Free The Flowers by Dagoberto Gilb Page B

Bud,” said Mary. She said that a little muffled because she was eating the tortilla chips and had a mouthful again.
    â€œThat’s not gonna happen,” Cloyd said.
    â€œIt’s happening already,” Bud said. “Lotta moving noises coming from just a few blocks from here.”

    â€œBud, have you seen
one
yet living on our street? Have you seen
one
black living on any ten blocks around here?”
    â€œI dunno. It’s not like it’s impossible if I haven’t.”
    â€œYou have not,” said Cloyd. “It’s not likely to happen neither.”
    â€œWhat’s to stop ’em?”
    â€œI own this apartment building,” Cloyd said. “You think I can’t let who I want to live here? That I can’t figure out how to
not
let who I
don’t
want to live here? We take care of each other by taking care of our own interests.”
    â€œFood’s almost ready,” my mom said from the cooking area. “Sorry it’s been taking me so long. And I just know this rice could be better. I’m embarrassed.”
    Cloyd went for his favorite bottle. He got a glass and an ice cube and poured his whiskey in it and swirled a cube.
    â€œThe truth is,” he said, “I don’t want their problems.” It was like he was going to take a swallow but he didn’t. “Now you take the Mexicans. The Mexicans aren’t making no problems. They’re good, hard-working folks who take care of their family and pay their bills. It’s not that I don’t work with black people who ain’t like that too sometimes—”
    â€œI don’t think we should be talking about this,” my mom interrupted. “Can we please not? For me and Mary?”
    The two men looked at each other, discouraged like the women told them they had to turn off a football game.
    â€œOkay, so here’s another one for you,” said Bud. “What’s the deal with my new neighbor? What’s that freakball do? You know who I’m talking about.”
    â€œIn Six?”
    â€œOf course! He don’t look like he’s ever seen any daylight.”
    â€œHe is sort of strange, isn’t he?” Cloyd said. “Pinkston. You call him Pink.”
    â€œPink? You kidding?”

    Cloyd shook his head.
    â€œHow can his name be the color of his skin? I cannot believe a man who looks pink like that could be
named
Pink.”
    They were kind of laughing without laughing.
    â€œHe sells used cars,” Cloyd told him.
    â€œUsed cars?”
    â€œParks ’em right outside on the street here. It took me awhile to figure it out. I’m betting he sells them like they’re his private and personal property. I’m betting he tells them it’s his old mother’s or grandmother’s dear car, practically never driven, something like that. How he hates to sell it because it’s been in his family so long.”
    â€œIs that legal?”
    â€œProbably not exactly. He’s being a dealer without paying for a dealer’s license, appears.”
    â€œDamn well knew he must be some kind of hustler.”
    â€œHe pays me cash too,” said Cloyd.
    â€œFor his rent?”
    Cloyd nodded, but making sideways, thinking eyes. “Even when he moved in. All of it in cash.”
    â€œAin’t that something suspicious,” said Bud. “It don’t set off the alarms?”
    Either Cloyd had thought of it a lot or never, I couldn’t tell by his expression which.
    â€œBut then you gotta be impressed,” said Bud. “Yeah, I couldn’t get much of a read on that freak. He’s something, he is some work.”
    My mom was carrying the food to the table.
    â€œDon’t you love Mexican food?!” said Cloyd.
    â€œHere I thought you only married her for her looks,” said Bud.
    â€œI am a lucky man.” Cloyd smiled at her. He was drunk, that stupid grin.

    * * *
    Los Flores apartment