Preston L. Allen

Lethal Coon

(from the novel, Come With Me Sheba )

It was a rainy summer's night, and his Adidas filled up with water as he slopped through the muddy streets. He hadn't thought to bring an umbrella. Anyway, umbrellas weren't cool. That was just his grandmother's voice in his head making him think like an old woman. With his shoulders hunched forward against the rain and a hand shielding his face, he made his way to the house with the porch lights burnt out and the people talking in the darkness. He stepped up on the porch and the one-eyed man with a mouth of gold teeth grinned without standing up and kicked at the screen door until it opened. Now that he was up on the porch, he saw that there was a whore on the one-eyed man's lap and another one sitting behind him smoking a joint. The one-eyed man held the screen door open with his foot. The whore who sat on his lap was not blocking the view of his gun stuck in his waistband. He had his gun, too, and he moved his shirt in a way that the one-eyed man could see it. It was safer that way. He wasn't in a mood for anybody to be trying him tonight. The one-eyed man said, "You back again. I heard 'bout you and them crazy niggers. That's a good thing you did for that li'l girl."

"Thanks."

"How much you got on you?"

"I got enough."

The man nodded at the door. "Go on inside, boy. Go ahead, ain't nobody gonna stop you."

"Awright."

He walked past the man and the whores and stepped inside the screen door. There were two more whores inside lying on the couches smoking joints and watching TV. They looked up when they saw him, then went back to watching TV. Dallas was on. It was too wet to walk the streets. And they knew he was not here for them. He was here for Belle. He sat down on the lone empty chair and waited. Watched Dallas . After about a half hour, an old man with bug eyes came in and chose one of the girls and went upstairs. Dallas came to an end. Somebody shot J.R. "That's goody for his ass," the remaining whore said at the TV screen and looked at him for confirmation. He nodded agreement, but this Dallas was a repeat. J.R. had been shot a long time ago.

The whore scratched her butt through her bikini bottoms and said without sitting up,

"You want some pussy or something, Coon?"

"Naw."

"You waitin for Belle? She upstairs with two white boys. She might be a while. I could suck your dick better than her."

"I'll wait for Belle."

"Suit yourself, nigger," the whore said without malice.

She yawned and scratched her ass again. "You got a dollar, Coon? I need a dollar to get me some cigarettes."

He took a dollar out of his wallet and put it in her hand. She offered him a hit of the joint. He took it. She grabbed his dick through his pants while he was hitting the joint and started to laugh. He laughed, too. She had nice teeth and pretty eyes.

She began to jack him.

He sat down and lay back, so that she could get at it better. It was starting to feel real good, and he was starting to consider accepting the blowjob. But Coon was a one-woman man, and Belle was the only woman he had ever had. The two white boys came downstairs, and he pushed away from the hand job and got up with his hand close to his gun. Just in case. But they were okay. Looked like athletes. High school football players. Linemen.

He remembered that he hadn't been to school in over a week. His ninth grade counselor was going to be real pissed. The note would be coming home soon and he'd have to deal with his grandmother's lecture.

As soon as the white boys left through the screen door, he went upstairs and knocked on Belle's door.

"I ain't ready yet," she said through the door.

"It's me."

"Whachu want, boy?"

"I came by to see you."

"I ain't ready yet. Come in."

He pushed open the door. Belle was douching in the bathroom at the back of the room with the bathroom door open. He sat down on the bed with his back to her. They did not say anything while she cleansed herself. When she came back to the bed, she was wearing a red corset and matching panties. A fleshy woman in scarlet. A face like an angel. She pulled him down on the bed and kissed his neck. "Wachu doin here, pretty boy? You so pretty. You could be getting some of that young, free pussy. Whachu want an old thing like me for?"

"You ain't old. You only twenty, right?"

"I'm thirty-two, but now you is officially my favorite customer until you start wearing glasses to correct your poor vision. Twenty? Thank you very much, sir," she laughed. "You want some pussy tonight?"

"Naw."

She reached over and cupped his erection.

"Naw? But you hard as a mo-fo." She hummed. "It feel good, too. Nice and hard. Nice and big."

He put his hand on her bare back.

"Maybe later, Belle."

"You want a back rub, then?"

"Yeah."

He lay on his stomach on the bed and she straddled him. She began to rub his back. She had smart fingers.

"Wachu want me talk about tonight? My daddy?"

"Only if you want me to hunt him down and kill him."

"Naw. Don't do that, Coon. He still my daddy. He brought me into this world, and I love being alive. I got to give him that much."

"You shouldn't love nobody who does you wrong."

Belle's fingers dug into the thick flesh of his shoulders and neck and rolled. Already he was a big boy. Working out with weights instead of going to class. "Sometimes life so hard you ain't got the luxury to hate," Belle said. "People feed you and put clothes on your back, you give 'em a little slack. They touching you and putting they dick in you, but they feeding you, too."

"Don't talk about him no more or I swear I'm gonna kill him. Talk about your brother."

"I love my brother."

"Roderick."

Her massage became less vigorous, more sensual as she talked about her brother. "When he get out of prison," she said, "me and him are gonna start our own business."

"What are you gonna sell?"

"Ass."

"Naw, you ain't."

She giggled. "We gonna sell pets. Cats and dogs and birds."

"That would be nice."

"Or flowers."

He shifted his body and rested his head on his arms. "I like flowers."

"Which kind?"

"I don't know much about flowers. I like pretty flowers."

"We gonna sell roses and petunias and daisies and tulips."

"I like tulips."

"I got two lips."

He laughed at her joke as she rubbed the wet lips of her sex against his back. "What was it like for you and Roderick as kids?"

"It was okay. He was a great brother. He took me everywhere he went. He protected me. He fought my dad for me. He took me outta that house to save me. That's how we got down here in Miami. He started selling that shit, you know. He was a good man despite what my daddy said. Despite what the judge said. He wasn't no big-time drug dealer. He was just tryin to make a livin same as everybody else."

Her fingers were magic against his back.

"I wish I had a brother," he said.

"You woulda made a great brother."

"That's why I had to protect that girl. I know my boys hate me for it. I know they out to get me, but it wasn't right what they was doin to her. She was such a pretty li'l girl. I ain't scared of 'em. Let 'em come try something with me."

"Whachu gonna do to 'em?"

"Do whatever I have to."

"Yeah?" she said. "You ever done it before, Coon? Kill somebody?"

Before he could answer, the one-eyed man burst into the room, shouting:

"What the hell ya'll doin in here so long? There's niggas waitin downstairs for pussy. Shit!"

Then he went out and slammed the door back shut.

They had a good laugh at the one-eyed man. Then Belle got off him and lay on her back on the bed and pulled down her panties. He found himself very excited and he slid into her easily. He gripped a chunk of her ass in each of his hands as he rode her. You could never tell with whores, but Belle always seemed to receive genuine pleasure from doing him. This time, after he came in her, he put his lips over hers and he kissed her.

She didn't object, and it was a good kiss, but afterward she told him:

"You shouldn't never kiss no ole' whore."

Then she got up from the bed and went into the bathroom to douche. This time she closed the bathroom door. He heard the click as she locked it.

She had never done that before.

It was very strange, and he was about to say something about it but the bedroom door exploded and ten police officers burst through and wrestled him to the ground before he could break down the bathroom door and kick Belle's ass.

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The Keys to My . . .

(From the novel Bounce )

I open the door to the small apartment on the top floor of the ancient, but affordable apartment building. It's not in the worst area of Miami, but it's not in the best either. Considering my tight budget, I like to think that my place is a cozy, nicely decorated space. There's the porcelain vase I fill daily with fresh yellow roses. I love roses in all colors, but yellow is my favorite. To add interest, there are my throw pillows placed about the living room in alternating red, white, and checked patterns. There are some homey touches, too, with my hand-sewn curtains and self-upholstered couches. Like my mama, I am good with my hands. But this is not going to be a good night because a light is on, and I never leave the lights on.

At the edge of the carpet near the door, are Tyrone's shoes, the heavy work boots, too highly polished to really be work boots. He never gave back his key. I never changed the lock. I had convinced myself that he's not like that. That he's many things, but not that. Yet here he is now, up in my place.

Stupid. Stupid. Bounce. Bounce.

I find him in the bedroom sitting on my bed. A basket brown man with wildman naps, a thick neck and lips, and wide-spaced, long-lashed, light brown eyes that never seem to get it. All of my drawers are open, my possessions thrown about. My filing cabinet's open, too, and the folders dumped out. The room is a mess. Tyrone holds up two photographs to his face. One is of me and Jake in fishing gear showing off the marlin we had caught. In the other, I am kissing Jake on the mouth. Before I can begin to explain a thing I have no need to explain because, one, Jake was before Tyrone, two, Jake had nothing to do with why me and Tyrone broke up, and three, those photographs are my private property--but before I can explain all this that I have no real obligation to explain, but will as a courtesy to set an ex's heart and mind at ease, Tyrone has sprung from the bed and boxed me a hard one on the ear. It sends me sprawling backwards and down. physically and emotionally.

Tyrone comes and squats his bulk over me, pushing the photographs in my face, demanding,

"Who dis?"

I hold back my tears. My fear of the dark.

"Get out of here. Gimme back my key."

"Who dis?"

He pushes the Polaroids against my mouth. I clamp it closed. He tries to pull it open. I am resisting him. He is strong. He pulls my mouth open with his strong hands, strong fingers and pushes one of the Polaroids inside, hard, scraping up the inside of my gums real good. I'm fighting him, gagging, trying to bite his fingers. Tyrone's laughing. He puts the other Polaroid in his breast pocket and gets up from over me, tapping the pocket with the picture in it. "I'm gonna find him. Believe dat."

I spit the photograph out of my mouth and fire: "Get out of my house. Gimme back my key."

"Who is he?"

"None of your damned business. Get out of my house!"

The walls are thin. Someone will hear. Someone always hears. I am shouting. He clamps a hand over my mouth and grabs my hair, which he had always loved because it falls to my shoulders easy in white girl waves.

"Don't be yelling at me. You forget who I am?"

He drags me up by my hair and walks me backwards with his face pressed against mine. His face is sweaty. Clammy. He smells bad. Despite his wildman hair (carefully groomed wildman hair), he is really a neat freak and particular about hygiene. He has always been picky about smell. Something must have really set him off to be smelling like this.

"You're gonna tell me who he is."

He walks me backwards, to where I remember seeing the scissors. I fight against him, but not enough to make him change his mind or his direction. We are reflected in the full-length closet mirror. The way he is holding me, the way I am clawing him, it looks like some crazy, intense dance.

"You're gonna tell me his name. You're gonna tell me where he live at. You're gonna tell me how good he fuck you."

He walks me backwards until I can't walk anymore because I'm pressed against the wall next to the high bureau. I reach without seeing to where the scissors had been. My fingers curl around them. They are the sturdy kind, good for cutting stubborn burlap to make interesting curtains out of.

"--you're gonna tell me about his dick, how big it was, how good it was--."

I plunge the scissors into the flesh of his armpit because I have read that that is a very tender area. He jumps back howling, clutching at the wound. I lunge at him again and catch him in the thigh. Bright red spreads over his jeans. It looks like some new crazy sort of style. He staggers backwards. Flops down on the bed. Both hands clamped around the cut leg. Groaning. I retreat to the far wall to watch him bleed.

"You stabbed me," he says. "I'm gonna whup yo ass."

I hold up the scissors in warning.

"Look whachu did my leg."

"Gimme my key back."

He's bleeding all over the bedspread I sewed with my own hands.

"Get me something to clean this up. Ow. Ow. Help me clean dis. Lookit dis mess."

It is a mess.

"Then you gotta leave. You gotta leave my house and give my key back."

In the chaos on the floor, I rescue a beach towel and toss it to him. I back into the bathroom, keeping an eye on him, and dig through the cabinet until I find the peroxide bottle, which I fling at him. Then I fling the alcohol bottle at him, too. He pulls off his shirt and splashes the alcohol on the sliced flesh under his arm. He looks up, and I am amazed. There is a grin on his face.

"You gotta help me with dis." Wincing. Grinning. "Come here."

"You're gonna try to grab me."

"Come here and help me. I can't do it by myself."

"You hit me."

"You used to love me." He's getting up. Grinning.

"I swear to god, Tyrone, I'll kill you--!"

I back up to the wall and hold the scissors out in front of me.

"Stay away from me!"

"Okay. Okay."

His eyes. They don't get it. He has no shirt on his hairless barrel chest. He has a bloody towel wadded under his arm. His jeans have a scarlet leg. This is love? Doesn't he get it? I go in the living room and open the door and kick his pretty boots out the door. Eventually, he limps out of the bedroom. I give him a wide berth to pass through the open front door. Gone is the grin. But his eyes. He just doesn't get it. He shakes his head sadly as he passes. Dragging himself through the door. I slam it shut after him. Turn off the lights. Sink down to the floor. Release the tears. About fifteen minutes later, there is a knock at the door.

"Cindique!" One voice.

"Cindique! Cindique!" Another voice.

The walls are thin. Somebody has heard. Somebody always hears. Somebody always comes. Somebody always comes too late. It is the neighbors. The Puerto Rican lesbian who said she would help with the rent if I let her eat me. Rose, Rosa, Rosita, Rosie? And her roommate, Nicole, Nikki, Nike, Nikita, who might not be gay because she has never hit on me. Plus, I think she has a baby. Then again, you never know.

"Cindique, you all right?"

"I'm fine."

Through the door.

"We heard sounds."

"I'm fine. He's gone."

"We didn't hear him leave."

"He left quietly."

"We could go get the landlord's key and come in and check, you know?"

"He's gone, I promise you."

"You want us call somebody for you? Your mom?"

"Hell no."

" Ay pobrecita! Cindique, we're here for you. We don't see no lights on in there. Is he holding you hostage?"

"Look down on the ground. See the blood? That's his blood."

"Oh snap. Look at the blood," one says.

"She got his ass good."

"Oh snap. Good for you, Cindique. Good for you."

"Yeah. Go home. I'm fine."

Gossiping bitches. Now they have something to gossip about. She got his ass good. Yeah. And he still has my key. I sit in the dark with my back against the door and the scissors in my hand facing my handiwork. (My curtains look good framing a window full of stars.) Now I have something else to add to tomorrow's crowded itinerary, pay my late cable bill, get my oil changed, change the lock on my door, get my phone turned back on.

Cry.

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Cover Design: Joseph McNair