Chapter 24. If You're Gonna Pray..Then Pray Big....

I gave Dulcien what money I could, but that wasn't much. I was in a bind. I needed money, I needed distance. If i got the money, I figured, I could buy me the distance.

Louie was back from the Army. He had caught some kind of bug and been medically discharged. I began thinking about the big job, the score that would put me over, the quiso that would solve all my problems.

"Look, Louie," I told him one day, "you're out of the Army now and I ain't doin' a fuckin' thing; how about going back to work again?"
"Yeah," said Louie, "let's work. I've seen Danny and Billy and I told them we might work again."
And just like that we went into business again. It had been almost a year since the car guiso. But this was gonna be different no more small-time shit. We were gonna hit a big place with enough bread to take care of us real good.

We looked around for a rainbow. Danny found a night club downtown that he thought would be a soft touch. "Nothing but faggots and soft asses in there," he said. We decided to hit it on the next Friday night--actually early Saturday morning. The night came. I went up to see Trina, who was sick with a bad cold. I rubbed her down with Vick's and tucked her under a blanket. "Don't go, Piri," she begged as we embraced, "I have a bad premonition."

"What a dope," I said. "Don't worry. I'm going 'cause I got something important to do."

Trina pressed close to me and I felt her stiffen. "What's that in your inside pocket?" she asked.
Damn, the gun, she felt the piece, I thought, but I said, "It's nada, honey, only the pint of whisky." I got up and packed the covers around her.

She looked up at me and said, "Be Good, Piri."
"Sure, baby, always for you."

Out in the street the air was cold and I pulled my coat collar up and my hat down. It was so cold it was hard to breathe, but I decided to walk back to the block. It was early yet. Louie had copped out with a flu bug, and I didn't have to meet Danny and Billy until eleven. I walked block by block and got further and further away from Trina, and way down in my mind I worried about her premonition. I decided to go upstairs to my place and waste a stick of pot.

After a short bit I felt a little cooler, although I was still a little tight deep down in my guts, almost like I was scared. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and made my face as cara palo as I could. In the reflection of the mirror I saw behind me the old lady's little altar, with all kinds of saints and candles. Man, this old lady is sure on a Christ kick. I wonder if it does any good. I patted the cold chalk head of the saint, knelt down, and crossed myself. I ain't even a Catholic, but maybe it'll do some good.

"Saint," I said, "if you can hear me, I'm gonna pull a score tonight. Make it be a good one, with mucho bread, so it will be my last job. Let there be thousands--millions." Why not? I thought. If you're gonna pray, then pray big.

I got up feeling kinda foolish and like I had done something wrong. I finished dressing and went to the corner to meet the guys. Danny and Billy were there waiting for me.
"Hey, hombres," I said.
"Hey, kid, how ya doing?" said Billy. Danny just flicked his hand up as a greeting. "Where's Louie?" he asked.
"He's sick," I explained. "I guess it's a touch of fever or something."
"Ah, that means he ain't comin' on this score, eh?"
"Guess not," I said. "But I got the key to the car."

We decided to cop some drinks. I took the paddies to a nearby place on Madison Avenue. We stepped into the stale smoke of a dimly lit bar where a wild mambo was blasting out of the jukebox. Right away the atmosphere got tense. In Spanish Harlem all paddies look like cops and everyone at the bar began looking our way, no doubt thinkin', Piri's got busted and them two haras are looking for somebody else he knows. I laughed and said in Spanish, "Don't worry, these guys are okay. They're paddies but they're okay. Just some business partners."

It took a little while for the air to loosen up. Finally, one of the dealers in pot got next to me by the jukebox and said, "Hey, Piri, no shit, you sure these gringos ain't haras?"
"Yeah, man," I said. "Got some joints?" He went white, sure now that I was setting him up for a bust. "Look, stuff," I told him, "you know me, so stop your shit. I ain't never set nobody up and I ain't starting now."
"Here man," he said, and shoved a packet of six joints at me. "It's on me."
I walked over to the table where Danny and Billy were.
"What's happening, Piri?" asked Billy.
"Nada," I said, "just got us some free pot." We sat and drank and I blew some pot in the shithouse. After a while the pot started to get to me. My head felt like somebody had a rubber band twisted around it. "Come on, let's get outta here," I whispered, and Billy dropped some bills on the table and we made it out to the car. I gave my paddy friends a stick of pot and we drove around Harlem. My high was on full blast and I stretched out in the back seat and studied the passing scenes.

"Hey," I said half aloud, "it would be better for us if it rained, eh?" That would mean less people on the streets.
"Yeah, chico," said Billy.
"It's gonna be a clear night," Danny said. "But it's cold as hell out there, real February weather, and there ain't too many people gonna be around at two-thirty in the morning."

At about twelve-thirty we headed downtown. My high had settled down and I was in just the right frame of mind. We parked and went down a long flight of stairs and into a long, barn-like darkened room, with red and green lights and specks of yellow and a lot of people. Jesus, I thought, there's almost too many people in here to pull a stick-up. But I kept my mouth shut.

We sat at a little round table in the back and ordered expensive drinks. When my eyes grew used to the darkness, I made out where everything was--the bar, the stage, the manager's office. At about two-thirty, Billy got the little black box where we kept our pieces. The time had come. I reached down under the table and flipped open the box and handed my white buddies the cold, color-blind pieces--two .38's to a pair of hands, a .45 to another hand. I kept a P-38.

One part of me wanted to forget about this score. So many damn people . . . But another part of me--the angry, hungry part--wanted to run it through and fuck everything. Anyway, there was no copping out now.

Everybody was watching the floor show. Some broad dressed like a man was on the stage. Around her were some men dressed like broads. The flickering lights gave the scene a nightmarish quality. I blinked my eyes and moved to the front door, thinking, Everybody comes in, nobody goes out. Danny moved toward the stage; Billy covered the bar.

Then, Danny pushed up onto the stage, shoved the broad away and grabbed the microphone. "Everybody keep quiet and you won't get hurt," he shouted. "This is a stick-up." His voice sounded like bombs falling.

Attaboy, Danny. The next step was to collect all the cash in the manager's office, then make all the people, the whole couple of hundred of them, drop their wallets and jewelry into a big tablecloth Billy would be passing around. But it didn't go that way at all. The customers thought Danny was part of the floor show and they began to laugh. I almost felt like laughing myself. Then Danny fired twice over everyone's head and into the mirrors and everything suddenly got quiet. "I ain't kidding," he shouted. "There's six of us pulling this job and some of us are sitting next to you, so just be quiet and you won't get hurt."

Smart, baby, real chevere, that's using your cabeza. Then a woman screamed and, as though she had touched a match to a gasoline tank, everyone began to scream. The people sitting near the back began to head for the door where I had stationed myself. I pointed the P-38 and roared out, "Stop, don't come any closer or you'll get lit up." They kept coming, so I lowered my piece and fired into the door. That stopped them.

The bunched-up people looked at me like watchful buzzards, afraid to move in but ready to pounce if I should cop out. A nice-looking chippy, drunk as hell, staggered toward me and tried to put her arms around me, saying, "Wha's the matta, eh, you jus' a gangster--oh, gee--I just love gangsters . . ." I tried to push her away, but she just stood there, trying to put her arms around me. If she ties me up, I thought, somebody will sure jump me. Suddenly I felt my left hand ball up in a fist and crash into her jaw. She went down and I didn't see her any more.

I strained my eyes to see if Danny and Billy had copped the dough. And then, through the pot, through the liquor, through the haze, I saw a movement to my right. I turned slightly. There was a man, on one knee, near the bar. He had something in his hand and it was pointing at me. I just barely saw it flash, then I was spun halfway around by something that crashed into my chest.

My God, what did he throw at me? The rest came fast. My body swiveled back, my hand tight-held my P-38, and my finger squeezed. The gun jumped in my hand and the man on one knee grunted and slammed back hard against the bar.

He shot me. My fingers found my chest and I felt the hot, sticky blood spreading over my white shirt. The man slid backward and lay there. I'm shot, I thought, but I shot that white sonofabitch.

My chest got full of fire and I looked at the little hole in my shirt. I put my finger in the hole, remembering the story I learned in school about a kid in Holland putting his fingers in a dike and saving the town from getting flooded. All I heard were screams and guns shooting and a loud roar covering that. An arm grabbed me from behind. I fought like hell to get away. I felt blood in my mouth. The arm dragged me to the floor, and I saw it was attached to a big vulture who was now on top of me. Suddenly I felt cool and I looked at him and then over his shoulder. "Shoot him, Billy," I yelled, "shoot him in the head," and I ducked to one side as if to get away from the coming bullet. The big man went for it and scrambled off me. I pushed myself up, the gun still in my hand. No one touched me. My legs felt like melting lard. I thought to myself, My blood is not as much in me. I'm hit, let's make it. I screamed instead.

I heard a voice near me, echoing like in a cave, "Go ahead, we'll cover you."
"It's my turn--I must--I have to stop the blood . . ." I turned and started climbing them long steps. Piri, stick your finger in the hole. If the blood don't come out, you can't die. Jesus, if I can only get back to Harlem, everything is gonna be chevere again--just get back to Harlem and there ain't a fucking thing can hurt you there. The cold morning air hit me and I felt some more pain. The doorman was yelling his head off.
I knocked him down the stairs and ran down the street. I was running down the middle of the street and the same thing kept beating into my head: If I can only get back to Harlem, I'll be all right. If I can get back to Trina, everything is gonna be all right . . .

"My God, it's cold," I mumbled. I heard voices from far away. "Piri, Piri, you're running the wrong way. The car's back this way . . ." But I couldn't stop running. I'd die here. I just hadda make it back to my block. Near the corner I saw a cab waiting for the light to change. I yanked the door open. There was a guy and his girl sitting in the back. "Don't make trouble and you won't get hurt," I told them, and I shoved them aside. "Get going face," I told the driver. "Take me to Harlem."

The guy in the back said, "Look, don't shoot. Is it all right if I sit next to you instead of my girl?"
My God, I didn't give a fuck who sat next to me, all I wanted was to get back to Harlem.
"Please, she's very nervous."
I looked at the girl and she started to cop a fit. Sure, I understand, I thought. I got a girl myself, her name is Trina and she lives in Harlem, where I live and . . . "Cabbie," I said, "get going to Harlem fast or I'll blow your head off."
I felt myself going soft like jelly and everything got black. I fought the darkness and when my eyes cleared I saw lights going on and off. It looked so strange . . . and then I knew. The cabbie was blinking his headlights on and off---a signal for the cops.

I didn't care any more. I just felt I wasn't gonna make it to Harlem that morning, or maybe any morning. I felt blood sticky in my mouth, in between my fingers. I wiggled my toes inside my brand-new suede shoes and they felt sticky, too. I thought about Moms, that she shouldn't have died because I needed her very much to tell me that I am her negrito, and that she would never change me, not even for five blancos.

The cab stopped and the driver started screaming. I stumbled out and he grabbed at me. I hit him and pointed my gun at him and pulled the trigger. But nothing happened. I pulled the trigger again and nothing happened again. I looked down at my hand and there was nothing there, only my hand holding the position of a gun, like when I had been a kid playing cops and robbers. I'd point my finger and curl it and say, "Bang! bang!"---and here I was doing the same thing, only it wasn't a game.

I saw a man leaning on the fender of his car, smoking. I walked toward him. It was a cop. I pointed my hand at him, but it didn't fire. Piri, I thought from somewhere, you got no gun, only the position. I didn't know why, but the hand that wasn't holding back the blood went ahead of me. I stood there looking at the cop. The sky of the morning looked very high; it was cold, and the blood was cold on my chest and hand, and all the noises of the sirens and the glare of the lights didn't bother me at all. All I could think of was the cop in front of me, and I wondered if I should ask him for one of his cigarettes . . . then everything melted together and I fell asleep.

When I awoke I was in a car. I opened by eyes just a little bit and I saw a cop looking at me. My wrists were handcuffed. I tried to move my hands to my chest so I could plug up the hole, then I fell asleep again. When I opened my eyes again, I was back in the night club, sitting in a chair. All around me were screaming and scared people and overturned tables. The cop next to me called over a faggot and gave him a salad bowl. "If he moves, bash him," he said.

I smiled at the thought of a big coolie being guarded by a damned faggot. A rough hand grabbed at me. It was a big plainclothes man. He bent down and I could feel his spit breeze my face. "Do you think it's funny, you black bastard?" he said.
"I thought I was Puerto Rican," I whispered. "If you don't mind, I'm a Puerto Rican black bastard." I didn't know whether or not the sounds were coming through, but I felt my mouth working.
"You lousy dirty black bastard, you lousy black spic, why I oughtta kill you. That's my partner lying there on the floor."
I said something like, "So what?" or "It should be you, too, you white motherfucker," and something hit me hard on the side of my eye.
"Lay off him," a voice said. Then a man in white came up. He looked at my blood and where it was coming from, and in a tired, matter-of-fact voice, said, "Let him alone. He's got a hole through him, and that makes him a patient."
I looked down at the floor where a gray-haired guy was lying. It was the cop I had shot. I felt kind of proud for him because he had a heart. He had been alone and he still had gone down; cool stud, hard stud. Jesus, I thought, I finally shot some Mr. Charlies. I shot 'em in my mind often enough . . .
I heard ambulances yelling like mad. Then the cops brought in a guy who had been shot in the arm. "I'm not one of them," he was screaming. "Honest to God, officer, I was just trying to help you cops out, that's why I had the gun. I picked it up just to help you and---"
"Do you know him?" a cop asked me.
I had never seen him before. I shook my head.
Then I felt hands push me down to the floor. I struggled. I wanted to stand on my feet. Piri, if you lay down, you die. I can walk. But I was pushed down on my back and onto a stretcher. Light bulbs were flashing. With one hand I nozzled my bullet hole, with the other I covered my face. If they were taking pictures I didn't want anybody to know who I was.
I was carried up the long steps out of the night club. All I seemed to be doing was going up and down these long steps. The cold air hit my face and I peeked through my hands and saw an ambulance with the name "St. Vincent's Hospital" on the side. I was placed in the ambulance, gently, like it made no difference I was a wrong cat. Inside, I asked the attendant for a smoke.
"Don't give the bastard nothing," the hara said.
"I can't, anyway, he's got a chest wound."
I didn't feel the pain any more, only a dullness and very tired. The ambulance stopped and I was carried into the hospital and placed on a stretcher with wheels. There were nuns and doctors all over the place. I wondered how Danny and Billy made out. One of the cops said, "These punks shot three people." I wondered who else, besides the cop, and then I saw a guy with this hand over his chest, another guy holding his arm. I looked away. Then the cops brought two guys to me and, my God, they were the sorriest, bloody messes. They almost looked like Danny and Billy. Oh, shit, I thought, it is them! I never thought paddies could waste other paddies like that . . .
"Are these the two guys with you?" asked a cop.
"No, I ain't never seen these guys."
Danny said, "Tell 'em, Piri, tell 'em we're together, they're killing us."
"I didn't know how to play it, so now I said, "I don't know them."
Billy said, "Tell 'em chico, we ain't kidding."
I whispered, "Okay, I know 'em," and they all melted away.
I closed my eyes and felt the smell of the hospital. Someone put a mask over my face and told me to breathe.
"I can't breathe with this shit on my face," I mumbled.
"If you don't breathe through this, you're gonna stop breathing," said a voice.

Expert hands removed my clothes. The air was cool to my nakedness. I didn't feel ashamed to lay there naked. I felt like a little baby, almost like I was waiting to get my diapers changed. I was placed on a bed in a dark room, and a priest in black with a collar came and stood over me. A hand placed a piece of gauze over the little hole in my chest and slipped another piece under me to cover a hole in my back. The priest held my hands and made the sign of the cross. I felt faint, sort of like I was sliding down waxed paper, like all the rice and beans in the world couldn't ever again give me color, any kinda color. "I'm not Catholic, padre," I said. "I'm nothing."
"It makes no difference, son, it's all the same to God."
Dios, I don't wanna die.

The priest left me. I heard him ask the doctor something. The doctor replied, "His chances aren't too good."
Heads were shaking and I was drowning in aloneness. I felt someone shaving me and I tried to look down.
"It's for the operation," said a voice. Then someone put a needle in my arm. It was like taking off around the block, getting high on junk; only this shot covered me with a dark blanket.

I felt my mouth forming words, "Mommie . . . I don't . . . Mommie, no quiero morir . . ." I talked inside; I cried inside; I wouldn't let them see me afraid . . . then everything dissolved to nothing; I fell asleep.

by Piri Thomas

from "Down These Mean Streets"
original copyright 1967