“You still got it?” JoJo ask.

The man he call Bronco, black with green eyes and a face like an Indian, show the back of his forearm and four scars runnin’ like tracks.

“What happen to you?” you ask.

“We had some women trouble.”

You smile, take a swig from JoJo’s beer. He don’t say nothin’, like he can’t see it.

“In fact,” Bronco say, “her name was T-R-O-U-B-L-E. And wadn’t worth the time.”

Eddie Wilde, thin and tall and in a black suit, shake his head. “Pussy make you do some dumb shit.”

“You right,” JoJo say. “Ever think about that? Everythin’ a man do is for pussy. His job, his clothes. Even drivin’ a silly-ass car. But he ain’t never believe it.”

“I remember when you wore your first suit to church,” Bronco say. “You just met Loretta, I do believe, and just about lose your mind.”

“Shit,” JoJo say, snatching the forty away from you and takin’ a sip.

Y’all sit like this a long time. You can hear the trucks and cars prowlin’ down MLK and hear the country thugs talkin’ shit outside. The air is so hot your T-shirt sticks to your skin and soon you start lookin’ at yourself in the mirror when JoJo send you to get beers. You look back at the old men and flex the muscles in your arm.

JoJo start playin’ blues on the jukebox and the old men come alive. Eddie Wilde dance with himself out on the smooth floor, waggin’ his old black-man finger. Bronco sing along with a song call “Feel Like Goin’ Home.”

You could swear that your old man’s eyes get heavy with that, his lips moving over the words. “Late in the evenin’,” he say. His mind forty years behind.

They all slammin’ beers and talkin’ shit when you see those young thugs walk into the joint. They little older than you, wearin’ black Ts with no sleeves and thick gold around their neck. They watch you from the end of the bar with their red eyes.

Under the table, you feel for the knife in your pocket.

While laughin’ at one of JoJo’s jokes, Bronco take the blade from you hand and starts cleanin’ his nails with it.

The country thugs come to you.

You kick the chair out. Ready to fight.

One of the boys smiles. “You right,” he say. “ALIAS, my man.”

Everybody slappin’ you on the back, pullin’ you away from the small corner where the old men drink.

They keep talkin’ but no one is listening.

42

“HAVE YOU TALKED TO JOJO?” Maggie asked, very early and very bright the next morning. I rolled off the mattress I kept on the warehouse floor and cradled the phone closer to my ear.

“No.”

“He seemed pretty pissed,” she said. “You know, like he didn’t have time to talk.”

“He always sounds that way.”

“You doin’ okay?”

“Fine.”

“You know what I did yesterday?”