Free Strivers Row by Kevin Baker Page A

over, their own faces inscrutable, before turning wordlessly back to their drinks.
    â€œMmm, more boys just in off the ponies. You want Frank to get you a table?”
    Behind the bar stood a pair of stubby stoical-looking men, so much alike they might have been twins.
    â€œNo thanks, Charlie. We just gonna cop a squat at the bar,” Willard said.
    â€œSuit yourself.” Charlie shrugged his thick shoulders, as if he thought that was a bad idea but was not about to bother talking them out of it.
    â€œWhat’s your pleasure?”
    â€œBourbon!” Malcolm blurted out.
    â€œWhat brand?”
    â€œUh,” Malcolm said, hurriedly studying the bottles on the shelves behind his head. He had never actually had bourbon, but since they had been in the cab he had been thinking he would have it for his first drink in Harlem, the word had always sounded so elegant and sophisticated to him.
    â€œUmm. J. T. S. Brown. Yeah, that’s it.”
    â€œStraight up?”
    â€œWhat’s that now?”
    He felt Sandy punch him in the back. Charlie looked Malcolm up and down, from his sweet-potato shoes to his broad-brimmed hat, then turned to the rest of the kitchen crew.
    â€œWho your gate here? He of age?”
    â€œOld enough for whatever you got, old man!” Malcolm told him, but the rest of the kitchen crew quickly pulled him around to the one open stool they could find and sat him down there.
    â€œThat’s Charlie Small! His brother owns the place! What we tell you just now?”
    â€œHe all right, Charlie. He’s with us, he’ll be cool,” Lionel called out.
    â€œAll right then. Just make sure you school him,” Charlie said, shooting them another warning look as he turned away to get their orders—his brother now staring bleakly at them, too.
    â€œIt’s heavy on all fronts these days, with the MPs an’ the police dicks in every hour, on the hour. I can’t afford to have no underage boys drinkin’ here.”
    Malcolm noticed that many of the older heads around the bar had turned back his way, looking him over again, and he felt thrilled to have their attention even if the look on their faces was one of disdain.
    â€œYou got to forgive him for jumpin’ salty, it’s his first night in Harlem,” Lionel called down the bar again.
    â€œBut he a man, all right, don’t worry. Ain’t never seen no boy throw a couple ofay soldiers off a train!”
    â€œYeah?” said Charlie, sounding almost intrigued now, coming back with their drinks. “How ’boot that?”
    â€œThat’s right!” Malcolm couldn’t help speaking up again. “They was gettin’ playful with a preacher an’ his wife. I showed ’em off the train by their ears!”
    â€œNice, high-yaller preacher an’ his wife,” Willard chimed in. “The grays come lookin’ for trouble—five of ’em! He tells ’em it’s the last stop!”
    â€œWell, now, that’s a good story, Red,” Charlie Small said, his face breaking into what was almost a smile. “This bein’ your first night in Harlem, I think it’s worth one on the house.”
    To his utter joy and amazement, the older hustlers around the bar began to move in around Malcolm then, their dark, scarred faces showing real interest. The face of his father flashing through his head again. Reveling in the respect in their eyes—
    He told them about it over and over again, adding and altering details as the story, and the bourbon, moved him. Trying to make his voice sound as cold, and his eyes glaze over just like Robert Taylor did it in Johnny Eager , his favorite gangster movie. Feeling lighter each time, as if he were about to finally levitate over the bar, it was so close to the waking daydreams he had every shift, lugging his sandwich box around the train. The older men sending over more drinks, grumbling their