The Sound of Building Coffins Page 17

  “That’s what I been hearing.”

  Dropsy changed the subject for sake of authenticity: “You sure you okay, little fella?”

  “Feelin’ just fine,” Jim answered with a sleepy smile. In fact he was feeling downright warm.

  “Ain’t been drinking, have ya?” Dropsy persisted. “Skinny little guy like you might get sick is what.”

  Walter answered defensively on Jim’s behalf. “Young Nick’s had a little snort is all. Just to ease the pain. Medicinal purposes only, you understand.”

  “Well, all right.” Dropsy yielded to the clearly-better-educated-white-man’s-expertise-in-such-matters, as was proper.

  “How ’bout that game, now?” The Man Who Loved Mavis sounded eager to lose his shirt.

  “Well, then…” Jim slurred, clutching the three dollars. “I’m thinking this might be my lucky night. Got my life saved by this kind niggra, met you nice fellas, now I got me three whole dollars and might turn it into more.”

  “That’s right, son,” Walter affirmed. “Luck has smiled on you today. Unless you count getting bit by that dog.”

  “Yes, indeed,” agreed The Man Who Loved Mavis.

  “Nuff talk, now,” continued Walter. “How about them rules, young Nick?”

  “This is the game,” said Jim. “We put this little sugar dice in a hat.” Skinny offered his brown bowler in response. “Each player takes a turn shaking it three times, then the first man up gives it a roll. Then everyone gives it another good shake before the second man gives it a roll—and so forth and so on. After everyone’s had three turns at rollin’, ya just add up the number of dots each player got—and the one with the most wins the buttons or straws…I mean, the dollar bills.”

  “Nice little kiddy game is what we got, then,” said Fat Tommy.

  “Kiddies and simple niggers, I guess,” said the Man Who Had Not Yet Spoken, whose most remarkable trait was his very unremarkableness.

  Dropsy, with slight indignation: “That ain’t the way I’m used to playing no tat. Skipped over the most important rule is what.”

  “What might that be, Hero?” spat The Least Remarkable Man. Dropsy noted the man spoke with the venom of a dyed-in-the-wool nigger-hater.

  Without looking Least Remarkable in the eye, Dropsy replied, “Winner buys a round of drinks for the table.”

  “Oh, I like that rule,” said Fat Tommy.

  “My Daddy never told me ’bout that rule,” Jim offered suspiciously.

  More laughter. Walter put a hand on Jim’s shoulder, “Well, Nick, your Daddy was a fine man indeed, then. A fine man fer sher, I’d say!” Walter gave Jim’s shoulder a fresh squeeze. “Well, whaddaya say, little fella? Yer friend’s rule does make this little game of tat a bit more interesting.”

  “Gee, Mr. Walter, I dunno. Already had two shots and I’m just a youngster.”

  “Well, you ain’t no little kid tonight, Nick. No kid I ever seen could knock back shots of rye like you just done.”

  “Anymore and I might be sick, Mr. Walter.” Calculated reluctance.

  “Best not get sick now. No, sir,” agreed Dropsy, attracting disapproving glances all around—but most severely from The Least Remarkable Man.

  “Nigger might have a point,” Jim offered—his word choice specifically designed to earn the confidence of The Least Remarkable Man.

  “Nonsense, son,” said Walter. “Can’t hurt to have a little more medicine now, could it? For the pain is all.”

  Jim hesitated—staring at his shoes and sniffing at his soul for the precise length of pause. Then:

  “No sir. Reckon not, I guess.”

  The tat was progressing better than expected. Jim’s timing and execution had been perfect, and Dropsy had not missed a beat.

  Walter got down to business straight away. “I nominate our nigger hero friend to pass the dice and hold the hat, being he has no conflict of interest here. Any objections?”

  Jim just smiled. This wasn’t going to be much fun if Walter did all the work for him. Took the sport out of it.

  On the first round, each player (including Jim) examined the dice carefully before throwing. Six one dollar bills were won by an ecstatic Fat Tommy, who piled up four in front of him and ordered another round for the table with the remaining two.

  Second round went to The Least Remarkable Man, resulting in the first non-malicious smile to appear on his face that evening. Dropsy sighed inaudibly and Jim made mental note of the fact that no one thought to double-check the dice on this second round. Shot glasses emptied and the room wobbled accordingly for the marks, Jim keeping his mind clear through sheer force of will. There would be time for room-wobbling later—maybe even a good puke. Now was the time to concentrate.

  Jim had only one of Walter’s dollars left.

  Dropsy passed the hat, the dice fell six times. Least Remarkable won again, now grinning like the idiot Jim and Dropsy figured him to be.

  “Well, I guess I’m out of money,” said Jim with measured disappointment. “Thanks fer lettin’ me play, Mr. Walter. Shore was kind.”

  “Ah, well, that is a shame, my little friend. But then again…” Walter paused.

  “Sir?” Jim, as if he had no clue where Walter might be leading.

  “Ah, never mind, son. Nothing, really.”

  “What is it, sir?” Imploring eyes.

  “Well, there is that matter of two dollars and various nickels you’d mentioned in your pocket.” Walter put on his best fatherly smile.

  Jim and Dropsy’s eyes met for a split second—just long enough. Having intimate knowledge of Dropsy’s high-principled tendencies towards the golden rule and whatnot, Jim recognized this moment of revelation as crucial to Dropsy’s state of conscience. This Good Samaritan, Walter, had not only bullied what he perceived as a fragile and injured young boy into excessive liquor intake, but was now angling to pick his pocket as well. The man was asking to be fleeced, and deserved whatever he got—even in the eyes of a righteous-minded preacher’s son like Dropsy Morningstar. The way Walter was carrying on, Jim could conceivably convince Dropsy it would be a sin not to teach him a humbling lesson. Refocusing on the business at hand, Jim extracted a one dollar bill from his left front pocket.

  Dropsy kept the tally and passed the derby—but when Jim’s turn came this time, Dropsy made the switch. Dropsy was good at the switch, always subtle and smooth in the execution. But even had he been clumsy there was now enough liquor in the Pennsylvanian travelers that they probably wouldn’t have noticed. The last thing they expected was to be taken by a simple nigger and a boozed up sixteen-year-old.

  Jim took the win this time, squealing like a stepped-on kitten and drawing congratulatory applause from everyone at the table—save for The Least Remarkable Man. Jim made note of this fact as well; sore losers could often cause undue difficulties in the course of an otherwise smooth touch.

  Now Jim had seven whole dollars in front of him; two gone for another round, five remaining. Walter patted Jim’s hand, genuinely pleased that the boy was still in the game. Malaria came back and delivered the men another step into the clouds.

  Jim struggled mightily to keep his mind clear. He could do this. He was in control. He was Jim Jam Jump, World Famous Ratboy of Orleans Parish and Surrounding Territories—but not so famous, it would seem, in some place called Pennsylvania. There’ll be time enough for increasing my national fame status later, thought Jim with a faint smile. Right now I got a tat on in full force.

  Jim cleared his throat in a way that warned he might get sick, chairs squeaking on the painted wooden floor as Skinny and the Man Who Loved Mavis eased back warily.

  Jim’s eyes glowed at the five ones before him as if he’d never seen so much money in his life. “Hot dang if I don’t feel lucky,” he slurred brightly. “Tell ya what. I got five whole dollars now, how about we double the stakes on the next turn?”

  “Sounds like someone done got bit by the gamblin’ bug.” Walter kept in touch with his fatherly tone, but
added a hint of the devil. “And at such a tender age, too. Well, if you insist, little fella. Guess you ain’t got much to lose seein’s you better than broke even already.” Another round of chuckles bubbled up—but in Jim’s alcohol-blurred frame of mind the sound was of chortling pigs. Clear mind, he urged himself without speaking. The sound around him sharpened and focused upon internal command:

  CLEAR.

  The heads of the marks bobbed with a mutual nod regarding the increased stakes. Dropsy collected up two dollars from each player this time. The hat went around. Dice hit wood six times. Twelve times. Eighteen.

  Tat

  Jim lost this time.

  “Maybe I ain’t so lucky as I thought. Maybe used up all my luck meeting you nice fellas and surviving that dog attack.”

  “Well now, my young friend, don’t fret. You’re still up ahead from where you started. Started with two and now got three. One more round for luck, little buddy?”

  Jim knocked back his shot, winced, faked a cough. Dropsy feigned concern with levitating eyebrows—but Jim’s own eyes brightened suddenly.

  “Yes, Mr. Walter! One more round! And if it’s my last, then let me bet the whole farm. Three dollar ante!” It was now imperative that Jim make clear his intention to play until he’d lost every penny in his pocket. This was another important element to the process—for it assures your marks that they will eventually get back what they have lost.

  Skinny giggled like a schoolgirl, “Hey, high roller! All hail, King Tat!”

  Good humor took another lap around the table—but stopped conspicuously where The Least Remarkable Man sat, the nigger-hater squinting suspiciously. Jim: Making note.

  Tat

  Eight more rounds occurred, the stakes being raised on each turn, Jim winning all but two. Dropsy intentionally failed to switch the die in Jim’s favor exactly three times, Jim winning by actual luck exactly once.

  By this point, the suckers were so incapacitated they could hardly keep their drunken asses from dripping out of their chairs. Jim: Ninety-six pounds and holding firm.

  CLEAR.

  On the ninth round, a problem developed. Just as Jim was about to throw, The Least Remarkable Man lurched forward—tipping the table slightly and snatching the dice from Jim’s hand. Sitting back down with the dice in his fist, Least Remarkable locked eyes hard with Dropsy. Dropsy silently wondered if his last switch had not been as clean as it could have been.

  Between forefinger and thumb, The Least Remarkable Man gave each side of the dice a penetrating squint.

  Jim was not sure if Dropsy had even switched the straight dice for tat on this last round. He delicately glanced up into Dropsy’s eyes, trying to get a read. The read was easy, Dropsy unable to mask his panic. The Least Remarkable Man was onto them. The jig was up. The dice currently being examined by The Least Remarkable Man had five dots on four sides, and six dots on two. You would have to be drunk to the point of blindness not to notice—this is why the constant rounds of alcohol are so important in a good game of tat.

  Jim and Dropsy attempted bored expressions as The Least Remarkable Man continued to squint with the occasional low-toned, angry grunt; rubbing his eyes, then squinting some more. Finally, Fat Tommy bellowed with drunken impatience, “You quite through there, Otis? You ain’t bein’ cheated by no kid. Get this game back on so’s I can win summa my money back, damn ya!”

  The Least Remarkable Man, whose name was Otis, saw wiggly dancing dots on the surface of the dice and nothing more. With a defeated slump, he handed the tat back to Jim. “Yeah, I reckon it’s all right,” he said, visibly flustered by the lack of cooperation he’d received from his own two eyes, too proud to admit the weakness. Dropsy had come to know in his lifetime that unremarkable people are usually the proudest.

  Otis grumbled something under his breath, indecipherable words that reached Dropsy’s ears as, “double double toil and trouble.”

  “How’s that, Otis?” asked Skinny, operating the numb muscles of his mouth with great effort.

  “Double up that damn bet, I said! First night in town and I’m damn near outta cash. Gotta win some back now, hear? Double it up!” Otis looked hard into Jim’s eyes and saw red.

  “Damn, Otis,” said Walter, “Prob’ly not such a good idea, I reckon. Kid’s on a regular streak here.”

  “That gold horseshoe up his ass gotta shake loose sometime, Walter,” pitched in Fat Tommy. “I’m with Otis. Double it up!”

  “Ain’t sure I got nuff left to go double,” said Skinny meekly.

  “Then I guess you’d be out, Roy,” Otis barked without looking up.

  Nervous nods dipped around the table, no one asking young “Nick” if he minded doubling the stakes—no one particularly caring whether he minded or not. This was as it should be with any good touch. Make sure the mark makes as many bad decisions as he can of his own design and free will. Nudge only when necessary.

  Being the only sober mind left at the table, Dropsy had no further need of cleverness in the switch. He could have put a pig’s ear in the hat without raising an eyebrow. One of the few advantages enjoyed by colored persons in this business was that white folks prefer not to drink with you—and, therefore, rarely protest if you choose not to partake. A white man’s own sense of natural-born privilege could often be used against him in this way—you only need be aware of the fact, Dropsy had learned.

  The hat went around until the inevitable occurred, Jim cleaning up once more. Drooping drunken faces stretched longer still as Otis slammed his fist to the table, the impact of the blow causing Skinny Roy’s shot glass to bounce noisily to the floor.

  Timing was everything:

  Jim stood up quick, wobbling mightily, with both hands on the table for support.

  Dropsy casually scooped up his partner’s winnings as Jim spoke in a drunkenly disabled voice that no longer needed faking:

  “My ma will be so happy for the groceries I done made!” Without warning, the kid keeled over, flopping face first onto the table, then bouncing backwards onto the floor.

  Dropsy dove down to retrieve him, stuffing his pockets with more bills along the way. Slapping Jim gently on the cheeks: “Y’okay, little fella?”

  “Don’t feel so good. Think I gonna be sick.”

  Walter rolled his eyes, peeved at the inconvenience. “Ah, crap. Why don’t ya take ol’ Nick outside, hero. Then come on back in and we’ll have another go or two. Let us weary travelers have a chance at winning some of that money back.”

  “Just what I was thinking, sir.” Jim began to heave as Dropsy pulled him to his feet.

  “Hurry fer chrissakes!” Otis, the Least Remarkable Man, was concerned that the sight of Jim puking may trigger the contents of his own destabilizing gut.

  As Dropsy and Jim neared the door, Jim’s retching got louder. The second to last thing Dropsy heard from the table of used-up suckers was the voice of Skinny Roy:

  “Dang, Walter, maybe we shouldn’t have made that youngster drink so much whiskey. Ain’t sure how such a little guy drunk so much without droppin’ over dead.”

  And the very last thing Dropsy heard was the sound of the Pennsylvanians’ own dumb laughter—laughing at what they believed to be the misery of a poor, sick boy just sixteen years old.

  Dropsy couldn’t have hoped for a cleaner getaway. He slipped Black Benny a wad of currency before helping Jim down the stairs. Benny gave up a rare smile witnessed by no one.

  Upon reaching the dark Perdido Street alley outside, Jim did indeed vomit for the best of two solid minutes. In the aftermath of sickness, he wiped chin to sleeve, then brushed sleeve to hand. The night’s winnings came out of Dropsy’s pocket for a final tally in the shadows. The split was fifty-fifty—fair and square just like always.

  “Nice little take there, fellas?” The voice of Buddy Bolden startled the two. Cigar clamped between teeth, and horn in hand, Buddy’s tall frame conspired with the light of the alley’s mouth to form a long shadow.

  Chapter thi
rty

  What Dropsy Saw

  “Thought you was gettin’ busy with them girls,” Dropsy deadpanned.

  “Howdy, Buddy!” Jim grinned with yellowy eyes. “Some mighty nice playin’ tonight. Sorry we can’t stay for the next set.”

  “Reckon that wouldn’t be too safe, all things considered and such, eh Jim?” said the silhouette of Buddy Bolden.

  “Ah, hell, I’d keep on going but them fellas tapped out. Ain’t as fat as I reckoned.” Then, after a moment’s consideration. “From some place called Pennsylvania. Not much money up there, I guess.”

  “Well then,” Buddy sounded tired. “What’ll you be spending all that hard earned cash on, Ratboy?”

  “Funny you should mention, Buddy.” Jim smiled, a patch of dried vomit on his cheek cracking into a dozen smaller pieces. “I was thinking of buying that horn of yours offa ya. If yer willin’, I mean.”

  “Didn’t know you played, Jim.” Pretending he didn’t know all about Jim’s grand notions of graduating from the rat killing business in favor of musical stardom.

  “Well, if I had a horn I might.” Smile gone, vomit bits reassembled.

  “Lots of horns besides this one around, I reckon. Better ones, ’n cheaper too, I s’pose.”

  “I like that one,” Jim insisted, eyebrows nearly joined. “Ready to pay top dollar fer it, too.”

  “That makes some sense, I guess. This horn does have some history. But it’s also got sentimental value can’t be bought. Anyway, after I’m done with it, it’s already spoken for by some-other-body.”

  “Spoken for? By who?”

  Dropsy had never seen such plain disappointment on Jim’s face. The sight of it made him uneasy.

  “That little boy of mine,” Buddy answered coldly. “This horn got some of his daddy’s magic in it, I guess. Some other kinda magic too, most likely. Figgered on hanging onto it fer awhile then pass it on to West one day. Least I kin do fer the little guy ’sidderin’ I left him to be raised by a whore.”

  “That horn may be worth twenty dollars brand new,” Jim angled. “I’ll give ya sixty fer it right now.” Jim’s eagerness tipped his hand. One more thing Dropsy had never before witnessed Jim do.