Viper's Dream, page 13
“Prob’ly,” Country said, “you be able to find somebody to stick a needle in your vein for you. But can’t get nobody to play drums for you if you ain’t got no thumbs.”
“No thumbs?” Sticks asked again, frightened and confused. He looked to Viper, then to Peewee and Pork Chop, beseechingly. “What is this motherfucker talking about?”
“Hold him, Mr. Peewee!” Country ordered.
Peewee, small but strong, grabbed Sticks Anderson’s left arm, twisted it behind his back. He grabbed Sticks’s right arm at the wrist, held him down in the chair. Sticks looked terrified but put up little resistance. Country grabbed a meat cleaver from a hook on the kitchen wall.
“Hold his right hand flat on the table!” he ordered Peewee.
“Is this really necessary?” Pork Chop cried.
Peewee forced open Sticks’s right hand, which had been balled up in a fist, pressed it down flat on the table.
Country raised the meat cleaver high above his head. “You love junk more than you love the drums, ain’t that right, Mr. Sticks?” Country said.
Sticks wriggled in the chair, helpless under Peewee’s grip. “Stop, no, please don’t!”
And with one swift chop, Country cut off Sticks Anderson’s right thumb. Blood shot out across the kitchen. Sticks screamed like an animal caught in a steel trap. “Aarrgghh!”
“Lay his other hand flat on the table!” Country yelled.
Peewee did as Country instructed him. Sticks Anderson, his right hand still gushing blood, stared in wide-eyed horror and disbelief as Peewee pressed down his left hand and Country raised high the cleaver once again.
“Stop!” Pork Chop screamed. “Don’t do it!” He moved toward Country, but Viper grabbed him by the arm, holding him back.
“Please, no,” Sticks begged. “Please don’t!”
And with another swift, deadly accurate downward swoop, Country chopped off Sticks Anderson’s other thumb. Another projectile stream of blood shot out across the kitchen.
Sticks fell to the floor, writhing in anguish, wailing. “Aaaaaarrrrrrrggggghh!”
Country held up the two severed thumbs.
“Now, I’m gonna keep one of these for myself,” he said calmly. “The other one I’m gonna give to Mr. Viper. And you let other motherfuckers who deal gage for us know what’s gonna happen if they start dealin’ junk.”
“Oh, God, no!” Sticks wailed, rolling around on the floor, tucking his four-fingered hands under his arms, as if trying to hide them, to protect them from further harm. Pork Chop grabbed two tablecloths from a shelf, wrapped them around Sticks’s bloody hands.
“This was totally uncalled for!” Pork Chop said. “I’m takin’ him to the hospital!”
Pork Chop and Sticks rushed from the kitchen.
Viper and Peewee stared at Country in astonishment. Country stared back at them expectantly.
The silence lingered. Until, finally …
“So, Mr. Viper,” the young man asked, “how’d I do?”
“Country Johnson,” Viper said, “you’re hired.”
* * *
That afternoon, Viper gave Country Johnson a tour in his silver Cadillac, showing him New York in the same way that Mr. O had had his chauffeur, Peewee, drive young Clyde Morton around Manhattan way back in 1936.
“This sho is nice of you, Mr. Viper. I know what a busy man you is.” Country leaned out the window of the passenger seat and gawped at everything he saw: the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, Times Square. Viper remembered the sense of wonder he’d felt upon seeing all this for the first time himself. “I growed up in Mississippi,” Country said. “When I moved to Kansas City three years ago, that seemed like the biggest place in the world. But New York! Hot damn!”
“I can see why you came so highly recommended,” Viper said. “I think you can go very far, Country.”
“Well, that’s real flatterin’ comin’ from you, Mr. Viper. You a legend down in Kansas City.”
“Am I?”
“Yessir. Even some stone-cold gangsters respect you for not sellin’ heroin. They know what you did to that West Indian fella back in the day. And then Buttercup and Pretty Paul. Weren’t so pretty when you got through with him.”
“Now, I always heard it was the Mafia that killed Buttercup and Paul,” Viper said.
Country let out a loud, goofy laugh. “Yeah, yeah, you don’t got to say nothin’ else, Mr. Viper. Everybody know you as discreet as you is lethal. Look what happened to that Jew gangster.”
“Mr. O? Folks think I wasted Mr. O?”
Country laughed again and clapped his hands twice. “You don’t got to say no more, Mr. Viper. Folks know that Jew gangster was the biggest gage dealer in New York. He disappeared and now you the biggest gage dealer in New York. Say no more, Mr. Viper. Just know that your name spells total respect.”
“Well, thank you, Country. Let’s head back up to Harlem. I’m taking you to my personal tailor, Seymour. He’s an old man now, but he’s still the best tailor in town. We’re gonna get you dressed right. Then we’re gonna swing by Gentleman Jack’s barbershop so you can get a proper conk, a shave, and a manicure.”
“A manicure? I thought that was only for faggots!”
“And successful businessmen, Country. I think you are going to be a very successful businessman.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Viper.”
“Have you ever heard of Machiavelli?”
“He with the I-talian mob?”
“No, no. A Florentine philosopher from the sixteenth century.”
“Sorry, Mr. Viper. I ain’t real educated.”
“Neither was I when I was your age, Country. Anyway, Machiavelli posed the question: Is it more important for a leader to be loved or feared? What do you say, Country?”
The young man answered without hesitation: “Feared.”
“See?” Viper said. “You’re smarter than I was at your age. What you did to Sticks Anderson this morning … impressive. By sundown, everybody in Harlem is gonna know about you. And folks will fear you before they even meet you.”
“As long as you happy, Mr. Viper. That’s all that matter to me.”
“Keep in mind that Machiavelli said the best thing was to be loved and feared. Now that you’ve established your fearsomeness, I’d advise you to spread a little charm around when you meet folks.”
Country flashed his gap-toothed grin. “Yessir, I can do that.”
“That’s what I figured.”
* * *
Peewee’s West was a sunbaked Southern Californian reflection of its East Coast main branch. While Lenox Avenue in Harlem had lost much of its prewar luster, so had Central Avenue in Los Angeles—where Peewee’s West was located—found itself somewhat down at the heel by 1958. For decades, Central Avenue had mirrored central Harlem’s heyday of thriving black enterprise and entertainment. The Dunbar Hotel, Elks Hall, the Club Alabam: homegrown L.A. talents as well as traveling jazz royalty from all over the country relished playing those venues. The Lincoln Theater proudly touted itself as the “West Coast Apollo.” While “The Avenue,” as Los Angelenos called it, had seen better days, Peewee’s West was an instant hit when its doors opened. Some folks came for the music and the food. But word quickly spread that PW’s was the indispensable address for scoring superb weed.
Late one evening, a broad-shouldered, dark-haired white man with droopy eyes approached Viper’s booth in the corner of the club. At first, Viper wondered if he was a cop. Then, he had a feeling that would occur again and again during his visits to L.A. He thought he knew this person, the face was so familiar.
“Mind if I sit down?” the droopy-eyed man drawled.
That was when Viper realized that, yes, he knew that face, usually from seeing it blown up to superhuman proportions, in black-and-white, on the movie screen.
“Please have a seat, Mr. Mitchum.”
“Call me ‘Mitch,’ reefer man.”
It was the start of a beautiful connection. During his two-week stays in L.A. over the next year, Viper would become a regular at the poolside parties of Hollywood’s most notorious potheads.
* * *
By the fall of 1959, Country Johnson had taken over so many responsibilities at Peewee’s Harlem nightclub that Peewee himself started spending most of his time in Greenwich Village, where a relatively new market for their California Gold was exploding on the beatnik scene. Peewee had even become part owner of the Chiaroscuro coffeehouse on Bleecker Street. Viper dropped in one night, straight from the airport after one of his stints in L.A. The crowd was mixed. A bearded black poet took command of the microphone on the tiny stage. He recited in jagged bebop phrasing:
if you should see
a man
walking down a crowded street
talking aloud
to himself
don’t run
in the opposite direction
but run toward him
for he is a POET!
you have NOTHING to fear
from the poet
but the TRUTH
The audience snapped their fingers instead of applauding. It was Ted Joans at the mike. He had been a good friend of Charlie Parker’s; had taken Bird in after his wife, Chan, kicked him out; had even tried to get Bird off junk. Ted spotted the Viper in the house. Gave him a little salute.
Sally Anne Whitman Robinson, Peewee’s high WASP bohemian wife, walked up to Viper and kissed him once on each cheek, European style. “Haven’t seen you here in a while, good sir,” she said a little archly. The Chiaroscuro’s red brick walls were covered with artwork, mostly by Sally and her friends.
“Hey, Sally. What’s up?”
“A bunch of new canvases, that’s what’s up. Interested in buying a painting?”
“Sure, Sally, I’ll buy one of yours.”
Sally took Viper by the hand and led him to a large, splotchy, colorful work hanging in the corner.
“You might like this one,” she said. “I call it Number Twenty-Three.”
“Don’t be tryin’ to civilize this nigger, Sally,” Peewee said, suddenly emerging from the backroom, where the weed was dealt.
“What’s up, Peewee?” Viper said.
“Mom, Daddy said that word again!” A twelve-year-old girl with bronze skin and a mop of blond curls popped out from behind the bar/coffee counter. This was Wendy Robinson. Her eleven-year-old brother Peter Jr., who looked just like her, popped out right behind Wendy and chimed in his admonishment.
“You said you’d stop using that word, Dad!”
Even though it was a school night, Peewee and Sally’s beautiful children were hanging out at the coffeehouse.
“They’re right, Peewee,” Sally said. “Try to set an example.”
“All right, all right. Gimme a break. I’ll wash my own mouth out with soap. But right now, leave me alone so I can talk to this nigger.”
“Daaaaaaad!” Wendy and Peter Jr. squealed in unison.
“Step into my office, Viper,” Peewee said. They entered the back room. Peewee closed the door behind them, fired up a joint, and passed it to the Viper. “How was L.A.?”
“Like you, Peewee, hipper all the time.”
Peewee had changed his look over the years. He’d stopped straightening his hair, traded his fedora for a beret, his zoot suit for black turtlenecks, blue jeans, and leather jackets.
“Yeah, Viper,” the little hipster said, “and you still lookin’ like it’s the 1940s. When you gonna get rid of that conk?”
“Somebody’s got to keep Gentleman Jack in business. How are things up in Harlem?”
“Last I checked, everything was groovin’. In fact, Country’s getting involved in the musical programming.”
“So he’s told me.”
“You going to the club tomorrow night?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll be there, too.”
* * *
“Wop bop a loo bop a lop bom bom!”
Little Richard, sporting a purple satin suit and a towering pompadour, shrieked from the stage of Peewee’s nightclub. The packed house was delirious. Viper sat at a corner table with Peewee, Pork Chop, and Country Johnson, who had booked tonight’s headliner.
“Rock ’n’ roll is what’s happenin’, Mr. Viper,” Country shouted over the noise. “Look at the crowd. The folks love it!”
“We’re supposed to be a jazz club,” Pork Chop said, barely audible over the roar of the public. Pork Chop was still the leader of the house band. But the crowds at the club had been shrinking. Folks kept coming around to buy reefer, of course, but they hadn’t been staying for the music.
“We still a jazz club,” Peewee said. “But Country’s right. Let’s program some rock ’n’ roll once in a while.”
Pork Chop had always been wary of Country, from that first meeting when the kid cut off Sticks Anderson’s thumbs.
“You good with this, Clyde?”
Viper paused, then gave his honest opinion, knowing it would hurt his old friend to hear it.
“Can’t argue with the cash register, Pork Chop. Like Country says: folks love it.”
Pork Chop frowned, seemed almost to be biting his tongue.
“Thank you, Mr. Viper,” Country said. “Thank you!”
Onstage, Little Richard twirled and shrieked:
“Wop bop a loo bop a lop bam boom!”
* * *
“Mmmmmmmmm … MMM!” Randall “Country” Johnson hummed in pleasure as he tucked into his pig’s feet, collard greens, and chitlins. “This sho is deeeee-LICIOUS, Mr. Viper. Thank you, sir!”
Viper smiled as he watched Country chow down. Viper himself was savoring his favorite dish on the menu: barbecued spare ribs and cornbread. He’d long ago asked Country to stop calling him “Mr.” and “sir,” but he realized by now that it was second nature to his courteous, Southern protégé. Country enjoyed showing Viper that bit of deference, and truth be told, Viper, at the age of forty-two, had come to like it.
In the fifteen months since he’d arrived in Harlem, Country had, in many ways, become citified. He wore sharp, bespoke suits (tailored by the ancient Seymour) and, like his boss, sported a Rolex on his wrist and drove two Cadillacs, though Country’s were gold colored and midnight blue. But with his loping gait and gap-toothed grin, this ruthless young gangster could still exude a folksy charm. And he still talked like a hick.
Viper knew he was making a public statement by taking Country to dinner at the Red Rooster. It was midnight, and the restaurant was full and abuzz. Viper told Country he wanted to show his appreciation for his indispensable contribution to the enterprise this past year and a quarter. From making sure that none of their gage dealers dared to push junk to booking Little Richard and promoting change in the club’s musical program, Country had succeeded beyond any reasonable expectation. Viper dining with him in as prominent a Harlem establishment as the famous Rooster signified a deadly dominance: two generations of reefer men to be revered and feared.
Count Basie and his entourage occupied a table nearby. The distinguished pianist and orchestra leader gave Viper a respectful nod when their eyes met. Viper returned the nod and thought, fleetingly, how surreal it was that someone he had worshipped much of his life would show him such a gesture of esteem. The royally monikered greats, Count Basie and Duke Ellington, held a special place in Viper’s sphere. They were protean survivors in the long game, still swingin’ with their big bands after three decades or more but adjusting with the times, welcoming bebop innovation, Basie had said, “so long as it made sense.”
Basie usually played down on 52nd Street these days, but like so many of the jazzmen, he loved to eat and relax uptown, with his people. Viper noticed Basie’s hands as he carved into his T-bone steak. They were fleshy on the backs and the palms but with exquisitely long fingers. Glancing at Count Basie’s hands, then returning his gaze to Country Johnson wolfing down his soul food, Viper’s mind flashed to Sticks Anderson.
Country Johnson had become instantly famous for chopping off Sticks Anderson’s thumbs his first morning in Harlem. Pork Chop Bradley rushed Sticks to Harlem Hospital, where they staunched the bleeding and bandaged the wounds. Sticks left town on a Greyhound bus, headed south, that very day, never to be heard from again. Viper’s taking Country to dinner at the Red Rooster let everyone know, in case anyone was in doubt, that the brutal young enforcer had Viper’s full support.
“Glad you’re enjoying the meal, Country,” Viper said.
“Oh yeah,” Country said, his mouth full. He dabbed at his greasy lips with the napkin he wore like a bib, tucked under his shirt collar. “Tastes like home.”
Viper smiled. A sudden curiosity crossed his mind. “Do you ever get homesick, Country?”
The young gangster paused, seemed to consider the question seriously for the first time. “No, suh, can’t say I do. I only been up in Harlem a year or so. Guess there be so much happenin’ all the time, I ain’t had time to miss bein’ back home. But I wire money to my mama every week. So thank you for that, Mr. Viper.”
“You’re welcome, Country. But you’re working damn hard to earn that money. And I appreciate it.”
“How ’bout you, Mr. Viper?”
“Huh?”
“You ever get homesick?”
“Well, after more than twenty years, I guess Harlem is my home.”
“Where you from, ’riginally?”
“Meachum, Alabama.”
“We’s a long way from down South up here, ain’t we, Mr. Viper?”
“Yes, we are, Country.”
At that moment, a buxom, brown-skinned beauty in a polka-dot dress sauntered by the table. Damn if she wasn’t a dead ringer for Estella, who had given Viper “the first pussy he ever got in Harlem,” way back in the day … before she became a hollow-eyed junkie and choked to death on her puke. The beauty batted her eyelashes at Country, and Viper shuddered when he heard her say to his protégé:
“Hey, killer.”
Country flashed his gap-toothed grin. “Hey, baby. Wait for me by the bar. I see you after we finish dinner.”
