The only surprise was herself. She was a really beautiful woman with a smooth brown oval face topped by black curly hair that came in natural ringlets. She had sloe eyes and a petite turned-up nose with very faint black down on her upper lip. Her mouth was wide, generous, with rose-tinted lips and a sudden smile showing even white teeth. Wrapped in a bright blue silk negligee which showed all her curves, her body looked adorable.
He sat at the small round table which had been pushed to one side when the bed was made and indicated her to sit opposite. Then he began speaking to her with pontifical solemnity and seriousness.
“Have you prepared for John’s funeral?”
“No, the morgue still has his body but I’m hoping to get Mr Clay for the undertaker and have the funeral in your — our church — and for you to preach the funeral sermon.”
“Of course, Mrs Hill, and I hope by then to have our money back and turn an occasion of deep sorrow also into one of thanksgiving.”
“You can call me Mabel, that’s my name,” she said.
“Yes, Mabel, and tomorrow I want you to go to the police and find out what they know so we can use it for our own investigation.” He smiled winningly. “You’re going to be my Mata Hari, Mabel — but one on the side of God.”
Her face lit up with her own brilliant, trusting smile. “Yes, Reverend O’Malley, oh, I’m so thrilled,” she said delightedly, involuntarily leaning towards him.
Her whole attitude portrayed such devotion he blinked. My God, he thought, this bitch has already forgotten her dead husband and he isn’t even in his coffin.
“I’m so glad, Mabel.” He reached across the table and took one of her hands and held it while he looked deeply into her eyes. “You don’t know how much I depend on you.”
“Oh, Reverend O’Malley, I’ll do anything for you,” she vowed.
He had to exercise great restraint. “Now we will kneel and pray to God for the salvation of the soul of your poor dead husband.”
She suddenly sobered and knelt beside him on the floor.
“O Lord, our Saviour and our Master, receive the soul of our dear departed brother, John Hill, who gave his life in support of our humble aspiration to return to our home in Africa.”
“Amen,” she said. “He was a good husband.”
“You hear, O Lord, a good husband and a good, upright and honest man. Take him and keep him, O Lord, and have mercy and kindness to his poor wife who must remain longer in this vale of tears without the benefit of a husband to fulfil her desires and quench the flames of her body.” ’
“Amen,” she whispered.
“And grant her a new lease on life, and yes, O Lord, a new man, for life must go on even out of the depths of death, for life is everlasting, O Lord, and we are but human, all of us.”
“Yes,” she cried. “Yes.”
He figured it was time to cut that shit out before he found himself in bed with her and he didn’t want to confuse the issue — he just wanted his money back. So he said, “Amen.”
“Amen,” she repeated, disappointedly.
They arose and she asked him if she could fix him anything to eat. He said he wouldn’t mind some scrambled eggs, toast and coffee, so she took him into the kitchen and made him sit on one of the padded tubular chairs to the spotless masonite tubular table while she went about preparing his snack. It was a kitchen that went along with the rest of the apartment — electric stove, refrigerator, coffee maker, eggbeater, potato whipper and the like; all electric — compactly arranged, brightly painted and superbly hygienic. But he was entranced by the curves of her body beneath the blue silk negligee as she moved about, bent over to get cream and eggs from the refrigerator, turned quickly here and there to do several things at once; and the swinging of her hips when she moved from stove to table.
But when she sat down opposite him she was too self-conscious to talk. A slow blush rose beneath her smooth brown skin, giving her a sun-kissed look. The snack was excellent, crisp bacon, soft scrambled eggs, firm brown toast with a veneer of butter. English marmalade and strong black espresso coffee with thick cream.
He kept the conversation going on the merits of her late husband and how much he would be missed by the Back-to-Africa movement; but he was slowly getting impatient for her to go to bed. It was a relief when she stacked the dishes in the sink and retired to her bedroom with a shy good-night and a wish that he sleep well.
He waited until he felt she was asleep and cracked her door soundlessly. He listened to the even murmur of her breathing. Then he turned on the light in the living-room so he could see her better. If she had awakened he would have pretended to be searching for the bathroom, but she was sleeping soundly with her left hand tight between her legs and her right flung across her exposed breasts. He closed the door and went to the telephone and dialed a number.
“Let me speak to Barry Waterfield, please,” he said when he got an answer.
A sleepy male voice said evilly, “It’s too damn late to be calling roomers. Call in the morning.”
“I just got in town,” Deke said. “Just passing through — I’m leaving on the 5.45 for Atlanta. I got an important message for him that won’t keep.”
“Jussa minute,” the voice said.
Finally another voice came on the line, harsh and heavy with suspicion. “Who’s there?”
“Deke.”
“Oh!”
“Just listen and say nothing. The police are after me. I’m holed up with the wife of our boy, John Hill, who got croaked.” He gave the telephone number and address. “Nobody knows I’m here but you. And don’t call me unless you have to. If she answers tell her your name is James. I’ll brief her. Stay out of sight today. Now hang up.”
He listened to the click as the phone was hung up, then waited to see if the line was still open and someone was eavesdropping. Satisfied, he hung up and went back to bed. He turned out the light and lay on his back. A thousand thoughts ran though his mind. He banished them all and finally went to sleep.
He dreamed he was running through a pitch-dark forest and he was terrified and suddenly he saw the moon through the trees and the trees had the shapes of women with breasts hanging like coconuts and suddenly he fell into a pit and it was warm and engulfed him in a warm wet embrace and he felt the most exquisite ecstasy —
“Oh, Reverend O’Malley!” she cried. Light from the bedroom shone across her body, clad only in a frilly nightgown, one ripe brown breast hanging out. She was trembling violently and her face was streaked with tears.
He was so shocked seeing her like this after his dream he leapt from bed and put his arm about her trembling body, wondering if he had attacked her in his sleep. He could feel the warm firm flesh move beneath his hand as she sobbed hysterically.
“Oh, Reverend O’Malley, I’ve had the most terrible dream.”
“There, there,” he soothed, pulling her body to his. “Dreams don’t mean anything.”
She drew away from him and sat on his bed with her face cupped in her hands, muffling her voice. “Oh, Reverend O’Malley, I dreamed that you were hurt terribly and when I came to your rescue you looked at me as though you thought I had betrayed you.”
He sat down beside her and began gently stroking her arm. “I would never think you had betrayed me,” he said soothingly, counting the soft gentle strokes of his hand on the smooth bare flesh of her arm, thinking, any woman will surrender within a hundred strokes. “I believe in you utterly. You would never be the cause of hurt to me. You will always bring me joy and happiness.”
“Oh, Reverend O’Malley, I feel so inadequate,” she said.
Gently, still counting the trokes of his hand on her arm, he pushed her back and said, “Now lie down and try not to blame yourself for a silly dream. If I get hurt it will be God’s will. We must all bow to God’s will. Now repeat after me: If Reverend O’Malley gets hurt, it will be God’s will.”
“If Reverend O’Malley gets hurt, it will be God’s will,” she repeatedly
dutifully in a low voice.
“We must all bow to God’s will.”
“We must all bow to God’s will.”
With his free hand he opened her legs.
“God’s will must be served,” he said.
“God’s will must be served,” she repeated.
“This is God’s will,” he said hypnotically.
“This is God’s will,” she repeated trance-like.
When he penetrated her she believed it was God’s will and she cried, “Oh-oh! I think you’re wonderful!”
7
Grave Digger drove east on 113th Street to Seventh Avenue and Harlem showed another face. A few blocks south was the north end of Central Park and the big kidney-shaped lagoon; north of 116th Street was the “Avenue” — the lush bars and night clubs, Shalimar, Sugar Ray’s, Dickie Well’s, Count Basie’s, Small’s, The Red Rooster; the Hotel Theresa, the National Memorial Book Store (World History Book Outlet on 600,000,000 Colored People); the beauty parlors (hairdressers); the hash joints (home cooking); the undertakers and the churches. But here, at 113th Street, Seventh Avenue was deserted at this late hour of the night and the old well-kept stone apartment buildings were dark.
Coffin Ed telephoned the station from the car and got Lieutenant Anderson. “Anything new?”
“Homicide got a colored taxi driver who picked up three white men and a colored woman outside of Small’s and drove them to an address far out on Bedford Avenue in Brooklyn. He said the men didn’t look like people who go to Small’s and the woman was just a common prostitute.”
“Give me his address and the firm he works for.”
Anderson gave him the information but said, “That’s Homicide’s baby. We got nothing on O’Hara. What’s your score?”
“We’re going to Hijenks’ shooting gallery looking for a junkie called Loboy who might know something.”
“Hijenks. That’s up on Edgecombe at the Roger Morris, isn’t it?”
“He’s moved down on Eight. Why don’t the Feds knock him off? Who’s he paying?”
“Don’t ask me; I’m a precinct lieutenant.”
“Well, look for us when we get there.”
They drove down to 110th Street and turned back to Eighth Avenue and filled in the square. Near 112th Street they passed an old junk man pushing his cart piled high with the night’s load.
“Old Uncle Bud,” said Coffin Ed. “Shall we dig him a little?”
“What for? He won’t co-operate; he wants to keep on living.”
They parked the car and walked to the bar on the corner of 113th Street. A man and a woman stood at the head of the bar, drinking beer and swapping chatter with the bartender. Grave Digger kept on through to the door marked “Toilet” and went inside. Coffin Ed stopped at the middle of the bar. The bartender looked quickly towards the toilet door and hastened towards Coffin Ed and began wiping the spotless bar with his damp towel.
“What’s yours, sir?” he asked. He was a thin tall, stoopedshouldered, light-complexioned man with a narrow moustache and thinning straight hair. He looked neat in a white jacket and black tie; far too neat for that neck of the woods, Coffin Ed thought.
“Bourbon on the rocks.” The bartender hesitated for an instant and Coffin Ed added, “Two.” The bartender looked relieved.
Grave Digger came back from the toilet as the bartender was serving the drinks.
“You gentlemen are new around here, aren’t you?” the bartender asked conversationally.
“We aren’t, but you are,” Grave Digger said.
The bartender smiled noncomittally.
“You see that mark down there on the bar?” Grave Digger said. “I made it ten years ago.”
The bartender looked down the bar. The wooden bar was covered with marks — names, drawings, signatures. “What mark?”
“Come here, I’ll show you,” Grave Digger said, going down to the end of the bar.
The bartender followed slowly, curiosity overcoming caution. Coffin Ed followed him. Grave Digger pointed at the only unmarked spot on the entire bar. The bartender looked. The couple at the front of the bar had stopped talking and stared curiously.
“I don’t see nothing,” the bartender said.
“Look closer,” Grave Digger said, reaching inside his coat.
The bartender bent over to look more closely. “I still don’t see nothing.”
“Look up then,” Grave Digger said.
The bartender looked up into the muzzle of Grave Digger’s long-barreled, nickel-plated .38. His eyes popped from their sockets and he turned yellow-green.
“Keep looking,” Grave Digger said.
The bartender gulped but couldn’t find his voice. The couple at the head of the bar, thinking it was a stickup, melted into the night. It was like magic, one instant they were there the next instant they were gone.
Chuckling, Coffin Ed went through the “Toilet” and opened the “Closet” and gave the signal on the nail holding a dirty rag. The nail was a switch and a light flashed in the entrance hallway upstairs where the lookout sat, reading a comic book. The lookout glanced at the red bulb which should flash the bartender’s signal that strangers were downstairs. It didn’t flash. He pushed a button and the back door in the closet opened with a soft buzzing sound. Coffin Ed opened the door to the bar and beckoned to Grave Digger, then jumped back to the door upstairs to keep it from closing.
“Good night,” Grave Digger said to the bartender.
The bartender was about to reply but lights went on in his head and briefly he saw the Milky Way before the sky turned black. A junkie was coming from outside when he saw Grave Digger hit the bartender alongside the head and without putting down his foot turned on his heel and started to run. The bartender slumped down behind the bar, unconscious. Grave Digger had only hit him hard enough to knock him out. Without another look, he leapt towards the “Toilet” and followed Coffin Ed through the concealed door in the “Closet” up the narrow stairs.
There was no landing at the top of the stairs and the door was the width of the stairway. There was no place to hide.
Halfway up, Grave Digger took Coffin Ed by the arm. “This is too dangerous for guns; let’s play it straight,” he whispered.
Coffin Ed nodded.
They walked up the stairs and Grave Digger knocked out the signal and stood in front of the peephole so he could be seen.
Inside was a small front hallway furnished with a table littered with comic books; above hung a rack containing numerous pigeonholes where weapons were placed before the addicts were allowed into the shooting gallery. A padded chair was drawn up to the table where the lookouts spent their days. On the left side of the door there were several loose nails in the doorframe. The top nail was the switch that blinked the lights in the shooting gallery in case of a raid. The lookout peered at Grave Digger with a finger poised over the the blinker. He didn’t recognize him.
“Who’re you?” he asked.
Grave Digger flashed his shield and said, “Detectives Jones and Johnson from the precinct.”
“What you want?”
“We want to talk to Hijenks.”
“Beat it, coppers, there ain’t nobody here by that name.”
“You want me to shoot this door open?” Coffin Ed flared.
“Don’t make me laugh,” the lookout said. “This door is bulletproof and you can’t butt it down.”
“Easy, Ed,” Grave Digger cautioned, then to the lookout: “All right, son, we’ll wait.”
“We’re just having a little prayer meeting, with the Lord’s consent,” the lookout said, but he sounded a little worried.
“Who’s the Lord in this case?” Coffin Ed asked harshly.
“Ain’t you,” the lookout said.
After that there was silence. Then they heard him moving around inside. Finally they heard another voice ask, “What is it, Joe?”
“Some nigger cops out there from the precinct.”
“I’ll see you sometime, J
oe; see who’s the niggermost,” Coffin Ed grated.
“You can see me now —” Joe began to bluster, grown brave in the presence of his boss.
“Shut up, Joe,” the voice said. Then they heard the slight sound of the peephole being opened.
“It’s Jones and Johnson, Hijenks,” Grave Digger said. “We just want some information.”
“There’s no one here by that name,” Hijenks said.
“By whatever name,” Grave Digger conceded. “We’re looking for Loboy.”
“For what?”
“He might have seen something on that caper where Deke O’Hara’s Back-to-Africa group got hijacked.”
“You don’t think he was involved?”
“No, he’s not involved,” Grave Digger stated flatly. “But he was in the vicinity of 137th Street and Seventh Avenue when the trucks were wrecked.”
“How do you know that?”
“His sidekick was run over and killed by the hijackers’ truck.”
“Well —” Hijenks began, but the lookout cut him off.
“Don’t tell those coppers nothing, boss.”
“Shut up, Joe; when I want your advice I’ll ask it.”
“We’re going to find him anyway, even if we have to get the Feds to break in here to look for him. So if he’s here, you’d be doing yourself a favor as well as us if you send him out.”
“At this hour of the night you might find him in Sarah’s crib on 105th Street in Spanish Harlem. Do you know where it is?”
“Sarah is an old friend of ours.”
“I’ll bet,” Hijenks said. “Anyway, I don’t know where he lives.”
That ended the conversation. No one expected any gratitude for the information; it was strictly business.
They drove across town on 110th Street, past the well-kept old apartment houses overlooking the north end of Central Park and the lagoon where the more affluent colored people lived. It was a quiet street, renamed Cathedral Parkway in honor of the Cathedral of St John the Divine, New York’s most beautiful church, which fronted on it — a street of change. The west end, in the vicinity of the cathedral, was still inhabited by whites; but the colored people had taken over that section of Morningside which fronts on the park.
Cotton Comes to Harlem Page 6
