“Who else running?” Fariq asked, his interest piqued.
“Margo Tellos. She live over on one-eighteen. Got a big, fat, juicy ass and a little boy who goes to private school on the West Side.” Winston held up Collette Cox’s campaign flyer. “I know Ms. Nomura knows her. This one used to teach here at the school. I remember one day she was subbing for Ms. Dunleavy, we fucking around not doing the assignment, throwing shit out the windows, woman could’ve died and no one would’ve noticed or cared. Out of nowhere she starts crying, mascara all down by her chin, talking about, ‘When I look at you people, I see failures. Wasted talent. The ghosts of students who could’ve become lawyers, doctors. It’s like you people are zombies.’ ”
Winston looked cockeyed at Yolanda and Fariq to see if they’d shared his umbrage. Smush asked Inez for another cigarette and Yolanda just sat there, studying Tuffy for signs of bipolar disorder. “You two might not give a fuck, but I ain’t no zombie. Damn if you see me walking in a straight line, arms stretched all out in front of me, hands choking the shit out of the air, going ‘uuurrggghhhh, uuurraaaagggghh,’ waiting for some teen hero to bash my head in and put me out of my misery. Fuck that. I’m sick of being …”
“Disenfranchised,” volunteered Spencer.
“I was going to say ‘left out.’ But your word sound better.”
“You flipping,” said Smush.
“You’re still my campaign manager.”
“And Landa, you don’t got no choice, because our thing is till death do us part.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Ms. Nomura, Daddy, I know you with me, since you two are so supportive of everything I do.”
“I raised a fool.”
“Nigger, you didn’t raise nobody.” Angrily Winston pushed the tin of food scraps away from him. His chin dipped into his chest. His eyes closed. He squeezed them tighter, then covered his face with his hands.
“You all right, son?” Fariq asked.
Winston didn’t move. Yolanda couldn’t tell if he was about to cry or snap the neck of the person closest to him, which unfortunately was her.
Just contemplating the absurdity of a nigger like him running for political office was making Winston’s head hurt. He knew there was no point in talking about his future. He shut his eyes and patted the gun in his pocket. Fuck am I doing? he thought. If it’d been winter and the flyer said, “Macy’s — Extra Christmas Help Needed,” I’d have said, “That’s it — I want to be a department-store Santa!” He slowly ripped Collette Cox’s campaign flyer into four squares. Almost instinctively he whispered a verse from an old rap song:
… Bullet with my name on it
Knife with my bloodstain on it
Coffee table with my brain on it
Pallbearer grab a coffin latch
Another nigger snatched
In the ghetto it’s Catch-
22 slug to the mug …
Inez winced. It wasn’t hard to envision a bullet-riddled Winston sprawled underneath the White Park monkey bars, gargling his blood, his head lolling in her lap, while his friends tried to coax his soul back into his body. She was determined not to be too late to save Tuffy, like she was too late to save Malcolm.
Winston slowly lifted his head and opened his eyes. “I ain’t serious with this election bullshit. I’m not running for a damn thing. Fuck it.”
Inez raised an index finger in the air like a committeeperson making a point of order. “Fifteen thousand dollars, Winston,” she said. “I’ll pay you fifteen thousand dollars if you run. Maybe a little more after I look into how much it costs for posters and things. It doesn’t matter if you win or lose. It’ll be like a summer job.” Winston immediately flashed to the restitution check hanging on Inez’s bedroom wall. “Come on, Ms. Nomura, don’t joke.”
“Inez, don’t encourage the boy,” pleaded Clifford. “He’s going to think you mean it.”
“The election is a little over three months away. Let’s see — that’s five thousand dollars a month.”
Inez’s eyes locked with his. She was serious. “It might be fun.” Winston stole a glance at Yolanda. She looked skeptical. She don’t like Ms. Nomura nohow. He shifted his gaze to Fariq. Smush would eventually come up with some nefarious plan to make money this summer. It depended upon the riskiness of the venture, but at best Winston’s end would be between four and five thousand a month. Ain’t that a bitch, crime and politics pay about the same. “Ms. Nomura, I want all the money up front.”
“Done.”
Inez sighed. No one else said anything as they waited for her to come to her senses and renege on the offer. The phone rang. Winston pressed the Speaker button and snapped, “Who this?”
“Winston, is that how you answer the phone?”
“No ma’am.”
“Okay, then. What did you decide to do?”
“I’m running for Congress.”
“City Council,” hissed Yolanda.
“That’s nice, son, you have my blessing. Take care.”
“Thanks, Mama, you always there for a nigger. I mean, you wasn’t really there for me, but yeah, thanks. I’ll call you soon. Bye. Love you.” Winston picked Jordy up off the floor and dangled him over the phone with one hand and tickled his stomach with the other. “Say goodbye to Grams, Jordy.” Jordy purred a slobbering gurgle into the phone.
Clifford backed away from the table. “Inez, is the auditorium ready?”
“Ms. Dunleavy is taking care of everything, but we should get going. I’ll be there in a minute.” While Clifford gathered his books and strode into the hall, Inez walked up to Winston and gave him a long hug. “You know what we haven’t done lately?”
“Naw.”
“Gone to the top of the Empire State Building. Let’s meet next Sunday. Spencer, you come too.”
“Sure.”
“Winston, you mind?”
“Naw.”
“Coming to listen to your father read?”
“Maybe.”
Winston rose from the table, began cleaning up his mess. He crumpled Collette Cox’s campaign flyer and tossed it with the food scraps into a wastebasket. “Ms. Nomura?”
“What?”
“You think my pops would’ve come to this meeting if he didn’t have this reading scheduled for today?”
“I don’t know.”
“You better vote for me.”
“You have to earn votes, Winston. You can’t strong-arm folks into voting for you,” Inez said, scooting out into the corridor.
As he buckled Jordy into his stroller, Yolanda eased up to him and rolled his T-shirt over his beach-ball paunch. “You look hot, baby. You bring an extra shirt?”
“I forgot.”
Yolanda hiked the shirt to Winston’s underarms, exposing his chest. “I don’t like how Ms. Nomura looks at you.”
“Now who paranoid? You notice my father didn’t even say goodbye?”
“I noticed.”
With two fingers Yolanda skied a path down Tuffy’s breastbone, jumping moguls of fat, slaloming in and out of his carbuncles and assorted battle scars, leaving wavy tracks on his sweaty skin. Winston’s stomach quivered as her fingers schussed around the rim of his navel. “What did you mean when you said I don’t have a choice — that I have to support you if you run for office?”
“You my girl — if I do something, you follow. And vicey-versey.”
“It’s much easier following a nigger who got fifteen grand, I know that much.”
“Ain’t that a bitch. But no te preocupes, I’m just going to take the money and run.”