Only the Wicked Page 5
Along with the church-going folk, the men who had been present at Spears’ demise were also in attendance. Added to their number were some of the surviving teammates of the Towne Avenue All-Stars, along with members of their families. Monk had been able to contact a few through the community self-improvement organization—100 Black Men—and contacting the Negro Hall of Fame in Kansas City.
“This is nice,” Willie Brant enthused while chewing on a slice of hot link.
“That’s the first time I ever heard you give a compliment, Willie,” Abe Carson said.
“Man can appreciate things, can’t he?” Brant wandered off.
“I’m glad Spears had burial insurance.” Kelvon Little munched on a plate of red beans and rice. “Paying for the spread between all of us wasn’t so bad though. Even Willie kicked in something. But I hope this doesn’t start a trend.”
“Haircuts and send-offs,” Monk remarked, taking in the people milling about. “Might get you new business, Kelvon.”
“The octogenarian trade, and they don’t tip so good,” the barber lamented, shoveling down more chow.
Monk had spent extra effort in trying to locate Kennesaw Riles. Had wound up talking with another relative, on whose side of the family, and specific extraction, he wasn’t sure. This one, who lived out in the desert community of Parris, thought he had an old number for the former ballplayer, and had promised to look for it. He hadn’t called back, and Monk was so busy getting things in order, he’d forgotten to get back in touch.
“Gathered,” Pastor Breedlove announced, wiping at his trim mustache with a paper napkin. He put his previously full paper plate on one of the barber chairs. The clergyman brushed at the front of his blue serge Zegna three-piece suit, the material beginning to tug across a stomach that had apparently grown since the suit was fitted.
“Gathered,” he repeated. “I didn’t know brother Spears as well as I would have liked. But he came to our church off and on for some three years past. He may not have been a steady visitor to the house of the Lord, but how one comes to Jesus is not for us to say.”
Somebody said, “Amen,” and Monk and Carson turned to see Brant shaking his head in the affirmative. They exchanged incredulous glances.
“We don’t know when our number will be called, when we’ll round home plate for the last time,” Breedlove intoned. He pivoted about in semi-arcs and shifted on his feet as he talked. “We only know we must be prepared for the time our savior decides to bring us home.” He was a good-sized man, and he used his hands as if he were scooping out mounds of earth.
“Marshall Spears had a long and good life. He went past his three score and seven, and, really, can any of us ask any more? He was a professional athlete, a fighter for our people’s rights in the deep south, but first and foremost he was a worker.”
A man in a vintage tan Vicuna sport coat and a ratty Sunny Boy cap sauntered into the shop. His pants were pressed corduroy, and his saddle-brown cap-toes were military shiny. He wore a pair of sturdy glasses and walked with the aid of a gnarled swagger stick with a gold orb for a top.
“The railroad, the playing field, the road to freedom and the rails on which the powerful locomotives carried many of our kin up north to a better life—these were the outward manifestations of Marshall Spears’ life.”
The newcomer plopped into one of the empty barber chairs, wincing as he got his left leg onto the foot rest. This man and one of the old-time ballplayers exchanged nods as the minister continued his impromptu sermon.
Breedlove folded his arms, palms flat against his wide chest, a pharaoh in repose. “We can only ask to do what we know is right by our fellows. We can only do what we can do to ease suffering and injustice in this most imperfect of worlds. If we can do that, if we can keep our Father close to our hearts, then surely only God can call us to account. As the last book in the Old Testament promises, ‘Behold I will send my messenger, and he shall prepare the way before me.’ We know the way has been prepared for brother Spears.”
There was a round of “Amens.” Breedlove was handed a small paper plate of the sliced beef links by a woman of ample hips in a hat of many angles. He kept his grin on her as he devoured his snack between his next plate of food.
“Man gets hungry working for the Lord,” Carson said sarcastically.
“You should watch that, Abe,” Brant cautioned.
“When you get so full of the Holy Ghost?” Monk asked.
“It ain’t that,” Brant shot back. “But when someone you know goes, that’s a sign, man. A sign the higher power is marking all our time.” Brant looked solemn, stuck his hands in his pockets and walked outside.
“Hey, Kennesaw, you looking pretty fit.” Lamarr Cedras, who’d played on the All-Stars and the Cuban X Giants, greeted the newcomer.
“Goddamn, ain’t that you, Lamarr?” the other man chuckled.
The two hugged and laughed boisterously, and walked over to the beverage table. Cedras poured invigorating doses from the Gentleman Jack for both of them. Monk let the two reminisce and stamp their feet for several minutes before he introduced himself
“Kennesaw, I believe we’re cousins,” he said, after the two older men sat down.
The old man gazed into the face beaming down at his. He had some more whiskey. Then he put the cup down on the black-and-white tiles Little had waxed that morning, all the time not taking his gaze off Monk. “You’re Nona’s boy. You kinda got your mama’s face, but you’re sturdy-like, like I remember your daddy the mechanic was.”
“Yes, sir.” They shook hands. “My name’s Ivan.” The old man’s hands were surprisingly smooth, the grip sure.
Kennesaw Riles got back up, listing slightly on his elegant walking stick. He put a hand on Monk’s shoulder. “Did your mother come?”
Embarrassed, Monk add-libbed, “She didn’t really know Mr. Spears, and wasn’t sure you’d be coming today.”
Anticipation fled his face, and he removed his hand from Monk’s shoulder. He looked down, his long fingers caressing the small gold orb topping his cane. Riles angled his head up again. “I ain’t seen you since the time your father took you and your sister—what’s her name again?”
“Odessa,” Monk said.
Riles peered at Cedras. “This boy’s mother was always something. Always had her own mind on things. His daddy wanted to call him Earl, but she wasn’t having that.” He sat down heavily, tilting his head back and exhaling softly.
“You know why she gave ’em those foreign-soundin’ names, Ivan and Odessa?” He was looking at Cedras, but jerked his head at Monk.
“She’s from Canada?” the old ballplayer asked blithely.
“Canada?” Riles chortled, tapping his cane on the floor as if invoking a familiar. “Negro, what’s that got to do with—look, the reason she insisted on them names is kinda very fascinating.” He had another helping of the Jack as he settled in to regale his former teammate.
Monk noticed another newcomer just entering the shop. She was a young African-American woman in a black maxi-length skirt combined with a top of some clinging material that swept up and around one of her muscular shoulders. There was a silver lamé sash tied around her trim waist. She wore over-sized dark glasses, and her hair was done in an elaborate combination of plaits and braids.
He was aware he was staring too hard at her, but not, he justified, simply because she was fine. It did seem like he’d seen her before.
“Hi,” he said as she stood munching on a radish she’d plucked from the salad tin. “I gather you knew Marshall Spears?”
The face behind the big shades was impassive. Her jaw worked in efficient motions as she consumed her vegetable.
“I’m not trying to be funny,” Monk reacted. “I didn’t know him well, but he was a regular here like I am.”
She swallowed. “Your name is Monk, isn’t it?” Her voice was smoky, like aged bourbon on ice.
“Sikkuh,” he shook an index finger at her. “I tracked down the photograph
er who shot the poster you were on.”
She displayed her white teeth, slipping the glasses down on her nose. “I don’t know what you thought when you saw me draped over a giant malt liquor can.”
“I thought Mr. Spears had, well you know, good taste.”
She scratched at a spot on her forehead. “He told me he was happy I was getting work. That sometimes you had a whole lot of ties to put down before the train could roll through.”
Spears’ life was revealing itself to him as if it were a series of boxes, one inside the other. And the various people who knew him far better than Monk and the men from the barbershop were the locksmiths undoing the containers. “How were you two related?”
“He was my great-uncle. The brother to my father’s mother.”
“Ah.”
“I do some modeling and like every other chick in this town, I’m trying to get my big acting break, too. I know how trite that sounds.”
“Some make it,” Monk conceded.
“I’ve been at it for about five years now.” She retrieved another radish. “After I got out of Spellman, my parents had a fit. Here I was with a degree in marketing, and I’d made up my mind to be the next Tyra Banks.”
“Are you from Atlanta originally?”
“No, Philadelphia. Although my folks and Uncle Marsh came from Arkansas back in the day. Before they moved to Chicago.”
“I’m sorry you had to hear about your great-uncle secondhand.”
“Yes,” she lamented, “but he had a long, full life.” She brightened. “Anyway, the photographer described you accurately.” She straddled the glasses on top of her head, cocking one of her expertly plucked brows.
“When was the last time you saw your great-uncle?”
Husky laughter turned the duo’s heads toward Riles, Mr. Dellums, Cedras and two other old-timers who were now standing near the beverage table, the Jack and cans of beer held aloft.
“For Piper Davis, the best of the rest,” one of the older men said.
“He should have been in the majors, not that damn farm team of the Red Sox,” Riles commented.
“Yes,” another one nodded. “And so should have Nate Moreland, Jackie’s teammate at Pasadena City College.”
“Yep,” mumbled another. “He pitched ten years for the El Centro Imperials, and should have been doing it for the Dodgers, too.”
The men all agreed and drank some more.
“About a month ago,” Sikkuh responded. “I came by to see him and saw that he’d put up that poster. I did the job last year, and had forgotten about the gig.” She looked off, then back at Monk. “He told me he’d spotted the poster in the liquor store he frequented, and convinced the owner to get another copy from his beer distributor.” She put a hand to part of her face. An ornate silver ring was on her thumb and a simple gold one around her forefinger. “Gawd,” she complained, peeking at Monk.
“Couldn’t help but hear you were related to Mr. Spears.”
Monk introduced the newcomer. “Sikkuh, this is Abe Carson, another man who knew your great-uncle from the barber shop.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Carson said, exchanging a quick grin with Monk. It was the kind of look men get when in the presence of good-looking women—that feeling equally charged with sexual current and junior-high awkwardness. “We just recently learned he played baseball with Monk’s cousin there.” He tipped his plate of food in Riles’ direction.
“Oh yes, many a night Uncle Marsh would go on with the men folk about those times. Cool Papa Bell’s running ability; Lou Dials’ skill; he had a steamer trunk full of stories he liked to tell,” Sikkuh said.
“You said Cool Papa, miss?” Kennesaw Riles inquired from across the room. “Don’t you know he once stole home plate and was in the showers by the time the ball bounced off the second baseman’s glove.”
One of the men snorted, “He never got past me. I hugged third like she was Lena Home in a sarong.”
“Billy Timms,” one of the other men scolded, who was wearing a hearing aid, “you confusing my stats with yours again.”
The old men kept their cajoling and reminiscing going, entertaining themselves and several others moving in and out of the barber shop. Though embellished upon, their firsthand accounts of life in black baseball were like exploring a treasure cave with many alcoves.
“Listen, I have to get to a shoot out in the Valley.” Sikkuh had finally relented to the call of hunger. She’d sated her appetite with two bites of potato salad and one drumstick she’d peeled the skin off of and placed in a crumpled napkin.
“Guess that was a feast for you,” Monk observed.
“It’s crazy, I know,” she said. “Thin is not simply a physical state in the modeling world, it’s a religion.”
“You know your great-uncle’s stuff is just sitting there in his duplex,” Carson said. He bestowed another smirk on Monk.
That was because Monk still had Spears’ keys and wallet sitting on his dresser.
“Oh Lord, I can’t deal with that right now. On Monday, I’ve got to go out of town for a small part I’ve got in a Morgan Freeman film.”
“Well,” Monk ventured, “we do have a set of his house keys. Frankly, I wanted to turn them over to you.” He didn’t look at Carson. “And his wallet.”
“Didn’t seem right leaving his personal items on him, us not having a relative for Mr. Spears at the time,” Carson elucidated.
She touched Carson’s forearm. “Oh, no, I appreciate what y’all have done for Uncle Marsh. If you could get his stuff together and store it, I’d be really thankful.” Sikkuh shifted her hips, glancing up into the tall man’s face.
“Of course,” he all but stammered.
“I should be back by next weekend. Then I can get in touch with you guys to get my uncle’s things.”
Carson produced a business card and handed it across. “That’ll be no problem.”
“Cool.” She smiled at both of them and walked out the door. Both men watched her go.
“You’re a magnanimous man,” Monk said.
“Truly,” Carson replied, watching the woman go. He ambled toward the entrance, too.
“So that fine young honey is Marshall’s niece?” Kennesaw asked.
“Great-niece,” Monk corrected.
Riles, Dellums and Cedras were sitting down, plates of food balanced on their laps or held shakily aloft by trembling hands. “Kind of a day for long-gone family,” Riles said to Monk around a mouthful of greens. “I ain’t seen your mother in more than, hell, I guess it’s been more than twenty years.”
“You moved back down south after the ball club folded.”
“The club didn’t end, exactly,” Cedras said. “It was Wrigley Field that got closed.”
“After O’Malley brought the Dodgers west,” Dellums contributed, “and they did all that mess to build Dodger Stadium out there in Chavez Ravine. So Wrigley Field, and the teams that used to play there like the Pacific League and the Triple A Angels, became a casualty of war in our part of town.”
“’Course when Autry, the Singing Cowboy, bought ’em, the Angels became a pro club.”
“Dodger opening day in ’fifty-eight was in the Coliseum, the place they had to use until O’Malley built their park,” Cedras recalled. “I believe they beat the Giants.”
“O’Malley worked the swap of Wrigley to the city in exchange for the land out there in the ravine,” another old-timer put in from a corner. “And the city let our stadium go to rot.”
“And now O’Malley’s done sold the Dodgers to that Murdoch, a foreigner.”
That got a round of heads shaking side-to-side.
“Let’s face it,” Kennesaw added, “who was gonna pay to see the farm team when the big boys were in town? All the sharp colored boys who could were playing in pro teams, or trying to by then.”
“Integration ain’t never done us no good.” Dellums set his plate down and wiped his mouth with a floral-pat
terned handkerchief.
“Central Avenue and its businesses, the Negro Leagues … when we built up our own, we couldn’t wait to tear it down so we could go chase after the white man’s approval.” Cedras also put down his plate, and took a drink from his cup.
“I hope you don’t mean all white men.” The speaker was a portly individual in a military-green three-piece suit with a maroon-and-white polka dot tie and pocket square, with brown-and-white Stacey Adams. He wore rimless glasses, and there was a beneficence to the grin encased in the all-white, neatly trimmed beard.
A chocolate-brown-hued woman heavy in the hips but thin in the face stood next to the man. She wore a dark gray, pleated skirt and same-colored tunic top. Perched atop her head was a black slouch hat with a bright red feather sticking out of the crown. Though the years had marched her along, she was still a handsome woman who didn’t hide her age behind vain attempts at too much make-up.
An awkward silence descended as the three older black men, and all the other black folks in the shop, stared at the stranger. It was like a scene from an old west movie when the outsider comes into the bar and the piano playing and conversation stops. Who was the stranger, and what did he want?
“I’ll be shot and goddamned,” Cedras proclaimed. He got up and came over, Monk watching and waiting. The two men faced each other, then Cedras threw his arms around the man, hugging him. “You know I didn’t mean the ones who’d crossed the tracks, man.”
The white man had his arms around Cedras and roared. “And never looked back, baby.”
Riles had also gotten up and was slapping the bearded man on the back. “Ardmore, man, how the hell are you?” He didn’t wait for an answer and addressed the black woman. “Good to see you, too, Clara.” He kissed her on the cheek and she squeezed his shoulders.
“You too, Kennesaw.” She regarded him with an emotion Monk couldn’t identify. Suddenly, she seemed to become aware of the expression on her face, and re-composed it into a cheerful appearance. “I was sorry to hear about Dora passing.”