The Stiff Upper Lip Read Online Free Page B

slaps and hey-babies, to keep them from coming along to chaperone him.
    As is, we had enough trouble fitting him in. I still drive the Giulia, which is a normal-sized car for normal-sized people, but not for somebody who goes six-seven without his afro and whose hands hang down to around his knees. We tried him out in front, but there was no way, and finally we had to settle for the bottom half of him in the back and the rest draped forward between the bucket seats.
    Don’t get me wrong, six-seven isn’t that abnormal a height and I don’t want to make him out a freak. But you couldn’t help think it when you saw him off the court: the arms which had no place to go but down, the watermelon hands, the long, flapping feet. He kept his eyes on his feet when he walked, like they’d go off without him if he didn’t, and his body motion was all herky-jerk like his bones were attached to wires. All in all, he reminded me of one of those water birds, the ones that are all line and beauty when you see them flying but look fairly ridiculous flapping around on dry land. The more so in Ivy League blazer and flannels.
    Once we got back to Paris, we took him to the Coupole on the Boulevard Montparnasse. They’re open till the wee hours, and they serve a mean côte de boeuf , which is a beef chop for two. Roscoe had one all by himself, along with a platter of French fries, this on top of a double portion of herring in cream and a mushoom omelette, and underneath a hot-fudge sundae with toasted almonds. He ate slowly, steadily, taking his time, but all during the meal, and after, when we talked over coffee and brandy, his eyes took in the vast room and the people sitting at the tables and standing up to go and coming in the doors and going out. His hoods were down and his gaze cool, but he was looking just the same, and I don’t think he’d have taken kindly to people coming up behind him.
    â€œMa-a-an,” he said, chuckling, when he’d finished off the sundae, “one thing I sure don’t miss about the U.S. of A. is the food . You don’t have a see -gar by any chance?”
    We ordered him a cigar. He rolled it between his fingers, smelled it, then rolled it between his lips, then lit it and puffed. I almost hated to interrupt his pleasure.
    â€œWell, Roscoe …” I said. “If, that is, you still want me to call you Roscoe?”
    I’d done my homework. I knew Roscoe Hadley hadn’t always been his name.
    He glanced at me, quicker with his eyes than I’d have expected.
    â€œThat’s what folks call me,” he said mildly.
    â€œAll right,” I said. “Then suppose you tell me what the trouble is.”
    â€œThe trouble?”
    â€œFrom what Valérie’s told me, you’ve got plenty of it.”
    â€œI had plenty of it, man. Long time ago. Nowadays my troubles are over.” I didn’t say anything. “Besides, man, if Val tole you all about it, what you need me for?”
    â€œI’d like to hear your version.”
    â€œ My version? Well, like I say, a long time ago I had me some trouble, yes I did. On’y I walked away from it. I kep’ on walkin’ an’ the trouble stayed where it was. Shoot, man,” he said, chuckling at the room through the cigar smoke, “you name the place an’ I been there! Anyways, now that’s over an’ done wit’, ole Roscoe’s come home to roos ’. Paris, France, man, that’s my home , I don’t budge.”
    It was nigger talk, in a heavier accent than the way I tell it, and put on, I suppose, for my benefit. Or the benefit of anybody who happened to be listening.
    â€œAnd now you’re playing ball again.”
    â€œYeah, man, ain’t it the greates’? You saw me tonight, man, how many I score? I got it goin’ good, jus’ throw me the pumpkin, man, two points fo’ the home team.”
    â€œToo good, maybe,” I