Hard head

BLACK JACK

 

He could play the tables. He could drink all the rot gut he felt like drinkin'. He could lay all the ladies who laid him back and still be up for more.  He could eat at a lunch counter or the Ritz, except, except, Jack really is black, so black his skin shines blue when under a fluorescent light. He hates that skin of his. He should be somebody because he knows for sure he is somebody, somebody special and is going to be famous, make a mark on this old earth.

 

His Mama has taught him to be honest. He told her what she can do with honesty besides starve. His father has warned him about ladies of the night and to not catch syphilis or he'll go blind. He has warned his Pop to be careful himself because his Mom knows her man fiddles around.

 

Jack has his 22nd birthday alone. He sits by the hazy front window and hears sirens scream. They don't scream for him this time. A little excitement runs thru his body. Plans are in the work. Joe, his former best pal, knows a lot of people, knows bank routes, delivery, take out times. Joe has been a free man, rather semi-free man, for six months now and has to report to his parole board twice a week for ten years. Jack is not gonna wait ten years for him to be on the street again.

 

He talks to Joe's Ma and finds out where he stays all day, gets a phone number, gives the old lady five bucks and goes looking for Joe. There is trouble right away as Joe wants no part of muck-up Jack. His former pal thinks he's god's gift to the ladies and to him. He isn't needed. The Ralston bank is little on the outside but handles lots of big company pay rolls. It's at most a four man job and Jack would make five. Nobody wants him. They put the problem on Joe. Get rid of him, any way you want. Just do it.

 

Jack, in the meantime, is planning something on his own. Why should he work hard, take most of the big chances and split the pot? 'Ma, come with me, I need to get into your safe deposit box for Dad's stocks from Algonquin Oil. I can triple what they are worth for him, for you. The price of oil keeps going up and the company is splittin' it's britches. It's making money faster than the mint prints it. 'Don't tell me 'no, Ma. Get your key and we are going over to Ralston Bank. You go in. I'll wait outside. We can't get in any trouble, Ma. They're your stocks too. Turn off the gas range and go, go now!' She's strong but he knows she'll give in soon. And she does. They have to take the bus to the bank as neither has a car. Jack sits down and feels eyes staring at his blackness. The sun streaks in the closed window and makes little yellow lines across his black face. He can't see them this time but remembers other times and stares hard into the faces of the other passengers.

 

Three blocks before the bank he tells his ma to get off the bus and walk to the bank.' Go inside. Wait there for me, near the front desk.'
Everything is going well. His head is covered by a grey wig that looks better than his real hair. He takes his time, looks in the window of a photo shop next door and walks into the bank.

 

At the same exact minute Joe and his pals, rifles, machine guns spitting fire in all directions blast into the bank. The Manager of the bank is miraculously able to reach the emergency foot peddle for the police. Mama dies fast, without ever knowing what happened to her or her son, Jack.

 

Jack knew almost nothing but heard someone leaning over his leaking body, 'Hey, look at this killer. There's so much blood on his black  muscled chest, he looks like a checkerboard.' 

 

Maybe he thought he would be famous as the Checkerboard Killer and died happy.