The whole episode was an affront to Oreo’s judgment, and she resolved to be less quick to snap in future. For example, what of the only son the woman was so musically concerned for? Oreo could not refrain from wondering, Is he real or imaginary? She was at first inclined to think real. A woman with the proprietor’s solidity gave one the impression of practicality, a reflex grasp of — no, a stranglehold on — everyday life. Such a woman, with her banana fingers, might well despair of the sexual proclivities of any son who was not a Kodiak bear and hence, to forestall such despair, would train up her child in the way he should go, which would be in any direction but down. Any blow jobs connected with any son of this mother would be to, not fro. Another point: the reader of Vogue was ofttimes a traditionalist. A traditionalist would wear at all times — waking and sleeping, resting or laying waste the countryside — a wedding ring. Oreo looked again at the banana fingers of the left hand. No band of gold bruised the bunch. This, of course, was not conclusive proof. It would be hard to find a ring that could contain those plantains. What is more, a store owner might think it politic to keep valuables that were not for sale out of sight of thieves. But Oreo felt that if this woman had a ring, she would wear it — and let thieves come if they dared. No, she was not married; she had no relatives, not even a sonlike nephew to sing about. Nephews who worked for her would toil around the clock and think twice before complaining about the low wages — and there was no nephew in sight. Q.E.D. The copy of Vogue was again the crucial clue. It took imagination to persist in reading a magazine whose cover date was January, 1928. Yes, the only son of the song was—mirabile cantabile (which in Oreo’s pidgin Latin meant “wonderful to sing”) — imaginary.
Oreo finished her bean pie, took a last swig of Pepsi, and paid the check. She said good evening to the proprietor, who grunted, licked her finger, and turned a page of her magazine. This Sakyamuni was now sitting on one of her counter stools, her apron hammocked across her knees. If she sat like that much longer, impassive and idol-like, she would present a cruel temptation to deranged incense burners in the neighborhood.
Oreo pushed open the screen door. She raised her chin to sniff the dark, peppery air outside the luncheonette, when suddenly her left arm made a distinct L behind her back. Her walking stick was jerked from her right hand. She turned her head. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Parnell. “Oh shit,” she said softly.
“Um-hm,” Parnell gloated. “Got you by the short hairs this time, baby.”
“Can we talk this over?” Oreo asked.
“Oh, we gon talk it over, all right — and then some.” Parnell was marching her down the street with her arm still behind her back, making no attempt to hide the fact that he was coercing her. People looked on with perhaps a shade less curiosity than they would have lent to a change of traffic light.
One man greeted Parnell with “What’s the haps, my man? See you got a new worker for the vineyard. She saying something too. Choice cut, man, choice,” he said, looking Oreo up and down. She looked him up and down in retaliation, but he didn’t notice as he swung down the street.
Oreo wondered whether to use WIT on Parnell right on the street, but she decided to wait and see what kind of game he would try to run. She told him there was no need to twist her arm. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll go along with your program.”
“You better believe it. I got something special in store for you, baby. You really gon dig it. That is, it gon dig you.” He chuckled to himself at his turn of phrase.
They turned into Parnell’s block. He relaxed his grip, out of fatigue. She could see now that he was wearing a suit of identical cut and style to the fine pink feathers he had strutted earlier. This one was midnight blue, more appropriate for evening. His boots too were blue-black and scintillated like a vein of anthracite struck by a miner’s Cyclopean lamp.
The hustler hustled Oreo up the front steps. Inside, the first floor was dark. All she could see was a light under a door at the end of a narrow hallway. They went up the stairs to the second floor. Parnell opened the door into a large square room with a huge wrestling mat in the center. On chairs around the periphery of the room were one little, two little, three little prostitutes, four little, five little, six little prostitutes, seven little, eight little, nine little prostitutes — where was the tenth? Oreo wondered. The black bottom woman was missing. The nine young women looked as if they were about to greet Oreo as a sorority sister. They started to make a place for her along the wall.
“This is the bitch that ruined my baby-ass-pink suit — and put my ass in a sling,” announced Parnell. He tenderly touched his behind.
Oreo translated their collective murmur as “Oh-oh, too bad for you, honey.” Behind their masks of loyalty, Oreo thought she detected a tentative snicker at Parnell.
“Now she gon get hers this evening,” Parnell said. “Just in case any you bitches begin to begin to think you can run some shit on me, I’m gon show you what happens to little girls whose mamas didn’t teach ’em no manners.”
All this time, Oreo had been flexing her arm, ready to fling Parnell to the floor as soon as things got a bit sticky. But she was curious. She still had not peeped his hole card.
“Now, y’all have heard rumors to the effect that I’m keeping some kinda way-out instrument of torture in that spare room.” He cocked his head toward a door at the opposite end of the room, cater-cornered from where he and Oreo were standing. “I want to tell you in front that this is one heavy torture, chicks. I ain’t had to use it on any you yet. Y’all been good little girls, humping your hineys off for li’l ol’ me. But this bitch”—he gave Oreo an extra arm twist, which she added to her revenge list—“this bitch is something else. It gon be my pleasure to see her split wide open.”
Oreo was getting a little worried now — she might actually have to hurt Parnell. If push came to shove, how many of these women would fight for Parnell once she made her move and started pushing and shoving him all over this room? Would she have to rack them all up? And what the fuck was this instrument of torture?
Parnell snapped his fingers, and all heads snapped his way. He pointed to the woman farthest from him. “Knock three times on that door, then step aside.” The woman looked puzzled but did as she was told. Nothing happened. “Knock again — harder,” said Parnell. The woman had no sooner lifted her knuckles after the third knock than the door burst open. She did not step aside soon enough and was knocked down as something — Oreo at first thought it was a small white horse — rushed out and bore down on them. Oreo looked again. It was a man, virtually on all fours, caparisoned in a black loincloth.
He cantered over to Parnell and nuzzled his hand. Parnell patted him, and the man straightened up as far as he could, to a slight stoop. He was deeply muscled. His withers twitched as though covered with flies. His dark forelock covered his eyes like a shade as he pawed the ground, impatiently waiting for Parnell to tell him what to do.
“This is Kirk,” Parnell said, stroking the man’s back. “Kirk is from out of town, folks. Say hello to the bitches, Kirk.”
Kirk raised his upper lip and nickered, showing teeth long and strong, with a decided overbite.
“Thattaboy,” said Parnell. “We got your first American playmate for you, Kirk. Young and juicy. You like that don’t you, Kirk?”
Kirk pawed the ground twice. Oreo assumed that meant “yes” and that “no” would be indicated by one hoof-strike.