"None a'tall. Jus' no taste is the problem," Bent said. "Shackin' up with two crackheads from DC."
"//Smiley was talkin' the Book."
Smiley was a sour-faced stoolie they sometimes used; they were holding over his head a five-and-dime for armed robbery. The Book was the Bible. Bent was wondering out loud if Smiley'd been telling them the truth when he said Dolly Simms was living with the two black dudes from Washington. Dolly was a hooker.
"You think she really comes in here to eat?" Bent asked.
"You heard Smiley. Every night before she heads out."
"I mean, / can hardly eat this shit, and I'm black."
Both men laughed.
"Fried chicken's pretty good, though," Wade said.
Bent looked over at his partner's plate.
"Changed the name, shoulda changed the food, too," he said sourly.
"Shouldn'ta changed the name, either," Wade said. "Cost two-point-nine mill to throw the man a party, he tells us to rise up and kill Whitey."
"He didn't say that," Bent said.
"His wife did. Up there in Diamondback. Said all us black Americans should join their brothers in the bush when it comes time to fight the white man in South Africa. Now what kinda shit is that, Charlie?"
"We got ties to Africa," Bent said.
"Oh, yeah, must be millions of blacks in this city got brothers all over the South African bush."
"Well, there are ties," Bent said again.
"You identify with some African got flies in his eyes, drinkin' goat's milk and blood?"
"Well, no, but still. . . we're talkin' roots here."
"What roots? My roots are in South Carolina where my Mama and Daddy were born," Wade said, "and my Gran'daddy and Gran'ma before 'em. And you know where their roots were? You know where their Mamma and Daddy came from? Ghana - what used to be called the Gold Coast. And that ain't nowhere near South Africa."
"Plenty of slaves came from South Africa, though," Bent said.
"No, plenty of slaves did not come from South Africa, nossir. The slave trade was with West Africa, go look it up, Charlie. Places like Dahomey and the Ivory Coast and Ghana and Nigeria, all of them around the Gulf of Guinea, that's where the slave trade was. Or sometimes the Congo or Gambia, don't you know nothin' about Africa?"
"I know where those places are," Bent said, offended.
"Mandela wakes up after twenty-seven years in jail," Wade said, gathering steam, "he comes here walkin' in his sleep an' talkin' like a man who don't know the whole world's already thrown off Communism. An' he tells us to join hands with our black brothers in South Africa, where none of our brothers come from in the first place, what kind of dumb niggers does he think he's talkin' to?"
"I think he done some good here," Bent said.
"I think he made things worse," Wade said flatly. "We got serious problems of our own here, and parades for foreigners ain't gonna solve 'em."
"So how come you eatin' fried chicken?" Bent asked. "You so fuckin' white, whyn't you have a slice of Wonder Bread with cholesterol-free margarine on it?"
"I'm black," Wade said, nodding, "you can bet your ass on that. But I ain't South African, and you can bet your ass on that, too. Here she comes now."
He was facing the entrance door. Bent turned to look over his shoulder. What they both saw was a teenaged white girl who looked anorexic, standing some five feet six or seven inches tall and weighing maybe a hundred pounds. She was wearing fringed, purple suede boots with a black mini and a lavender silk blouse scooped low over tiny breasts and a narrow chest. Her frizzed hair was the color of the boots. She had hooker stamped on her forehead and junkie stamped all over her face. Both cops got up and swung toward the door. They weren't going to let this one get away.
"Miss Simms?" Wade said.
Moving in on her right and stepping slightly behind her so she wouldn't go right out the door again.
Bent was on her left. "Police officers," he said, and flashed the tin.
Didn't faze her a bit. Blinked at the shield, and then looked up into Bent's face and then turned to look at Wade. They figured she was stoned out of her mind. Little past seven o'clock, a long hard night ahead of her, and she was already completely out of it.
"Few questions we'd like to ask you," Wade said.
"What about?" she asked.
Pale eyes somewhat out of focus. Faint smile on her mouth. They wondered what she was on. Bent's eyes went automatically to her naked arms. He could not see any tracks on the pale white flesh. And her skirt was short enough to have revealed any hit marks on her thighs.
"Let's have a seat," he said.
"Sure," she said.
Nothing to hide here, all very open and casual, they figured she wasn't holding. This was merely a stoned-out hooker and two cops, all of them walking the same street but on opposite sides.
