Dirty South

9

Cash stayed uptown in this purple mansion with yellow shutters just off the streetcar line where white people played tennis and parked their cars behind thick iron fences. You’d heard that his neighbors don’t like him none. Not ’cause he’s black and rich but ’cause he throws parties about every night, rips apart some old-as-hell house breakin’ the law, and threatens folks with sawed-off shotguns. He even made some white lawyer get on his knees and kiss his buck-naked ass after the man told Cash to cut his lawn. In a lot of ways, you got to respect that.

At 3, it’s dark as hell from that storm rollin’ in off the Gulf, and you see all his boys sittin’ in rockin’ chairs on this wide porch like gunfighters from old movies. Drinkin’ Cristal and forties and listenin’ to the music comin’ from open windows. Thin curtains ruffle like ghosts. The thunder breaks above your head, and fat little salty drops that you imagine come from around Mexico slap you in the eyes as you walk to the porch. You don’t pay them niggas no mind. Cash called you. This his invite and you welcome as hell. It’s payday and you got to smile.

This fat ole oak’s roots has cracked open the sidewalk like ripped skin and you almost trip while opening up the gate to Cash’s place. The floors inside are wood and bleached and buffed smooth. Cash has lined the walls in blue and red neon, his gold records behind a long glass case lit up with little lights. The rest of the house is dark and smells like the inside of this old shoebox where your grandmamma used to keep her needles. The floor tilts slightly to the left, and in the dark, the thunder coming again, you follow the slant to that back room where you find Cash.

He ain’t wearin’ no shirt and he’s sweating with the windows open and playing poker with three women and some young white dude. Cash smiles a silver mouth. The red tattoo on his big chest muscles seems to beat when he flex up. The white dude don’t look right, sweat rings under his shirt, his tie hangin’ loose.

Two of the women are black. One’s white. One of the black girls is naked as hell and her fat old titties lay over a pile of money that Cash has been tossin’ to her.

“How ’bout a hundred for them li’l ole panties,” he say when you walk in.

The girl shake her head and ask for a thousand.

“Girl, that trap ain’t worth fifty,” Cash say, and laugh, taking a sip of champagne in a jelly jar and grabbing some potato chips. The music is all around you and low. Some raps and sounds you ain’t never heard and you recognize the voice as Dio’s and you wonder about that.

Cash introduces you to the white dude. Some man from L.A. who’s workin’ on distribution, and the man about shits on himself when he hears your name. He palms you off a card and smiles a little too wide to be real.

You and Cash wander out back, past a couple women in bikinis playin’ with his pit bull, Jimmy, that he uses in all his videos. They rubbin’ the dog’s stomach and cuttin’ his toenails.

Y’all walk into a maze of bushes, some ole hedges cut higher than you and Cash are tall and you wander through the cuts and turns as he tell you about some Greek man and a freak that had the head of a bull.

“Yeah, boy,” he say. “I like that history shit. You know what the Civil War is?”

You nod. But you don’t.

“Nigga, don’t lie. You know some peckerwood white folks used to keep us like hogs, right, and there was a big war ’cause of it. Don’t be all ignorant. Learn to read.”

You look at him. He is open and easy and you see all the holes and cracks that run from his face to his heart. The sky opens and begins to rain but Cash is drunk and shoeless and you don’t give two shits. He unzips his pants, whips out his dick, and starts pissin’ on the shrubs.

“Reason I’m sayin’ that,” he says, while you look away so he don’t think you a sissy. You notice the yellow Christmas lights clicking and burning off some balcony on his purple house. “Reason why is ’cause the man who was the peckerwood president of the Confederacy or some shit died in my house. My house, nigga. Ain’t that a trip? Wonder what that boy would think with the Red Hat crew all up in it?”

You nod and mumble you understand as you twist again into the hedge. When you look back up, the house is gone. Cash stumbles on and pulls the black do-rag from his bald head to wipe his armpits. He hands you a champagne bottle and it’s warm as piss. You don’t drink and he don’t notice.

“You made up your mind?” Cash asks.

You fold your arms inside each other. “I want three records. Want $500,000 up front.”

“That ain’t the way it work, kid.”

“Don’t try and jack me, Cash,” you say. You put some force behind his name. “You get that back in six months. And I want the house too. Want you to buy it outright from Teddy.”

“Thought you said it was yours.”

“You know what’s up. Don’t try to pull my dick.”

You want to be free of Teddy and Malcolm and that white dude Travers. You didn’t make Teddy’s play. Ain’t no reason to try and save his ass.

“You one hit, kid. ‘Signal 7’ ain’t comin’ round again.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and don’t take your eyes away.

“It’s better than bein’ dead,” he says.

“I ain’t afraid of you,” you say. “I can handle myself.”

You feel like you can’t breathe, like you in the green stomach of some dragon. The walls gettin’ close.

“You don’t need to be,” he says. He smiles, his teeth chrome. “Not of me.”

And he let that threat hang there and you know what he’s talkin’ about and suddenly a bunch of birds rush from under a stone. All the talk is making you feel light in the head. Kind of like smokin’ that first blunt.

You turn and try to find the street. Then Cash pats you on the head. You push his hand away but he’s two feet ahead of you.

Cash smiles and disappears. The scars on his back scorched and hard and seem to you like iron strips.