Almost instinctively I came to a halt; it was a startling voice, deep
and commanding, to come from that stooped old frame. He had an odd
sing-song accent, too, not at all American. I gasped, tried to answer
and couldn’t; he didn’t wait for one. ‘You run ’way from de man? De
poleece? Uh-huh, that’s what I hear, those ’larums.’ The wrinkled old
face creased up in a wide grin, over chipped teeth. ‘We fix dat. You
just hunkah down behin’ me heah, boy – in de doorway, okay? Oh-kay! You
all snug now?’ And without waiting for another answer he lifted his
trumpet and began to play again. I knew the tune –
My mind filled in the words, and I wished it wouldn’t. One of the old original blues, so old you could trace its roots back to ancient folksongs –
A siren wailed discords along the high walls, then cut them short in a screech of brakes; blue light pulsed through the door arch. ‘Hey, pops!’ yelled a voice, not the same one now. ‘You see a big guy come runnin’ this way? White boy, wavin’ a machete or sumpn’ – a real crazy –’
‘Son,’ chuckled the old trumpet player. ‘It’s maybe twenny yeahs gone since I saw anythin’ wuth a good goddam! Or I wouldn’t be standin’ roun’ on dis heah chilly stoop, believe me-ee!’
‘Oh,’ said the cop, sounding slightly abashed. ‘Right, yah. Uh, you hear anyone, then? A couple of minutes back?’
The old man shrugged. ‘Someone runnin’, five minutes back. ‘Long Decatur Street way, maybe. I wuz playin’ mah horn –’
‘Okay, pops!’ A coin jingled into the cup. ‘Better get out of the wet, hear? Somebody might take a shine to your cup, this hour o’ the morning!’ The siren came on again, and the light slid away from the doorway; I sagged with relief. The old man took up where he’d left off, till the siren had died away completely, then rounded out the tune with a cheeky little flourish and began to shake the spit out of his trumpet.
‘Nice ’nuff boys – but dey’re not makin’em any bright-ah!’ He turned and
grinned at me, and I had the odd feeling he could see me very well. But
he fumbled about just the same for the card at his feet, and I picked it
up and handed it to him. It carried an incredibly ancient-looking
religious print, showing a ‘Black Heaven’ like something out of
‘Look,’ I began, ‘you got me out of one hell of a hole – I haven’t done anything, but – damn, I just don’t know how to thank you –’ Then I realized I did. I fumbled in my pocket for Jyp’s coins; I could pay him back later. I pressed two into the old man’s palm, and he nodded and grinned again. ‘Now mind,’ I warned him. ‘Those are gold. You can’t spend it straight away, but you can sell it – it’s not stolen or anything. Take them to a proper coin-shop if you can, not just a bank or a jeweller or a pawnbroker. Should be worth more than the weight of the gold alone.’
The old man listened gravely. ‘Thank you, my good frien’. Dat’s Christian kindness. Like this Saint James dey name de hospital fo’, huh? Saint-Jacques, dey call him in de real ol’ days – or Santiago …’
I chuckled. ‘That’s right, the Spanish founded the place, didn’t they? You know your history.’
The old man laughed, pleased. ‘Me? I jes’ seen a lot, dat’s all. And doan’ forget. So many mem’ries, mah old cold back bends under de load!’
‘Well, you could warm it up a bit now – get yourself a new coat, for a start.’
‘I hadn’t meant it to sound patronizing, but it came out that way. The old man wagged his head amiably. ‘Son, I thank you for the good advice! But I’ve learned some better. I give you it freely – when yo’ very balls is freezin’, rum’s the only juice!’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ I promised solemnly. ‘Thanks again. But I’d better be off. The cops might come back, and I’ve got to get to the riverfront – to the docks – er, you couldn’t give me directions from here?’
He cackled, and heaved himself up before I could lift a hand to help. ‘The docks, uh?’ Again the glasses flashed at me with a peculiarly penetrating air. ‘Dat’s easily done, son. Easy.’ He nodded casually down the street. ‘A good Christian tune soon set you on yoah way!’
