A big pimply boy wearing a short-sleeve shirt and a clip-on bow tie under a shiny green vest approaches Yolanda. His name tag announces him as Chaz. “Help you, ma’am?”
“Oh. Hello.”
“Looking for something nice for your windows today.”
“No. Actually.”
But there are no further queries forthcoming from the boy, whose expression is as blank as a bowl of dough, and the journey from window treatments to hacksaws seems longer and more savage than she would have imagined.
“A saw,” she says.
“A saw. Oh”—and an eager look that hints at his contempt settles on his face—“you’re totally in the wrong place. That’s over there.” And he jabs at the air with his forefinger before turning away. Yolanda begins walking to the other side of the store, where another teenage boy in a similar outfit is waiting. This boy is named Douglas.
Clapton sings, “ … Every day the bucket goes to the well …”
“Help you find what you’re looking for today,” the boy breathes.
“Hacksaw,” she says.
“Hacksaw! You sure you need a hacksaw? Most people, I find, they’re like, ‘I need a hacksaw’ and whatnot when really they need something else.”
“I think I need a hacksaw.”
“Do me a favor. What are you exactly trying to cut? It makes a difference.”
“ … yes, one day the bottom will drop out.. ”
“Pipe.”
“Well what kind? Cast-iron pipe? Galvanized steel? Copper? Plastic PVC? It makes a difference, believe me.”
“Um. I don’t know. Pipe.”
“Inside or out? I know you’re wondering, ‘Why’s the guy asking so many questions?’ And you know, I’m not trying to denigrate the valuable addition of a hacksaw to anyone’s home toolbox. But let’s make sure we’re using the right tool for the right job, right? And after we figure out what that is, if you still want a hacksaw, we’ll set you up with a hacksaw.”
“What was the question?”
“Inside or out?”
“Inside.”
“Right. So. It’s probably not cast-iron then, so what you probably want is not a hacksaw at all but a pipe cutter.”
“You know. I should probably ask my husband. He knows.”
“He out in the car?” Douglas looks over her shoulder, very enthusiastic about extending the conversation.
“No. No. No, he isn’t. He’s home. With the baby. I’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
Dan Russell wants to know: “If you take over the country—”
“When, Dan,” stresses Teko.
“—what happens to a guy like my grampa? He’s pretty like, you know, Nixon’s the One. But he’s a good old guy I think. He volunteers and stuff. Is it OK if he’s like, all the same to you I’ll be voting for Governor Reagan?”
“That asshole,” says Teko.
“We take over, your granddad will see why Nixon’s not the one,” says Yolanda.
“What about Reagan?” asks Dan.
Hacksaw 3
Avery Trust-Rite Lumber & Hardware looks the way a workingman’s saloon does when the weary day flowers with night; several men in coveralls and carpenter’s pants line up on the customer’s side of the counter, bullshitting with the man behind, who actually paces its length on duckboards like a bartender, and why not? — a day spent on his feet, back and forth, crouching down, reaching up, cutting keys and mixing gallons of paint and smashing flower pots with a mallet to be mixed in with sacks of fragrant soil. The place stops dead when Yolanda walks in. She smiles, and they return amused looks. One man tips a Dodgers cap.
“Lady needs some help, Ed,” says the man in the Dodgers cap, and the other men on the customer’s side of the counter laugh.
Ed leans across the counter tiredly; thank God he’s not going along with the joke: “Help you, miss?”
“Yes, I need a hacksaw.”
Ed is starting to ask her if she just needs a blade or if she needs the whole thing when the men explode:
“—hacksaw? Oh, ho-ho-ho—”
“—she need with a hacksaw?—”
“—Whoa. Whoa. Lady gotta be careful—”
“—oh, ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho—”
“—wouldn’t want to be her old man. Lady with a hacksaw—”
“—damn, god damn—”
“Miss?”
“The whole thing, please. The blade and the handle part.”
“I’mon tell you, I don’t know if you ought to sell her a hacksaw, Eddie.”
“Maybe one of those chamois cloths.”
“A nice feather duster.”
“Can of silver polish.”
“Oh, ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho.”
“But a hacksaw—”
Ed shrugs. “Lady’s free white and twenty-one, and she can do as she pleases.”
“Now, who here’s wanting a hacksaw?”
Everyone turns to see a uniformed L.A. County deputy sheriff, carrying a roller tray, two rollers, a dropcloth, and a gallon of standard white, emerge from one of the aisles. He puts the stuff on the counter and stares straight at Yolanda.
“Lady right there,” says the man in the cap.
The deputy looks at her appraisingly, a slight smile on his face, drumming his fingers on the counter with an even rhythm. Yolanda knows the other men are with him on this. No way any of this is in fun anymore.
“Mind if I ask any special reason why you’re needing a hacksaw at”—and here he very pointedly gazes at his wristwatch—“eight forty-five at night?”
All of the men wait patiently for her answer. She smiles and tosses her head.
“My husband just escaped from custody, and we need to saw his handcuffs off.”
Amid the laughter Ed takes her money and bags the saw. As Yolanda is leaving, she hears one of the men sum up: “She ought to take that and saw the balls off herself’cause she has got some pair down there.”
Dan Russell wants to know: “Well I mean I just don’t understand why you robbed the bank in San Francisco if you’re these revolutionary army people and all.” He is on his knees behind the bucket seats in the front of the van, working away with the saw at the handcuff on Teko’s wrist.
“Well,” says Teko, somewhat nervously watching Dan at work, “running a revolution is pretty expensive business. You’d be surprised. You need vehicles—”
“But, I mean, I thought you stole the vehicles.” Dan shrugs and gestures to take in the van.
“This is a definite exception in the case of an emergency. I mean, ideally we purchase the vehicles legitimately. So called. Try and keep a low profile.” Teko winks. “Anyway. You need matériel. You need ordnance. Arms, ammunition, tools—”
“Sweat socks,” says Yolanda.
“Oh, I just. OK. Attention please: It was not sweat socks. It was a bandolier.”
“Yeah yeah.”
“Dan, let’s not get sidetracked here in the details, the minutiae of revolutionary struggle. I want to make one thing perfectly clear: We aren’t crooks. We’ve declared war on the fascist United States government, and the bank job was an expropriation of enemy funds in order to meet our simple revolutionary needs.”
“Oh,” says Dan.
DONALD DEFREEZE — General Field Marshal Cinque Mtume
He walked that patch of grass leading to the shack looking around as if the whole world had changed its constitution, had undiscernibly come apart and then reassembled itself along slightly askew lines. The truth hid in the shadows angling from the objects all around. There were signs to which an instinctive hustler was sensitive: the marked card, the bill protruding conspicuously from the unattended wallet, the calm quiet before a bust. Then again, maybe it was just sitting in the car with that bald motherfucker Prophet Jones. Dude always got his nerves all blanged up.