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Authors: Lawrence Block
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marching off to the gas chamber like sheep to slaughter, and there is niggers who will do the same. They do it now and they’ll do it when it’s not just the sucking of soul and blood but when it’s death. Sheep to slaughter.”
“Not this sheep,” Simmons said.
“Everybody says. Everybody.” Mbora stood up, clasped his hands together behind his back, lowered his head, paced like a caged jungle cat. He had protruding eyes that were even more prominent behind thick horn-rimmed glasses. Unlike the girl and the silent man, he wore western clothes—a three-button black worsted suit, a button-down shirt, a black knit tie. He was thin and knobby, and he reminded Simmons of someone, but he couldn’t think who.
“You want to know something? You wonder why I waste my time on you?” A finger quivered under Simmons’ nose. “Because two minutes of talking to you and I know you got a head on you. You got a brain in that head. You walk these streets and so many is so ignorant. From the day they’re born they get told how niggers is dumb, and you tell a child this from the cradle on and they grow up dumb, they grow up with a head they don’t know how to use. So when I meet a soul brother with a mind, I stay with him, I talk to him, I make my words drive that honkie poison out of his pure and beautiful black soul. You understand me, brother?”
“I understand you.”
Mbora marched to the window, waved out at the street. “Down there they don’t think. You start with men that think, that think right, that use their heads to think black, then you get them down there to follow. They’d follow like sheep to slaughter or they’d follow like an avenging wave, just so it’s following with no thinking called for.”
Who the hell was it he reminded Simmons of? He wished he could remember. It was hard to concentrate on the conversation without knowing.
“We shook this city up, brother. We’ll shake this city up again. And other cities. This whole honkie state, and other states . . .”
The burnings made sense to Simmons. It was the same way in Detroit. There were buildings no one could save and no one would tear down, and the people who had to live in them were better off burning them, because empty lots were better than those rat-traps.
But the killing and the looting—no. No, he couldn’t buy it. All it did was leave black bodies bleeding on the ground. All it did was tell the bigots that they were right and black men were animals. Simmons knew what war was and how war worked, and he couldn’t see the point in being in a war unless you stood a chance to win it. Vietnam or Newark, if you weren’t going to win it, you ought to go home.
“You got a brain, brother.” The finger in his face again. “But a brain by itself is not enough. You need something to go with that fine black brain. You know what you need? The man has said it. You need to go and get yourself some guns.”
Simmons nodded enthusiastically. Son of a bitch, he thought he didn’t even have to drag the subject into the conversation. Mbora got there all by himself. And in the next instant he knew who it was that Mbora reminded him of. He was, yes, no question, he was a black Woody Allen.
TWELVE
The girl’s name was Patricia Novak. She was around twenty-eight, and Giordano gathered that she had been divorced for two or three years. She had two rather uninspiring kids whom Giordano had met when he picked her up at her house. Her parents’ house. She was twenty-eight years old and divorced and she lived with her parents, and that just about said it.
There wasn’t anything particularly wrong with her. She was just a little taller than Giordano, just a little too heavy in the waist and hips, just a little too broad in the face. A few months of substituting proteins for carbohydrates would cure that. What it wouldn’t cure was the bovine cast to her face. Her features were all right but Giordano knew that the features were the least important part
“Not this sheep,” Simmons said.
“Everybody says. Everybody.” Mbora stood up, clasped his hands together behind his back, lowered his head, paced like a caged jungle cat. He had protruding eyes that were even more prominent behind thick horn-rimmed glasses. Unlike the girl and the silent man, he wore western clothes—a three-button black worsted suit, a button-down shirt, a black knit tie. He was thin and knobby, and he reminded Simmons of someone, but he couldn’t think who.
“You want to know something? You wonder why I waste my time on you?” A finger quivered under Simmons’ nose. “Because two minutes of talking to you and I know you got a head on you. You got a brain in that head. You walk these streets and so many is so ignorant. From the day they’re born they get told how niggers is dumb, and you tell a child this from the cradle on and they grow up dumb, they grow up with a head they don’t know how to use. So when I meet a soul brother with a mind, I stay with him, I talk to him, I make my words drive that honkie poison out of his pure and beautiful black soul. You understand me, brother?”
“I understand you.”
Mbora marched to the window, waved out at the street. “Down there they don’t think. You start with men that think, that think right, that use their heads to think black, then you get them down there to follow. They’d follow like sheep to slaughter or they’d follow like an avenging wave, just so it’s following with no thinking called for.”
Who the hell was it he reminded Simmons of? He wished he could remember. It was hard to concentrate on the conversation without knowing.
“We shook this city up, brother. We’ll shake this city up again. And other cities. This whole honkie state, and other states . . .”
The burnings made sense to Simmons. It was the same way in Detroit. There were buildings no one could save and no one would tear down, and the people who had to live in them were better off burning them, because empty lots were better than those rat-traps.
But the killing and the looting—no. No, he couldn’t buy it. All it did was leave black bodies bleeding on the ground. All it did was tell the bigots that they were right and black men were animals. Simmons knew what war was and how war worked, and he couldn’t see the point in being in a war unless you stood a chance to win it. Vietnam or Newark, if you weren’t going to win it, you ought to go home.
“You got a brain, brother.” The finger in his face again. “But a brain by itself is not enough. You need something to go with that fine black brain. You know what you need? The man has said it. You need to go and get yourself some guns.”
Simmons nodded enthusiastically. Son of a bitch, he thought he didn’t even have to drag the subject into the conversation. Mbora got there all by himself. And in the next instant he knew who it was that Mbora reminded him of. He was, yes, no question, he was a black Woody Allen.
TWELVE
The girl’s name was Patricia Novak. She was around twenty-eight, and Giordano gathered that she had been divorced for two or three years. She had two rather uninspiring kids whom Giordano had met when he picked her up at her house. Her parents’ house. She was twenty-eight years old and divorced and she lived with her parents, and that just about said it.
There wasn’t anything particularly wrong with her. She was just a little taller than Giordano, just a little too heavy in the waist and hips, just a little too broad in the face. A few months of substituting proteins for carbohydrates would cure that. What it wouldn’t cure was the bovine cast to her face. Her features were all right but Giordano knew that the features were the least important part
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