Kiki pushed him down on his back and stepped over him so that she had a foot on either side of his chest.
He was a brown boy but his sweaty skin glinted orange with blood from his hard-pounding heart.
Kiki grabbed him by his short dreadlocks and pulled his head up to meet her pistol again.
That’s when he cried like a little boy, like what he was.
“Shut up!” Kiki screamed. “You don’t remember putting that knife in me?”
The boy put up his hand to plead but Kiki slammed it down with the barrel of her gun.
Soupspoon saw a short piece of lumber lying nearby. He stooped to pick up the heavy stick.
“You don’t remember?”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” The boy cradled the broken fingers. His breath sang from down below his throat.
Soupspoon came up close behind Kiki.
“I know you’re sorry,” she said. “And you gonna be even sorrier, ’cause I’m gonna shoot you. I’m gonna shoot you in your legs” — she touched his knee and he pulled back—” and then in your eyes.”
The boy covered his face and sank even further into the ground.
“But first I’m gonna get you down where you got me.” Kiki brought the muzzle down toward the boy’s genitals. Soupspoon moved quickly then. He thrust the board between Kiki and the boy.
“Here! Beat’im wit’ this,” he said.
“What?” When Kiki looked up he could see the tears and the pain in her eyes.
“Beat’im wit’ this here board. He don’t deserve no shootin’, Kiki. So gimme that gun an’ beat’im for what he done.”
Kiki didn’t move at first. She licked her thin lips with a pale tongue. A quizzical look came over her face. Soupspoon still offered the thick board.
She let the pistol swing down to her side.
Immediately the boy was up and gone. He was running down the alley, holding his broken fingers and moving fast.
Kiki turned to watch him, and Soupspoon took the gun from her hand. He put on the safety and pocketed the piece.
Kiki fell to her knees and hugged him around the waist. Anyone looking from down the alley would have sworn that Kiki was performing some sexual act. But nobody looked. Kiki hugged Soupspoon and cried into his crotch. She cried for a long time and would have gone on but Soupspoon helped her to her feet. Then they walked home, arms wrapped around each other for support, Soupspoon holding on for his aching leg and Kiki staying near for love.
That night Kiki couldn’t stop crying. She blubbered and snorted and drank a whole bottle of sour mash. She started talking and couldn’t stop that either. At first she said terrible things about her mother and her mother’s sister who had come to live with them when she was dying of cancer. She hated them. Hated the way they dressed and smelled. She hated how they went to the toilet and chewed their food. For over an hour she said things about them. Until finally Soupspoon asked her about her father, and if she liked him.
He was sorry about that question.
He didn’t want to know all the things that went on in that childhood basement. The things that went on while one woman held her hands over her ears and the other one died.
Water hoses, hard fists, and the smell of sweat over cologne that still made her want to vomit — that’s what Kiki remembered about her father.
Soupspoon held her, his mind devoid of anything — even music. He held her and hoped that the tears would wash away the filth caked in her mind.
But the more she cried the sadder she became. She cried and moaned and walked all around the room. Finally Soupspoon took her to bed. He had to lie with her because she couldn’t lie down alone.
He remembered the smell of whiskey and sweat, and the touch of dry hot skin that was past passion.
Twenty
When Randy arrived the next morning he found Soupspoon dressed and ready to go. The old man had his guitar case, a harmonica fixed to wear around his neck, and a tambourine to tie around his leg.
Kiki was in the bathroom throwing up.
“You coming, Kiki?” Randy shouted through the door.
“Maybe later.”
Randy’s booth was in front of an Italian restaurant on the east side of Carmine. He had a long table that was just an unfinished door covered with piles of folded T-shirts. At the back of the booth T-shirts hung from wires that were suspended between two long poles anchored to cinder blocks on the street. The shirts were all sexy and macho in bright colors. Randy got them from Ralphie Dee, who worked for Wild Chests of Brooklyn. Ralphie loaded the shirts he’d taken over the months into his station wagon and left the keys for Randy.
To the left of Randy’s booth two young men had a concession where they sold bootlegged audiocassettes that were counterfeited to look like the originals. To the right a group of potters sold wares from their studio; heavy cups and wobbling plates that old ladies swooned over before passing them by.
People sold toys, novelties, batteries, antiques, and clothes. There were a lot of clothes. Designer overalls in psychedelic colors, natural wool sweaters from Chile, straw hats, old suits.
And then came jewelry. Earrings mainly, from gaudy cheap plastic to delicate handmade. Nose studs and nipple rings. Lots of silver, but no gold to speak of. Garnet rings and freshwater pearl necklaces, silver-plated bracelets and silver skulls for your fingers, toes, throat, and ears.
At the corner near Bleecker they had food. Italian sausages with peppers, fresh deep-fried doughnuts, flavored ice, fried rice, and hot dogs with pretzels and mustard.
“Hey, Claude,” Randy called across the street to a man in a booth over which flew a banner that declared, TATTOOS. Behind the little black-haired man was a white screen covered with the decals he could give you to pretend for a day or two that you had the courage to be marked. He had skulls, butterflies, naked women, and MOM surrounded by a big red heart. He had an American flag but no swastikas, because Claude was a Frenchman and he hated the Nazis.
“Hey, Randy,” he answered. “You got a lot today.”
“Got entertainment.”
“Wet T-shirt?” the little man asked, completely serious.
“No, uh-uh, we got a blues guitar man.” Randy gestured toward Soupspoon, who was getting himself set up on his stool. He had on a three-button black dress jacket with slim dark slacks and black-and-white patent-leather shoes over red silk socks. He wore a red shirt with fake onyx buttons and a short-brimmed, olive-colored Stetson hat that sported a yellow feather held in place by a red-enameled hat pin.
Everybody who walked by noticed Soupspoon with his bright red guitar and his old-time fancy clothes. People were asking about T-shirts before they got their doughnuts. Mrs. Rich, the Carmine Street fair administrator, asked Randy about Soupspoon, but she wasn’t mad. Music is a great thing for a street fair. It makes people just wandering through want to stop; and when they stop they’re more likely to spend.
At first Soupspoon wanted to get to know his guitar again. He strummed a few chords and then, almost like that day in Arcola, he began to play. No singing at first, he just fingered out the words while strumming the chords on behind. “Placated Woman” was the first thing he played, then “The Sophisticated Blues,” a song he learned up in Chicago when he and Mavis first left the south.