LAURENCE LIEBERMAN
Sleuths
At the gate to The Inner 13ar, a tap on my shoulder (mo re
a prod) - I spin about,
while Samson blurts:
),011,
Mafia
II/a//f . . .
I stand accused,
veer left, can't get my tongue unstuck .
No,
110
way,
I stammer. My reply
gets his goat, very pissed, I've robbed or cheated him:
Beller
YOII
leam to lise de EI/glish
langllage krecklly, America, MOl/siellr,
stomps away. Next man, coming up
the spiral stairs,
kindly eyes, tells me:
Salt/son is chief Don, hereabollls .
Mafioso
drll,~lord
oj de whole neighborhood.
I should never
be out, solo,
on the streets past 9.
YOII
hab de wrol1g skill color
011
YOllrJace.
I charge
downstairs to The Inner Bar, an open courtyard between
three apartments. R.ooms, facing the yard,
do double duty as front parlor and public
alehouse, wherein Farouk and rock-
star brother
Dagoo, beckoning, invite me to join them for down-home
snacks, who lustily slurp
spinachy callaloo soup, boiled
chicken
&
yams.
Tipped off by insiders,
I'm
a journalist for
Tillie,
Newsweek,
or some Bigtime
U. S. Papers, they offer me lunch , to be accompanied
by boombox hit tunes and the free scoop
on Grenada politics, all the War Sagas -
no thanks to cats, say I, but yes
to talespinning,
