy man with straw-colored hair and a checkered shirt shook his head slowly and remained in his seat.
"Grayson," said Joe, looking over at another booth. "Grayson, tell the Chief that we have a problem."
A man in a black cowboy hat and matching leather vest shook his head.
Henry swung his left leg in a wide arc that caught Joe's thigh. Joe's face twisted in pain, and then he looked desperately towards the booths again.
"Ross? Ross, lend me a hand here…Jesus, this guy's strong."
Ross, a tall red-haired man in a long oilskin coat, stood up. "Joe. Joe, you let him go now."
Henry struggled harder against Joe's hold, but Joe held firm and glanced back at Bobby and Fay. It was obvious that Joe's strength wasn't going to hold out much longer––Bobby could see tiny beads of perspiration on his forehead, and the vein running along his temple was throbbing.
"We'll make sure he doesn't hurt the boy," Ross said, and there were nods around the room. "But you let him go, now."
Henry bucked, and Joe almost fell over backwards. "Son of a…okay. Okay." He tightened his grip for a moment.
"Okay. I'm going to let you up now. Just relax." He loosened his grip, and let go of Henry's thumb. Then he removed his knee from Henry's back and stood up, once again going for his nightstick and finding it gone.
"Henry," said Joe, his chest heaving. "Whoever you are. You need to get on out of here."
"I need to see my brother, that's what I need," said Henry, already standing. His face was flushed and mottled, and he was rubbing the muscle between his thumb and his forefinger. He pointed to the phone booth. "But it's too late!"
"Who is your brother, sir?" said Joe.
"My brother is Vernon Black."
Joe gathered into himself, and he sat down on the nearest counter stool.
Biggs scratched a wooden matchstick into flame and lit a cigarette. "Yeah, go on and sit a spell," he said, and chuckled "Ah, family. Ain't it grand?" A stream of smoke jetted out into the center of the room.
"How does it feel to look at Henry Black, Joe? You feel like explaining to Henry Black here about your brother's need to go killin' his brother?"
Joe stood again, straight and tall, and looked Henry in the eye. "I'm sorry about your brother, Mr. Black. I truly am."
"Save it, Joe," yelled somebody from the booths.
Henry ignored Joe and looked past him to where Fay was standing with Bobby.
"Bobby Drake," he said, his tone and stance softening just a little. "Your father…your father..."
Bobby met Henry's eyes, and saw that the fight had gone out of him. For a moment he felt a strange kinship. They were caught up in something over which they had no control, and Bobby knew it was taking its toll on both of them.
"Henry," said Ross from across the room. He didn't respond. "Henry!"
Henry looked over.
"Leave it be. You'd best be going on over to the prison. They'll be starting in a while."
Henry dropped his head, nodded, and walked slowly through the silence. At the door, he turned, pointed at Bobby and walked out into the rain.
TO BE CONTINUED... (Installment FOUR appearing in Spring 2008 Issue) SF Johnston © 2007 |
