Airtight Willie & Me Read Online Free PDF Page B

I’d play as I cut the cake. I went to the mike and swept the crowd with doe eyes, then I slipped on a mournful mask, faking the emotions of a dude with hurtful blues.
    I stood there in the silent red haze for a dozen heartbeats before I pitched, “Sugar babies, most of you are hip that I just got up from a fall. Only Phil, my homeboy, is hip that I lost my bottom rib and our daughter in a car crash a month before I split the joint. She was a thoroughbred, my woman! She stacked up long scratch in the kip for me. I’m happy if I don’t look it. Sugar babies, you’ve lifted me like a blow of crystal. I know that somewhere way out there past the sky, my woman and angel kid are happy this morning, happy ’cause I’m honored here by blue-ribbon people. You can’t stop a stepper, sugar babies, and I love ya!”
    I went back to the booth through a chant of “Happy Birthday, Slim!” backslapping, and warm congratulations. Black Sue followed me into the booth like a doll on a string.
    She just sat there studying me, with our eyes locked. It was a long time before she said, in a satin drawl, “Sugar, Black Sue is gotta tell you, you something else, and then some. Them sweet words relating to your dead daughter and bottom lady nearly got me bawling like a squealer. Slim, you something else! . . . Lemme buy you a taste.”
    I leaned and whispered into her ear, “Later, I just want to be with you.”
    I decided to play Sweet Willie all the way. I feather stroked the inside of her wrist with my fingertips. Her bottom lip trembled. I glanced past her. Phil glared cutthroat murder at me and whirled out the front door into the rain. That was good. Phil could pull my coat if the gorilla drove up. I pressed her hands against my lips and gazed into her eyes. She swept a fearful glance over the joint.
    I crooned, “Baby Sue, let’s flee to a taste and some talk in my cribupstairs. I’m convinced something boss is happening between us . . . Doll face, maybe you need me . . . Let’s find out.”
    She said seriously, “My old man is Jabbo Ross . . . You hip to how he is . . . about me?”
    I said, “I’ve heard.”
    She murmured, “And you ain’t leery?”
    I said stoutly, “I’m not into pussy. Sugar Pie, I’m game to climb up the devil’s mother-humping ass with you this morning.”
    She laughed shakily. “Well, let’s go, sweet Chicago Slim.”
    I dropped the twister to Phil’s pad on the tabletop and said, “We might give some jokers in the joint diarrhea of the jib if we split together. I’ll cop some blow and wine and follow in a moment.” She scooped up the key, squeezed my hand, and started to slide her awesomely curved rear end from the booth. She braked and dug into her midnight cleavage and excavated a roll of bread, peeled off a “C” note, and shoved it into my shirt pocket.
    I felt my scrotum spasm. I was zeroed in on her now, reading her tactics. She was playing star ho test shit on me. I wasn’t uptight about that. After all, she had to check out my pedigree. She was at the very least unconsciously considering me as her new boss! I leaned and eased the booby-trapped “C” note back down between her epic peaks. The plum-colored tips gleamed through the chiffon gauze.
    To certify my pedigree, I slipped on a mask of terminal pain and cracked a mild reprimand. “Sugar Sue, you got to know what starts right, goes right . . . Up front, I’ll spring for the nit-shit refreshments.”
    I flashed my fake bankroll with the solid funny-money guts. I said, “You’re sweet to be concerned about me just out of the joint and all. Now you can stop worrying about the little things.”
    She smiled crookedly and split. Phil came in from the rain with his silky black hair shining in wet ringlets. He sat down