Alligator Bayou Read Free

sir.”
    “My mamma didn’t raise no idiots. What’s wrong, boy?”
    “Nothing’s wrong, sir.”
    One side of his mouth turns down. “State your business, then.”
    “I just need to talk to Frank Raymond, sir. Quick, sir.”
    “Quick, huh? Mr. Raymond’s done disappeared.”
    My cheeks go slack.
    Blander smiles and claps a hand on my shoulder. “Just pulling your leg, boy. He’s in that there saloon across the road. Stay here and mind the shop while I fetch him. Right here. Not inside—just in the doorway. If people come, say you reckon I’ll be back in a minute.”
    “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
    Blander crosses the street into the saloon.
    I can barely manage to stand still. I tuck in my thumbs, and wrap my fingers around them, and look up and down Depot Street.
    On the far sidewalk a lady and her daughter are watching me. It’s Mrs. Johnson. She brushes her hands off as though they’re suddenly dirty and gives me an ugly look. Then she turns her head and hurries her daughter away.
    The way she brushed her hands, she must have seen Blander’s palm on my shoulder. Rich white people like her don’t touch Sicilians or Negroes. I feel all strange and slimy. There’s crazy ways here in America, rules that Francesco calls just plain stupid. He says to ignore them. But it’s hard to ignore a woman looking at me like that.
    Blander’s not rich, so maybe he can touch whoever he wants. Still, I wonder if he’s just made a problem for himself. Maybe rich people won’t want Blander shaving their faces for a while.
    But forget that. What to do about Francesco and that gun?
    I look into the barbershop, where Frank Raymond’s landscape paintings hang on the back wall. Blander lets Frank Raymond live over the barbershop in exchange for paintings.
    What’s taking so long?
    I look toward the saloon. An enormous alligator head hangs from iron prongs above the door. Usually I glance at it, then drop my eyes as I pass. Staying on the very edge of the sidewalk, closest to the street. But now I stare, like Cirone and I stared at the panther. The ferocious mouth gapes and I see his yellow teeth. The story is, this alligator was caught crossing the road with a whole dead boar in his mouth. I believe it.
    Alligators and panthers. And men with guns. Sometimes I’m glad my little brother Rocco’s not here with me.
    What is taking them so long?
    Frank Raymond comes out of the saloon with Blander. His blond hair is bright in the sun. “Good morning, Calogero.” He smiles at me.
    “Good morning.” I look at Blander. “Thank you, sir.”
    “I reckon you’re welcome.” Blander waits, all nosy.
    I’m just about to jump out of my skin. I look at Frank Raymond. “Can we go upstairs to your place, please?”
    “I don’t have much time, Calogero. I have to get back to work.”
    “In the saloon?”
    “Painting a picture on the wall.”
    “Can I see it?”
    “There’re no customers yet, so I guess I could sneak you in just for a minute.” Frank Raymond turns to Blander. “Thanks so much.”
    “Ain’t nothing to speak of. See y’all later.” Blander goes inside his shop.
    As we walk away, I whisper, “Show me later. You have to hurry. Please, you have to get a message to Willy Rogers not to cross the railroad tracks today.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “He can’t cross in his usual spot.”
    “What’s his usual spot?”
    “I don’t know. He just can’t cross. Not going to work. Not coming home.”
    “How come?”
    “I can’t tell.”
    “Then I won’t help you.” Frank Raymond crosses his arms at his chest.
    “Francesco’s waiting for him with a gun.”
    “Oh, Lord.” He rubs his forehead. “I’ll take care of it.”
    “Really? Just like that?”
    “Count on it.”
    Count on it. Just like Carlo’s counting on me now. “How?”
    “I’ll figure it out.”
    “Thanks. Thanks! And, hey, what does lynch mean?”
    “Lynch?” Frank Raymond blinks and his voice goes raspy. “What are