Impersonal Attractions Read Online Free PDF Page A

organ.
    She was a tall, broad-shouldered, light-complexioned black woman. Her short, reddish, natural hair was carefully dressed. She had changed for the evening into an ivory flannel shirt with a narrow gray stripe, soft gray wool slacks, and darker gray flat-heeled shoes. A bright gold, short wool coat was tossed across her shoulders. In the streetlight, the coat echoed her tawny complexion and the flecks of gold in her green eyes.
    Following half a block behind, the blond man watched Cindy Dunbar’s back. Even through her coat, he could see her body move. Who did she think she was trying to fool? She couldn’t hide that high Hottentot butt. Like they used to laugh about back home. Old fat nigger women walking. From behind they looked like two children fighting under a sheet. No matter about that fancy job in that fancy office in that fancy big building downtown. Strip all that and peel those pretty clothes off, underneath was a nigger. Putting on airs.
    He realized that while he’d been daydreaming, they’d turned a corner and were gone. He raced to the intersection and frantically looked up and down the street. There were too many people here on Mission Street. They’d disappeared.
    Shit! Why did they want to come over here anyway? Goddamned Mission. Nothing but spies. Spies made him nervous. Gangs of kids walking around with switchblades in their pockets.
    Then he spotted Dunbar and her boyfriend entering a restaurant across the street. A red, yellow, and turquoise crepe paper donkey dangled in the window. As the door opened, he could hear the sound of mariachi music.
    Made him want to puke, the thought of Mexican food. He’d forced down so many beans in Texas jails, years of beans and yellow rice, chiles, tomato sauce. It was eat it or go hungry. He’d sworn he’d never touch any of that slop again.
    But what did spades know about food? It didn’t matter. Let them eat crap. At least he knew where they’d be for the next hour. He could relax and wait.
    He lit another Picayune cigarette, inhaling deeply the peculiar-smelling fumes. Picayunes were made in New Orleans and were hard to find elsewhere. Their funky smell was organic, like marsh mud, the Mississippi, the French Market, overripe fruit on a steamy afternoon.
    Sometimes when he lit up, people thought he was smoking dope. That was stupid. But it was nice to be noticed. To be different and have people pay attention.
    Like Missy Cartwright. He could see her, like it was yesterday, in that sweater, that short white skirt. Missy coming toward him in the moonlight. He could almost reach out and touch her.
    But not tonight. That was years ago. That sweetness of Missy. And that pain.
    He blinked rapidly, shook his head.
    Why was he thinking of her tonight?
    The memory edged back a bit. It was like a drug. So easy to give in to. He could feel himself drifting.
    He stamped his feet. It was cold. It had been cold that night, too, so long ago, so far away, when he had brought Missy the roses.
    “Hey, man, you got a light?”
    His eyes made the leap back across miles and years from Missy to focus on the young Chicano smiling in front of him.
    His body tightened. The muscles flexed involuntarily.
    “No!” he barked. “No light.”
    “Come on, man. You smoking, you got a light.”
    The punk’s voice was whiny, singsong Spanish. Look at him. What kind of man would dress like that? Shiny, pointed-toe black shoes, baggy black pants, white starched shirt outside his belt, red bandanna around his forehead. And, over his greasy black hair, a hairnet. They all looked like that—whiny beaner punks.
    “What’s the matter, man? You too good to give me a light?”
    “Nawh, sorry, here you go.” He reached toward his back pocket as the young Chicano leaned forward with his cigarette in his mouth to receive the light.
    The blond man wanted to grab the knife his pocket held. It burned there in his hand, as if it longed to be used. His hand twitched as he ran it across the