Native Son Part 5

"Maybe."

"I'd just as soon go to jail as take that relief job."

"Don't say that."

"I don't give a d.a.m.n."

"Let's think about how we'll do it, not about how we'll get caught."

"Scared?"

"h.e.l.l, naw."

They listened to the pipe organ. It was humming so low that it could scarcely be heard. There were times when it seemed to stop altogether; then it would surge forth again, mellow, nostalgic, sweet.

"We better take our guns this time," Bigger said.

"O.K. But we gotta be careful. We don't wanna kill n.o.body."

"Yeah, but I'll feel safer with a gun this time."

"Gee, I wished it was three now. I wished it was over."

"Me too."

The organ stopped and the screen flashed with the rhythm of moving shadows. Bigger sat looking at the first picture; it was a newsreel. As the scenes unfolded his interest was caught and he leaned forward. He saw images of smiling, dark-haired white girls lolling on the gleaming sands of a beach. The background was a stretch of sparkling water. Palm trees stood near and far. The voice of the commentator ran with the movement of the film: Here are the daughters of the rich taking sunbaths in the sands of Florida! This little collection of debutantes represents over four billion dollars of America's wealth and over fifty of America's leading families.... Here are the daughters of the rich taking sunbaths in the sands of Florida! This little collection of debutantes represents over four billion dollars of America's wealth and over fifty of America's leading families....

"Some babies," Jack said.

"Yeah, man!"

"I'd like to be there."

"You can," Bigger said. "But you'd be hanging from a tree like a bunch of bananas...."

They laughed softly and easily, listening to the commentator's voice. The scene shifted to and fro over the glittering sands. Then Bigger saw in close-up the picture of a slight, smiling white girl whose waist was encircled by the arms of a man. He heard the commentator's voice: Mary Dalton, daughter of Chicago's Henry Dalton, 4605 Drexel Boulevard, shocks society by spurning the boys of La Salle Street and the Gold Coast and accepting the attentions of a well-known radical while on her recent winter vacation in Florida.... Mary Dalton, daughter of Chicago's Henry Dalton, 4605 Drexel Boulevard, shocks society by spurning the boys of La Salle Street and the Gold Coast and accepting the attentions of a well-known radical while on her recent winter vacation in Florida.... The close-up showed the smiling girl kissing the man, who lifted her up and swung her round from the camera. The close-up showed the smiling girl kissing the man, who lifted her up and swung her round from the camera.

"Say, Jack?"

"Hunh?"

"That gal.... That gal there in that guy's arms.... That's the daughter of the guy I'm going to work for. They live at 4605 Drexel.... That's where I'm going tonight to see about that job...."

"For real?"

"Sure!"

The close-up faded and the next scene showed only the girl's legs running over the sparkling sands; they were followed by the legs of the man running in pursuit. The words droned on: Ha! He's after her! There! He's got her! Oh, boy, don't you wish you were down here in Florida Ha! He's after her! There! He's got her! Oh, boy, don't you wish you were down here in Florida? The close-up faded and another came, showing two pairs of legs standing close together. Oh, boy! said the voice. Slowly, the girl's legs strained upward until only the tips of her toes touched the sand. Ah, the naughty rich! Ah, the naughty rich! There was a slow fade-out, while the commentator's voice ran on: There was a slow fade-out, while the commentator's voice ran on: Shortly after a scene like this, shocked Mama and Papa Dalton summoned Mary home by wire from her winter vacation and denounced her Communist friend Shortly after a scene like this, shocked Mama and Papa Dalton summoned Mary home by wire from her winter vacation and denounced her Communist friend.

"Say, Jack?"

"Yeah."

"What's a Communist?"

"d.a.m.n if I know. It's a race of people who live in Russia, ain't it?"

"That guy who was kissing old man Dalton's daughter was a Communist and her folks didn't like it."

"Rich people don't like Communists."

"She was a hot-looking number, all right."

"Sure," said Jack. "When you start working there you gotta learn to stand in with her. Then you can get everything you want, see? These rich folks do their dirt on the sly. I bet the reason the old man was so mad about that Communist was 'cause his gal was too open about it...."

"Yeah; maybe so," said Bigger.

"Shucks, my ma use to work for rich white folks and you ought to hear the tales she used to tell...."

"What kind of tales?" Bigger asked eagerly.

"Ah, them rich white women'll go to bed with anybody, from a poodle on up. They even have their chauffeurs. Say," Jack said, punching Bigger in the ribs, "if you run across anything too much for you to handle at that place, let me know."

They laughed. Bigger turned his eyes to the screen, but he did not look. He was filled with a sense of excitement about his new job. Was what he had heard about rich white people really true? Was he going to work for people like you saw in the movies? If he were, then he'd see a lot of things from the inside; he'd get the dope, the low-down. He looked at Trader Horn Trader Horn unfold and saw pictures of naked black men and women whirling in wild dances and heard drums beating and then gradually the African scene changed and was replaced by images in his own mind of white men and women dressed in black and white clothes, laughing, talking, drinking and dancing. Those were smart people; they knew how to get hold of money, millions of it. Maybe if he were working for them something would happen and he would get some of it. He would see just how they did it. Sure, it was all a game and white people knew how to play it. And rich white people were not so hard on Negroes; it was the poor whites who hated Negroes. They hated Negroes because they didn't have their share of the money. His mother had always told him that rich white people liked Negroes better than they did poor whites. He felt that if he were a poor white and did not get his share of the money, then he would deserve to be kicked. Poor white people were stupid. It was the rich white people who were smart and knew how to treat people. He remembered hearing somebody tell a story of a Negro chauffeur who had married a rich white girl and the girl's family had shipped the couple out of the country and had supplied them with money. unfold and saw pictures of naked black men and women whirling in wild dances and heard drums beating and then gradually the African scene changed and was replaced by images in his own mind of white men and women dressed in black and white clothes, laughing, talking, drinking and dancing. Those were smart people; they knew how to get hold of money, millions of it. Maybe if he were working for them something would happen and he would get some of it. He would see just how they did it. Sure, it was all a game and white people knew how to play it. And rich white people were not so hard on Negroes; it was the poor whites who hated Negroes. They hated Negroes because they didn't have their share of the money. His mother had always told him that rich white people liked Negroes better than they did poor whites. He felt that if he were a poor white and did not get his share of the money, then he would deserve to be kicked. Poor white people were stupid. It was the rich white people who were smart and knew how to treat people. He remembered hearing somebody tell a story of a Negro chauffeur who had married a rich white girl and the girl's family had shipped the couple out of the country and had supplied them with money.

Yes, his going to work for the Daltons was something big. Mr. Dalton was a millionaire. Maybe Mary Dalton was a hot kind of girl; maybe she spent lots of money; maybe she'd like to come to the South Side and see the sights sometimes. Or maybe she had a secret sweetheart and only he would know about it because he would have to drive her around; maybe she would give him money not to tell.

He was a fool for wanting to rob Blum's just when he was about to get a good job. Why hadn't he thought of that before? Why take a fool's chance when other things, big things, could happen? If something slipped up this afternoon he would be out of a job and in jail, maybe. And he wasn't so hot about robbing Blum's, anyway. He frowned in the darkened movie, hearing the roll of tom-toms and the screams of black men and women dancing free and wild, men and women who were adjusted to their soil and at home in their world, secure from fear and hysteria.

"Come on, Bigger," Jack said. "We gotta go."

"Hunh?"

"It's twenty to three."

He rose and walked down the dark aisle over the soft, invisible carpet. He had seen practically nothing of the picture, but he did not care. As he walked into the lobby his insides tightened again with the thought of Gus and Blum's.

"Swell, wasn't it?"

"Yeah; it was a killer," Bigger said.

He walked alongside Jack briskly until they came to Thirty ninth Street.

"We better get our guns," Bigger said.

"Yeah."

"We got about fifteen minutes."

"O.K."

"So long."

He walked home with a mounting feeling of fear. When he reached his doorway, he hesitated about going up. He didn't want to rob Blum's; he was scared. But he had to go through with it now. Noiselessly, he went up the steps and inserted his key in the lock; the door swung in silently and he heard his mother singing behind the curtain.

Lord, I want to be a Christian,In my heart, in my heart,Lord, I want to be a Christian,In my heart, in my heart....

He tiptoed into the room and lifted the top mattress of his bed and pulled forth the gun and slipped it inside of his shirt. Just as he was about to open the door his mother paused in her singing.

"That you, Bigger?"

He stepped quickly into the outer hallway and slammed the door and bounded headlong down the stairs. He went to the vestibule and swung through the door into the street, feeling that ball of hot tightness growing larger and heavier in his stomach and chest. He opened his mouth to breathe. He headed for Doc's and came to the door and looked inside. Jack and G.H. were shooting pool at a rear table. Gus was not there. He felt a slight lessening of nervous tension and swallowed. He looked up and down the street; very few people were out and the cop was not in sight. A clock in a window across the street told him that it was twelve minutes to three. Well, this was it; he had to go in. He lifted his left hand and wiped sweat from his forehead in a long slow gesture. He hesitated a moment longer at the door, then went in, walking with firm steps to the rear table. He did not speak to Jack or G.H., nor they to him. He lit a cigarette with shaking fingers and watched the spinning billiard b.a.l.l.s roll and gleam and clack over the green stretch of cloth, dropping into holes after bounding to and fro from the rubber cushions. He felt impelled to say something to ease the swelling in his chest. Hurriedly, he flicked his cigarette into a spittoon and, with twin eddies of blue smoke jutting from his black nostrils, shouted hoa.r.s.ely, "Jack, I betcha two bits you can't make it!"

Jack did not answer; the ball shot straight across the table and vanished into a side pocket.

"You would've lost," Jack said.

"Too late now," Bigger said. "You wouldn't bet, so you you lost." lost."

He spoke without looking. His entire body hungered for keen sensation, something exciting and violent to relieve the tautness. It was now ten minutes to three and Gus had not come. If Gus stayed away much longer, it would be too late. And Gus knew that. If they were going to do anything, it certainly ought to be done before folks started coming into the streets to buy their food for supper, and while the cop was down at the other end of the block.

"That b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" Bigger said. "I knew it!"

"Oh, he'll be along," Jack said.

"Sometimes I'd like to cut his yellow heart out," Bigger said, fingering the knife in his pocket.

"Maybe he's hanging around some meat," G.H. said.

"He's just scared," Bigger said. "Scared to rob a white man."

The billiard b.a.l.l.s clacked. Jack chalked his cue stick and the metallic noise made Bigger grit his teeth until they ached. He didn't like that noise; it made him feel like cutting something with his knife.

"If he makes us miss this job, I'll fix 'im, so help me," Bigger said. "He oughtn't be late. Every time somebody's late, things go wrong. Look at the big guys. You don't ever hear of them being; late, do you? Naw! They work like clocks!"

"Ain't none of us got more guts'n Gus," G.H. said. "He's been with us every time."

"Aw, shut your trap," Bigger said.

"There you go again, Bigger," G.H. said. "Gus was just talking about how you act this morning. You get too nervous when something's coming off...."

"Don't tell me I'm nervous," Bigger said.

"If we don't do it today, we can do it tomorrow," Jack said.

"Tomorrow's Sunday, fool!"

"Bigger, for Chrissakes! Don't holler!" Jack said tensely.

Bigger looked at Jack hard and long, then turned away with a grimace.

"Don't tell the world what we're trying to do," Jack whispered in a mollifying tone.

Bigger walked to the front of the store and stood looking out of the plate gla.s.s window. Then, suddenly, he felt sick. He saw Gus coming along the street. And his muscles stiffened. He was going to do something to Gus; just what, he did not know. As Gus neared he heard him whistling: "The Merry-Go-Round Broke Down...." The door swung in.

"Hi, Bigger," Gus said.

Bigger did not answer. Gus pa.s.sed him and started toward the rear tables. Bigger whirled and kicked him hard. Gus flopped on his face with a single movement of his body. With a look that showed that he was looking at Gus on the floor and at Jack and G.H. at the rear table and at Doc-looking at them all at once in a kind of smiling, roving, turning-slowly glance-Bigger laughed, softly at first, then harder, louder, hysterically; feeling something like hot water bubbling inside of him and trying to come out. Gus got up and stood, quiet, his mouth open and his eyes dead-black with hate.

"Take it easy, boys," Doc said, looking up from behind his counter, and then bending over again.

"What you kick me for?" Gus asked.

"'Cause I wanted to," Bigger said.

Gus looked at Bigger with lowered eyes. G.H. and Jack leaned on their cue sticks and watched silently.

"I'm going to fix you one of these days," Gus threatened.

"Say that again," Bigger said.

Doc laughed, straightening and looking at Bigger.

"Lay off the boy, Bigger."

Gus turned and walked toward the rear tables. Bigger, with an amazing bound, grabbed him in the back of his collar.

"I asked you to say that again!"

"Quit, Bigger!" Gus spluttered, choking, sinking to his knees.

"Don't tell me to quit!"

The muscles of his body gave a tightening lunge and he saw his fist come down on the side of Gus's head; he had struck him really before he was conscious of doing so.

"Don't hurt 'im," Jack said.

"I'll kill 'im," Bigger said through shut teeth, tightening his hold on Gus's collar, choking him harder.

"T-turn m-m-m-me l-l-loose," Gus gurgled, struggling.

"Make me!" Bigger said, drawing his fingers tighter.

Gus was very still, resting on his knees. Then, like a taut bow finding release, he sprang to his feet, shaking loose from Bigger and turning to get away. Bigger staggered back against the wall, breath less for a moment. Bigger's hand moved so swiftly that n.o.body saw it; a gleaming blade flashed. He made a long step, as graceful as an animal leaping, threw out his left foot and tripped Gus to the floor. Gus turned over to rise, but Bigger was on top of him, with the knife open and ready.

"Get up! Get up and I'll slice your tonsils!"

Gus lay still.