Free The Straight Man - Roger L Simon by Roger L. Simon Page A

like that," he
said. "He's a businessman. He doesn't intrude on the province of
other businessmen."
    "Where is King?"
    "You never know."
    "What about Otis?"
    Wilkes stared at me. "You know, a boy like you
could get killed fucking around where you don't belong."
    "Couple of people already have been killed—Mike
Ptak and a Romanian named Nastase."
    "And what do you expect me to do about that? Let
me tell you something about the way the world works around here, my
white liberal friend. Otis King's mother was a hooker who died of an
overdose when he was four years old. His father's doing ten-to-twenty
at Riker's Island for knifing a man in the back. Otis himself was out
on the street by the time he was nine. Got his first robbery
conviction at eleven and spent the years twelve to fifteen in
juvenile hall. If he couldn't make people laugh, he'd be spending
most of his life in jail for sure. Because it would have been the
only way he could've survived. Only way he could eat, because the
motherfucker can't read, can't spell. He can barely count to twenty.
He's no different from the rest of those assholes out on the street
there spending their days shooting China white because it's the only
way they can make it till dark without killing themselves. That's the
way it is here, Mr. Wine. And that's the way it's always been. And if
you think people from my world are ripping off your world, you gotta
be crazy. It's the other way around! Now, get out!"
    I stumbled out of Wilkes's office wondering what I
had done to deserve this. I was tired of black people holding me
responsible for everything from food stamp cutbacks to the Zionist
conspiracy. And I was tired of excusing myself for things I had about
as much to do with as the last space walk. I was about to go back in
and give him a piece of it when Janelle came running out on the
sidewalk straight up to me.
    "Hey, wait! Wait a minute, Mr. Wine . . . Otis
needs help. He's gonna die out there on those streets if he stays any
longer . . . like one of those zoo animals they send back and they
can't live in the jungle anymore."
    "I know what you mean," I said.
    She looked at me a moment, trying to decide whether
she could trust me or not. "You know Della?"
    " You mean Otis's girl friend?"
    "Yeah. She said she was with him last night, but
she kicked him out because he was so loaded."
    "Any idea where he went?"
    "Maybe. She didn't say."
    " Where does Della live?"
    "Oh, hey, you don't wanna go there. That's not a
smart place to go."
    " I know it's not smart, but where is it?"
    She looked back at the building. Wilkes was standing
in his office window.
    "I gotta go."
    She started off, but I grabbed her by the arm.
    "Tremont Avenue Projects, number Seventeen B.
But don't go in by l79th Street."
    " I won't," I said, letting her go. She ran
back into the building before I could say thanks.
    It took me about twenty minutes to find a cab that
would take me up to the Tremont Avenue Projects. But when I got
there, I was surprised to find it wasn't half as bad as I expected. A
few junkies were wandering down 179th Street in the midday sun that
late October afternoon, but there was nothing particularly
threatening about the neighborhood with its variety stores, hardware
shops, and paint outlets. Some of the streets were cobblestoned and
there was even a quaint reminder of the old Bronx in the way the road
meandered up the hill toward Van Cortlandt Park.
    The project itself was in remarkably good shape for
public housing dedicated, according to the bronze plaque, in 1962 by
then Bronx Borough President Joseph Periconi. Only a handful of
windows were broken and most of the graffiti had been restricted to
the handball courts, the recognized canvas for the art form. Even the
lawns were relatively clean, with a few flower beds sprinkled here
and there.
    Just beyond the courts and over a chain link fence a
group of aspiring Dr. Js were visible, practicing their slams and
jams in bright orange and black uniforms