By the time Lucky returned to his store the work day stood well advanced; or, for lots of colored guys, already over:
From fetid rooms where electric fans flailed against night-heat of summer, and where humidity soaked old wallpaper from walls, men had emerged at dawn. They stepped silent along streets and between brick tenements as they headed for the river. On Market St., where the street joined the Clark bridge leading to Indiana, the men stood in clusters; men named Joe, Pete, Zeke, Mose, Alfonzo, Rodney, Jack.
In early a.m. the jive level flowed lower than the summer river. Men looked each other over and selected standing-spots. Big guys arranged to stand among clusters of smaller men. Big guys wore short sleeves or undershirts to show the bulk of upper arms. These were the men chosen by contractors, warehouse foremen and steel haulers. After the work day ended, these guys would speak of "Sweatin' lak a goddamn Irishman, and fartin' lak a Missouri mule."
Day labor. Pay in cash at the end of the day. Seventy-five cents an hour, on up to a buck twenty-five. If a man proved worth keeping, and if the boss had a big job, there might be as much as two weeks' work all in a row. Get ahead of the rent man; for once. Brag some to your woman who quit nagging, feed the kids, and loosen up at Sapphire Top Spot.
Stubby guys, who because of their builds could work low on loads, were taken by truck drivers to handle dry freight, furniture, drums of chemicals, sacks of produce, bags of cement (90 lbs. each, no hand truck).
Skinny men took what was left; or nothing a-tall. Their work day ended around noon when they were not chosen. They wandered off, eyes cast down, or searching for something to pick off from a parked car, something to hock with Lucky. It was either that or another day of empty pockets. Another day when a man would have to find an angle, or not dirty up a dinner plate.
And some guys, fortunate as Baptist angels, hooked onto a steady job. These were guys with something extra; a skill, a super strong back, or, in Lester's case, a personality. Lester worked, or had worked, for Charlie Weaver.
Lester—black—like they don't build 'em that black anymore. Purple lips, skin like midnight satin, reddest mouth anybody ever seen, and laughing open-mouthed.
And lithe, skinny, dancing like no dancing master could perform. A backward roll to his shoulders, arms flying, twinkle-toes like only the best of hoofers, more natural than trained. Dancing through the summers, throwing sweat, sweating out the beer at Sapphire Top Spot.
Mr. Personality. Lester packed a real smile. No accommodation attitudes. Not for Lester. Most white folks walked a little doubtful around him, because it seemed that "this boy done forgot he's a nigger."
Mr. Joyful, that was Lester.
And, when Lucky returned from the funeral to re-open his hock shop, Lester stood right there before the faded green of Sapphire Top Spot, and bright yellow paint of Lucky's; Lester busy holding down the sidewalk.
"Nice funeral?" Lester stood watching as Lucky searched his keys then opened up.
"There ain't no such thing," Lucky told him. "We got him in the ground."
"Midst all them dead folks," Lester said. "Too much company. I left instruction. When I die somebody grabs me by the big toe and tosses me in the river."
When Lucky went behind his front counter to pull a cash bag from a safe, Lester stood quiet. After Lucky got cash counted into the register Lester leaned on the counter. "Charlie was okay. Charlie knew how to treat a man." Lester's hands were broad like his mouth; hands work-worn, stubby nails. He looked up at the store mascots, the stuffed chickens. Old Lola the guinea hen seemed friendly. Thomas, the Plymouth Rock rooster, seemed crazier than usual.
"Miz Weaver always doubted me. What's gonna happen to the auction?"
"Miz Weaver is high-born," Lucky told him kindly. "The high-born doubt most things." Lucky looked toward the street where afternoon sun threatened to turn to evening. Shadows cast by tenements ran long and brickwork looked rusty. "There won't be an auction," Lucky said. "The family will close it down. They've got no auctioneer."
"I know the business," Lester told him. "I know the rap."
"And you know Miz Weaver." Lucky did not say that nobody colored was gonna make an auctioneer. Not a chance. There might even be a law against it.
"Hopeless," Lester said, "I got bucks laid back. I can go for quite a spell. But, man, I gotta have a job."
"The only job I've got," Lucky told him, "is a kid's job. Part time, sweep and polish." He paused. "Have you tried the new guy?"
"He don't look good."
"Could be you're wrong." Lucky reached to tap Lester on the hand, friendly. "He talks like an outhouse, but there's something there."
"You might could put in a word," Lester said. "Or, say it this way . . . would you put in a word?"
"You're straight," Lucky told him. "It's the least I can do. You two might be able to figure each other out."
* * *
Because they handle consignment, and do not own merchandise, auction houses open and close on schedules different from other business. During early set-up for sales, the house looks like a Kentucky thunderstorm swept through, piling merchandise helter-skelter. At zenith the pile is a confusion of goods from different places. Only concentrated memory tells what came from where. The house remains closed.
Once the floors are swept, and the various lots of merchandise sorted and placed, the auctioneer assigns lot numbers and tags every item. There's still work for the doing, but at least the public no longer screws things up by picking an item from one lot, and placing it in another. The auction's doors open for viewing.
Two days after Lester and Lucky talked, Wade and his kid were assigning lot numbers when Lester showed up for work, 7:57 a.m., sharp. Lester paused inside the doorway, admiring a mighty pretty sale. Wade saw a muscular nigger, somewhat skinny, who probably wasn't gonna work out, but Wade held trust in Lucky. When Lester held out a hand, Wade took it; not a little surprised. "Lucky called," he said, "and I'm fair for giving it a try. You're Weaver's boy."
Bad start, but Wade didn't know it. Wade had perfect pitch for talking among white folks, not colored. In those days 'race words' went this way: 'Colored' was polite and good. 'Colored gentleman/lady' was best. 'Negro' was respectable and technical. The newspapers, including The Louisville Defender used it. So did the NAACP. 'Black' was suspect, a bit insulting. 'Negra' was a polite way of saying nigger, and was used by cultured whites and preachers. 'Darky' was droll, nearly affectionate, and not a little possessive. 'Boy' was any colored male under sixty, and 'Uncle' was any colored male over sixty. With females it was 'Girl' and 'Auntie'. 'Nigger' was not used by people of Wade's quality in the presence of colored folk, though they might think it. Nigger was used in conversation with whites.
"I was Weaver's grip," Lester said, "I've done Army time and I'm twenty-seven years old." He looked toward Wade's daughter who was waxing an antique chest. "Better tell her to use paste, not that liquid slop."
Wade was, quite literally, taken aback. Black boys were supposed to grin and say 'yassuh'. "How in hell is this going to work? You're already tellin' me how to run my business."
"I'm saying liquid slop darkens wood. Ask any antique dealer."
"No shit?" Wade said. The white guy understood that this brand-new trooper, sorta skinny and midnight black, actually knew something.
"None a-tall," Lester told him. "Except for the war I been around this business since a kid."
The colored guy saw a white man who was so full of crap you could almost smell it on his breath. On the other hand, the colored guy saw that Lucky had been right; this white had something going. The colored guy looked around the auction house. He checked out the cleanest and most attractive sale he'd ever seen. This white guy knew something. "No shit?" Lester said.
"Help me finish numbering this sale," Wade told him. To his kid, Wade said, "Check with your mom. Find something to do." He turned back to Lester. "We get done here, we've got a big warehouse. Ever do a warehouse?"
"All the time," Lester told him. "Lots of times."