image in the mirror. Out of control, he snarls, 'Reba, you're not wearing that Goddamn nymphomaniac bitch dog's dress!'
She whirls. 'Baptiste, are you drunk or just gone nuts!? I'm wearing my mother's dress,' she says with bared teeth.
He screams, 'The hell you will!' as he seizes the plunging bodice and rips the dress off her, tears it into ribbons.
She flails her fists against his face and chest as she shrieks, 'I hate you Baptiste! I hate you!'
He flings the shredded dress aside at the sound of the doorbell. He ducks the barrage of her tiny fists into the hallway. She skims his hair with a flower pot before she slams the door behind him.
He pauses to compose himself for a long moment before he goes to the front door. He takes his special card mark reading glasses from his robe pocket, slips them on. He opens the door to admit his dapper poker guests with a shark smile.
He pumps the hands of the portly trio as they enter. An alien, lean, fox-faced figure looms in the doorway as he is closing the door. Baptiste's head roars as he tries to place the vaguely familiar stranger's face. Could he be a fellow shark he'd met on one of his cross-country swindle junkets? Or even a member of the gaping crowd the night his throat was slashed by the San Francisco sucker? Baptiste's gluey hand shakes the stranger's hand, then closes the door.
Cabaret owner, Dudley says, 'Bap, meet my nephew, Clarence Jones, owns a poolroom up North.'
The group seat themselves on chairs and couch. Baptiste stands, avoids the inscrutable stare of Clarence's deep set maroon eyes as he asks 'Gentlemen, how about refreshments before we put our bankrolls in competition?'
Lefty Hicks, Draw Back Davis and Dudley request coffee. Dudley's nephew, ice water, Baptiste thinks, to match his fucking eyes, as he leaves for the kitchen.
When Baptiste returns to place the refreshment tray on the cocktail table before them, Draw Back says, 'You got fresh decks, Bap?'
Baptiste says, 'No, we need some. Maybe the drugstore on the corner is open.' He leans to dial the phone on the table top. He hears Erica answer, says, 'Madame, you got Bee decks in stock?'
She says, 'I miss you, Da Dee. Good luck.'
Baptiste says, 'You have? Thank you Ma'am.' He replaces the receiver, says 'Gentlemen, I'll slip on some slacks and make that run to get the cards.'
Clarence rises, says 'Bap, don't go to that trouble. I'll make the run.'
Baptiste enjoys an interior guffaw as he reaches into his robe pocket to take out his two grand blood money boodle of fins and sawbucks thinly wrapped in 'C' notes and a fifty.
He gives Clarence the fifty, says 'A half-dozen decks will get us started.'
Clarence goes through the front door. Baptiste sits on the couch, reaches a pawn shop denuded hand to get coffee.
Lefty Hicks snickers, 'Bap, you get lifted for your rocks?'
Baptiste laughs, 'Yeah Lefty, I lifted them myself last night to start some painting upstairs.'
Baptiste initiates pre-action chit-chat. 'Gentlemen, it's a pleasure beyond your imagination, to have your company this morning.'
Across the street, Zenobia is seated on the horsehair sofa with her bare feet in Junior Joe's lap. He is in pajamas. She is made up and in her Sunday lace trimmed pink slip intently watching him razor blade off Epsom Salts water softened corns to give her an unhobbled gait for church.
Upstairs, Senior Joe writhes in nightmared sleep. Chain gang horror images and sounds stomp his psyche. He sees again the power-maddened white convict trusties on horses riding shotgun on the crew of convicts leveling and chopping away brush from the narrow dirt road for widening and paving.
He hears the profane admonitions of the trusties to laggard convicts: 'Awright Mammy-fuckahs, shake yuh lazy Niggah asses' as they lash puffs of dust from the striped shirted backs of the offenders.
He sees the trio of guards crouched in tree shaded points of vantage with leashed bloodhounds and cradled carbines. He sees himself,
She whirls. 'Baptiste, are you drunk or just gone nuts!? I'm wearing my mother's dress,' she says with bared teeth.
He screams, 'The hell you will!' as he seizes the plunging bodice and rips the dress off her, tears it into ribbons.
She flails her fists against his face and chest as she shrieks, 'I hate you Baptiste! I hate you!'
He flings the shredded dress aside at the sound of the doorbell. He ducks the barrage of her tiny fists into the hallway. She skims his hair with a flower pot before she slams the door behind him.
He pauses to compose himself for a long moment before he goes to the front door. He takes his special card mark reading glasses from his robe pocket, slips them on. He opens the door to admit his dapper poker guests with a shark smile.
He pumps the hands of the portly trio as they enter. An alien, lean, fox-faced figure looms in the doorway as he is closing the door. Baptiste's head roars as he tries to place the vaguely familiar stranger's face. Could he be a fellow shark he'd met on one of his cross-country swindle junkets? Or even a member of the gaping crowd the night his throat was slashed by the San Francisco sucker? Baptiste's gluey hand shakes the stranger's hand, then closes the door.
Cabaret owner, Dudley says, 'Bap, meet my nephew, Clarence Jones, owns a poolroom up North.'
The group seat themselves on chairs and couch. Baptiste stands, avoids the inscrutable stare of Clarence's deep set maroon eyes as he asks 'Gentlemen, how about refreshments before we put our bankrolls in competition?'
Lefty Hicks, Draw Back Davis and Dudley request coffee. Dudley's nephew, ice water, Baptiste thinks, to match his fucking eyes, as he leaves for the kitchen.
When Baptiste returns to place the refreshment tray on the cocktail table before them, Draw Back says, 'You got fresh decks, Bap?'
Baptiste says, 'No, we need some. Maybe the drugstore on the corner is open.' He leans to dial the phone on the table top. He hears Erica answer, says, 'Madame, you got Bee decks in stock?'
She says, 'I miss you, Da Dee. Good luck.'
Baptiste says, 'You have? Thank you Ma'am.' He replaces the receiver, says 'Gentlemen, I'll slip on some slacks and make that run to get the cards.'
Clarence rises, says 'Bap, don't go to that trouble. I'll make the run.'
Baptiste enjoys an interior guffaw as he reaches into his robe pocket to take out his two grand blood money boodle of fins and sawbucks thinly wrapped in 'C' notes and a fifty.
He gives Clarence the fifty, says 'A half-dozen decks will get us started.'
Clarence goes through the front door. Baptiste sits on the couch, reaches a pawn shop denuded hand to get coffee.
Lefty Hicks snickers, 'Bap, you get lifted for your rocks?'
Baptiste laughs, 'Yeah Lefty, I lifted them myself last night to start some painting upstairs.'
Baptiste initiates pre-action chit-chat. 'Gentlemen, it's a pleasure beyond your imagination, to have your company this morning.'
Across the street, Zenobia is seated on the horsehair sofa with her bare feet in Junior Joe's lap. He is in pajamas. She is made up and in her Sunday lace trimmed pink slip intently watching him razor blade off Epsom Salts water softened corns to give her an unhobbled gait for church.
Upstairs, Senior Joe writhes in nightmared sleep. Chain gang horror images and sounds stomp his psyche. He sees again the power-maddened white convict trusties on horses riding shotgun on the crew of convicts leveling and chopping away brush from the narrow dirt road for widening and paving.
He hears the profane admonitions of the trusties to laggard convicts: 'Awright Mammy-fuckahs, shake yuh lazy Niggah asses' as they lash puffs of dust from the striped shirted backs of the offenders.
He sees the trio of guards crouched in tree shaded points of vantage with leashed bloodhounds and cradled carbines. He sees himself,
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