Only the Strong

Copyright © 2015 Jabari Asim

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without express written permission from the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

   
Only the strong / Jabari Asim.

   
Summary: “The lives of a reformed hit man, a crusading doctor, a genteel mobster, and a headstrong college student cross in a sweltering Midwestern city in 1970”-- Provided by publisher

   
ISBN 978-1-572847-52-1 (ebook)

   
1. City and town life--Middle West--Fiction. 2. African Americans--Fiction. 3. Nineteen seventies--Fiction. 4. Middle West--Fiction. I. Title.

   
PS3601.S59O55 2015

2014040170

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogue, except for incidental references to public figures, products, or services, are imaginary and are not intended to refer to any living persons or to disparage any company's products or services.

Bolden is an imprint of Agate Publishing. Agate books are available in bulk at discount prices. For more information, go to
agatepublishing.com
.

For my wife, Liana, in this and all things

Love is divine only and difficult always.

—Toni Morrison,
Paradise

Let me in, let me in, let me in, let me ease on in.

—Otis Redding, “Open the Door”

CONTENTS

LEG-BREAKER

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

TENDERNESS

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

TROUBLE

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

THE STRONG

CHAPTER 12

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

LEG-BREAKER

G
UTS
T
OLLIVER HADN
'
T KILLED A MAN
in two years. The night Dr. King went down in Memphis, Guts had steered his sedan through streets aflame and undergone a change of heart. Not a complete conversion, to be sure. He still believed in an eye for an eye and, on occasion, had done his part to make the bargain equal. But he had taken to considering whether killing was always the first, best option.

Not that he had ever killed as many people as some folks in Gateway City had suggested. After more than a few highly public, much-talked-about brawls, his legend had spread. His many years as chief enforcer for Ananias Goode taught Guts that the idea of his fists was as compelling as his fists themselves. For those on the wrong side of his wrath, his thick knuckles were the least of their concerns. According to local legend, Guts had put men to death with everything from a hairpin to a sledgehammer. He was tall, massive, and quick. Big men couldn't out-brawl him and little men couldn't outrun him. But he regarded every opponent with equal respect, and it was that attentiveness—a curious mixture
of humility and confidence—that kept him alive. By the time of King's death, Guts had become more of a persuader than a killer.

After the Dreamer was laid to rest, Guts went to his longtime employer and confessed to this shift in his thinking. Ananias Goode had come not only to trust Guts, but also to regard him with genuine affection. And, because his business experience had taught him that a trustworthy man was as valuable as at least five others, Goode maneuvered to keep Guts close. The big man's severance package was a taxi stand complete with 31 cabs, for which Goode served as majority investor and silent partner. In exchange, Guts agreed to handle difficult assignments when they arose.

Guts loved managing the taxi fleet—the give-and-take with the drivers, and even sometimes taking to the road himself, to roll down Delmar or Natural Bridge with the wind at his back and nothing on his mind except his pet obsessions: Pearl Jordan and banana pudding.

Before Pearl had become a regular visitor to his bed, Guts had settled for dreaming of her. Lately that had become unnecessary, when all he had to do was wrap his powerful arm around her petite, sleeping frame.

He was snuggled against her, a bear cuddling a bunny, when his phone rang. He grunted and tried to ignore it.

“Lorenzo.”

Guts pulled his pillow over his head.

“Lorenzo. You gonna answer that?”

“Answer what?”

“You know you hear that. Now grab it.”

Defeated, Guts removed the pillow and picked up the receiver. “Guts Tolliver, problem solver.”

It was Sharps, the man who'd replaced him as Goode's driver and right-hand man. Guts had instinctively disliked him the moment they'd been introduced. Now Sharps was snickering over the phone. “‘Problem solver?' That's your new handle? I guess ‘leg-breaker' is hard to shake.”

“Sharps, you better have a damn good reason for bothering me at home. How do you even have my number?”

“Boss man wants you. Meet us at the Frontier at eight.”

“Did he say what it was about?”

Guts heard a click and silence. “That mother—”

Pearl swatted his ample rear. “Lorenzo. At least wait until sunrise before you start cursing.”

By the time Guts had shaved his upper lip and showered, Pearl was busy in the kitchen. She was wearing a cream-colored apron with bright yellow daisies on it—and nothing else. Admiring her tight curves, Guts let out a long, low whistle.

“Don't get used to it,” Pearl said without turning around.

“I could never get used to something so good. The thrill is new every day.”

“Talk that stuff if you want to. You know what I'm talking about. I'm 31 years old and my clock is ticking.”

“Baby, let's not start an argument so early in the morning.”

“Have it your way. What do you want for breakfast?”

“Six eggs, six pieces of toast.”

“I thought you were cutting down.”

“That is cutting down.”

“Let's make that three eggs and two pieces of toast.”

“You're serious?”

“Serious as that heart attack you're trying to have.”

Pearl required little coaxing to untie her apron and sit on Guts's lap. Between kisses, she lifted each tasty forkful of breakfast and held it to his waiting lips. “You're too good for me,” he told her.

“I know,” she said, smiling. “But you'll do.”

Guts knew her efforts to rein in his appetite were absolutely correct. Still, he struggled to suppress a hunger pang or two, ignoring his disgruntled stomach's protests as he eased his Plymouth away from his home on Margaretta and steered onto Fair Avenue. He tried to avoid even looking in the direction of Fairgrounds Park, but he couldn't help himself as its green borders loomed to his left. He could almost hear the ducks calling his name.

Sighing, he turned into the park entrance, rolled to a stop at a curb, and got out. He leaned against the side of the car.
Just for a minute
, he thought to himself. He could barely see the edge of the pond. The ducks were out of sight, tucked away in the tall fronds skirting the stone bridge. It was quiet, despite the nearby traffic of
Natural Bridge Boulevard already building up to the predictable frenzy of rush hour. A few of the park regulars were going about their activities, and seeing them gave Guts a brief feeling of comfort. He could describe each without so much as glancing at them: The two gray-haired ladies who carefully tended the Abram Higgins Memorial Garden every morning. The quiet fisherwoman sitting still in her lawn chair, her fishing line nearly invisible as it stretched toward the water. An unsmiling man, clad in exercise clothes and cradling several tennis rackets under his arm, sternly herding his four children toward the courts. The man had read newspaper accounts of Arthur Ashe, a black man, trouncing the field at the US Open, and in the nearly two years since that historic triumph, he had pursued his dream of seeing his children duplicate Ashe's feat.

Guts closed his eyes for just a moment, imagining the ducks. Feeding them, quietly assuring them that he had enough for everyone, then sitting back and watching them eat was the closest thing to prayer that Guts had. He'd never been comfortable with the kind of praying he'd grown up knowing—too much desperate pleading in it for him. He never understood begging for things that, in the end, you had to take care of your damn self. His mother had been a fervent believer in the power of prayer. Once, when Guts was about 10, he was sitting at dinner with his parents, head bowed and hands obediently folded, when he peered through narrowed eyes to find his father winking at him.

Another park regular, Jerome “Crusher” Boudreau, spotted Guts and jogged over to him. He was wearing sweats and a towel rolled around his neck like a scarf. Boudreau had been a contender before a roundhouse to the throat nearly disabled him. Now he spoke in an amiable mumble and ran a TV repair shop. He had a reputation for skipping his bills and Guts was glad that Ananias Goode had never been one of Crusher's creditors. If so, it would have been up to Guts to collect. Although Guts had about 40 pounds on Crusher, the prospect of going up against him gave him pause.

Crusher, shadowboxing, tossed a few slow softies in Guts's direction. Guts made a big show of ducking and feinting.

“I see you still got it,” Crusher said, smiling.

“I got something,” Guts said, “but I'm not sure what it is.”

“Ah, you haven't lost a step. How's everything?”

“I'm not complaining, Crush. Not that it would do any good.”

Crusher mopped his brow with his towel. It wasn't blazing hot yet but he had already worked up a good sweat. “I hear that.”

Guts watched as Crusher stretched his neck toward his left shoulder, then his right.

“Guts, I know you're strong, but not even you can toss breadcrumbs into the pond from this far away.”