Deacon King Kong(45)

“Where’s everybody?” he asked.

“We seen from papers in your pocket you is from Gates Avenue out in Bed-Stuy,” the woman said. “So we is putting you on the train that way.”

Earl started to curse, then glanced at the giant, who stared back at him, his eye steady.

“Seems to me,” the woman began, “you favors a preacher I once knew over in Bed-Stuy. Reverend Harris at Ebenezer Baptist. A nice man, the reverend was. He died some years back. You any kin to him?”

Earl was silent.

“A good man, Reverend Harris was,” she repeated. “Worked all his life. Janitored over at Long Island University, I do believe. I recollects when my church visited Ebenezer that Reverend Harris had a child or two that favored you. Of course this is going back a ways. I’m forty-eight. I can’t remember nothing no more.”

Earl stayed silent.

“Well, I do apologize for whatever misunderstandings you has had in the Cause,” she said. “We seen from your wallet papers where you was from, and being God-fearing people, we brung you here so you could get home without no trouble from the police. We takes care of our visitors in the Cause.” She paused a moment, then added, “We takes care of our own too.”

She let that one sit a moment, then got up. She nodded at the giant. Earl watched in awe as the stoic man in a neat suit, bow tie, and crisp white shirt, clearly a member, he realized now, of the feared and respected Nation of Islam, stood up. Up and up he went, unfolding like a human accordion, his giant fist still clasping the switchblade. When he stood up to his full height, his head nearly scraped the lights of the subway platform. The giant opened his big palm and, with two massive fingers, gently placed the blade on the bench next to Earl.

“Well then, we bid you good day, son,” the lady said. “God bless you.”

She moved toward the stairs, followed by the lumbering giant.

Earl, still seated on the bench, heard the rumble of an incoming train and he looked down the tracks to see the graffiti-covered G train curving out of the tunnel toward him. When it stopped, he rose as quickly as he could manage, slipped gratefully aboard, and watched through the window as the woman and her giant, the only two souls on the platform, stood at the top of the stairs watching the train roll out.

He was the only passenger to board. He noticed there were no other passengers on the entire platform. The whole situation seemed odd. Only when the train moved did the two turn away.



* * *





Sister Gee and Soup descended the stairs of the subway platform, then headed down an escalator that reached street level and the tollbooth. When they arrived, Sister Gee noticed a crowd of about fifteen impatient subway riders standing at all three entranceway turnstiles. All three were closed, each with an emergency cone blocking it. She glanced at the tollbooth, and Calvin, the tollbooth worker, quickly emerged and removed the cones without a word, then stepped back inside his booth. The subway riders rushed through the turnstiles and up the escalators.

Sister Gee watched them mount the escalators in a hurry toward the train platform. When they were out of sight, she didn’t turn away but rather said softly to Soup, standing behind her, “Meet me outside, okay?” The big man lumbered toward the street exit as Sister Gee quickly crossed to the tollbooth, where Calvin stood at the counter, his face stoic. “I owe you one, Calvin,” she said softly.

“Forget it. What happened after everybody left?”

“Nothing. We hightailed over here by the backstreets. Bum-Bum hid Joaquin’s numbers in her bra. Miss Izi told the police she and Joaquin had one of their fights. It’s all good. Joaquin’s back in business. The cops are gone. I can’t thank you enough.”

“If you put two dollars on my number today, that’ll square us,” Calvin said.

“What number?”

“One forty-three.”

“That’s a good-sounding number. What’s it mean?”

“Ask Soup,” he said. “That’s Soup’s number.”

She emerged from the Silver Street station and fell in beside Soup for the short walk back to the Cause Houses. “I reckon if your momma was alive, she wouldn’t be pleased I put her son in a spot like this, cleaning up somebody else’s mess. I don’t know that I done right or not. But I couldn’t carry that fella to the train myself.”

Soup shrugged.

“Course he was up to no good,” she said. “I reckon he come here to do wrong to old Sportcoat. What’s this world coming to if common church folk can’t stand up for one of their own?” She thought for a moment. “I reckon I did right. On the other hand, Sportcoat’s in a little too thick for my taste. You can get in deep water quick fooling around with them drug dealers. Don’t you do it, Soup.”

Soup smiled sheepishly. He was so tall, she had to squint to see his face in the afternoon sun. “That ain’t me, Sister Gee,” he said.

“Why is Calvin playing your number? Is he in your new religion too?”

“Nation of Islam? Not at all,” Soup said. “He and my ma was friends. We lived in the same building. He used to come by sometimes and watch my show with me. The number’s from that.”

“What show is that?”

“Mister Rogers.”

“You mean the nice little white man who sings? With the puppets?”