Deacon King Kong(54)

“I don’t know nothing about no switches.”

“Hurry up, Sport. There’s thirty-two apartments upstairs. Them Negroes is cooking collards and scrambled eggs and gotta get to work. Ain’t nothing to it, Sport. Just go ’round back of the generator. Stick your hand behind it and feel a thick wire coming out. Follow that wire to the wall with your hand. You’ll feel a box there. Open that box and throw the switch in there backward and forward one time.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather cook what little brains I got left with whiskey,” Sportcoat called out. “I can’t see nothing. Plus there’s somebo—”

“Git up and do it before them fools upstairs come down here raising hell!”

“I don’t know nothing about no boxes.”

“You can’t get electrocuted back there,” Sausage snapped, trying not to sound impatient. “It’s all grounded. That generator there’s two hundred forty volts. This one here’s two hundred twenty.” He paused, then said, “Or is it the other way around?”

“Make up your mind now.”

“Just go throw that danged switch in the box, please. You got nothing to worry about, Sport. This is the circuit breaker here. The juice is here. It ain’t over there where you at.”

“If it’s over there, whyn’t you throw the switch over there?”

“Stop being light-headed, nigger! Hurry up before them Negroes upstairs git here hollering—or even worse, call up Housing.”

“All right,” Sportcoat said, irritated. He groped his way through the dark, found the generator, ran his hand along the wall behind it until his fingers found a thick wire. He groped the wire, following it to the wall, turned to address Sausage, and saw again the shadow of a man cross the exit light and move toward the middle of the room. This time he was sure of it.

“Sausage?”

“Throw the switch.”

“There’s somebo—”

“Will you throw it already?”

“All right. What about this wire?”

“Forget the wire now. You don’t need it. Throw the switch.”

“I don’t need this wire? This loose one?”

There was a long silence from Sausage. “Did I forget to tie that thing off?” he muttered.

“Tie off what?”

“The wire.”

“There’s two.”

“Wires or boxes?”

“Both.”

“Well don’t worry about that,” Sausage called, more impatient now. “Just find a box. Any box. Throw the switch in any box you touch and make sure the wire don’t touch the generator. I’m holding the panel to this generator box open. I can’t hold it much longer, Sport. It’s heavy. There’s a spring on it.”

“But the wire—”

“Forget the wire. It’s all grounded, I tell you.”

“What’s grounded mean?”

“Nigger, you want math and a marching band too? Just throw the goddamn switch! I’ll fix everything when we get the lights going. Hurry up before the whole building riots on us down here!”

Sportcoat chose the box nearer to him. He opened it and felt inside. There were two switches in it. Not knowing what to do, he placed the bare wire on the generator and threw both switches. There was a flickering spark, a grunt, and the squealing howl of a human. As the roar of the generator fired and the lights came back up, he caught sight of two boots flying upward in the air.

From the other side of the room, Sausage angrily approached, clattering over the piles of benches, cinder blocks, sinks, and bicycle parts, jawing as he came. “What’s the matter with you, Sport? How hard can it be to throw a switch?”

Then he stopped, silent, and stared wide-eyed at something in the middle of the floor. From his side of the room, Sportcoat clambered over the junk and the two of them stood over Earl, Bunch’s triggerman. He lay on his back, out cold, his black leather jacket scorched from where the electricity had coursed through him. A shiny watch protruded from his wrist, its crystal broken, and a revolver was squeezed tight in his hand.

“Good God,” Sausage said. “That’s the feller from Soup’s party. How’d he get back so fast? I thought they carried his ass off.”

Sportcoat stared at him. “Is he dead?”

Hot Sausage knelt, feeling Earl’s neck for a pulse. “He’s yet living,” he said.

“He’da been ramped up good if they let him drink that brandy rather than letting Soup waste it by busting it on his head. You wanna call the police?”

“Hell no, Sport. Housing’ll blame me.”

“You ain’t done nothing wrong.”

“Don’t matter. However the cut comes or goes, if the police show up at Housing it means they got to write a report. That means they got to do something down there other than take naps and sip coffee. Anyone who disturbs them from doing that gets walking papers. I’ll be outta my job.”

He looked down at Earl. “He got to go, Sport. Let’s put him out.”

“I ain’t touching him.”

“What you think he come here for? To teach you letters? He crawling ’round here with a pistol. He’s somebody Deems put on you.”