—It is the color of a coward, said Otis with another laugh.
Pico began speaking rapidly to his brother in Spanish. When he finished, Paco turned to the others.
—He says it’s not the yellow of a coward. It’s the yellow of a hornet. But she don’t only look like a hornet, she sting like one too.
Paco began gesturing to the car, a salesman highlighting a new model’s features.
—In addition to the paint job, we took out your dents, polished your chrome, and flushed your transmission. But we also put some extra horsepower under the hood.
—Well, said Otis, at least the cops won’t be able to recognize you now.
—And if they do, said Paco, they won’t be able to catch you.
The Gonzalez brothers laughed with shared satisfaction.
Regretting his initial response, Emmett expressed his gratitude at some length, especially given the speed at which the brothers had done their work. But when he took the envelope of cash from his back pocket, they both shook their heads.
—This one’s for Townhouse, said Paco. We owed him one.
* * *
? ? ?
As Emmett gave Townhouse a ride back to 126th Street, the two laughed about the Gonzalez brothers, about Emmett’s car and its brand-new sting. By the time they pulled in front of the brownstone, they were quiet, but neither reached for a door handle.
—Why California? Townhouse asked after a moment.
For the first time aloud, Emmett described his plan for his father’s money—the plan to buy a run-down house, repair it, and sell it in order to buy two houses more; and thus, the necessity of being in a state with a large and growing population.
—That’s an Emmett Watson plan if ever I heard one, said Townhouse with a smile.
—What about you? asked Emmett. What are you going to do now?
—I don’t know.
Townhouse looked out the passenger-side window at his stoop.
—My mother wants me to go back to school. She’s got some pipe dream of me getting a scholarship and playing college ball, neither of which are going to happen. And pops, he wants to get me a job at the post office.
—He likes his, right?
—Oh, he doesn’t like it, Emmett. He loves it.
Townhouse shook his head with a tempered smile.
—When you’re a letter carrier, they give you a route, you know? The blocks that you have to lug your bag up and down every day—like some pack mule on a trail. But for my old man, it doesn’t seem to feel like work. Because he knows everybody on his route and everybody knows him. The old ladies, the kids, the barbers, the grocers.
Townhouse shook his head again.
—One night about six years ago, he came home looking real low. Like we’d never seen him before. When Mom asked what was wrong, he burst into tears. We thought someone had died, or something. It turned out that after fifteen years, the powers that be had changed his route. They moved him six blocks south and four blocks east, and it nearly broke his heart.
—What happened? asked Emmett.
—He got up in the morning, trudged out the door, and by the end of the year, he’d fallen in love with that route too.
The two friends laughed together. Then Townhouse put a finger in the air.
—But he never forgot the first route. Every year on Memorial Day, when he’s got the day off, he walks the old one. Saying hi to everybody who recognizes him, and half the people who don’t. In his words, if you’ve got a job as a mailman, then the US government is paying you to make friends.
—When you put it that way, it doesn’t sound so bad.
—Maybe so, agreed Townhouse. Maybe so. But as much as I love my father, I can’t imagine living like that. Covering the same ground day after day, week after week, year after year.
—All right. If not college or the post office, then what?
—I’ve been thinking about the army.
—The army? asked Emmett in surprise.
—Yeah, the army, said Townhouse, almost as if he were trying out the sound of it on himself. Why not? There’s no war right now. The pay’s pretty good and it’s all for keeps. And if you’re lucky, maybe you get stationed overseas and see something of the world.
—You’d be back in a barracks, Emmett pointed out.
—I didn’t mind that so much, said Townhouse.
—Falling in . . . following orders . . . wearing a uniform . . .
—That’s just it, Emmett. As a black man, whether you end up carrying a mailbag, operating an elevator, pumping gas, or doing time, you’re going to be wearing a uniform. So you might as well choose the one that suits you. I figure if I keep my head down, pay my dues, maybe I can climb the ranks. Become an officer. Get myself on the right end of a salute.