Free Our Man in the Dark by Rashad Harrison

so I just look out of the window at the green stucco of my building, still luminous in the night, like the aftermath of a lab experiment gone awry.
    â€œLook, young blood, this type of aggravation is bullshit. Cops and queer bosses.
I’ll
give you the money.”
    â€œCount, that’s very generous of you, but I can’t.”
    â€œGenerous, my dick. You
will
pay me back. With interest. Fifteen points,” he says.
    â€œFifteen points?”
    â€œI know that’s strong medicine, but it’ll go down easier than you think. We could learn a lot from each other. I’m looking for associates that are more . . .”
    â€œStimulating,” I offer.
    â€œRight. Stimulating. Don’t get me wrong—Candy’s no knucklehead, but she ain’t exactly gonna cure cancer. Claudel and Otis have to take turns breathing, so that the other can chew gum.”
    â€œClaudel and Otis?”
    â€œThe gentlemen that roughed your ass up.”
    So those are their names. I wonder which one is which.
    â€œIt’s not every day that I get to rub shoulders with an honest-to-God white-collar professional. Now, your collar ain’t so white, but it’ll do. I’ll even let you work some of that money off by doing me some favors.” He beams a wild grin at me that sends a chill down my back.
    I think Count is finished, so I make an ill-considered move to get out of the car.
    â€œI’m not done with you yet,” he says looking at his jeweled pinky, gleaming even in the darkness of the front seat. “There’s something I want to show you.”
    We drive for a while. Eventually, we come to a neighborhood that looks as if it were designed by one of those Xerography machines. All the houses appear to be the same single-story structure, a hodgepodge ofbrick and aluminum siding.
    â€œCount, what are we doing in Bozley Park?”
    â€œI know what you’re thinking—two spooks at night in Bozley Park, that definitely means trouble. But don’t get nervous. We won’t be long. I just brought you here to paint the picture. Look out the window. Look around you. What do you see?”
    Bozley Park consists of ten or fifteen houses. None of these people are wealthy by any means. Blue-collar workers live here: plumbers, welders, janitors who call themselves maintenance managers, and the like—not upper-crust professionals. I see two posts, black and white, sunken into the earth, and fortified with cement. A clear symbol of the barrier between the races. Just one block over—just past those posts—is Bozley
Place.
That’s where the Negroes live.
    â€œNow imagine black families living in these houses, with their black children playing in the yard.”
    â€œThat’s ridiculous,” I say. “It’s still too segregated.”
    He smiles at that, “Whoever heard of one of Dr. King’s men not having any faith? I know all about Bozley Park, and I think it’s time they came face to face with integration—and you’re gonna help me do it.”
    Favors
, he says. Do I deserve such generosity?

Within a few days, Count makes good on his offer. Thanks to him, I’ve returned the money and kept the Caddy. Now that I’m indebted to him, I can empathize with Candy’s situation. He’s not shy about giving you exactly what you ask for and being perceived as your savior. It gives the illusion that he is protective of you, that there is something in you worth saving. When his true nature appears, brutal and mercenary, you’ll be blinded by the memory of him coming to your rescue.
    However, for now, I’ll embrace the relief. I enter Gant’s office with an unusual jauntiness, as if I’ve pulled off a job well done.
    â€œMr. Gant, those funds are now available.” I give him a slight deferential bow of the head.
    â€œGood, Estem, good. Forgive me for saying so, but I was beginning to get worried.