Them Read Free Page A

in.”
    Barlowe didn’t say anything to that. He stared blankly at the birds.
    Tyrone released the pigeons into the backyard, to let them stretch their wings a bit. As usual, the birds flew into the big oak tree in the yard next door. They sat there awhile, then returned to Tyrone, who gently placed them back in the cage.
    Barlowe watched, marveling at how hands that handled animals with such loving care were so quick to shed human blood.
    Tyrone picked up a beer and took a chug. “Where you been the last few days, Unk, bangin some honey on the sly?”
    Barlowe ran a hand wearily through his knotty head, using the fingers like an Afro pick.
    â€œYeah. I been bangin.”
    â€œNell?”
    â€œNo,” Barlowe said. “No.”
    â€œSo what honey kept you on lockdown for three whole days?”
    Barlowe thought about the brown lady on the post office stamps. “Jus a gal,” he said. “You wouldn’t know her.”
    â€œWhat you wanna bet?”
    â€œMake it light on yourself.”
    Tyrone chuckled. He went into the kitchen, grabbed a pot holder and took the pork chops off the stove. He placed them onto an ugly platter, then turned to Barlowe.
    â€œC’mon, Unk. Les grub and go ride.”
    â€œRide?”
    â€œYou got a birfday comin up, right? The big 4-0, right?”
    â€œThas still a few weeks off yet. Ain’t no point in rushin that.”
    â€œSo what?! Les celebrate early! C’mon. On me .”
    Barlowe liked a good time as much as the next man, but it was too early in the day for that. Besides, he didn’t hang out much with Tyrone. There was a solid fifteen years between them, and in their heads—their ways of looking at things—they were at least more than twice that far apart. And right now he craved a little peace and quiet. He needed time to bathe and chase the sights and smells of the dungeon from his head.
    â€œI’ma stay home and chill.”
    â€œSuit yourself. Me, I gotta git in the wind.”
    â€œThen git, then.”
    Tyrone laughed. He had a funny, chee-hee-hee laugh that made you want to laugh, too, just because he was laughing. Tyrone had a bright, baby-face smile and a mustache that never seemed to grow more than a wisp of fuzz. With smooth, olive skin and jet-black curly hair, he could pass for East Indian at least three days a week. He was quick to tell anybody who needed to hear that he was black, pure black, “A hunnered percent!”
    After he and Barlowe finished talking, Tyrone went to his room. He came out a few hours later, scrubbed and sharply dressed.
    Barlowe didn’t care much for clothes. Except for very special occasions, he wore his khaki uniform every day. Now he studied Tyrone, giving him the up and down.
    â€œWhere you goin all dressed up?”
    â€œGotta git wit this honey I jus met.”
    â€œYou gonna poke her, or what?”
    â€œGawd willin.” Tyrone paused. “I gotta play this one smart, though. She a house girl. She ain’t never had no real trash like me.”
    â€œHow old is she?”
    â€œDon’t know for sho. I can tell she got some mileage on her, though. When she talk, you can see that silver shit in back of her mouf.”
    â€œShe good-lookin?”
    â€œPhatter than a Bojangles biscuit wit butter.”
    When he said Bojangles, Tyrone dragged out the first syllable for emphasis. Bo -jangles. Barlowe got the picture.
    Soon, a car horn sounded. Tyrone headed for the door. Barlowe followed, hoping to steal a peek at tender flesh. When Tyrone and his date drove off, Barlowe scanned casually up and down the block. He spotted one of his neighbors, Miss Carol Lilly. She was bent over, working in her flower bed, her wide butt sticking straight up in the air. Barlowe waved at old Mr. Smith across the street, then something bizarre caught his eye. It was a man—a white man—standing on the sidewalk near the front of the house. Dressed in a