Craig, by God, I think you’re the best friend I’ve got in the whole world. You’re a deep thinker. You’re sort of a quiet-type guy, but by God I like you. I like you a hell of a lot.”
“I like you too.”
“We’ll have us a ball, old buddy. I’m going to do you a favor, and you’re never going to forget it. Come on. Let’s get a cab.”
“Are we going to eat?”
“Sure we’re going to eat. Come on.”
They found a taxi in a hotel stand. They got in and Bill said, “We want to be dropped off at the corner of River Street and State Street, kiddo.”
The driver turned around in the seat and looked at them. “You gents sure you want to go down there?”
“Why, all of a sudden, is every little son of a bitch in the world trying to give me advice?” Bill complained.
“Suit yourself, chief.” He pulled the flag down and started up.
“Where are we going?” Craig asked.
“Leave everything to old Uncle Bill.”
The driver snorted.
“Skip the editorial comments, buster,” Bill said.
It was a fifteen-minute ride. Bill hummed tunelessly and refused to answer questions. When Craig saw the section he knew what the driver meant. It was the oldest part of the city, down near the sour smell of the polluted river, an area of old warehouses, missions, fleabag hotels, derelict bars. One portion of that area had been razedtwo years before and a Negro housing development built to help relieve some of the pressure of the rapidly growing Negro population. The July night seemed stickier down there in the narrow streets.
“Where now?” Craig asked.
“You nervous? I haven’t been down here in two years, but I know a good thing and I remember it. We’re going to see an old friend of mine. Name of Connie. We got to walk a block and a half. I couldn’t remember the name of the other street, so I had to tell him here.”
“A friend of yours lives here?”
“Sort of. She’s got a nice place. Best damn people in town come down here. Hell, we’ll probably run into the Mayor. She’s in the big leagues. She’s in the big circuit. She gets the best merchandise you ever saw. They’re no tramps. Every damn one of them looks like a model. They can carry on a conversation too. It’s fifty bucks for all night.”
Craig stopped. “Are you talking about a whore house?”
“What else? And you never been treated better. This is on me, Craigie old buddy.”
“Damn it, I want some food.”
“Food you’ll get. This is a set up, kiddo. It has atmosphere. She’s got a freezer full of steaks and a little old nigger who really knows how to cook ’em. And we’ll have us a bottle of champagne. And you get yourself first choice of those nice leggy gals. Come on. Don’t just stand there.”
They walked. They passed corners where men leaned against darkened store fronts and fell silent when they passed. A man slept on newspapers in a doorway. They turned onto a darker, narrower street. The buildings were all old, all joined together. The street was littered with paper, and the alley mouths smelled sharply of urine.
Craig walked woodenly beside Bill. He was conscious of how conspicuous they were. He felt nervous about the black mouths of the alleys. Stoddard, with its undermanned police force, its industrial expansion, its venal city government, had a high ratio of crimes of violence. Muggings were commonplace.
Now that he had adjusted to Bill’s program, he felt recurrent quivers of excitement.
“Right in here someplace,” Bill said. “Right along in here.”
He stopped and looked at the stone houses. They were two and three stories high. Each had stone steps from the sidewalk up to the front door, and many of them had a second flight going down at an angle to the basement. There were not many lighted windows on the street. At some of the houses people sat on the front steps. As Bill studied the buildings, Craig could hear a faint discordancy of music, of mingled reception from many sources.
A dark
“I like you too.”
“We’ll have us a ball, old buddy. I’m going to do you a favor, and you’re never going to forget it. Come on. Let’s get a cab.”
“Are we going to eat?”
“Sure we’re going to eat. Come on.”
They found a taxi in a hotel stand. They got in and Bill said, “We want to be dropped off at the corner of River Street and State Street, kiddo.”
The driver turned around in the seat and looked at them. “You gents sure you want to go down there?”
“Why, all of a sudden, is every little son of a bitch in the world trying to give me advice?” Bill complained.
“Suit yourself, chief.” He pulled the flag down and started up.
“Where are we going?” Craig asked.
“Leave everything to old Uncle Bill.”
The driver snorted.
“Skip the editorial comments, buster,” Bill said.
It was a fifteen-minute ride. Bill hummed tunelessly and refused to answer questions. When Craig saw the section he knew what the driver meant. It was the oldest part of the city, down near the sour smell of the polluted river, an area of old warehouses, missions, fleabag hotels, derelict bars. One portion of that area had been razedtwo years before and a Negro housing development built to help relieve some of the pressure of the rapidly growing Negro population. The July night seemed stickier down there in the narrow streets.
“Where now?” Craig asked.
“You nervous? I haven’t been down here in two years, but I know a good thing and I remember it. We’re going to see an old friend of mine. Name of Connie. We got to walk a block and a half. I couldn’t remember the name of the other street, so I had to tell him here.”
“A friend of yours lives here?”
“Sort of. She’s got a nice place. Best damn people in town come down here. Hell, we’ll probably run into the Mayor. She’s in the big leagues. She’s in the big circuit. She gets the best merchandise you ever saw. They’re no tramps. Every damn one of them looks like a model. They can carry on a conversation too. It’s fifty bucks for all night.”
Craig stopped. “Are you talking about a whore house?”
“What else? And you never been treated better. This is on me, Craigie old buddy.”
“Damn it, I want some food.”
“Food you’ll get. This is a set up, kiddo. It has atmosphere. She’s got a freezer full of steaks and a little old nigger who really knows how to cook ’em. And we’ll have us a bottle of champagne. And you get yourself first choice of those nice leggy gals. Come on. Don’t just stand there.”
They walked. They passed corners where men leaned against darkened store fronts and fell silent when they passed. A man slept on newspapers in a doorway. They turned onto a darker, narrower street. The buildings were all old, all joined together. The street was littered with paper, and the alley mouths smelled sharply of urine.
Craig walked woodenly beside Bill. He was conscious of how conspicuous they were. He felt nervous about the black mouths of the alleys. Stoddard, with its undermanned police force, its industrial expansion, its venal city government, had a high ratio of crimes of violence. Muggings were commonplace.
Now that he had adjusted to Bill’s program, he felt recurrent quivers of excitement.
“Right in here someplace,” Bill said. “Right along in here.”
He stopped and looked at the stone houses. They were two and three stories high. Each had stone steps from the sidewalk up to the front door, and many of them had a second flight going down at an angle to the basement. There were not many lighted windows on the street. At some of the houses people sat on the front steps. As Bill studied the buildings, Craig could hear a faint discordancy of music, of mingled reception from many sources.
A dark
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