OTHER BOOKS BY CHESTER HIMES
AVAILABLE IN VINTAGE
The Heat’s On
The Real Cool Killers
FIRST VINTAGE BOOKS EDITION, DECEMBER 1988
Copyright © 1965 by Chester Himes
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York. Originally published, in hardcover, in the United States by G.P Putnam in 1965.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Himes, Chester B., 1909–1984 Cotton comes to Harlem.
I. Title.
PS3515.1713C68 1988 813′.54 88-40045
eISBN: 978-0-307-80324-5
DISPLAY TYPOGRAPHY BY BARBARA M. BACHMAN
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
About the Author
1
The voice from the sound truck said:
“Each family, no matter how big it is, will be asked to put up one thousand dollars. You will get your transportation free, five acres of fertile land in Africa, a mule and a plow and all the seed you need, free. Cows, pigs and chickens cost extra, but at the minimum. No profit on this deal.”
A sea of dark faces wavered before the speaker’s long table, rapturous and intent.
“Ain’t it wonderful, honey?” said a big black woman with eyes like stars. “We’re going back to Africa.”
Her tall lean husband shook his head in awe. “After all these four hundred years.”
“Here I is been cooking in white folk’s kitchens for more than thirty years. Lord, can it be true?” A stooped old woman voiced a lingering doubt.
The smooth brown speaker with the honest eyes and earnest face heard her. “It’s true all right,” he said. “Just step right up and give us the particulars and deposit your thousand dollars and you’ll have a place on the first boat going over.”
A grumpy old man with a head of white hair shuffled forward to fill out a form and deposit his thousand dollars, muttering to himself, “It sure took long enough.”
The two pretty black girls taking applications looked up with dazzling smiles.
“Look how long it took the Jews to get out of Egypt,” one said.
“The hand of God is slow but sure,” said the other.
It was a big night in the lives of all these assembled colored people. Now at last, after months of flaming denouncements of the injustice and hypocrisy of white people, hurled from the pulpit of his church; after months of eulogy heaped upon the holy land of Africa, young Reverend Deke O’Malley was at last putting words into action. Tonight he was signing up the people to go on his three ships back to Africa. Huge hand-drawings of the ships stood in prominent view behind the speaker’s table, appearing to have the size and design of the SS Queen Elizabeth. Before them stood Reverend O’Malley, his tall lithe body clad in dark summer worsted, his fresh handsome face exuding benign authority and inspiring total confidence, flanked by his secretaries and the two young men most active in recruiting applicants.
A vacant lot in the “Valley” of Harlem near the railroad tracks, where slum tenements had been razed for a new housing development, had been taken over for the occasion. More than a thousand people milled about the patches of old, uneven concrete amid the baked, cindery earth littered with stones, piles of rubbish, dog droppings, broken glass, scattered rags and clusters of stinkweed.
The hot summer night was lit by flashes of sheet lightning, threatening rain, and the air was oppressive with dust, density and motor fumes. Stink drifted from the surrounding slums, now more overcrowded than ever due to the relocation of families from the site of the new buildings to be erected to relieve the overcrowding. But nothing troubled the jubilance of these dark people filled with faith and hope.
The meeting was well organized. The speaker’s table stood at one end, draped with a banner reading: BACK TO AFRICA — LAST CHANCE!!! Behind it, beside the drawings of the ships, stood an armored truck, its back doors open, flanked by two black guards wearing khaki uniforms and side arms. To the other side stood the sound truck with amplifiers atop. Tee-shirted young men in tight-fitting jeans roamed about with solemn, unsmiling expressions, swelled with a sense of importance ready to eject any doubters.
But for many of these true-believers it was also a picnic. Bottles of wine, beer and whisky were passed about. Here and there a soul-brother cut a dance step. White teeth flashed in black, laughing faces. Eyes spoke. Bodies promised. They were all charged with anticipation.
A pit had been dug in the center of the lot, housing a charcoal fire covered with an iron grill. Rows of pork ribs were slowly cooking on the grill, dripping fat into the hot coals with a sizzling of pungent smoke, turned from time to time by four “hook-men” with long iron hooks. A white-uniformed chef with a long-handled ladle basted the ribs with hot sauce as they cooked, supervising the turning, his tall white chef’s cap bobbing over his sweating black face. Two matronly women clad in white nurses’ uniforms sat at a kitchen table, placing the cooked ribs into paper plates, adding bread and potato salad, and selling them for one dollar a serving.
The tempting, tantalizing smell of barbecued ribs rose in the air above the stink. Shirt-sleeved men, thinly clad women and halfnaked children jostled each other good-naturedly, eating the spicy meat and dropping the bones underfoot.
Above the din of transistor radios broadcasting the night’s baseball games, and the bursts of laughter, the sudden shrieks, the other loud voices, came the blaring voice of Reverend Deke O’Malley from the sound truck: “Africa is our native land and we are going back. No more picking cotton for the white folks and living on fatback and corn pone.…”
“Yea, baby, yea.”
“See that sign,” Reverend O’Malley shouted, pointing to a large wooden sign against the wire fence which proclaimed that the low-rent housing development to be erected on that site would be completed within two and one half years, and listed the prices of the apartments, which no family among those assembled there could afford to pay. “Two years you have to wait to move into some boxes — if you can get in, and if you can pay the high rent after you get in. By that time you will be harvesting your second crop in Africa, living in warm sunny houses where the only fire you’ll ever need will be for cooking, where we’ll have our own governments and our own rulers — black, like us —”
“I hear you, baby, I hear you.”
The thousand-dollar subscriptions poured in. The starry-eyed black people were putting their chips on hope. One after another they went forward solemnly and put down their thousand dollars and signed on the dotted line. The armed guards took the money and stacked it carefully into an open safe in the armored truck.
“How many?” Reverend O’Malley asked one of his secretaries in a whisper.
“Eighty-seven,” she whispered in reply.
“Tonight might be your last chance,” Reverend O’Malley said over the amplifiers. “Next week I must go elsewhere and give all of our brothers a chance to return to our native land. G
od said the meek shall inherit the earth; we have been meek long enough; now we shall come into our inheritance.”
“Amen, Reverend! Amen!”
Sad-eyed Puerto Ricans from nearby Spanish Harlem and the lost and hungry black people from black Harlem who didn’t have the thousand dollars to return to their native land congregated outside the high wire fence, smelling the tantalizing barbecue, dreaming of the day when they could also go back home in triumph and contentment.
“Who’s that man?” one of them asked.
“Child, he’s the young Communist Christian preacher who’s going to take our folks back to Africa.”
A police cruiser was parked at the curb. Two white cops in the front seat cast sour looks over the assemblage.
“Where you think they got a permit for this meeting?”
“Search me. Lieutenant Anderson said leave them alone.”
“This country is being run by niggers.”
They lit cigarettes and smoked in sullen silence.
Inside the fence, three colored cops patrolled the assemblage, swapping jokes with their soul-brothers, exchanging grins, relaxed and friendly.
During a lull in the speaker’s voice, two big colored men in dark rumpled suits approached the speaker’s table. Bulges from pistols in shoulder slings showed beneath their coats. The guards of the armored truck became alert. The two young recruiting agents, flanking the table, pushed back their chairs.
But the two big men were polite and smiled easily.
“We’re detectives from the D.A.’s office,” one said to O’Malley apologetically, as both presented their identifications. “We have orders to bring you in for questioning.”
The two young recruiting agents came to their feet, tense and angry.
“These white mothers can’t let us alone,” one said. “Now they’re using our brothers against us.”
Reverend O’Malley waved them down and spoke to the detectives, “Have you got a warrant?”
“No, but it would save you a lot of trouble if you came peacefully.”
The second detective added, “You can take your time and finish with your people, but I’d advise you to talk to the D.A.”
“All right,” Reverend O’Malley said calmly. “Later.”
The detectives moved to one side. Everyone relaxed. One of the recruiting agents ordered a serving of barbecue.
For a moment attention was centered on a meat delivery truck which had entered the lot. It had been passed by the zealous volunteers guarding the gate.
“You’re just in time, boy,” the black chef called to the white driver as the truck approached. “We’re running out of ribs.”
A flash of lightning spotlighted the grinning faces of the two white men on the front seat.
“Wait ’til we turn around, boss,” the driver’s helper called in a southern voice.
The truck went forward towards the speaker’s table. Eyes watched it indifferently. The truck turned, backed, gently plowing a path through the milling mob.
Ignoring the slight commotion, Reverend O’Malley continued speaking from the amplifiers: “These damn southern white folks have worked us like dogs for four hundred years and when we ask them to pay off, they ship us up to the North.…”
“Ain’t it the truth!” a sister shouted.
“And these damn northern white folks don’t want us —” But he never finished. He broke off in mid-sentence at the sight of two masked white men stepping from the back of the meat delivery truck with two black deadly-looking submachine guns in their hands. “Unh!!!” he grunted as though someone had hit him in the stomach.
For the brief instant following, silence reigned. The scene became a tableau of suspended motion. Eyes were riveted on the black holes of death at the front ends of the machine guns. Muscles became paralysed. Brains stopped thinking.
Then a voice that sounded as though it had come from the backwoods of Mississippi said thickly: “Everybody freeze an’ nobody’ll git hurt.”
The black men guarding the armored truck raised their hands in reflex action. Black faces broke out with a rash of white eyes. Reverend Deke O’Malley slid quickly beneath the table. The two big colored detectives froze as ordered.
But the young recruiting agent at the left end of the table, who was taking a bite of barbecue, saw his dream vanishing and reached towards his hip pocket for his pistol.
There was a burst from a machine gun. A mixture of teeth, barbecued pork ribs, and human brains flew through the air like macabre birds. A woman screamed. The young man, with half a head gone, sank down out of sight.
The Mississippi voice said furiously: “Goddamn stupid mother-raper!”
The softer southern voice of the gunner said defensively, “He was drawing.”
“Mother-rape it! Git the money, let’s git going.” The big heavy white man with his black mask slowly moved the black-holed muzzle of his submachine gun over the crowd like the nozzle of a fire hose, saying, “Doan git daid.”
Bodies remained rigid, eyes riveted, necks frozen, heads stationary, but there was a general movement away from the gun as though the earth itself were moving. Behind, among the people at the rear, panic began exploding like Chinese firecrackers.
The driver’s helper got out from the front seat, waving another submachine gun, and the black people melted away.
The two sullen cops in the police cruiser jumped out and rushed to the fence, trying to see what was happening. But all they could see was a strange milling movement of black people.
The three colored cops inside, pistols drawn, were struggling forward against a tide of human flesh, but being slowly washed away.
The second machine-gunner, who had fired the burst, slung his gun over his shoulder, rushed towards the armored truck and began scooping money into a “gunny-sack”.
“Merciful Jesus,” a woman wailed.
The black guards backed away, arms elevated, and let the white men take the money. Deke remained unseen beneath the table. All that was seen of the dead young man were some teeth still bleeding on the table, before the horrified eyes of the two young secretaries. The colored detectives hadn’t breathed.
Outside the fence the cops rushed back to their cruiser. The motor caught, roared; the siren coughed, groaned, began screaming as the car went into a U-turn in the middle of the block heading back towards the gate.
The colored cops on the inside began shooting into the air, trying to clear a path, but only increased the pandemonium. A black tidal wave went over them as from a hurricane.
The white machine-gunner got all of the money — all $87,000 — and jumped into the back of the delivery truck. The motor roared. The other machine-gunner followed the first and slammed shut the back door. The driver’s helper climbed in just as the car took off.
The police cruiser came in through the gate, siren screaming, as though black people were invisible. A fat black man flew through the air like an over-inflated football. A fender bumped a woman’s bottom and started her spinning like a whirling dervish. People scattered, split, diving, jumping, running to get out of the cruiser’s path, colliding and knocking one another down.
But a path was made for the rapidly accelerating meat delivery truck. The cops looked at the driver and his helper as they passed. The two white men looked back, exchanging white looks. The cops went ahead, looking for colored criminals. The white machine-gunners got away.
The two black guards climbed into the front seat of the armored truck. The two colored detectives jumped on the running-boards, pistols in their hands. Deke came out from underneath the table and climbed into the back, beside the empty safe. The motor came instantly to life, sounding for all the world like a big Cadillac engine with four hundred horsepower. The armored truck backed, filled, pointed towards the gate, then hesitated.
“You want I should follow them?” the driver asked.
“Get ’em, goddammit. Run ’em down!” one of the colored detectives grated.
The driver h
esitated a moment longer. “They’re armed for bear.”
“Bear ass!” the detective shouted. “They’re getting away, mother!”
There was a glimpse of gray paint as the meat delivery truck went past a taxi on Lexington Avenue, headed north.
The big engine of the armored truck roared; the truck jumped. The police cruiser wheeled to head it off. A woman wild with fright ran in front of it. The car slewed to miss her and ran head-on into the barbecue pit. Steam rose from the bursted radiator pouring on to the hot coals. A sudden flash of lightning lit the wild stampede of running people, seen through the cloud of steam.
“Great Godamighty, the earth’s busted open,” a voice cried.
“An’ let out all hell,” came the reply.
“Halt or I’ll shoot,” a cop cried, climbing from the smoking ruins.
It was the same as talking to the lightning.
The armored truck bulldozed a path to the gate, urged on by a voice shouting, “Go get ’em, go get ’em.”
It turned into Lexington on screaming tyres. The off-side detective fell off to the street, but they didn’t stop for him. A roll of thunder blended with the motor sound as the big engine gathered speed, and another police cruiser fell in behind.
O’Malley tapped on the window separating the front seat from the rear compartment and passed an automatic rifle and a sawed-off shotgun to the guard. The remaining detective on the inside running-board was squatting low, holding on with his left hand and gripping a Colt .45 automatic in his right.
The armored truck was going faster than any armored truck ever seen before or since. The red light showed at 125th Street and a big diesel truck was coming from the west. The armored truck went through the red and passed in front of that big truck as close as a barber’s shave.
A joker standing on the corner shouted jubilantly,
“Gawawwwed damn! Them mothers got it.”
The police cruiser stopped for the truck to pass.
“And gone!” the joker added.
The driver urged greater speed from the big laboring motor, “Get your ass to moving.” But the meat delivery truck had got out of sight. The scream of the police siren was fading in the past.
Cotton Comes to Harlem Page 1
