The Nigger Factory. Gil Scott-HeronЧитать онлайн книгу.
toward the door. He could feel that heat rising to his head. Somehow he could feel that Abul Menka was looking at him for the first time since he entered the room. He turned and caught the stare head on. Yeah, he thought. I got alla these muthafuckuhs shook … thass good. But it’s not time fo’ you yet, Captain Cool. Or you, unfriendly Giant, as he thought of King. Time will come though.
‘You can wait here!’ King exclaimed on the verge of rage. Earl confidently estimated that he had upset King more than any of the others.
‘No. I missed dinna, man. I’m goin’ to O’Jay’s for a bite befo’ I go to the Plantation.’
‘Yeah,’ Baker mumbled.
‘Later,’ Earl said, leaving.
When Baker next looked up Earl had gone and the only reminder of his presence was the echo of Ben King hammering the already battered card table time and time again.
‘Jonesy? Do me a favor and go down ta git Johnson.’
‘He in the lobby?’
‘Somewhere down there.’
Jonesy exited. The four remaining young men in black dashikis sat in silence. Baker ran his hand over his hairless head. Speedy Cotton, the lithe, coal-complexioned halfback, yawned broadly. Ben King sat frozen in his chair. Abul Menka looked out of the window.
Jonesy came back in, followed closely by a short young man of medium build who wore thick glasses and a blue business suit. He carried a pad and a pen under his arm.
‘Hi, brothers,’ he said emitting a smile that looked like a cracking mirror. He was extremely nervous and uncomfortable with the five MJUMBE chieftains and they were all aware of it.
The three seated members vaguely acknowledged his presence. Abul Menka remained silent. Johnson didn’t notice. He fidgeted with the pad, looking through it for notes that obviously did not exist. He wished he hadn’t allowed Baker to talk him into this situation. He had wanted the details for his story over the phone, but he had been bribed. Baker had promised him an inside seat and the real detailed story Victor wanted in return for two promises. One, that Earl Thomas not be interviewed until after Calhoun had been served with the papers. That demand had not bothered Johnson. He didn’t like Earl and had never received any real cooperation from his office. But the second point was a sore spot with him. Baker was asking to see the story before it was printed. That went against a lot of things. It went against professional ethics, objective standards, and everything else. Baker sounded intent on having his way however. So what could Victor Johnson really do? Nothing. He sat there, knees rattling.
‘Did’ja bring them numbers I ast for?’ Baker questioned, breaking the silence.
‘I, uh, already knew those numbers,’ Johnson smiled weakly. Naturally he wanted to be cool.
Ben King was already on edge. He was tempted to reach across the table and slap the sniveling muthafuckuh! Those goddamn glasses and that bitch’s voice. Shit!
‘I’ll take ’um down. What are they?’ Cotton asked.
Johnson handed Cotton the pad and pen.
‘Uh, Portsmouth Bulletin – TU 6–3090. Uh, Roanoke Tribune – UL 9–6200. What were the others? I forget?’
‘The Norfolk News and AP and UPI county offices.’ Baker snapped.
‘Yeah. Uh, Norfolk News – LO 2–0000. AP and UPI news services can, uh, be called through the Norfolk News. Extension six-nine-nine for AP. Extension eight-two-two-three for UPI. Uh, I donno what county this would be for.’
‘You got ’um?’ Baker asked Cotton.
‘Uh-huh.’
Baker hoisted himself upright. He never talked to the group sitting down. He needed his hands and arms to gesture.
‘Everybody know what to do?’ he asked.
No one commented.
‘All right then. One more time: Speedy, you an’ me go wit’ Johnson. While we gittin’ the paper t’gether you gonna be callin’ them people tellin’ Calhoun been served wit’ deman’s on Sutton University’s campus. Tell ’um tomorrow we expectin’ a answer. At that time we gonna respon’ to his responses.’
‘Right on.’
‘Ben? You ready?’
‘You know that,’ King said.
‘What you gon’ do?’
‘When Calhoun come out tuhmaruh, if he don’ say we gittin’ what we want, me an’ the guys gon’ start closin’ shit down fa’ the boycott.’
Johnson’s eyes popped. ‘Boycott?’
Baker laughed. For a minute the tension was knifed, stabbed, and floating melodramatically to the floor. Everyone except Abul smiled at the grotesque look of horror that masked the editor’s face and the awkward, choked question that had slid from between his tightly closed teeth.
‘Yeah,’ King growled. He was especially dramatic for the benefit of their visitor. ‘Tuhmaruh if shit don’ go right we callin’ off classes an’ we stop eatin’ inna cafeteria an’ alla resta that shit. People who don’ dig it can come see me. I’m gon’ be the complaint department.’
‘Jonesy? You ready?’ Baker asked.
‘Yeah. I got it done … the statements you want released to the press and whatnot been typed up by some sistuhs in the dorm. I kin git ’um anytime I need ’um.’
Baker smiled. He felt better. ‘We’ll want ’um t’night, okay?’
Everybody laughed.
‘Abul?’
Abul Menka swiveled away from the window with exaggerated slowness. The eternal question was in his eyes. Baker laughed again.
‘Captain? Captain, why you so damn cool?’ Baker almost choked on the words. ‘Johnson, why is this man so muthafuckin’ cool? Goddamn! This is the iceman an’ what have you.’ He turned to King. ‘Benny? Why?’
‘I donno, brother.’
‘I swear. Captain Zero! Ha! Tell me, captain, hahahahaha, iz you or iz you not ready?’
‘I iz, suh,’ Menka drawled slowly. ‘Tuh-ma-ruh afternoon iz in my con-trol. When I heard you needed a bit a my help I immediately stole the white boys’ quickes’ steed an’ hopped nimber-ly into the saddle. I iz gonna pass out copies a yo’ statements to the faculty hopin’ alla while ta pull a few insomnia cure-ahs ovuh to our way a thinkin’.’
Johnson’s mouth fell completely open.
‘You the cooles’,’ Baker said.
‘Ultra cool,’ Jonesy chimed. Baker almost collapsed. Whoever heard of Fred Jones saying something without being asked?
‘Uh, what ’bout my story?’ Johnson asked, trying to capitalize on the upsurge of good spirits.
‘Ha! Baker, did this cat ast you somethin’ or am I gone completely outta my head?’
‘Vic, my main man an’ campus Waltuh Cronkite, I’m gonna give you a story to take the salt outta the shaker. After this muthafuckuh thay givin’ me a gig writin’ fo’ the Secret Storm. Ha!’
Everyone was thinking the same way. ‘To hell with Thomas! To hell with Head Nigger Calhoun!