The Crazy Horse Electric Game (10 page)

Willie's heart sinks. He takes the seat directly behind the driver and sits on the edge, his duffel bag between his feet. The gang moves to the back of the bus. They're laughing and joking; slapping each other around. And they're stalking Willie Weaver.

“Could…you…tell me…when we…get…to…BART?” he says to the driver, who nods.

Willie sits staring out the front window, holding—almost clutching—his duffel bag. He bends down to look through the rear-view mirror back through the bus, only to find the leader of the gang staring directly back into his eyes. He leans back in the seat, closing his
eyes, fear—almost terror—welling up in his throat.
No way out
telegraphs to him from the pit of his stomach. He starts to cry; he doesn't want to because he knows these guys can smell fear a mile away, but there's no stopping it. Tears stream down his face as he wipes them furiously away.

“Those guys on your tail?” the driver asks. He's a big black guy with powerful arms hanging out of a short-sleeved uniform.

Willie's eyes pop open, startled. “Yeah,” he says after a second. “I think so.”

“Well, don' mess with 'em,” the driver says. “Tha's a
bad
bunch. They want somethin', you give it to 'em.”

Willie looks at his lap.

“Nothin' I can do, boy. What you doin' comin' outta neighborhood like that one anyway? After dark. Some kids got no sense.”

Willie can only nod.

The driver sighs. “When we get to the station, I can maybe jam the back door a few seconds. You got to cross the street, so you get out the bus an' run like hell. Station's well lit. They got cops hang aroun' there sometimes.”

Willie looks up and smiles; resigned. “Thanks,” he says. “I…can't…run…like hell. Used to. Can't…now.”

“Well, I'll jam 'em as long as I can.”

Willie reaches into his pocket and separates some of the money from the roll, pulls it out carefully, below the view line of the seat back, and runs it down the inside of his sock, under his arch inside the shoe. He hopes it's enough to get by on and he hopes he hasn't left the roll looking too small to fool the gang. He closes his eyes and waits for the BART station.

“It's comin' up, boy,” the driver says. “Next stop. Get out and cross the street right in front of the bus. If it looks like trouble, I'll call the cops, but they won't get here quick; never do. You on you own.”

The bus stops abruptly and Willie picks up his bag and steps slowly down off the step to the curb. The guys in the rear try to get out the back door, but the driver jams it. “Hey, bus driver, open the door!” the leader says. “Open the door, man. We want off here.”

“I'm tryin',” the driver calls back. “Mus' be stuck. Come out the front.”

Willie hears all that behind him as he tries to cross the street, but traffic is coming fast and he has to move down to the crosswalk. The light is red; he won't make it. He closes his eyes and waits. Maybe the driver will stall them a little longer; give him a chance to get to the lighted subway.

“You in a hurry?” The voice belongs to the gang leader.

“…Kind of.”

“Well, lemme take a look at what you got in your pocket there and you can go right on being in a hurry.” His eyes are
so
cold; Willie is afraid to play games.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out what is left of his roll of money, hands it to the kid, looking at his diminutive size, thinking
If I were okay, I'd beat this kid to death
.

“This isn't all. Don't be messing with the Jo Boys.”

Willie holds his ground. “It's…all…I've got,” he says.

“There was more.”

“It's…all…I've got,” Willie says again, evenly. “…Really.”

The boy's foot flashes across the side of Willie's head so fast Willie doesn't even see it coming and he's kicked twice more before he hits the ground. His duffel bag skids away in one direction, his cane in another. Another of the gang members unzips the bag, emptying it onto the sidewalk; kicks the contents around, then searches the corners of the bag in case he missed the money. “Nothin' here, Kam,” he says, and the leader, the boy called Kam, kicks Willie three more sharp
blows to the ribs. Willie tucks, covering his face with his arms, praying it will be over soon.

Suddenly his face is pulled by the hair up to a spot inches from Kam's. “Give me the rest of the money, you crippled white turd, and I might let you stay alive.” There's movement, a click and the flash of a blade.

“In…my…sock,” Willie says through his bloody, already swollen lip. “Right…foot.”

“Get it.”

Willie sits up and the world swirls around him. He reaches for his shoe, but topples over as darkness crowds in from the sides. There's a loud thud and sharp pain shoots up the back of his neck, then his ribs begin to cave in. The back of his throat tastes of blood; Willie's sure he's being killed.

Somehow he kicks off his shoe, steps on the toe of his right sock with the heel of his left foot, and pulls the foot out of the sock. His money protrudes just above the neck of the sock and a gang member spots it. “Bingo!” he yells, and Kam stops the beating to look down, bending over easily to pick it up.

“Should have given us this in the first place,” he says. “Don't mess with the Jo Boys.”

Willie is balled up again, protecting his head, eyes closed, waiting.

“Got his cane, Kam,” he hears. “Want it?”

“Naw. Leave 'im his cane. Might need it to walk.” Kam's mouth is next to Willie's ear; a whisper. “Don't mess with the Jo Boys.”

They're gone, but Willie doesn't move. He's paralyzed with fear and humiliation, and he doesn't know if he's okay; if anything's broken. Right now, right this minute, he'd give anything in the world to be back in Coho. Jenny could go out with anyone she wants; Mom and Dad could blame him for ruining their lives forever. He'd gladly take the blame and shut up. He never had any idea there was this in the world.

He tries to stand, gather his things, but the world swirls again and he drops to his knees. He grabs his cane, leaning against it with both hands on the ball, and struggles to his feet. One eye is swollen almost shut and he turns his head awkwardly to see his belongings scattered about the sidewalk. Bending down to gather them up, he pitches forward, striking his head against the side of the brick building next to the crosswalk, feeling the world slip away.

Willie awakens to find himself staring into the eyes of the bus driver. “Damn!” the driver says between clenched teeth. “Why you have to go ridin'
my
bus?”

Willie attempts to sit, but his head swirls and he eases it back to the concrete. He tries to speak; finds the effort too great. Slowly events crowd back into his head: Kam with his killer moves, Willie with his fear. He doesn't know why the bus driver's there or how long it's been; just hopes he won't leave again. He tries once again to sit up, this time successfully, and scoots back against the building while the bus driver silently picks up his belongings, carelessly stuffing them into the duffel bag. “You get up?” he asks gruffly.

“…Yeah,” Willie says, though he doesn't know it's
true. He
will
get up, though, if it means this guy will help him off the street. “Why'd…you…come back?”

The driver shoots him a mean look. “Beats me,” he says. “Got to be out of my mind. Damn cripple white boy got no better sense than be out here. You ain't from around here.”

Willie shakes his head, feeling the swollen pressure of his eye and lip. “No. I…ain't…from…around here.” His head clears some and begins throbbing with pain. He tries to push the pain out, but it floods over him and he drops to his knees, vomiting.

The driver stoops to hold Willie's shoulders, and his tenderness suddenly makes Willie furious. “Why…the hell…are you…helping me…now?” he screams between convulsions. “Where…were you…when…those guys…were…trying…to kill me?”

The driver makes no verbal response, but helps Willie to his feet. He hands Willie his cane, looking at the brass handle. “You Willie?”

Willie nods and snatches the cane with his good hand. He looks the driver in the eye, and his own eyes well up in tears. “Why…didn't you…help…me?” he asks quietly.

A look of shame sweeps across the driver's face like a flash flood, then disappears as quickly. He picks up
Willie's bag. “Lacey my name,” he says. “Get on the bus.”

Willie isn't about to argue.

 

“I didn't help you 'cause you don't go takin' on a street gang,” Lacey says across the table in Romano's. It's well after two in the morning. Willie rode the bus route for the past two hours, sleeping fitfully in the mostly deserted bus, waiting for Lacey's shift to end. “That wasn't jus' some buncha China boys out on a picnic. Tha's a street gang. They cut you or do you in for nothin'. Leave body parts scattered on the sidewalk for the kinda money you carryin'.”

“
Was…
carryin',” Willie says.

“I
tol'
you to give 'em what they want,” Lacey says. “Coulda save you young ass.”

Willie lowers his eyes and nods. “I know,” he says. “I…just…couldn't…afford…to lose…it…all.”

“You done
los'
it. Got a face job in the deal.”

Willie nods again, grimacing.

Lacey sits back and pushes away his empty plate. “So what I got to do to get you where you goin', 'sides pay up this bill?”

Willie shakes his head. “…Don't…know…where…I'm going,” he says.

“You on the run?”

He nods again and suddenly pieces of the story tumble out, from his life back on the other side, to the Crazy Horse Electric game, to the accident, to Jenny, to his parents, to the decision to get on the bus.

“So here…I…am,” he finishes.

“White boy gettin' three hot ones a day an' a warm bed coulda picked a lot better place to run to than Oakland, California,” Lacey says, “even if he do be havin' hard times. You don't know what hard times
is
till you try makin' it on the street in this city.”

Willie explains that he wasn't exactly coming to
Oakland
.

“May be,” Lacey says. “But you here. An' this Oakland.” He glances at the gold watch on his massive wrist. “Gettin' late,” he says. “Got to decide what you wanna do. Be willin' to foot the bill to send you back, you wanna go. You got no binnis stayin'.”

Willie takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “I…can't…go home,” he says. “I…don't know…where, but…I can't…go home. Just…can't.”

“Buncha pride ain't doin' you much good, boy. You got to make up you mind,” Lacey says. “I don't got all night. You neither.”

Willie takes a chance. “You…got…a place…
I could…stay…till tomorrow…maybe?”

Lacey shakes his head quickly. “Can't be harboring no runaway,” he says. “Don't need no extra attention from the police.” He starts to elaborate, then shuts up.

“You…got a…family?”

Lacey shakes his head. “Got no family.”

“One…night. I'd…sleep…on…the couch. No…trouble.”

Lacey looks at Willie, shaking his head. “I know I shoulda lef' you. I come back, and jus'
know
you gonna cause me buncha trouble. ‘Lacey,' I say in my head, ‘Lacey Casteel, listen to me. What you gonna do you go back, find that boy down like you
know
you gonna? Makin' trouble you don't need like the dumb nigger you is.'” He looks at Willie long and hard again. “One night,” he says. “Tomorrow you got to know what you doin'. One night. I help you with bread, but tha's it. Okay?”

“Okay,” Willie says.

“Now don't be gettin' up tomorrow wantin' one more day,” Lacey warns. “An' one more day after that.”

Willie stands and reaches for his duffel bag, but Lacey picks it up ahead of him. He feels the residual pain in his ribs and muscles from the blows he's taken,
and the cuts and bruises on his face seem to sting and ache more, but he's put at least twelve hours' insulation between himself and the world, and his mood picks up. This is survival.

He eases himself into the passenger's seat of Lacey's huge black Chrysler and sinks into the sheepskin seat, closing the one eye not already swollen shut, and tries to relax. Lacey lives away from the main part of town, toward the Oakland Hills, a fifteen-minute drive from the restaurant. Neither speaks as the Chrysler glides up Park Boulevard, turns left and winds its way through the lower-middle-class neighborhood—small and medium-sized houses standing so close to each other they look as if they're being packed to send somewhere—until it pulls into Lacey's driveway. Willie sits up to look around. The difference between the surroundings here and what he has just come from is immense. “Nice…place,” he says.

“Don't go be gettin' used to it.”

Inside, Lacey shows him only what's necessary: the bathroom, the fold-out couch, a corner to put his belongings in. Lacey's keeping a distance, but Willie senses the door isn't quite closed. He's been reading people since the accident and he has nothing to lose by
being patient and maintaining a low profile. Something in this man feels for Willie, and Willie knows it. Maybe Lacey could actually get him started somewhere…

 

Willie wakes to the sun streaming through the window, directly into his eyes, on the pulled-out couch. His swollen eye is matted shut and every muscle feels as if he's been clubbed like a throw rug on a clothesline. The house is silent, and he pushes himself up to look out the window; the Chrysler is gone. He lies back, collecting his thoughts, trying to remember where the bathroom is. He'd give his good arm for a shower.

Drying off, he hears the rattling of paper sacks, the opening and closing of cupboards, and knows Lacey is back. He stays in the bathroom longer than necessary because he hasn't yet decided what to do and he's not ready to face Lacey pushing him to make a decision. He tries again to figure Lacey, who's telling him he has to go but the borders are a little fuzzy, like if maybe Willie plays it right Lacey might see clear to help him out with something more than just a bus ticket. Lacey's a tough guy. If he really just wanted Willie gone, he'd have no trouble making that happen. Willie's in no position to do anything but take what is given. He pulls on his jeans
and T-shirt and walks slowly out into the living room.

“Decided what you gonna do?” Lacey calls from the kitchen.

“Not…for sure,” Willie calls back. He's staring out the front window at Lacey's car, noticing for the first time the fancy pin-striping down the sides and the custom hood ornament. In the light of day it looks like every pimp's car on every show Willie has ever seen. “Not…going back…to Montana…though.”

“Tha's smart,” Lacey says sarcastically, standing in the kitchen door. “Maybe you wanna jus' find you a place down there close to the bus station. Keep you
apprised
what the world like.”

Willie says he thinks he'll steer clear of the bus station for a while; maybe go back down there the day Hell freezes over.

“Won't be any safer then,” Lacey says. “This jus' ain't a place for no Montana cowboy kid to run to. Don't you see that yet?”

“I can…see…that…with…one eye…swollen shut,” Willie says, “but…I'm here.” He glances up; Lacey looks real different than he did last night. He's decked out in a silk shirt open to the chest and skin-tight pants, with jewelry on almost every finger and a big gold chain around his neck. Willie
looks back to the car.

“Got money for you ticket outta here right in my pocket,” Lacey says. “Best offer you gonna get in this town.”

“Know…about…any jobs?” Willie asks. “…Anything. Cleaning…buses. Fast…food.”

“Bus jobs all union shit,” Lacey says. “An' you got to have a work permit even at McDonald's.”

“How about…I…work…for you?”

“Doin'
what?
”

Willie smiles and says he could work three days a week just keeping Lacey's car clean. He could fix up his house and yard; generally keep things up. It would only cost Lacey room and board, and as soon as something came up, Willie would move.

Lacey starts to say no, but stops. “Might add some class to my act if I got me a servant boy,” he says. “Get you a little white jacket and a bow tie…”

Willie says he'll beg off on the jacket and bow tie, but he'll work real hard and stay out of the way. He can't believe it's this easy; that Lacey is actually considering it.

Lacey sits on the couch, seeming to think, then says, “I been thinkin' 'bout this; I know you was gonna ask. You know I ain't jus' a bus driver. Bus driver jus' be my
cover. I deals in human relations. Management. You stay here, you got to keep you eyes an' ears an' mouth
shut
. Can you comprehend that?”

Management
, Willie thinks.
Pretty funny. So he
is
a pimp
. But Willie's not about to get into a morals argument at this point. Something changed in him after last night, after he survived what he was sure was his last second on earth, and from now on Willie Weaver's going to take whatever he has to take to survive. “I…don't know…about…my eyes…and…ears,” he says, “but…by…the time…I…ever…get…anything said…to anybody…they…forget…what I'm…talking about.”

“One thing,” Lacey says. “You stayin' 'cause of a reason you don't know, and I ain't gonna be explainin' it to you, so don't go askin'. Can you comprehend that? Also, you goin' to school. Don't wanna be wonerin' what you up to all day long. Got to keep outta my hair.”

Willie will agree to anything, and he nods okay.