Thing Bailiwick Page 6

  “Shhh, here she come,” Tyrone whispered. “Get ready for a homerun, homeboy.” Though he’d got his shifting under control, Tyrone’s nerves had gone to his jaw. It was shimmying side to side. He was at the plate and ready to play him some ball.

  James put on his best smile. They’d been running these bases for a while. Game plan wasn’t discussed no more. They both knew the drill. She’d crack the door, ask what the tarnation they wanted this time of night, and right about then they’d each put a shoulder to the door. The chain would snap, or maybe the screws would give away in an old-ass piece of wood trim. Didn’t matter. The results would be the same. There’d be a gasp and she’d go stumbling backwards and her eyes would bug out of her prune face. And when they shoved the gun between her bugged out eyeballs, she’d piss all over herself. She’d shake and shiver and cry and beg, and then she’d come to her senses and tell them where the shit was. And they always told, always, cause Tyrone could play him some hardball. You didn’t wanna go pitchin’ around him. You didn’t wanna think about throwing no curveballs, neither, cause Tyrone didn’t like no strikeouts. He always swung for the fence, and if this crazy old bitch had any sense at all, she would pitch that ball straight and fast and right over the fucking plate.

  James pulled his hand from his pocket to scratch his chin as another light in the house flicked on. You couldn’t rush this part. Sometimes the fogies took ten fucking minutes to get to the front door. Who the hell knew what the fuck took ‘em so long. Maybe they decided since they done gone to the trouble of gettin’ up off their tired old asses anyways, they might as well just have theyselves a little snack or somethin’ before they answered the fucking door.

  Beside him, Tyrone mumbled something about a fucking snail.

  James scanned the porch. It was covered up with fake flowers, some in pots, some on fake vines running up the posts, some in hanging planters. There was even some in glass vases filled with icy water. She watered them fake plants each and every damn day, sure as shootin’.

  James frowned. Sure as shootin’? Shit!

  There was movement on the other side of the door.

  Tyrone grinned. “Batter up, bitch.”

  James nodded. This was one of the best parts. Standing with your bat held high and your muscles tense and your eyes focused and your ass stuck out and wiggling. The chalk was down and the bases dusted, and all eyes was on him and Tyrone cause they was the fucking stars of this fuckin’ game. Ole Mama Johnson was about to find out who was really in charge. She was about to find she wasn’t never safe at home. They was gonna call her out, and no amount of begging or pleading could change nothin’. And when the game was done and the lights went out, she would live the rest of her sorry life in fear. If she lived, that was. There was always the chance, if she didn’t play by the fucking rules, they might just have to eject her ass out the game permanently.

  There came the sound of a sliding chain as ole Mama Johnson unlocked the door.

  James glanced over at Tyrone who was glancing over at him. He knew just what Tyrone was thinkin’. After fifteen years, he knew what was goin’ on in homeboy’s head. Stupid bitch. That’s just what he was thinkin’. Stupid bitch was pitchin’ wide.

  She opened the door wide to reveal an equally wide grin.

  Damn, but Mama Johnson had her a swag pair of dentures! They was razzle dazzle white, especially beaming out a face that black. Soot. That was his first thought. Been cleanin’ the chimney. But he knew that wasn’t right. She just had her the blackest damn face he ever laid eyes on. Not one ounce of white blood in ole Mama Johnson, was his thought…until he looked at her eyes. They was blue. And not dark blue, neither. Not even sky blue. They was ice blue. No brick-thick cataracts and not one iota of fear.

  James blinked away his confusion. Iota. A smidgen, a speck, a—

  “My, my, my, it’s bout dang time,” she said as her gnarled hands smoothed out the wrinkles of her housedress. “I thought you two was gonna sit there in them bushes all night. Well, don’t just stand there lookin’ all handsome,” she said, shuffling back a few steps while patting and tucking at snow-white frizzy hair. “Come on in, come on. Cold’s gettin’ in. Lessen you boys plan on payin’ my lectric this month.” She cackled and bent over to slap at a knee like it was the funniest damn thing she done ever heard.

  James gave Tyrone a nudge, and they brushed past her and then stood gaping as she closed the door behind them, carefully re-locking it and sliding the chain back into place.

  “Lordy, it’s cold as a witch’s tit out there,” she huffed as she shuffled past. “You must’ve been freezin’ your balls off.”

  James looked at Tyrone. His forehead was scrunched and he looked confused.

  “I’ll just fix us up some hot cocoa,” she said. “It won’t take but one minute. And I’s got cookies,” she sang, flashing her razzle dazzle smile over her shoulder as she headed for the kitchen. “Made ‘em myself. Still warm, mmm mm. Oatmeal, too. Melt in your mouth. You can’t buy no cookies like these no more. Not these days. No sir. Onced was a time you could. Remember Joe’s Bakery? Used to be over on the corner of…oh shoot,” she said, pausing to tap her chin, “Second Ave. and—”

  Rushing forward, Tyrone grabbed hold of her arm, spinning her around as he pulled the Forty-five from his waistband. It was way too big for a job like this, James thought. Too bulky, too…ostentatious.

  He scratched at his temple. Ostentatious. Flamboyant, pretentious, flash—

  “Listen up, you crazy black bitch!” Tyrone snarled, shoving the barrel at her nose. “We ain’t here for no fucking cookies! Where’s that fucking watch?”

  It was funny watching Tyrone puff up and gyrate, like he was in the ump’s face after a bad call. Only ole Mama Johnson wasn’t backing down. She was sticking by her call. Seemed like ole Mama Johnson was playing by her own rules and callin’ ‘em like she wanted.

  Throwing a hand to her heart, she gasped. “Young man, you gots you some beautiful eyes,” she said, leaning close and grinning wide. “Honey-colored. I had me a good friend onced with honey-colored eyes. Honey eyes and caramel skin and sweet as sweet can be. Mattie Brown. Yes, sir. She had more boys stuck on her than a ballbag has short and curlies. But she done passed. Lordy, seems like a hundred years ago.”

  Turning from Tyrone, she lifted a teapot from the stove and shuffled to the sink to fill it. “I can’t figure where the time done gone. No sir. Seems like just yesterday, me and Mattie was traipsin’ about town with a line of boys trailing behind. I had a few fellas stuck on me too,” she said with an embarrassed titter. “I know you two might find it hard to believe, but I was a looker. I—”

  Leaping at her, Tyrone snatched the teapot from her hands and flung it across the room where it shattered against the wall.

  Mama Johnson gasped and turned to watch the water streaming to the floor. “Well,” she huffed, propping her hands on her hips, “but you young’uns these days is a might impatient. Goodness gracious sakes alive. No need to go gettin’ your nappy nads all in a knot.”

  Moving to the counter, she picked up a plate, and her craggy face smoothed into a grin as she peeled back a sheet of tin foil to reveal a heap of oatmeal cookies. “If’n yous don’t want no hot cocoa, at least humor an old lady enough to sample some homemade cookies. I promise yous won’t be sorry. My secret is halfs a cup a brown sugar,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “You gots to pack it down real good, now. Gots to be plenty a sugar. And fresh butter. Gots to be butter, though, no margarine or none a that other garbage they gots nowadays. No sir. Only fresh butter. That—”

  Tyrone was growling as he flipped the plate from her hands, sending oatmeal cookies flying. They bounced off the ceiling and went scattering across the floor along with shattered pieces of what looked to be a perfectly decent piece of fine china.

  “BITCH!” he spat. “I’m a rip your fuckin’ heart out through that big fat yaphole, you don’t shut it the fuck up!”

  James had t
o fight the urge to bitch-slap Tyrone. Sure, he was a good game player. Homeboy had coaching skills. He had a way of keeping the players in line, of letting them know who was in charge. But he was a little too rambunctious.

  James shook his head. Tyrone went off too easy, was what he meant. This batty bitch couldn’t help it if she was few bases short of a homerun. But he had a feeling Tyrone was gonna remedy that tonight though. And by remedy, he meant correct or counteract. Yep Tyrone was gonna try to pound some sense into that thick skull when this game was done. He’d put money on it. Or he might just put a bullet through one ice-blue eyeball. Put her out of her misery. That was the decent kind of a guy Tyrone was. Unless, of course, she kept trying to steal bases while they was both lookin’, like they was some kind of damned rookies. Then Tyrone might not be so nice. Then he might put the bullet somewhere a little more unpleasant. Someplace where she might not die right off.

  “My goodness! Lordy, but you young whippersnappers is all alike,” she huffed, frowning as she surveyed the mess about her feet. “Hurry, hurry, hurry. Now, now, now. I just don’t understand what the big rush is, anyways. You needs to slow down and relax. Loosen up. Get rid of them damn cups and let them babies dangle.”

  Shuffling to the broom closet, she pulled out a broom with a long green wooden handle and straw bristles all splayed and bent and twisted, and for one crazy moment James was certain she was gonna put it between her legs and go flying around the room cackling like a damn witch.

  Instead, she began to sweep up the mess. “Y’know what I does to relax?” she offered as she began the tedious task of extricating cookies from the glass shards with the broom bristles, as if she still had designs on salvaging a few for a late night snack. “I knit. Matter of factly, I’m knittin’ me a nice sweater rights now. Yella this time. Not a real bright yella, neither. It’s a nice creamy kinda yella. It’ll look right fine with my cream slippers. You know, it sure is nice to have visitors,” she said, grinning as she continued to sweep. “Even if your twins is in a tight twist. Been too long since company done come to call. Last time was…let me think,” she said, stopping to tap one crooked finger against her temple. “Oh my, goin’ on five months now. Has it been that long?” she asked, her face scrunching and her lips pursing. “My goodness, don’t seem that long. Seems like it was—”

  Tyrone had reached his threshold. Snatching the broom from her hand, he snapped it over his knee and then promptly whacked her across the side of the head with the handle, sending her staggering sideways till she caught herself on the counter.

  “Goodness,” she said, putting a hand to her forehead and bringing it down to study the red splotches on her fingers.

  Tyrone lifted the broom to strike her again, and James quickly snatched it away. “Whatchou tryin’ t’do!” he barked, clutching the front of Tyrone’s jacket and pulling him close. “Bust her head fore we find out where the shit is?” He shoved him backward, then looked over to find Mama Johnson sucking on her bloodied fingers with her eyes shut tight, like they was the best damned barbeque ribs she done ever had. “What the…”

  Snapping her eyes open and her head up, she brushed pink drool from her chin with the back of her hand.

  “What?” Tyrone asked, looking nervously from Mama Johnson to James. “What!”

  “Nothin’,” James muttered. “Bitch is crazy.” Pulling the Thirty-eight from his jacket, he leveled it directly between her ice-blue eyeballs. “Where’s the goodies, Gran Dracula?” he asked calmly.

  “Okay, okay, hold your dangly bits, goodness gracious sake’s alive. Just…follow me.”

  Brushing the gun aside, she shuffled to the living room, past the big-ass T.V. with nothing but snow showing, past the rocker where the yarn and big-ass needles was sittin’. When she turned down the hallway, Tyrone was close on her heels.

  “Company onced every five months and I go getting some bratty, snot-nosed, punk-ass thugs,” she muttered under her breath. “Won’t even sample my cookies. Used the last a my dang butter to make em, too. Slaved all day in a hot kitchen. Done broke my dang teapot! Had that thing forever. Makes me wanna bust me some balls!”

  “Move it, bitch!” Tyrone snapped, giving her a shove that sent her stumbling down the hallway and bumping into the wall. It was a narrow hallway and there was pictures on the walls. Shit! Thousands of them, and not one with a frame. They all had thick white borders—Polaroids—and the faces was all races, all ages. Thousands and thousands of faces plastered along both sides from ceiling to floor, each stuck to the wall with a bright-colored thumb-tack. James had a feeling that if he peeled a few back, he’d discover that this particular collage was multi-layered. Probably fifty layers. A hundred. And a collage was a medley, a mixture, collection.

  Tyrone gave a whistle through his teeth. “Holy shit, dawg, you see this crazy shit?” he asked, leaning in close to examine a few of the pictures. He gave a few snorting chortles as he tapped the barrel of his gun at one of them and then another. “Crazy motherfuckin’ shit. She done cut the eyes outta every one. You see that shit?”

  James hadn’t seen that shit. But he saw it then. Every single eye had been snipped out, and painstakingly so, so as not to damage the photo around it. And by painstaking, he meant with scrupulous or meticulous care.

  Tyrone threw his head back and howled. “You’s one crazy bitch, aincha, granny? You’s one motherfuckin’ crazy-assed bitch!” Placing the gun’s nose between her shoulder blades, he shoved her forward once again.

  “You don’t need to go gettin’ all pushy, young man,” she threw over her shoulder. Straightening herself indignantly, she jutted her chin. “I thinks both you numbnuts could use a little lesson in respects, if’n you ask me.”

  She hung a right into a bedroom, flipping on the lights, and James froze as more eyeless pictures presented themselves. They were tacked to the walls, every inch of space monopolized—because monopolize meant to assume complete possession or control of—and these pictures had unequivocally done that—because unequivocally meant clearly or unquestionably or leaving no doubt. They were tacked to the furniture. The dresser was enveloped—because enveloped meant to enclose or enfold completely with or as if with a covering. The nightstands were encased as well, the pictures even trailing down the legs. Pictures had even been taped layers deep on the large mirror over the dresser.

  “Fuck,” James whispered as he eyed a ceiling that was obliterated as well—because obliterated meant to make undecipherable or imperceptible by obscuring or wearing away. He pictured Mama Johnson lying in bed every night with her knees up and her hand busy between her legs as she stared up at the eyeless sockets. It was…disquieting.

  It didn’t seem to faze Tyrone though. Making a beeline to the mattress, he flung it to the floor and pounced on it in a frantic search for hidden pockets.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she chided, hands on hips. “I just don’t know what’s happenin’ to the young folk these days. No manners whatsoever. I just can’t understand it. In my day, the young folk treated their elders with—”

  “Shut the fuck up!” James warned through clenched teeth. He was going to do the honors of shutting this crazy bitch up permanently when this game was done. Stupid bitch didn’t play by the rules! She was a fucking cheat, firing curveballs and highballs and lowballs and balls directly at his balls when he’d forgotten his fucking cup! He could feel his sac puckering, his dick shriveling. She was getting under his skin, making it crawl. The crazy bitch had a fixation with balls—an obsession, fascination, preoccupation. And she was fucking stupid! She didn’t have enough sense to keep her fat mouth shut. Didn’t know the meaning of self-preservation. It wasn’t natural. She wasn’t natural. She was a freak! A freak of nature. He would be doing the world a favor by eliminating this abomination—which meant that she was detestable or worthy of disgust or hatred!

  He wiped a fine sheen of moisture from his brow, then shoved the gun into her rib cage. “Where’s the shit!”

  “S
hit?” she asked, a genuinely puzzled expression on her face.

  James rolled his eyes. “Jewelry! Money! You better turn up something worth puttin’ up with this freaky-ass shit, you stupid, crazy-ass bitch!”

  Her hand flew to her chest. “Lord! Such vulgarity. Why didn’t you just say so in the first place,” she said, and reached left toward a knob hidden in the mass of eyeless photos. Opening a door, she flipped on the light of a walk-in closet.

  James prodded her forward with the pistol while Tyrone crowded in from behind. It was a normal closet. One devoid of photos, at least. It smelled like mothballs, and a bunch of pastel-colored housedresses and knitted sweaters lined both walls. Rows of house slippers were lined up on the floor, along with a couple pairs of fuddy-duddy old lady’s shoes, all a dull beige color…with the exception of one pair.

  The sight of them made James’ gut twist. They was bright red and sparkly with long spiky heels. What would an old hag do with a pair of shoes like that? Shit! Just the thought of those shoes on Mama Johnson’s wrinkled, swollen, vein-riddled feet made him wanna heave. He pictured her sliding into them and hiking up her housedress to dance around the house with her hips swinging and her droopy boobies jiggling. It was…nauseating.

  “Hey, you gots you a sister?” Old Mama Johnson asked, her tone amicable once again, as if she was having a pleasant little chit-chat with the nice boy next door. “I gots me a dress in here, somewheres,” she said, beginning to rifle through the clothes, “I ain’t worn in, oh my, must be at least two, no…three…no, four—”

  Grasping a fistful of housedress, James pulled her close till they was nearly touching noses. “WHERE IS IT!”

  Her icy blues went wide. “Oh…well…there, ballbreath,” she said, pointing to the top shelf near the back of the closet.