Them by Nathan McCall Read Free Book Online

was nudging the establishment into drugs and prostitution. Now a parade of glaze-eyed zombies drifted in and out like it was the main post office downtown. Now flashy women strolled the strip, searching men’s eyes for desire as they waved at passing cars. And the men’s wives, if they happened to be riding along, commented for the thousandth time: “Somethin oughta be done bout that place.”
    Traipsing along, Barlowe studied the Palace, where the front door was left ajar. That front door stayed open all the time, even in winter. He passed the place and made his way on down the street.
    By the time Barlowe finished his rounds, the Sunday sun had set. The neighborhood had begun hunkering down for the evening. Children were called home for supper. Working folks scuttled in to prepare for the next day’s grind. They ironed their work clothes or packed their bag lunches, or simply tried to gear their weary minds for another week of hard labor and routine insults on low-paying jobs.
    As Barlowe reached home, a huge dump truck rumbled past, barreling toward Edgewood Avenue. One of its wheels sank into a pothole and bounced up noisily.
    Barlowe had started up the walkway, when a familiar raspy voice floated his way.
    â€œHey dere, young man!”
    He turned and saw Mr. Smith, his elderly neighbor from across the street. Mr. Smith and his wife, Zelda, were both retirees who had lived in the Old Fourth Ward for thirty years. A short, bald, bow-spined man with banjo eyes, Mr. Smith was out front, leaning under the open hood of his broken-down Chevrolet. It was an old convertible with a tattered rag top that had been peeling back like dead skin on a shedding snake.
    That rusty car hadn’t moved in years. Still, he spent his spare time out there with a huge red toolbox, tinkering with the thing.
    â€œHow you doin taday?” he asked cheerily as Barlowe approached.
    â€œI’m fine, Mr. Smith. Workin hard, thas all.”
    â€œAw, don’t worry bout that, son. Hard work ain’t never kilt nobody.” Then he reconsidered. “Well, not lately, no way.”
    Mr. Smith liked Barlowe. He didn’t care much for that fish-eyed Tyrone, but he liked Barlowe a lot. He liked that Barlowe read newspapers and history books and seemed to search into the heart of things.
    Barlowe liked Mr. Smith, too, mostly for the same reasons. He liked him so much, in fact, that he used variations of Mr. Smith’s house address, 1023, for good luck when he played the numbers.
    â€œMr. Smith,” said Barlowe, “I gotta idea.”
    â€œA idea?” The old man leaned over his toolbox and exchanged a wrench for a pair of pliers.
    â€œWe should do somethin bout them heavy trucks comin through.”
    â€œSomethin like whut? Whut you gon do?”
    â€œWe should petition the city to ban em from takin shortcuts through here. Maybe I could call that councilman, Cliff Barnes.”
    Mr. Smith stood up straight. “Uh-huh. You go right head, and see what happens.”
    â€œWhat you think will happen?”
    â€œAbslutely nothin. When you call Barnes, he’ll check his books to see how much money niggers out chere give to his last campaign. And that’ll be the end a that.”
    â€œNooo,” said Barlowe. “We gotta hound em. We gotta bring pressure, like white folks do.”
    â€œOkay, Mr. Pressure. You go right head. Come back and lemme know how it went.”
    As usual, the talk turned to sports. There was a big boxing match coming up. They bet a six-pack on the fight. While they talked, a white man came strolling up the walk. Dressed in shorts, a T-shirt and flip-flops, he led an expensive-looking dog on a leash.
    Barlowe and Mr. Smith stopped talking and gazed at the troubling sight. Lately there had been rumors, all kinds of wild rumors, about them coming through the neighborhood, snooping around for who knows what.
    The white man stopped at the edge of Mr. Smith’s