Part 2, Chapter 8, of RFV.

EIGHT

 

    Twenty(!) minutes later, Roger Casanova White was back on the street. A dreamy smile on his face.

    Yes, the session had lasted an astonishing twenty minutes. Made up of the following : five minutes for talking and undressing; five minutes for a shower; five minutes for actual shagging which included foreplay(!), penetration, ejaculation then recovery; followed by a further five minutes for talking and dressing again.

    Since he had been in deep space for months, the ejaculation had taken a weight off his mind…and his testicles. He definitely felt better. Lighter.

    “Marcus Quibble has ordered me to have an orgasm before the novel can continue!” he muttered to himself and sniggered.

    Feeling euphoric, happy, laid(!) back, mellow and floating, he totally forgot Hub Cap’s instructions to wait for him and wandered off down the side street.

    Soon he was into the seedier side of Harlem but in his post-coital high, he wasn’t bothered by any of it. On either side of him were run-down grubby tenements. Loud music blared from stolen radios. A few broken-down gutted cars littered the street. Elderly worshippers of the Bacchus Sect were collapsed in doorways, performing the ‘urinating in trousers whilst asleep’ rites. Dirty ragged washing hung from clothes lines or children. Fat middle-aged women, trailed by several failures of the rhythm method, waddled back from the nearby liquor store. Oh and a few people were out buying groceries.

    As Roger strolled along smiling, a small fat mother and her tall young son approached. The son was about six and a half feet tall and the mother was pulling him along by the hand.

    “You’s gonna be a basketball playa an likes it!” Roger heard the mother say.

    “But momma!” the son whined. “Ah wants to be a jockey!”

    ‘A jockey!?’ Roger thought, glancing at the tall young boy. ‘He can’t be a jockey. He’s much too young.’

    As Roger wandered on, he was blissfully unaware of the hostile menacing stares being aimed at him from windows and doorways. Ahead of him, sprawled on the steps outside one of the run-down tenements, were a group of youths. To anyone else �" a gang. To Roger �" a group.

    ‘They look friendly enough,’ the Delusional One thought. ‘I shall go and have a chat with them.’

    The black youths were all dressed in black and they shot Roger black looks as he approached. One of them stood up and came towards him. Apart from his black outfit he was wearing two baseball caps, the peaks protruding from either side of his head. He started doing a dance to music only he could hear. Then he started singing along with it.

    “Hey man, you lookin at me, lookin at me at you at me, man!? “ he sang. “Hey man, you lookin at me, lookin at me at you at me man!?”

    Roger was bemused. “Hello, my name is--”

    “Hey man, me lookin at you, lookin at you at me at you, man!” the Singer sang. “Hey man, me lookin at you, lookin at you at me at you man!” All this accompanied by fingers pointing, hand gesturing and bad rap-dancing actions.

    “How do you like living on Uhur--”

    “Hey man, we lookin at you, lookin at me at we at you, man!” the Singer went on. “Hey man, we lookin at you, lookin at me at we at you, man!”

    Roger frowned. He wondered if he could speak without moving his lips. He tried but the singer responded like one of those night security lights that comes on at the slightest movement.

    “Hey man, me talkin to you, talkin to me to you to OOWWHH!!” the Singer yelled and collapsed.

    “Shutin the f**k up, Harold!” growled a large mean-looking youth who was holding a baseball bat which had just connected with the back of Harold’s skull.

    Roger nodded pleasantly at him.

    The guy just stared back. Christ he was mean-looking. Six feet of muscle and twenty feet of bad attitude. Scars on his face. And they weren’t from self-harm. He looked Roger up and down. Then strolled round him. Roger sensed he didn’t like him but hoped he was wrong.

    “Whatin the f**k you doin hea, wite boy?” he growled.

    Roger swallowed. His post-cotal high vanished and Hysteria gleefully replaced it. He looked round desperately for Hub Cap.

    “Let’s waste the muthfucka, Duane!” yelled one of the youths from the steps.

    Duane nodded. “Reckon Ah will,” he agreed and slapped the baseball bat in and out of his hand.

    Roger decided that under the circumstances a spot of grovelling wouldn’t go amiss. He smiled, using his best ‘grovelling to a gang leader’ look.

    Duane stared at him impassively.

    It seemed that the facial ingratiation wasn’t going to suffice. Perhaps some humble, arse-licking vocal ingratiation. Roger cleared his throat and addressed Duane. “I suppose you must be the leader…” he began, “of this, er, gang...”

    More impassive staring from Duane.

    “because you’ve proved yourself…”

    The staring intensified.

    “in lots of fights and things…” Roger trailed off.

    Duane continued to stare at him with those black, shark-dead eyes.

    Inside Roger’s head Hysteria grinned and leaked ice-cold fear all over his brain. Roger glanced round again. All noise and activity in the street was dying down and a small curious crowd had gathered to watch.

    Roger looked back at Duane. He was still staring at him. No-one moved. There was only the terrible silence. The tension grew. More silence.

    In the crowd a child tugged at his mother’s hand. “Mama, how long this silence go on?” he asked.

    “Hush chile,” his mother replied soothingly, “ or the Bogey Man’ll cut yo balls off.”

    Roger however heard none of this light-hearted exchange as in front of him, Duane held out the baseball bat then dropped it. It bounced loudly on the road in the silence. Then he reached into his jacket and drew out a long wicked looking knife.

    As one, the small crowd drew in its breath and moved back. So did Roger but there was a wrecked car behind him and he couldn’t move. Slowly, deliberately, Duane moved closer to him.

    Hysteria grinned and flushed Roger’s entire nervous system with fear.

    Duane and the blade were now inches from Roger’s face. “Wot you sayin, honky? Bout me bein the leada?” he rasped.

    Roger swallowed. “I was only wondering if you were the leader because--”

    “Because wot, honky?”

    “Because you’d proved yourself in fights and things.”

    Duane stared at Roger with his hard expressionless eyes. Then he turned to the gang. “Wite trash wants t’ know why Ah’s the leada. Can you dig that?”

    The gang members fell about laughing at this example of their leader’s phenomenal wit. The small crowd disintegrated into laughter as well.

    “Aw that Duane, he shua breaks me up!” someone said.

    Soon the entire small crowd was shrieking with laughter. Even Duane was giggling and strolled over to slap palms with some of them. Relieved that the tension had dissipated, Roger smiled and looked round.

    In his head, Hysteria cursed and prepared to depart.

    In the crowd, the shrieking and giggling continued. Encouraged, Roger laughed too. A high-pitched unnatural laugh.

    There was an immediate silence.

    Roger’s falsetto laugh echoed round the street like the cry of a small dying animal then trailed off. Hysteria smiled and repossessed him.

    Duane slashed the air with his knife and strolled back over to him. “Wot you laughin at, wite boy? Somethin funny?” he growled.

    Roger shook his eyes.

    The blade descended to his groin and remained there. Duane pressed closer.

    “So you wants t’ know why Ah’s the leada?” he asked.

    Roger nodded his eyes.

    With practised ease, Hysteria supplied the answer inside his head in lurid gory detail. Visions of stabbed slashed corpses, all the work of Duane, floated by. Gazing into those flat hard eyes, Roger found the answer all too credible.

    “Ah’s gonna show you why Ah’s the leada,” Duane rasped.

    Roger screwed his eyes shut and waited for physical confirmation of his intra-cranial suspicions.

    Before anything could happen however, Roger heard something rather odd. The distinct unmistakable howling of a wolf. From close by. He opened an eye and peered round. Duane stared back at him. Roger immediately clamped his eye shut again.

    Then he heard it a second time. It was definitely a wolf. And it sounded even closer.

    This was serious. The fear of the wolf outweighed the fear of Duane and his knife. Roger still had his eyes shut. He cleared his throat. “I say!” he announced fairly loudly, “I don’t wish to alarm anyone but there’s a wolf close by! Perhaps we should take cover!”

    Laughter erupted in the small crowd. Puzzled, Roger opened his eyes and looked round. The crowd, the gang and even Duane were all laughing and pointing at him.

    Roger frowned and looked round about. Duane had stepped back a few paces and his knife had disappeared. Ah well, that was a relief. Now where was that damn wolf?

    Then he heard it a third time. The wolf. But Duane had his hands cupped to his mouth and had just done a rather convincing impression of a howling timber wolf. Really spot on it was.

    Roger’s mouth dropped open. “So it was…it was--”

    “Me!!” Duane said proudly and howled again.

    The small crowd applauded and Roger joined in.

    Duane bowed a few times then held his hand up for silence. He cupped his hands to his mouth again but this time out came another convincing impression. This time it was a monkey screeching. Close your eyes and you were in the jungle.

    Again the crowd applauded and Roger smiled nervously and joined in.

    “I say, that was rather good,” he told Duane. “Can you do any more?”

    Duane nodded and cupped his hands to his mouth. This time he managed a decent impression of a braying donkey followed by a loud donkey fart.

    Everyone hee-hawed and slapped palms.

    A relaxed Roger grinned and felt confident enough to permit himself a short laugh. Inside his head, Hysteria cursed and slouched off.

    “Those were excellent impressions,” Roger told Duane.

    “Ah knows, honky,” Duane said modestly. “That’s why Ahs the leada of the gang hea.”

    Roger frowned. “You mean you’re the leader because you can do really good animal impressions?”

    “That’s right, wite boy. Ah does the best impressions in Harlem.” He turned to the youths sprawled on the steps. “Ain’t that right?”

    “Shua is, Duane!” one of them called.

    “Meanest muthafuckin sounds!” called another.

    Duane grinned proudly and turned to Roger. “You see, Ah does the best impressions. That’s why Ah’s the leada of The Black Pintos.”

    Roger nodded.

    “Hey Duane,” said one of the youths sitting on the steps. “Did you say The Black Pintos? Why Ah’s in The Black Ponchos.”

    “The Black Ponchos?” repeated Duane and frowned. He scratched Roger’s head in puzzlement then realised his mistake and scratched his own. “You’s in the wrong place, dude,” he told the youth. “Ah was wond’rin why you sittin wit us. The Black Ponchos hangin out two blocks away.”

    “Sheet!” said the youth. “Ah’s sittin wit the wrong gang.” He got up and strolled off.

    “The Black Pintos,” said Roger. “Yes, a very good name. Very commanding.”

    “Shua is,” agreed Duane.

    “Uh, Duane,” said one of the gang. “Ah thoughts we was called The Black Panties?”

    Duane shook his head. “No. We’s The Black Pintos. Definitely we’s The Pintos.”

    “Hi there Black Pondos!” a female voice called from above them.

    “Pondos!?” the gang members mouthed to each other then looked up.

    A naked woman was leaning out the window. Her large brown breasts hung like lush tropical fruits waiting to be picked. She waved to the gang. The fruits wobbled.

    “Hi Black Pondos!” she called again.

    Duane frowned. “Maybe we is The Black Pondos,” he admitted.

    “Hell no!” said one of the gang. “We’s called The Black Pintos!”

    “Aw stop that, Suga Daddy!” Lush Fruits complained above them.

    The gang looked up. Lush Fruits was glancing back over her shoulder into the room. Someone seemed to be annoying her.

    “Now cuts that out, Suga Daddy,” she repeated. “Ah ain’ts in the mood.”

    “But honey!” they heard Suga Daddy wailing. “You know Ah allus gets the horn when yous hangin out the window talkin wit The Black Pincers!”

    “Pincers!?” the gang mouthed to each other.

    “Right! That’s it! Ah’s had enough!” growled Duane. “We’s goin back to ma place. Have us a meetin. Get this name s**t sorted out. Les go.”

    Grumbling among themselves, the gang got to their feet and started to stroll off. When they were a short distance away, Duane turned, cupped his hands to his mouth and howled like a wolf again. He waved to Roger.

    Roger grinned and waved back. “Thank God for animal noises!” he muttered. “Certainly saved my skin…my wolf skin!” Sniggering to himself, he turned and headed back up the street towards The Soft-Hearted W****s Club.