There are two fat men on the other boat who look sorta alike. Both of the men are about forty and their haircuts are short and greased back and they’ve got slippery black mustaches. The fat men are wearing them loud beach shirts and big baggy white pants. There are two younger men with them, big and muscular fellas, in trunks. Their boat pulls alongside of us.
“Sid,” says one of the fat man, stepping aboard, extending a hand.
Sid takes the man’s plump hand. “On time, as usual.”
The other fat man is staring at me. “Who’s he?” he asks, pointing.
“He’s a friend of mine,” Sid says.
“Which drum?” asks the first fat man.
“That one.” Sid points to the drum nearest the back of the boat.
The first fat man signals to the two big guys in the trunks. They hop across to Sid’s boat and walk to the drum. They turn the drum upright and pry the lid off and then one of them reaches down into the barrel and comes up with a dripping green plastic garbage bag. He opens the bag and pulls out a clear plastic bag of white powder. The big guy hands it over to the first fat man.
“Come on, let’s go,” says the second fat man, looking around.
“In a second,” the first fat man says, looking at Sid, who’s standing by, watching with his hands in his pockets.
“The money,” Sid says.
“In a second,” the first man repeats.
Sid pulls a gun out of his pocket. “The money.”
“Sid, slow down,” says the first fat man, “you’ll get your money.”
“The money,” Sid repeats, extending his free hand, palm up, pointing the gun at the second fat man. “Or I’ll blow your brother’s greasy head off.”
“What is this, Sid?” asks the first fat man.
“This is the Little Bighorn. This is where the Indian cuts the white boy’s tail.”
The second fat man tosses a briefcase across the gap between the two boats and it lands by my feet.
“Good,” Sid says. “Okay. Now, you two, Fric and Frac, I want you overboard. Craig, check the case.”
The two guys in trunks don’t move. I open the case and tilt it, showing Sid the money inside.
Sid fires the gun over the big guys’ heads. “Move!”
The two men jump into the water.
“Sid, you won’t get away with this,” says the second fat man.
“In the water, chubby,” Sid says and pulls the hammer of the pistol back.
The second fat man jumps into the ocean.
I look and see another boat coming our way. Sid sees it also. “Shit,” Sid says. “Okay, fatso, in the drink.”
“So help me God, I’m going to get you, Sid.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Sid straightens his arm and aims the gun at the fat man’s face. “Tell it to the Coast Guard.” The first fat man joins the others in the water. The four of them are bobbing up and down between the boats and Sid is leaning over, looking at them. “I got you, you son of a bitch.” He looks at the approaching boat. “Start the boat, Craig.”
I climb up the ladder and start the engine.
“Let’s get out of here!” Sid yells to me.
I steer the boat away and then I look back and Sid is still leaning over, yelling at the men in the water. I start to think about what Sid was saying earlier about killing me and I climb down the ladder and I tiptoe up behind Sid and I push him into the water. I’m at the wheel again, driving away.
“Craig!” Sid yells and then there’s a gunshot and I look back and see Sid waving his gun in the air, keeping the thugs away. “Craig!”
There’s a blast of a voice through a bullhorn from the Coast Guard boat, but I can’t make it out. I’m just looking at the compass and heading south. When the other boats are out of sight, I head east.
As I’m nearing the mouth of the Columbia River, I look down from the wheel at the deck and I see that clear plastic bag of white powder. I climb down and I drop it overboard and watch it sink slowly out of sight.
I push on into the mouth of the river and on to Portland. I stop in Portland. I dock the boat and leave it and I’m walking through the city of Portland with my saxophone, my phonograph, my record, my bat, and now a briefcase full of money.
Chapter 13
Ma walked into my room with her head bowed. I was sitting on my bed, looking at my model plane. Ma sat beside me. She didn’t look at me.
“Grandmama’s dead,” she said.
“What?”
“Grandmama’s dead.”
I tried to look at Ma’s eyes. I could see a tear working its way down her cheek. Grandmama and Ma were close until Ma started acting so crazy. Then Grandmama just sorta stayed away; all of Ma’s people did. Daddy didn’t have any people. His twin brother got run over by a coal truck in Birmingham. He was the last. Ma grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “It’s okay,” I said.
“You’re a good boy, Craigie.” I was getting tired of hearing her say that.
“It’s okay,” I repeated.
She put her arm around me and pulled me close against her coat. I began to perspire immediately. She cried harder.
Later, Martin and I were in our navy blue suits in the back seat of the car. We were on our way to Watkins Funeral Home. It was the largest black-owned business in Fayetteville. Pernell Watkins also owned a wig shop, which his wife operated. Everyone wondered about the wigs in that shop. Especially since Joey Fields looked in the window of the shop, saw a wig, and swore up and down that it was the hair of his dead wife, Jenny Mae. The controversy grew because Jenny Mae Fields’s funeral had been a closed-casket affair. As we pulled to a stop in front of the funeral home I began to wish I was back home at the piano with Bud.
We entered the funeral home and Grandmama’s body was laying out in a coffin in this dimly lit room. Ma’s brother and her two sisters were there. Aunt Cleo and Aunt Edna were screaming and carrying on and their husbands were holding them down.
I wandered away from the room, away from the crying, and into a large office. As I looked around I thought of Pernell Watkins, the funeral director. He was tall, slender, and light-skinned. It seemed like all funeral directors were light-skinned. In the office I saw a picture of the original Watkins, a dark-skinned guy. However, as I looked at the pictures of the descendants of the original Watkins, I saw that each Watkins was lighter in color than the previous one. I figured dealing with death had that effect.
I wandered from the office, down this long corridor, and I started feeling real scared because there was this weird music playing. I walked into this large room filled with caskets. Bronze, silver, pretty wood caskets. Big caskets, small caskets, wide caskets. I stopped to look closely at one light-blue casket. I ran my fingers along the golden handles. Then I saw some dirt around the edges of the coffin. Somebody grabbed me and I screamed. It was Martin.
“What are you doing?” Martin asked.
“Look here,” I said. “Dirt.”
Martin’s eyes opened wide. “He uses the same boxes again and again.”
We heard footsteps and we ducked down and scurried back to where Daddy was. We were shaking.
“What’s wrong?” Daddy asked.
Just then, Pernell Watkins came and stood by Daddy. Martin, who was about to talk, caught himself and grabbed Daddy’s arm and whined something about Grandmama. Daddy was really puzzled and he dropped a hand to Martin’s back. Martin looked at me and shrugged his shoulders.
I’m out on the streets of Portland, Oregon, and I ain’t ready to go home and I figure Sid will be looking for me, so I decide to stay put for a while. I’m in the Chinese section of Portland and I see this sign on a house advertising a room for rent. I ring the bell.