For love of Imabelle

7

By keeping Jackson doped half the time and scared the other half, Goldy held him prisoner in the room. Every day he told Jackson he was working on a lead and promised him definite news by evening. But it was three days later before he got his first real lead.

The three Black Widows were having breakfast when Big Kathy said, “There was a con man called Morgan in my place last night. He was big-mouthing to my girls about how he was going to make a fortune by the lost-gold-mine pitch. You think he’s one of them you’re looking for?”

Goldy became alert. “Could be. What kind of a stud was he?”

“The con-man type, half-sized and sharp but not flashy, a smooth money-talker but stingy, cat-eyed, about forty. And he looked dangerous.”

“He is dangerous.”

“He’s one then?”

“The front man. How’re they goin’ to work it?”

“He didn’t say. When Teena tried to dig him he clammed up and got his ashes hauled and beat it.”

“Did she find out where they’re making their pitch?”

“Naw, he acted as if he’d talked too much already.”

“He’ll be back,” Goldy said philosophically.

“Yeah, that girl plays ’em for the long haul.”

That evening after Jackson had finished the pot of pig’s ears, collard greens and okra Goldy had taken him, and Goldy had had his evening bang, Goldy said casually, “I heard today there’s a man just come to Harlem who’s found a real lost gold-mine somewheres.”

Suddenly Jackson began trembling and sweat popped from his head and face like showers of rain.

“A gold-mine?”

“That’s what I said. A real lost gold-mine. And the word is out that they got a trunk full of gold ore to prove it.” He peered at Jackson through narrowed eyes. “Does that mean anything to you, Bruzz?”

Jackson looked suddenly sick, as though he’d swallowed a live bullfrog and it was trying to hop back out of his throat. He wiped the sweat from his ashy face and looked at Goldy through sick eyes.

“Goldy, listen, that gold ore doesn’t really belong to Imabelle. That’s the only reason I haven’t said anything about it. It belongs to her husband. She’s got to give every ounce of it back whenever she gets her divorce or he’ll send her to the penitentiary. She told me.”

“So that’s it, Bruzz.” Goldy leaned back in his chair and regarded his brother with rapt contemplation. “So that’s it. That’s what she’s got in her trunk. You’ve been holding out on me, Bruzz.”

“I ain’t been holding out. I just didn’t want you to get no ideas because that gold ore don’t belong to her. I wouldn’t even touch an ounce of it myself, no matter how hard up I was.”

“How much is it, Bruzz? Can’t be all that much or you wouldn’t be losin’ all your money on The Blow trying to get it raised and then stealin’ money from your boss.”

“That ain’t got nothing to do with it. It’s just that it doesn’t belong to her. Do you think I’d steal some of it for myself and risk her getting sent to the penitentiary?”

“Naw, I know you wouldn’t do that, Bruzz. You is too honest. But just how much is it?”

“There’s two hundred pounds and eleven ounces.”

Goldy whistled and his eyes popped out like skinned bananas. “Two hundred pounds! Jumping Jesus! You’ve seen it, ain’t you? You’ve really seen it?”

“Of course I’ve seen it. Lots of times. We used to take some of it out and put it on the table and sit there with the door locked and look at it. She never tried to hide it from me.”

Goldy sat staring at his brother as though he couldn’t remove his gaze.

“What does it look like, Bruzz?”

“It looks like gold ore. What do you think it looks like?”

“Can you see the pure gold?”

“Sure you can see the pure gold. There’re layers of gold running through the rocks.”

“What kind of layers? Thin layers or thick layers?”

“Thick layers. What do you think? There’s as much gold as there is rock.”

“Then there’s about a hundred pounds of pure gold, you’d say?”

“About that.”

“A hundred pounds of pure gold.” Goldy blew on his gold cross and began polishing it dreamily.

“Bruzz, listen to me. If that gold ore is the real stuff, solid eighteen-carat gold, your gal is in real trouble. If it ain’t, then she’s working with ’em and done helped them to trim you. Ain’t no two ways about it.”

“I’ve been tellin you they’re holding her prisoner. Been telling you all the time,” Jackson said indignantly. “Do you think she’d be toting around a trunk full of gold ore if it wasn’t real eighteen-carat solid gold?”

“I ain’t thinking nothing. I’m asking you. Do you know for sure that gold ore is solid eighteen-carat?”

“I know for sure,” Jackson stated solemnly. “It’s real gold ore, as pure as it was dug out of the ground. That’s why I’m so worried.”

“That’s all I want to know.”

Goldy knew that his brother was a square, but he figured that even a five-cornered square ought to be able to tell pure gold that has come straight out of the ground.

“Do you know where I can get a pistol?” Jackson asked suddenly.

Goldy stiffened. “A pistol? What you goin’ to do with a pistol?”

“I’m going out of here and get my woman and her gold ore. I ain’t going to set here no longer and wait on you.”

“Man, listen to me. Those studs is wanted in Mississippi for killing a white man. Those studs is dangerous. All you’d do with a pistol is get yourself killed. What good are you goin’ to be to your woman when you is dead?”

“I’m not going to fight them fair,” Jackson said wildly.

“Man, you has gone raving crazy. You don’t even know where they is at.”

“I’ll find them if I have to search every hole in Harlem.”

“Man, Saint Peter himself don’t know where every hole is at in Harlem. I’ve seen grandpappy rats get so lost in these holes they find themselves shacked up with a sewer full of eels.”

“Then I’ll rob somebody and get some money and hire somebody to help me.”

“Take it easy, Bruzz. I’m goin’ to find them for you. Where is your religion at? Where is your faith? Your time’s comin’, man.”

Jackson wiped his stinging red eyes with his dirty handkerchief.

“It’d better hurry up and come soon,” he said.