The Real Cool Killers

by Chester Himes

  “He’s right,” one of the evening-gowned colored women said. “If Ready has killed some trick he was steering to Reba’s the chair’s too good for him.”

  “Shut your mouth, woman,” the barman whispered fiercely.

  The muscles in Grave Digger’s face began to jump as he let go of Bucky. He stood up with his heels hooked into the rungs of the barstool and leaned over the bar. He caught the barman by the front of his red silk shirt as he was trying to dance away. The shirt ripped down the seam with a ragged sound but enough held for him to jerk the barman close to the bar.

  “You got too goddamned much to say, Tarbelle,” he said in a thick cottony voice, and slapped the barman spinning across the circular enclosure with the palm of his open hand.

  “He didn’t have to do that,” the first woman said.

  Grave Digger turned on her and said thickly, “And you, little sister, you and me are going to see Reba.”

  “Reba!” her companion replied. “Do I know anybody named Reba. Lord no!”

  Grave Digger stepped down from his high stool.

  “Cut that Aunt Jemima routine and get up off your ass,” he said thickly, “or I’ll take my pistol and break off your teeth.”

  The two white men stared at him as though at a dangerous animal escaped from the zoo.

  “You mean that?” the woman said.

  “I mean it,” he said.

  She scrunched out of the stool and said, “Gimme my coat, Jule.”

  The chocolate dandy took a coat from the top of the jukebox behind them.

  “That’s putting it on rather thick,” the blond white man protested in a reasonable voice.

  “I’m just a cop,” Grave Digger said thickly. “If you white people insist on coming up to Harlem where you force colored people to live in vice-and-crime-ridden slums, it’s my job to see that you are safe.”

  The white man turned bright red.

  8

  The sergeant knocked at the door. He was flanked by two uniformed cops and a corporal.

  Another search party led by another sergeant was at the door across the hall.

  Other cops were working all the corridors starting at the bottom and sealing off the area they’d covered.

  “Come in,” Granny called in a querulous voice. “The door ain’t locked.” She bit the stem of her corn-cob pipe with toothless gums.

  The sergeant and his party entered the small kitchen. It was crowded.

  At the sight of the very old woman working innocently at her darning, the sergeant started to remove his cap, then remembered he was on duty and kept it on.

  “You don’t lock your door, Grandma?” he observed.

  Granny looked at the cops over the rims of her ancient spectacles and her old fingers went lax on the darning egg.

  “Naw suh, Ah ain’t got nuthin’ for nobody to steal and ain’t nobody want nuthin’ else from an old ’oman like me.”

  The sergeant’s beady blue eyes scanned the kitchen. “You keep this place mighty clean, Grandma,” he remarked in surprise.

  “Yes suh, it don’t kill a body to keep clean and my old missy used to always say de cleaness is next to the goddess.”

  Her old milky eyes held a terrified question she couldn’t ask and her thin old body began to tremble.

  “You mean goodness,” the sergeant said.

  “Naw suh, Ah means goddess; Ah knows what she said.”

  “She means cleanliness is next to godliness,” the corporal interposed.

  “The professor,” one of the cops said.

  Granny pursed her lips. “Ah know what my missy said; goddess, she said.”

  “Were you in slavery?” the sergeant asked as though struck suddenly by the thought.

  The others stared at her with sudden interest.

  “Ah don’t rightly know, suh. Ah ’spect so though.”

  “How old are you?”

  Her lips moved soundlessly; she seemed to be trying to remember.

  “She must be all of a hundred,” the professor said.

  She couldn’t stop her body from trembling and slowly it got worse.

  “What for you white ’licemen wants with me, suh?” she finally asked.

  The sergeant noticed that she was trembling and said reassuringly, “We ain’t after you, Grandma; we’re looking for an escaped prisoner and some teenage gangsters.”

  “Gangsters!”

  Her spectacles slipped down on her nose and her hands shook as though she had the palsy.

  “They belong to a neighbourhood gang that calls itself Real Cool Moslems.”

  She went from terrified to scandalized. “We ain’t no heathen in here, suh,” she said indignantly. “We be God-fearing Christians.”

  The cops laughed.

  “They’re not real Moslems,” the sergeant said. “They just call themselves that. One of them, named Sonny Pickens, is older than the rest. He killed a white man outside on the street.”

  The darning dropped unnoticed from Granny’s nerveless fingers. The corncob pipe wobbled in her puckered mouth; the professor looked at it with morbid fascination.

  “A white man! Merciful hebens!” she exclaimed in a quavering voice. “What’s this wicked world coming to?”

  “Nobody knows,” the sergeant said, then changed his manner abruptly. “Well, let’s get down to business, Grandma. What’s your name?”

  “Bowee, suh, but e’body calls me Granny.”

  “Bowee. How do you spell that, Grandma?”

  “Ah don’t rightly know, suh. Hit’s just short for boll weevil. My old missy name me that. They say the boll weevil was mighty bad the year Ah was born.”

  “What about your husband, didn’t he have a name?”

  “Ah neber had no regular ’usban’, suh. Just whosoever was thar.”

  “You got any children?”

  “Jesus Christ, sarge,” the professor said. “Her youngest child would be sixty years old.”

  The two cops laughed; the sergeant reddened sheepishly.

  “Who lives here with you, Granny?” the sergeant continued.

  Her bony frame stiffened beneath her faded Mother Hubbard. The corncob pipe fell into her lap and rolled unnoticed to the floor.

  “Just me and mah grandchile, Caleb, suh,” she said in a forced voice. “And Ah rents a room to two workin’ boys; but they be good boys and don’t neber bother nobody.”

  The cops grew suddenly speculative.

  “Now this grandchild, Caleb, Grandma–” the sergeant began cunningly.

  “He might be mah great-grandchile, suh,” she interrupted.

  He frowned, “Great, then. Where is he now?”

  “You mean right now, suh?”

  “Yeah, Grandma, right this minute.”

  “He at work in a bowling alley downtown, suh.”

  “How long has he been at work?”

  “He left right after supper, suh. We gennally eats supper at six o’clock.”

  “And he has a regular job in this bowling alley?”

  “Naw suh, hit’s just for t’night, suh. He goes to school – Ah don’t rightly ’member the number of his new P.S.”

  “Where is this bowling alley he’s working at tonight?”

  “Ah don’t know, suh. Ah guess you all’ll have to ast Samson. He is one of mah roomers.”

  “Samson, yeah.” The sergeant stored it in his memory. “And you haven’t seen Caleb since supper – about seven o’clock, say?”

  “Ah don’t know what time it was but it war right after supper.”

  “And when he left here he went directly to work?”

  “Yas suh, you find him right dar on de job. He a good boy and always mind me what Ah say.”

  “And your roomers, where are they?”

  “They is in they room, suh. Hit’s in the front. They got visitors with ’em.”

  “Visitors?”

  “Gals.”

  “Oh!” Then to his assistants he said, “Come on.”

  They w
ent through the middle room like hounds on a hot scent. The sergeant tried the handle to the front-room door without knocking, found it locked and hammered angrily.

  “Who’s that?” Sheik asked.

  “The police.”

  Sheik unlocked the door. The cops rushed in. Sheik’s eyes glittered.

  “What the hell do you keep your door locked for?” the sergeant asked.

  “We didn’t want to be disturbed.”

  Four pairs of eyes quickly scanned the room.

  Two teenaged colored girls sat side by side on the bed, leafing through a colored picture magazine. Another youth stood looking out the open window at the excitement on the street.

  “Who the hell you think you’re kidding with this phony stage setting?” the sergeant roared.

  “Not you, ace,” Sheik said flippantly.

  The sergeant’s hand flicked out like a whip, passing inches in front of Sheik’s eyes.

  Sheik jumped back as though he’d been scalded.

  “Jagged to the gills,” the sergeant said, looking minutely about the room. His eyes lit on Choo-Choo’s half-smoked package of Camels on the table. “Dump out those fags,” he ordered a cop, watching Sheik’s reaction. “Never mind,” he added. “The bastard’s got rid of them.”

  He closed in on Sheik like a prizefighter and shoved his red sweaty face within a few inches of Sheik’s. His veined blue eyes bored into Sheik’s pale yellow eyes.

  “Where’s that A-rab costume?” he asked in a browbeating voice.

  “What Arab costume? Do I look like an A-rab to you?”

  “You look like a two-bit punk to me. You got the eyes of a yellow cur.”

  “You ain’t got no prize-winning eyes yourself.”

  “Don’t give me none of your lip, punk; I’ll knock out your teeth.”

  “I could knock out your teeth too if I had on a sergeant’s uniform and three big flatfeet backing me up.”

  The cops stared at him from blank shuttered faces.

  “What do they call you, Mo-hammed or Nasser?” the sergeant hammered.

  “They call me by my name, Samson.”

  “Samson what?”

  “Samson Hyers.”

  “Don’t give me that crap; we know you’re one of those Moslems.”

  “I ain’t no Moslem; I’m a cannibal.”

  “Oh, so you think you’re a comedian.”

  “You the one asking the funny questions.”

  “What’s that other punk’s name?”

  “Ask him.”

  The sergeant slapped him with such force it sounded like a .22-caliber shot.

  Sheik reeled back from the impact of the slap but kept his feet. Blood darkened his face to the color of beef liver; the imprint of the sergeant’s hand glowed purple red. His pale yellow eyes looked wildcat crazy. But he kept his lip buttoned.

  “When I ask you a question I want you to answer it,” the sergeant said.

  He didn’t answer.

  “You hear me?”

  He still didn’t answer.

  The sergeant loomed in front of him with both fists cocked like red meat axes.

  “I want an answer.”

  “Yeah, I hear you,” Sheik muttered sullenly.

  “Frisk him,” the sergeant ordered the professor, then to the other two cops; said, “You and Price start shaking down this room.”

  The professor set to work on Sheik methodically, as though searching for lice, while the other cops started dumping dresser drawers onto the table.

  The sergeant left them and turned his attention to Choo-Choo.

  “What kind of Moslem are you?”

  Choo-Choo started grinning and fawning like the original Uncle Tom.

  “I ain’t no Moslem, boss, I’se just a plain old unholy roller.”

  “I guess your name is Delilah.”

  “He-he, naw suh boss, but you’re warm. It’s Justice Broome.”

  All three cops looked about and grinned, and the sergeant had to clamp his jaws to keep from grinning too.

  “You know these Moslems?”

  “What Moslems, boss?”

  “The Harlem Moslems in this neighbourhood.”

  “Naw suh, boss, I don’t know no Moslems in Harlem.”

  “You think I was born yesterday? They a neighbourhood gang. Every black son of a bitch in this neighbourhood knows who they are.”

  “Everybody ’cept me, boss.”

  The sergeant’s palm flew out and caught Choo-Choo unexpectedly on the mouth while it was still open in a grin. It didn’t rock his short thick body, but his eyes rolled back in their sockets. He spit blood on the floor.

  “Boss, suh, please be careful with my chops – they’re tender.”

  “I’m getting damn tired of your lying.”

  “Boss, I swear ’fore God, if I knowed anything ’bout them Moslems you’d be the first one I’d tell it to.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I works, boss, yes suh.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I helps out.”

  “Helps out with what? You want to lose some of your pearly teeth?”

  “I helps out a man who writes numbers.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “His name?”

  The sergeant cocked his fists.

  “Oh, you mean his name, boss: Hit’s Four-Four Row.”

  “You call that a name?”

  “Yas suh, that’s what they calls him.”

  “What does your buddy do?”

  “The same thing,” Sheik said.

  The sergeant wheeled on him. “You keep quiet; when I want you I’ll call you.” Then he said to the professor, “Can’t you keep that punk quiet?”

  The professor unhooked his sap. “I’ll quiet him.”

  “I don’t want you to quiet him; just keep him quiet. I got some more questions for him.” Then he turned back to Choo-Choo. “When do you punks work?”

  “In the morning, boss. We got to get the numbers in by noon.”

  “What do you do the rest of the day?”

  “Go ’round and pay off.”

  “What if there isn’t any payoff?”

  “Just go ’round.”

  “Where’s your beat?”

  “ ’Round here.”

  “God damn it, you mean to tell me you write numbers in this neighbourhood and you don’t know anything about the Moslems?”

  “I swear on my mother’s grave, boss, I ain’t never heard of no Moslems ’round here. They must not be in this neighbourhood, boss.”

  “What time did you leave the house tonight?”

  “I ain’t never left it, boss. We come here right after we et supper and ain’t been out since.”

  “Stop lying; I saw you both when you slipped back in here a half-hour ago.”

  “Naw suh, boss, you musta seen somebody what looks like us ’cause we been here all the time.”

  The sergeant crossed to the door and flung it open. “Hey, Grandma!” he called.

  “Hannh?” she answered querulously from the kitchen.

  “How long have these boys been in their room?”

  “Hannh?”

  “You have to talk louder; she can’t hear you,” Sissie volunteered.

  Sheik and Choo-Choo gave her threatening looks.

  The sergeant crossed the middle room to the kitchen door. “How long have your roomers been back from supper?” he roared.

  She looked at him from uncomprehending eyes.

  “Hannh?”

  “She can’t hear no more,” Sissie called. “She gets that way sometime.”

  “Hell,” the sergeant said disgustedly and stormed back to Choo-Choo. “Where’d you pick up these girls?”

  “We didn’t pick ’em up, boss; they come here by themselves.”

  “You’re too goddam innocent to be alive.” The sergeant was frustrated. He turned to the professor: “What did you find on that punk?”

  “This knife.”

  �
�Hell,” the sergeant said. He took it and dropped it into his pocket without a glance. “Okay, fan this other punk – Justice.”

  “I’ll do Justice,” the professor punned.

  The two cops crossed glances suggestively.

  They had dumped out all the drawers and turned out all the boxes and pasteboard suitcases and now they were ready for the bed.

  “You gals rise and shine,” one said.

  The girls got up and stood uncomfortably in the center of the room.

  “Find anything?” the sergeant asked.

  “Nothing that I’d even care to have in my dog house,” the cop said.

  The sergeant began on the girls. “What’s your name?” he asked Sissie.

  “Sissieratta Hamilton.”

  “Sissie what?”

  “Sissieratta.”

  “Where do you live, Sissie?”

  “At 2702 Seventh Avenue with my aunt and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Coolie Dunbar.”

  “Ummm,” he said, “And yours?” he asked Sugartit.

  “Evelyn Johnson.”

  “Where do you live, Eve?”

  “In Jamaica with my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Edward Johnson.”

  “It’s mighty late for you to be so far from home.”

  “I’m going to spend the night with Sissieratta.”

  “How long have you girls been here?” he asked of both.

  “About half an hour, more or less,” Sissie replied.

  “Then you saw the shooting down on the street?”

  “It was over when we got here.”

  “Where did you come from?”

  “From my house.”

  “You don’t know if these punks have been in all evening or not.”

  “They were here when we got here and they said they’d been waiting here since supper. We promised to come at eight but we had to stay help my aunty and we got here late.”

  “Sounds too good to be true,” the sergeant commented.

  The girls didn’t reply.

  The cops finished with the bed and the talkative one said, “Nothing but stink.”

  “Can that talk,” the sergeant said. “Grandma’s clean.”

  “These punks aren’t.”

  The sergeant turned to the professor. “What’s on Justice besides the blindfold?”

  His joke laid an egg.

  “Nothing but his black,” the professor said.

  His joke drew a laugh.

  “What do you say, shall we run ’em in?” the sergeant asked.

  “Why not,” the professor said. “If we haven’t got space in the bullpen for everybody we can put up tents.”