Little Scarlet

36

If the Watts Community Men’s Shelter was on public school grounds it would have been called a gymnasium. It was a large empty space like an airplane hangar with pitted pine floors. The walls were thirty feet high and the only windows lined the ceiling. On one side there were rows of canvas cots and on the other, rows of tables with benches along them. There must have been five dozen men in the room. The smell of mayonnaise and body odor was overwhelming.

“Can I help you?” a young man asked.

He was black but his hair was straight, not straightened. His words were clear and well articulated but there was a whisper of Spanish somewhere.

“I’m lookin’ for Harold Brown,” I said.

The young man, who was slender and well groomed, hesitated. I knew then that I was going to have trouble finding my quarry.

“This isn’t a hotel, sir,” he said. “People come here for food and shelter. There’s no entertaining here.”

“It’s very important that I see Harold Brown,” I said. “Extremely important.”

“A lacerated foot or a chest infection,” he said. “Those are the things important around here. A good night’s sleep is what we strive for.”

I looked out over the crowd of brown and black men. Some of them were probably made homeless by the riots but the majority were permanent inhabitants of the streets of L.A., San Diego, San Francisco, and every other stop along the rails. Their clothes, no matter the original color, mostly tended toward gray and their shoulders stooped under the almost metaphorical weight of poverty.

“So you not gonna help me?” I asked the prissy gatekeeper.

“If you needed a place to stay I would,” he said.

But it was too late for that.

I took two steps past his desk.

“Sir,” he said, rising to his feet.

I ignored him, walking further toward the gang of lost souls.

“Bernard, Teddy,” the young man said.

To my left I saw two brawny black men straighten up. They wore makeshift uniforms of yellow T-shirts and black slacks.

They were large and young but still I contemplated going up against them. Maybe if they were closer I would have thrown myself into it. But they were ten paces away. By the time they’d taken six steps my common sense kicked in.

“All right,” I said to one. “I’m goin’.”

I walked out of the front door onto Imperial Highway. I was mad at myself. If somebody told Harold I was looking for him he’d run and I might never find him again.

There was a phone booth across the street. I decided to call Suggs and wait at the entrance hoping that there wasn’t a back exit that Harold would decide to use. For a moment I thought about calling Raymond, to get him to guard the back door. But I knew better than to get the cops and Mouse working on the same job. If he decided to kill Harold he might take a few policemen along with him.

“Hey, mister,” someone said. “Mister.”

He was a small man. Smaller than Jackson Blue and lighter skinned than Mouse. He was young and hunched over. He wore stained blue coveralls and yellow rubber flip-flops on bare feet that a man of sixty could have called his own.

“What?”

“You lookin’ for Harold Brown?”

“Uh-huh. You know him?”

“Yes sir. I sure do.”

“I need to talk to Harold. Could you get me to him?” I asked. I wanted Harold on my own. I wanted to mess him up before giving him to the cops. I wanted to kick him when he was down.

“I could tell him that I had some wine and that he should meet me in the alley over on that side of the mission,” the little man suggested.

He pointed and I took out a five-dollar bill. I folded the note and then tore it in half along the crease.

“Here’s half’a what it’s worth to me,” I said. “Bring Harold over there and I’ll give you the rest.”

The creepy little man took the scrap of money and scuttled away, his heels slapping against yellow rubber. As he slipped into the front door of the mission I moved toward the entrance of the alley on the left side of the building.

I lit up a cigarette and stared at the city from that particular point of view.

Los Angeles ghettos were different from any other poor black neighborhood I had ever seen. The avenues and boulevards were wide and well paved. Even the poorest streets had houses with lawns and running water to keep the grass green. There were palm trees on almost every block and the residential sidewalks were lined with private cars. Every house had electricity to see by and natural gas to cook with. There were televisions, radios, washing machines, and dryers in houses up and down the street.

Poverty took on a new class in L.A. Anyone looking in from the outside might think that this was a vibrant economic community. But the people there were still penned in, excluded, underrepresented in everything from Congress to the movie screens, from country clubs to colleges.

But there was something else different. The riots were beginning to wear off. Life was becoming what was to become normal after all of the stores had been burned down. People were going to work. The police and National Guard were less present.

The black revolutionary scattershot aimed at overthrowing the oppression of white America was over, or at least it seemed to be. People were talking and laughing on street corners. White businessmen, at least a few, were returning to their stores.

“Hey you!” someone called.

I turned and saw the scrawny man who had promised to bring Harold. He was far down in the alley next to a big green Dumpster.

I walked toward him, unafraid. I was sure that he’d have cooked up some lie about how he tried to find Harold but could not. He knew that the good Mr. Brown would be back later, though, and if I’d just give him the other half of that five-spot he’d be happy to arrange a meeting.

I had been in the street longer than I’d lived in any house. I knew how it worked. There was a natural order to the way things happened. I didn’t mind playing along.

But as I approached my informant he was casting glances to his left into a recess between buildings. My pace slowed slightly. The crafty little man might have seen me as a mark, someone who could be mugged. The smart thing to do would have been to turn around. But I was too angry for that. Bums didn’t roll citizens, I told myself. They begged maybe or cajoled but they didn’t mug everyday people.

When I was three steps from the little man someone walked out from the crevice. It was a big man. Not as big as Bill but large enough to put me into a lighter-weight class.

“You lookin’ for me, mothahfuckah?” the big black man asked.

What could I say?

He stepped forward reaching for me.

I stepped backward. Not quite fast enough.

His fingertips felt like steel rods scraping against my chest. I gave up running and leaned forward putting all of my weight into a blow to his jaw.

I’m a big man and strong too. The man I hit felt it. He even backed up half a step. He shook his head. I was hoping that was the beginning of a downward slump but then he grabbed me again. I went aloft, something I hadn’t experienced in many a year. The next thing I knew I was flying back down into the crevice that the angry man had come from. I might have flown all the way to the foothills if it weren’t for the brick wall in my path.

Most of the pain was in my lungs but there was plenty left over for my neck, head, and spine. I hit the ground and slumped to the side, which was a good thing because it caused the big man’s foot to miss my head by at least an inch.

I got to my feet. How I did it I will never know. I stood up straight just in time to get a backhand that lifted me higher still. I hit the wall again and instinctively ducked. The instinct was right. He missed my head but got in a body blow. I fell to my knees and put my hands out in front of me. When he tried to kick me, like I knew he would, I grabbed his ankle and stood straight up, pressing my hands high and pushing out so that King Kong would take a spill.

The little man who had brought me there was jumping up and down, yapping about something. I couldn’t make out what he was saying. The pain was so strong in my body that no other sensation could get a toehold.

The big man was on his back, then risen up on one elbow, then staggering to his feet. All this time I was panting in short hacking breaths against the wall, wanting to run but unable to call forth the strength.

“Kill him, Harold,” the little man shouted.

I was happy that I could make out his words. But that wasn’t my Harold. It was just a big ugly Harold who was made out of pig iron and cast in a bathtub.

Harold swung his fist and hit me in the shoulder. I sprang forth as if leaping from a diving board. My hands were at my sides and the top of my head aimed for the big man’s nose.

I felt the collision in my sinuses, fell to the side, and hit the ground. When I looked up I saw Harold looming above me. There was blood gushing from his nose and a mean look on his face. I scrambled to my knees and crawled. I knew I couldn’t escape him but I had to try. I had to find the right Harold and do to him what this Harold had done to me.

I made it about five feet and then turned to see the progress he’d made.

The big man looked at me and wavered. Finally he fell flat on his back, knocking up a plume of dust. The little man was still shouting. I couldn’t understand him again.

I got to my feet and staggered away. I made it to my car and slumped down on the hood. The metal was hot from the unrelenting sunlight. No one came to save me from frying out there. After a while I began to sweat profusely. Somehow that gave me the strength to get to my feet, unlock the door, and turn over the engine.

I drove away from there wondering if I was driving on the right side of the road and if the wrong Harold had done enough damage to take my life.