“I’m looking for a gentleman by the name of Mister George Clayborne,” Sugar said.
The janitor stared at him stupidly. “What you want him for?” he asked with unconscious rudeness.
“I have an appointment with him,” Sugar said.
“Is that so,” the janitor said, scratching the scar on his head. “Who is you?”
“I’m a doctor,” Sugar said. “This is my daughter and assistant.”
The janitor looked at the skinny anemic girl with the cheap torn dress, then back at Sugar’s outlandish garb.
“A doctor,” he echoed with disbelief. “I ain’t never seen a doctor what looks like you, nor an assistant what looks like her, neither.”
“I am an African doctor,” Sugar said with dignity.
“Oh,” the janitor said, looking relieved. “I wondered where you came from wearing them night clothes.” He appeared satisfied by the explanation, but he wanted it clarified. “I suppose you is one of them witch doctors.”
Sugar drew himself up and gave the impression of being offended. “I am not a witch doctor,’ he rebuked. “There are other kinds of doctors in Africa besides witch doctors. I am a baby doctor.”
“Oh,” the janitor said, looking suspicious again. “Mr. Clayborne didn’t have no babies.”
“I know he doesn’t,” Sugar said. “That’s why he wants me to treat him.”
“I don’t get that,” the janitor said frankly. “You is a baby doctor and a man wants you to treat him who ain’t got no babies.”
“I treat people so they can get babies,” Sugar explained patiently. “If a man has lost his potency and can’t make any babies, I give him massages with my magic oil. One massage is enough to start him going.” Reaching down through the décolleté of the nightgown, he extracted the bottle of sweet oil from his jacket pocket.
“You got on regular clothes underneath,” the janitor observed, his diminishing suspicions increasing again.
“Of course I have on regular clothes,” Sugar said. “This gown is my doctor’s uniform.”
“Oh,” the janitor said. That appeared to satisfy him.
“This oil,” Sugar went on to explain, “is made from the fat of the tails of bull kangaroos mixed with the essence of the productive organs of lions. It will make you hop like a kangaroo and roar like a lion. After three massages any man of any age will become a father.”
The janitor’s eyes popped with interest and amazement.
Sugar pinned a stare on him. “Are you a father?” he demanded.
“I got grown children,” the janitor stammered guiltily. “I’m sixty-four years old. But my wife, she got two young kids by her first husband.”
“You are an old man,” Sugar said, tapping him on the chest with his forefinger to drive home the point. “You got a young wife. You are in trouble mister.”
“You telling me, doctor,” the janitor said. “You don’t know what trouble is.”
Sugar poked him in the ribs. “After you have had three massages with this magic oil, your troubles will be over. She won’t look at another man. You will have her eating out of your hand.”
The janitor giggled gleefully. “He he. Wouldn’t that be something?”
Sugar looked sympathetic but said regretfully, “I’m afraid I won’t have time for you this mornings as much as I would like to help you.”
“Oh,” the janitor said, wilting disappointedly.
“I have to treat Mr. Claybome, and I have other patients,” Sugar explained.
“You don’t have to worry about Mr. Clayborne,” the janitor said with rising spirits. “He’s dead.”
“Dead!” Sugar exclaimed in amazement. “When did he die? How did it happen? I talked to him just yesterday, and he looked in fine health, other than he couldn’t make babies.”
“He was stabbed to death last night,” the janitor informed him. “Right over there in them bushes,” he added, pointing toward the park.
Sugar glanced at the clump of bushes in the park and shuddered. “It’s a pity,” he said. “Such a fine man. He would have made a good father.” Sighing, he added, “Well, in that case I will take you in his place.”
The janitor hesitated. “The only thing is I got to get my morning chores done first, and that takes some time. If you don’t mind waiting, I will pay you -”
Sugar cut him off with an impatient gesture. “I do not charge for my services,” he said with asperity. “My patients give me whatever they can afford. But I can not give you a treatment later on. This magic only works during the first hour of the day, and tomorrow I am going on to Philadelphia.” He turned to the girl and said, “Come on, Mamba, we can’t keep our other patients waiting.”
“Wait a minute, doctor,” the janitor begged. “I’ll just leave those chores if you’ll give me a treatment.”
Sugar hesitated with reluctance. “Well,” he finally conceded. “If there is no delay.”
“Oh, there won’t be no delay,” the janitor promised eagerly. “If you-all will just follow me.”
He led them along the alley beside the building and through a side doorway into a whitewashed basement corridor. Overhead were asbestos-covered steam pipes, and on each side were freshly painted green doors to the various basement rooms.
Before one of the doors he said, “Can you-all wait here a minute, doctor, while I get the keys? I don’t want my wife to know about it.”
He went around a comer, and they heard him opening the door to his living quarters. A woman’s sleepy voice said crossly, “Is you just got to make so much noise and wake up the children?” They heard a door close softly, and he reappeared with a brass ring the size of a knitting hoop, containing all the master keys.
He unlocked the door, and they entered a storeroom filled with trunks, packing cases and a few odd items of furniture belonging to the tenants.
“Make a place to lie down,” Sugar directed.
The janitor put two steamer trunks end to end and dusted them off.
“Remove your overalls and underwear,” Sugar directed.
“You mean take them off?” the janitor asked.
“How do you expect me to massage you with them on?” Sugar asked.
The janitor looked embarrassed. “With her here?”
“She’s seen a lot of bare backsides,” Sugar said.
Giggling with embarrassment, the janitor slipped off the shoulder braces of his overalls and let them fall to his ankles. He was wearing boxer-type shorts with red roses on a purple background. He let these fall to his ankles also, keeping his back turned to the girl; then he lay on his stomach across the trunks.
The girl watched these proceedings in a stolid, unsmiling, unblinking amazement.
Sugar poured oil on the leathery skin and began massaging. He mumbled sounds, which the janitor believed to be magic words of an African language.
The janitor had placed the key ring on the dusty top of a nearby dressing table.
After a few minutes, Sugar said, “My assistant will continue while I go wash my hands. Where is there a wash basin I can use?”
“Hand me my keys, doc,” the janitor said without moving. He separated one and gave the ring back to Sugar. “This is for the boiler room; it’s the third door to the right. You’ll find everything you want there.”
Sugar took the keys and motioned for the girl to begin massaging the janitor’s back. She took over and began rubbing stolidly back and forth like a Spanish peasant washing clothes on a stone slab.
Sugar left the room. He was grateful to the janitor for giving him the keys; otherwise he would have had to take them. He found the door to the boiler room, unlocked it and entered. He stayed long enough to take off the nightgown and towel and put them in the furnace. Then he found his way up to the ground floor and continued up to the second floor by means of the front stairs. He took his time trying the various keys until he found one that unlocked the door to the apartment formerly occupied by Rufus. The door opened on a small hallway that
connected the two front rooms and a bathroom to one side. Rufus had done well by himself, Sugar thought.
He went through the sitting room, opened the front window and looked up and down the street. A few early risers were up and about; but it didn’t take long to catch a moment when the street was clear. He tossed the keys so that they fell directly in front of the entrance. Then he closed the window and drew the curtains.
He wondered how long it would take the janitor to discover he’d been tricked. As for the girl, if no one stopped her she would keep on rubbing until the skin came off.
He began to search.
13
THE KEYS WERE LYING in the street.
It’s a trap, Dummy thought automatically. Nobody could go to a joint looking for some way to get in and find the keys lying at his feet. Life wasn’t that easy.
But if the police thought he would fall into their trap, they didn’t know Dummy. He looked quickly up and down the street, trying to spot the stake-out. But he didn’t see anyone who looked like a dick. Two women who couldn’t be anything but housemaids were trudging toward the bus-stop; a late worker was hurrying toward the subway kiosk on 110th Street.
Dummy didn’t believe that Grave Digger and Coffin Ed would be that crude; so it must be the Homicide men playing around. Well, he would play around, too.
He kept on walking like an ordinary man on his way down the street, going about his business. He didn’t see the keys. It was by the merest accident that his foot kicked the ring. He picked them up and went looking for the janitor like an honest man, holding them openly in his hand. He looked into the vestibule, then came back to the sidewalk. He went over and peered down the alleyway beside the building. He came back and stood in the vestibule. There was a button beside the mall boxes marked Super, but he didn’t see it. If he had, he would have rung it, and, when someone answered it, he would have given them the keys.
He was making up the story as he went along, and making himself believe it.
He tiptoed up the stairs, walking on the balls of his feet. Every nerve in his body was alert. His hands hung free and his shoulders were loose, ready to throw a punch with either hand from any angle. He didn’t find the janitor on the second floor as he expected. Someone - he supposed it was one of the tenants on his way to work - had told him he had seen the janitor on the second floor cleaning out the apartment of the man who had been killed the night before.
But the door to that apartment was closed. He didn’t try the knob, instead, he rang the bell.
Sugar was inside of the hall closet to the left of the entrance when the bell rang. It sounded right over his head. He was going through the pockets of Rufus’s clothes. He jumped so violently he struck his head against the shelf above the clothes rack. Luckily, it didn’t make much of a sound, but it raised a knot. After that he was afraid to move. He held his breath, while ice-cold chills ran up and down his spine. He strained his ears, trying to catch the sound of movement outside, meanwhile keeping his nerves braced against another ring. But the bell didn’t ring any more, and for a time he didn’t hear a sound.
Dummy had taken out his scratch pad and pencil. He wrote, janitor I found your keys, on a page and tore it from the pad.
Sugar heard the sound of paper tearing. It shattered his nerves more than a hammering on the door would have done. He couldn’t figure it out. Then he saw the edge of a piece of paper pushed underneath the door. There was little more than an inch of the paper showing and nothing was written on that part. He stared at it as though it were a time bomb. Hackles rose on the back of his neck. What did it mean?
Dummy had inserted the paper so that the greater part still remained outside. Then he tiptoed to the staircase and stood back out of sight from the door, only the edge of his face showing as he peeped around the corner to see if anyone would draw the paper inside.
Sugar felt instinctively that it was a trap. But he couldn’t be sure. It might be a warning. No, that was out; it couldn’t be a warning - not for himself, at any rate. But it might be a message to Rufus by someone who didn’t know yet that Rufus was dead. It might have something to do with the money; it might be the key to the whole thing.
He got down on his hands and knees and tried to look underneath the door. He couldn’t see anything. He stared at the strip of paper. There must be something written on the part he couldn’t see, he thought. But he was afraid to touch it. The odds were too great that it might be a trap. Someone was trying to find out if anyone was in the flat. If it were the police, they would have simply come on in. They would not have rung the bell. The only person who would set that kind of trap was the person who had killed Rufus, he concluded.
He heard a key being inserted in the lock.
Dummy had satisfied himself that there was no one within the flat. If the police had a stake-out, he must be in another apartment. Dummy decided he’d have to risk it. There was always the possibility that the janitor had dropped his ring of keys. And if the police did catch him, he could claim that he found the keys in the door.
Sugar scuttled away from the door, crawling on all fours like a frightened crab. He needed a weapon - a good solid club. The killer was a knife-man, and Sugar’s only hope was to knock him out before he got a chance to use it.
He had been through the sitting room and bedroom before, and he didn’t remember having seen anything sufficiently substantial. So he made for the kitchen. His first choice was the kitchen stool, but then he noticed a heavy iron skillet with a grip handle that was just the thing.
He snatched it from the hook and rushed back to the door, stationing himself on the opening side so he’d be behind the door when the intruder entered.
The fourth key worked. Dummy had the door open and the key extracted and was stepping into the room, holding the key ring in his right hand, when his sixth sense sounded the alarm. He ducked backwards with the automatic instinct of the ring, and the heavy iron skillet passed by his head so close he felt the backwash. He circled out of the ducking motion like a piston on a cam shaft and came back with a shoulder smash against the door that knocked Sugar off his feet. Dummy was through the door, and had kicked it shut behind him, while Sugar was still clawing the air. It was over in a second. He led with a left to the ribs and crossed a right to Sugar’s solar plexus. Sugar sat on the floor, and the lights dancing before his eyes kept him from breathing.
Dummy was surprised to find out it was Sugar. He wondered how much Sugar knew. Alberta had given him the impression that Sugar didn’t know about the money; or why hadn’t she asked Sugar to find out where Rufus lived instead of coming to him? But it looked now as though Sugar knew as much as he did - which wasn’t much of anything, he admitted to himself. In fact, Sugar might know more. His eyes narrowed with suspicion.
Sugar kept gasping until his vision returned. He saw Dummy standing over him.
“It was you,” he gasped.
Dummy continued to stare at him.
Sugar remained in his sitting position on the floor.
“You killed him,” he said gaspingly.
Dummy took out his stub of pencil and scratch pad and wrote: I saw you kill him but I didn tell.
Sugar read it and got to his feet. He was scared. “Look here, man, if you’re thinking of trying to frame me, I can prove I didn’t do it. How about you?”
Dummy showed him a tongueless grin and wrote the question: what you doin here?
“What are you doing here yourself?” Sugar countered.
Dummy wrote: quit play in dumbi am lookin for the money like you is.
“It’s Alberta’s money,” Sugar said. “I’m going to see that she gets it back.”
Dummy wrote: not if i find it first.
“All right, we’ll go halvers,” Sugar bargained.
Dummy wrote: just if we find it in hereoutside dont count.
Sugar nodded. There would be time enough to work out what to do after they found it. The main thing was to keep a close watch and protect himself, bec
ause if Dummy had killed Rufus, he wouldn’t hesitate about killing him, too.
Dummy wrote: we search together.
Sugar nodded. “That’s the best way,” he agreed.
It was not a difficult place to search. The two rooms and kitchen had been furnished from Blumstein’s department store on 125th Street. The sitting room furniture was of modernistic oak veneer, was known as the King Cole suite, and had been manufactured in the Bronx. In the bedroom was a Deluxe bridal suite in bland maple from Grand Rapids, Michigan. The television set bore the stamp of one of the big Jersey City dealers, who advertised over the local radios that he would deliver, install and have working, within one hour of receiving an order by telephone, any size television set to any of New York City’s five boroughs at any time of the day or night.
Before starting, Sugar had gone into the kitchen for a glass of water. Dummy had followed quickly, but not before Sugar had snatched the plastic pepper shaker from the kitchen table and slipped it into his side pants pocket. He managed to unscrew the top while they went over the furnishings and through all of the various drawers.
Neither let the other get out of sight. Chiefly, they watched one another’s hands. Every now and then they stared at each other with secret speculation. It was Sugar’s intention, if Dummy found the money, to dash the pepper into his eyes, snatch the money and run. Dummy’s plan was not so subtle; he merely intended to knock Sugar unconscious and walk out with the money, leaving him there.
But they didn’t find anything except the worldly possessions of Rufus Wright, which weren’t worth talking about.
Dummy wrote: somebody beat us to it.
“It didn’t have to be here,” Sugar said.
Dummy wrote: where else.
Sugar shook his head. He wasn’t giving Dummy any leads.
Before leaving, they went to the window to case the street. There was the customary array of downtown porters and domestic workers on their way to work. They didn’t spot anyone who looked like a detective. But while they were watching they saw the girl come from the alleyway, carrying a pair of overall pants, and start highballing in the direction of 114th Street. A moment later the janitor appeared in his hickory-striped shirt and flowered shorts and took out after her. They disappeared around the corner.
The Big Gold Dream Page 9
