by McBain, Ed
He tilted his head up and kissed her on the mouth. She kissed him with her eyes open, looking at his face as it came closer to hers.
Then his head was on her breast again, and she heard his heavy breathing become slow and even, and she knew he was asleep. She kissed him on the forehead and held him close.
“Looks like the sun’s trying to come out,” the patrolman said.
“Yes. Yes, it does.”
The patrolman had time to kill. He didn’t have to call in yet, and there’d been no activity this morning. Probably half of Harlem was still in bed.
“There’s nothing like a dreary day in Harlem,” he expanded. “Why is it that nothing can get as dreary as a dreary day in Harlem?”
“Well, I don’t know.”
“That’s the trouble with you people,” the patrolman said, “you don’t know nothing.”
He pulled a sour face and leaned against the counter.
“If I lived in Harlem, you can bet your ass I’d know all about it. Why, I’ll bet right now, not even living here, just working here, I know more about Harlem than three-fourths of the Nigras in it.”
“That may be so.”
“Damn tootin’ it’s so. I can give you the location of every whore house and every drop. I know where all the shooting galleries are, and I can give you the names of everybody in Harlem pushing dope.” The patrolman nodded his head solemnly.
“If you know all this, why don’t the police clean it up?”
“I can see you don’t know nothing about the way we operate.”
“Well, to tell the truth, I don’t.”
“The point is to keep it all out in the open,” the patrolman said. “This way we know where it all is, and we can crack down whenever we like. If we raided one whore house now, all the rest would go underground. Then where would we be?”
“Well, what’s the difference? I mean, if you know where they are and don’t crack down, they might just as well be underground.”
“You just don’t understand,” the patrolman said. “This is politics.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Now, don’t go getting ideas. I don’t mean graft. I mean we work a kind of politics in Harlem, you understand?”
“A little.”
“What’s the sense talking to you? You just don’t understand.” The patrolman wiped a beefy hand over his face and then looked through the plate-glass window. “Yep, the sun is coming out. Happy day.”
“It was pretty gray.”
“Pretty gray is putting it mild. You could cut that fog with a razor.” The patrolman paused. “You carry a razor?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“That’s a funny question to ask. Why should I carry a razor?”
“How should I know? Why does every other Nigra in Harlem carry a razor?”
“Well, I don’t know if that’s true or not.”
“That’s what I mean,” the patrolman said. “You live right here, and you don’t know what the hell’s going on right under your nose. Every Nigra carries a razor.”
“I don’t.”
“Then you’re the exception that proves the rule,” the patrolman said righteously.
“You’ve got a pretty stereotyped picture of the Negro, I’d say.”
“A pretty what picture?”
“Never mind.”
The patrolman toyed with some of the items on the counter. “You mean you think the folks in Harlem don’t carry razors, is that it?”
“Some do, I imagine. But just as many don’t.”
“They’re crazy if they don’t,” the patrolman said. “You never know when you’re gonna get killed in Harlem. Knifed or razored or zip-gunned or what the hell. You should know that, you live here.”
“I’ve never had any trouble.”
“That’s what they all say until they feel that knife in their ribs.” The patrolman nodded sourly. “Look what happened to that sonovabitch Ortega. There’s one guy who thought he was riding high. So what happens? Bam, with a zip gun. He ain’t riding high no more, he sure ain’t.”
“Luis wasn’t exactly what I’d call an average citizen.”
“There ain’t no average citizen. What the hell are you doing, selling statistics? Luis the Spic was like everybody else in Harlem, no more, no less.”
“I don’t think—”
“He,” the patrolman said, raising his voice, “thought he knew all the angles. Only angle he didn’t figure was the trajectory of a bullet, and that’s a curve.” The patrolman laughed suddenly. “Well, serves the bastard right. I’m almost sorry they got the guy who done it.”
“They … they caught him?”
“Sure. Few hours after it happened. You can’t put nothing over on the cops in Harlem, feller, just remember that.”
“I didn’t know. I mean, I didn’t know they caught him.”
The patrolman beamed proudly, as if he’d been the one who’d made the arrest. “We got him, all right,” he said.
“That’s a shame. I mean, about Johnny Lane. He was a nice kid. We sort of gr—”
“Johnny Lane? No, no, he’s not the one.”
“But you said—”
“You talking about the guy who had the fight with Luis a while back? Yeah, we thought it was him, too. But it’s another guy who done it. Brown, Charlie Brown. You ever hear of him?”
“No. No, I … You mean Johnny didn’t kill Luis?”
“This Brown guy plugged him. He shot him ’cause Luis wouldn’t fix him. Bam, all over for the spic.” The patrolman inflated his chest. “We got him, though.” He began chuckling suddenly. “Hey, you want to hear something funny?”
“What?”
“This other guy, this Lane character. He don’t even know we got the killer yet.” The patrolman burst out laughing. “He thinks the law is still after him! Ain’t that something?”
“He doesn’t know? But … but shouldn’t—”
“He’ll find out sooner or later,” the patrolman said, his laugh subsiding.
“But how? Who’ll tell him?”
“Hell, you can tell him, if you feel like it.”
“Me?”
“Sure, go ahead. Do it with our blessings.” The patrolman scratched his jaw. “Well, I better call in. Looks like it’s gonna be a nice day, after all.”
“Yes.”
“So long, feller. Keep things running right, huh?”
“Yes, I will. Yes, thank you.”
The patrolman walked through the store and then pulled open the door. The bell over the door sounded when he opened it. He waved back at the counter, and then walked out onto the sidewalk.
There was now one man in Harlem—with the exception of the police—who knew that Johnny Lane had been cleared.
That man leaned on the counter in Lefkowitz’s drugstore and bit his lip worriedly.
That man was Frankie Parker.
Ten
This was definitely a curious turn of events, Frankie thought.
Was it possible that Johnny really hadn’t killed the spic? Well, that’s what the patrolman had said. It seemed unlikely, but the police didn’t make mistakes like that, not when it concerned murder. Charlie Brown? Did he know anyone named Charlie Brown? None that he could think of. There was an old man who came into the store every now and then, but his name was Bernard Brown, so he wasn’t the one.
Charlie Brown, Charlie Brown … Well, it wasn’t really important.
The important thing, of course, was the fact that Johnny was innocent. And, according to what the cop had said, Johnny didn’t even know he’d been cleared. Frankie shook his head in wonder.
He had certainly seemed guilty yesterday. Was it only yesterday? Yes, and he’d looked damned guilty. That harried look on his face, and the bleeding arm. Of course, there’s something about blood that immediately indicates violence. How was Frankie, after all, to know that he was innocent? Was he supposed to take a chance helping Johnny when he might have been guilty,
when he certainly looked guilty? Everybody was saying he’d killed the spic, and then he showed up with the ripped arm, so who was a person supposed to believe? Everybody, or Johnny?
I did dress his arm, Frankie thought, at least I did that for him, but it was a real nasty cut. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a cut like that all the time I’ve been working here.
A cut like that should have a doctor.
The thought kept revolving in Frankie’s mind. He knew that the cut was a bad one, he’d seen enough minor cuts to know that. And he knew that it should be treated by a doctor. And there was no reason now why it shouldn’t have a doctor’s care. Except one reason, and that was a big enough reason to keep Johnny away from any doctor in the city.
Johnny thought he was wanted for murder.
I should go to him, Frankie thought, I really should. I should go to him and tell him he’s a free man.
But I can’t.
I can’t leave the drugstore, and even if I went on my lunch hour, I’d feel kind of silly about it. I mean, especially after having called the cops yesterday when he was here. I couldn’t face him, not after that. Besides, I don’t even know where he is.
Frankie fought the battle with himself right up to his lunch hour, and then he kept battling it out in his mind all the while he ate. When he went back to the drugstore, he still didn’t know what to do. He knew Johnny should be told, but he also knew he could not bring himself to do the telling. He told himself he was not being cowardly. After all, he really didn’t know where Johnny was. But in spite of what he told himself, he could not forget having called the cops on Johnny the day before, and he could not put the picture of that bleeding arm out of his mind. He worked listlessly, preoccupied, and Lefkowitz had to shout at him several times in order to get his attention back to his work.
When Hank Sands entered the drugstore, Frankie’s problem was automatically solved.
He knew Sands, and he never liked him, but that didn’t matter, not at the moment. Sands knew Harlem, and he knew everything about Harlem. What was more, he frequented the dive Cindy Matthews stripped in. Even if Sands didn’t know where Johnny was, which was unlikely, he could pass the information on to Cindy, and she’d get it to Johnny. Frankie did not stop to wonder why he himself did not pass the information on to Cindy. He saw, in Hank Sands, a way out, and he seized it immediately.
He waited until Sands had made his small purchase, and then he said, “Hank, do you know where Johnny is?”
“Johnny who?” Sands said warily.
“Lane. Johnny Lane. Have you seen him?”
“Mebbe. Why you askin’?”
“I’ve got good news for him.”
“Yeah? What kinda news?”
“The cops have caught Luis’ killer. A guy named Charlie Brown. They’re not looking for Johnny any more. He’s a free man.”
“Yeah?” Sands considered this a moment, and his eyes narrowed. “How come you know this?”
“A cop was in here this morning. He told me.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. I thought you might get the information to Johnny. Or at least to Cindy. You could do that, couldn’t you, Hank?”
“Cindy, huh?” Sands said. He weighed this carefully, and then he scratched his jaw. “You tell anybody else about this, Parker?”
“No, no one. You’re the first one I saw who could help.”
“Yeah,” Sands said. “And you want me t’pass the word, that it? Get the word to Johnny.” Sands paused. “Or Cindy.”
“Yes.”
“He a free man, that right?”
“Yes,” Frankie said.
“But he don’t know it.” Sands smiled. “Pee-culiar situation, ain’t it?”
“Reason I think he should find out fast, his arm is cut pretty bad.”
“That right?” Sands asked.
“Yes.”
“Then I s’pose Cindy—or Johnny—be mighty glad to get this piece of information. I mean, his arm bein’ cut bad an’ all.”
“Yes. Can you take it to him, Hank?”
“Why, sure,” Sands said, smiling. “Sure thing. Don’t you worry ’bout it at all. I’ll get on it right away.”
“Well, thanks. That’s a real load off my mind.”
“Yeah,” Sands said, smiling. The smile dropped from his face. “Now listen, man, don’t you go telling this to nobody else, mind?”
“Why not?”
“I tell you why not. This thing starts spreadin’ ’round Harlem, an’ it’ll assume the prop’ties of a rumor, you follow? You an intelligent cat, so you know what I mean. If eve’body talk about it, an’ the rumble get back to Johnny, why, he won’t know if’n it’s true or not, you follow?”
“Yes, I see what you mean.”
“So you jus’ keep your mouth tight on this, Parker. You tol’ me, an’ thass enough. I’ll get the word to Johnny or Cindy, now don’t you worry.”
“Well, I certainly appreciate it, Hank.”
“Don’t mention it. I ’preciates the opportunity.” Sands smiled and paid for his purchase. “Now, ’member, don’t you go spoutin’ over at the lip.”
“I won’t,” Frankie promised.
“Me, I’m goan get started on this right now,” Sands said. He nodded and smiled, and then walked to the door of the store and out onto the sidewalk. The sun was out now, and the day had turned into a very nice day, much warmer than the day before, an almost Indian-summer day. Sands breathed deeply of the mild air, and the smile grew on his face. Without hesitation he headed for Cindy’s apartment.
The sunlight struck his closed eyes, spreading a violent orange onto his eyeballs. He did not know how long the orange color had been there, but it startled him into wakefulness, and he sat upright abruptly, opening his eyes.
He did not know where he was for a moment, and he stared around the room in puzzlement while awareness seeped slowly into his mind. His body was tense on the bed until he identified the room, and then he visibly relaxed and sighed. Cindy’s place.
And then he remembered that Cindy had been in the bed with him, and he glanced quickly at the pillow beside him, seeing the indentation of her head there. He felt the sheets quickly, and they were cold where Cindy had lain.
“Cindy?” he called.
He listened, his ears automatically blocking out the street noises below. He could hear every sound in the apartment; the ticking of the white-faced clock on the dresser, the steady tap-tap of the water faucet in the bathroom, the clanking of the radiators.
“Cindy?” he called again.
When he got no answer, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and looked around the room. Cindy’s pajama top was on the floor where she’d dropped it. He remembered seeing her clothing folded over the back of the chair last night, and when he looked at the chair now, the clothing was gone, except for a pair of panties and silk stockings, which she’d probably changed today. The stockings looked peculiarly forlorn without Cindy’s legs inside them. He picked one up, feeling the nylon as it trailed over his fingers, remembering Cindy’s body, again, remembering a little of last night.
Had he fallen asleep?
That was rich. Chalk up a first for Johnny Lane. He’d fallen asleep with a girl like Cindy beside him. He smiled, and then the smile evaporated when he remembered that Cindy wasn’t in the apartment now.
He called, “Cindy!” again, just to check, and then he went into the small bathroom, even looking in the tub. No, she wasn’t in the apartment. Then where was she? He scratched his head.
At the club?
What the hell time was it, anyway?
He walked to the dresser and picked the clock up. Twelve-thirty, and the clock ran ten minutes fast, so that made it twelve-twenty. He’d slept for about four or five hours, he supposed. He felt completely refreshed. Aside from the damned throbbing in his arm, he felt like a new man. Cindy would be surprised to see him looking so good.
But where the hell was she?
Twelve-twenty. Wh
at does a girl do at twelve-twenty? He put the clock back on the dresser, and then scanned the apartment. He stood in his underwear, the T shirt very white against his dark skin, and when he spotted the note propped up against the coffeepot, he crossed the room with long strides. The pot was on the stove, set against one end of the combination kitchen-bedroom, alongside the icebox. He picked up the note, unfolded it, and read it hastily:
Johnny dear:
I went down for some groceries and the newspaper. If you should wake up before I come back, there is coffee in the pot, just heat it, and some buns in the breadbox on top of the icebox. I washed the blood out of your shirt (did you know the bottom was all torn?) and ironed it. It’s hanging in the bathroom on a hanger. I love you.
CINDY
He felt the smile come onto his face, and he read the note through again, smiling all the while. He folded the note then and took it to the dresser, and after he’d pulled on his pants, he put the note in his pocket. He found the broken orange-crate stick in his back pocket, and he held it on the palm of his hand and thought, I won’t need this any more. Not with Cindy to take care of me.
He kept thinking of the note and smiling. He carried the stick to the garbage pail and was ready to throw it in when he saw that the pail wasn’t lined. He looked around the apartment, spotting the newspaper on the table. He walked to it and then realized he hadn’t seen a paper since he started running. He’d bought a paper when he needed change to call Cindy, but he’d thrown that away without opening it. He wondered now if the paper carried the story of Luis’ death, and he scanned it rapidly.
There was nothing, but that didn’t surprise him. A guy gets zip-gunned in Harlem. So what? Nothing to start fussing about. He took three pages from the newspaper, went back to the garbage pail, lined it, and then dumped the stick into it, feeling like a man launching a battleship.
Damn if he didn’t feel good today! He couldn’t wait to tell Cindy how he felt, he couldn’t wait for her to get back to the apartment. He’d tell her all about it, and then later he’d take to the streets again, wearing Barney’s coat, and damn if he wouldn’t find Luis’ killer.
