The Songbook of Benny Lament - Amy Harmon Page 0,136
his eyes on mine, while the unfortunate nurse cleaned up the mess I’d made and filled up my water. I sipped at it obediently this time. She smiled at me and left the room.
“They know who you are,” Money grumbled.
“What?”
“All the nurses. They know who you are. You and Esther. You have a fan club.”
“Is there really a Negro wing, Money?”
“Hell yes, there is. And it’s more like a Negro hallway. A Negro chicken neck instead of a Negro wing. It’s like that everywhere. Don’t you know anything, Lament?”
“I’m beginning to think I don’t know a goddamn thing.” I sighed. “But I’m hoping you’re going to tell me.”
He swallowed, scooting his chair closer to the bed and resting his elbows on the side.
“Those cops said you found me.”
“I found you. Yeah. I found you . . . and I saw the whole damn thing.” His voice was so low I had to strain to hear, but I didn’t ask him to speak up. There were things to be said that shouldn’t be overheard.
“I knew you had to be looking for him. For Bo Johnson. It made me jumpy.”
“I saw him at the end of our set.”
“I came around from the left side of the building, east of the entrance. I was probably fifty yards away when I saw you. It just looked like you were having a smoke. All by yourself. I almost turned around and left you alone.
“Then I saw a black car pull up. It was just like the car in Harlem, the gangsters that took a shot at Lee Otis and Arky. Two of ’em got out and started walking toward you. Your back was to them. Next thing I know, one’s swinging a pipe at your head and you went down. Face down. I’m guessing that’s what broke your nose. They scooped you up under the arms like they were going to stuff you in the back seat of that car. It’s a good thing you’re big as hell, because they struggled. They dropped you and one of them grabbed your hand. I wasn’t close enough to see what he was doing. But that’s when I shouted. I’d just been standing there . . . frozen.”
He looked at me, apology written all over his face. “It took me too long to react, Lament. All I could think was ‘Don’t get involved or they’ll blame it on you.’”
“It’s okay, Money,” I said. And I meant it. “What happened then?”
“I started shouting, and that’s when someone started shooting.”
“At me?”
“At them,” Money said. “At the bastards in the black car. As soon as the gun went off, I hit the ground. Those guys didn’t know where it was coming from. But I did.”
“Bo Johnson.”
Money nodded, a single, sharp jerk of his head, and his eyes were blank like he was seeing it all again. “When he started shooting, the two guys left you and scrambled for the car, and I thought they would get away.” Money paused, and his voice got even lower. “He shot out the back tire. It skidded, jumped the curb, and plowed into the jewelry store. An alarm started blaring. The guy on the passenger side opened his door and kind of fell out.
“Bo Johnson shot that guy first, from about fifteen feet away. The guy flopped like a fish, and nobody else got out.” Money raised his eyes to mine. “When Johnson reached the car, he fired into it six times.” Money raised his finger in the shape of a gun. “Boom, boom.” Money changed his position, like he was pointing at someone new. “Boom, boom.” Money shifted again. “Boom, boom.”
“Two shots for each guy.”
“Yeah. Then he just kept on walking. I got up and ran to you then. And I didn’t watch him go.”
We were silent for a moment, listening as someone in squeaky shoes walked by, pushing a clattering gurney.
“The cops were there quick. Maybe they expected trouble at the theater. Maybe they were just circling. But about a minute after the last shots were fired, they were swarming.”
“What happened to your face?” He had a scrape across his forehead and one on his right cheek.
“Don’t get involved or they’ll blame it on you,” he warned, waving his finger at me, his voice singsong. “I kept my hands up, and I told them I was with you, but there were bodies everywhere, and I’m a colored boy. Known for my violence.” His bitterness was back. “They pushed me down, put cuffs on