Cotton comes to Harlem cjagdj-6

by Chester Himes

  "Later," Grave Digger said. "I got a word first for Early Riser's gunsel."

  Her eyes flashed. "Loboy! He ain't no gunsel, he the boss."

  "Gunsel or boss, I got word for him."

  "See me first, honey. I'll pass him the word."

  "No, business first."

  "Don't be like that, honey," she said, touching his leg. "There's no time like bedtime." She fingered his ribs, promising pleasure. Her fingers touched something hard; they stiffened, paused, and then she plainly felt the big. 38 revolver in the shoulder sling. Her hand came off as though it had touched something red hot; her whole body stiffened; her eyes widened and her flaccid face looked twenty years older. "You from the syndicate?" she asked in a strained whisper.

  Grave Digger fished out a leather folder from his right coat pocket, opened it. His shield flashed in the light. "No, I'm the man."

  Coffin Ed stared at the two bartenders.

  Every eye in the room watched tensely. She backed further away; her mouth came open like a scar. "Git away from me," she almost screamed. "I'm a respectable lady."

  All eyes looked down into shot glasses as though reading the answers to all the problems in the world; ears closed up like safe doors, hands froze.

  "I'll believe it if you tell me where he's at," Grave Digger said.

  A bartender moved and Coffin Ed's pistol came into his hand. The bartender didn't move again.

  "Where who at?" the whore screamed. "I don't know where nobody at. I'm in here, tending to my own business, ain't bothering nobody, and here you come in here and start messing with me. I ain't no criminal, I'm a church lady — " she was becoming hysterical from her load of junk.

  "Let's go," Coffin Ed said. One of the sleeping drunks staggered out a few minutes later. He found the detectives parked in the black dark in the middle of the slum block on 113th Street. He got quickly into the back and sat in the dark as had the other pigeon.

  "I thought you were drunk, Cousin," Coffin Ed said.

  Cousin was an old man with unkempt, dirty, gray-streaked, kinky hair, washed-out brown eyes slowly fading to blue, and skin the color and texture of a dried prune. His wrinkled old thrown-away summer suit smelled of urine, vomit and offal. He was strictly a wino. He looked harmless. But he was one of their ace stool pigeons because no one thought he had the sense for it.

  "Nawsah, boss, jes' waitin'," he said in a whining, cowardly-sounding voice.

  "Just waiting to get drunk."

  "Thass it, boss, thass jes' what."

  "You know Loboy?" Grave Digger said.

  "Yassah, boss, knows him when I sees him."

  "Know who he works with?"

  "Early Riser mostly, boss. Leasewise they's together likes as if they's working."

  "Stealing," Grave Digger said harshly. "Snatching purses. Robbing women."

  "Yassah, boss, that's what they calls working."

  "What's their pitch? Snatching and running or just mugging?"

  "All I knows is what I hears, boss. Folks say they works the holy dream."

  " Holy dream! What's that?"

  "Folks say they worked it out themselves. They gits a church sister what carries her money twixt her legs. Loboy charms her lak a snake do a bird telling her this holy dream whilst Early Riser kneel behind her and cut out the back of her skirt and nip off de money sack. Must work, they's always flush."

  "Live and learn," Coffin Ed said and Grave Digger asked: "You seen either one of them tonight?"

  "Jes' Loboy. I seen him 'bout an hour ago looking wild and scairt going into Hijenks to get a shot and when he come out he stop in the bar for a glass of sweet wine and then he cut out in a hurry. Looked worried and movin' fast."

  "Where does Loboy live?"

  "I dunno, boss, 'round here sommers. Hijenks oughta know."

  "How 'bout that whore who makes like he's hers?"

  "She just big-gatin', boss, tryna run up de price. Loboy got a fay chick sommers."

  "All right, where can we find Hijenks?"

  "Back there on the corner, boss. Go through the bar an' you come to a door say 'Toilet'. Keep on an' you see a door say 'Closet'. Go in an' you see a nail with a cloth hangin' on it. Push the nail twice, then once, then three times an' a invisible door open in the back of the closet. Then you go up some stairs an' you come to 'nother door. Knock three times, then once, then twice."

  "All that? He must be a connection."

  "Got a shooting gallery's all I knows."

  "All right, Cousin, take this five dollars and get drunk and forget what we asked you," Coffin Ed said, passing him a bill.

  "Bless you, boss, bless you." Cousin shuffled about in the darkness, hiding the bill in his clothes, then he said in his whining cowardly voice, "Be careful, boss, be careful."

  "Either that or dead," Grave Digger said.

  Cousin chuckled and got out and melted in the dark.

  "This is going to be a lot of trouble," Grave Digger said. "I hope it ain't for nothing."

  6

  Reverend Deke O'Malley didn't know it was Grave Digger's voice over the telephone, but he knew it was the voice of a cop. He got out of the booth as though it had caught on fire. It was still raining but he was already wet and it just obscured his vision. Just the same he saw the light of the taxi coming down the hill on St Nicholas Avenue and hailed it. He climbed in and leaned forward and said, "Penn Station and goose it."

  He straightened up to wipe the rain out of his eyes and his back hit the seat with a thud. The broad-shouldered young black driver had taken off as though he were powering a rocket ship to heaven.

  Deke didn't mind. Speed was what he needed. He had got so far behind everyone the speed gave him a sense of catching up. He figured he could trust Iris. Anyway, he didn't have any choice. As long as she kept his documents hidden, he was relatively safe. But he knew the police would keep her under surveillance and there'd be no way to reach her for a time. He didn't know what the police had on him and that worried him as much as the loss of the money.

  He had to admit the robbery had been a cute caper, well organized, bold, even risky. Perhaps it had succeeded just because it was risky. But it had been too well organized for a crime of that dimension, for $87,000, or so it seemed to him; it couldn't have been any better organized for a million dollars. But there seemed a lot of easier ways to get $87,000. One interpretation, of course, was that the syndicate had staged it not only to break him but to frame him. But if it had been the syndicate, why hadn't they just hit him?

  Penn Station came before he had finished thinking.

  He found a long line of telephone booths and telephoned Mrs John Hill, the wife of the young recruiting agent who had been killed. He didn't remember her but he knew she was a member of his church.

  "Are you alone, Mrs Hill?" he asked in a disguised voice.

  "Yes," she replied tentatively, fearfully. "That is — who's speaking, please?"

  "This is Reverend O'Malley," he announced in his natural voice.

  He heard the relief in hers. "Oh, Reverend O'Malley, I'm so glad you called."

  "I want to offer my sympathy and condolences. I cannot find the words to express my infinite sorrow for this unfortunate accident which has deprived you of your husband — " He knew he sounded like an ass but she'd understand that kind of proper talk.

  "Oh, Reverend O'Malley, you are so kind."

  He could tell that she was crying. Good! he thought. "May I be of help to you in any way whatsoever?"

  "I just want you to preach his funeral."

  "Of course I shall, Mrs Hill, of course. You may set your mind at peace on that score. But, well, if you will forgive my asking, are you in need of money?"

  "Oh, Reverend O'Malley, thank you, but he had life insurance and we have a little saved up — and, well we haven't any children."

  "Well, if you have any need you must let me know. Tell me, have the police been bothering you?"

  "Oh, they were here but they just asked questions about our
life — where we worked and that kind of thing — and they asked about our Back-to-Africa movement. I was proud to tell them all I knew…" Thank God that was nothing, he thought. "Then, well, they left. They were — well, they were white and I knew they were unsympathetic — I could just feel it — and I was glad when they left."

  "Yes, my dear, we must be prepared for their attitude, that is why our movement was born. And I must confess I have no idea who the vicious white bandits are who murdered your fine… er… upstanding husband. But I am going to find them and God will punish them. But I have to do it alone. I can't depend on the white police."

  "Oh, don't I know it."

  "In fact, they will do everything to stop me."

  "What makes white folks like that?"

  "We must not think why they are like that. We must accept it as a fact and go ahead and outwit them and beat them at their own game. And I might need your help, Mrs Hill."

  "Oh, Reverend O'Malley, I'm so glad to hear you say that. I understand just what you mean and I'll do everything in my power to help you track down those foul murderers and get our money back."

  Thank God for squares, O'Malley thought as he said, "I have utmost confidence in you, Mrs Hill. We both have the same aim in view."

  "Oh, Reverend O'Malley, your confidence is not misplaced." He smiled at her stilted speech but he knew she meant it. "The main thing is for me to stay free of the police while we conduct our own investigation. The police must not know of my whereabouts or that we are working together to bring these foul murderers to justice. They must not know that I have communicated with you or that I will see you."

  "I won't mention your name," she promised solemnly.

  "Do you expect them to return tonight?"

  "I'm sure they're not coming back."

  "In that case I will come to your house in an hour and we will make that our headquarters to launch our investigation. Will that be all right?"

  "Oh, Reverend O'Malley, I'm thrilled to be doing something to get revenge — I mean to see those white murderers punished — instead of just sitting here grieving."

  "Yes, Mrs Hill, we shall hunt down the killers for God to punish and perhaps you will draw your shades before I come."

  "And I'll turn out the lights too so you won't have to worry about anyone seeing you."

  "Turn out the lights?" For a moment he was startled. He envisioned himself walking into a pitch-dark ambush and being seized by the cops. Then he realized he had nothing to fear from Mrs Hill. "Yes, very good," he said. "That will be fine. I will telephone you shortly before arriving and if the police are there you must say, 'Come on up,' but if you are alone, say, 'Reverend O'Malley, it's all right.'

  "I'll do just that," she promised. He could hear the excitement in her voice. "But I'm sure they won't be here."

  "Nothing in life is certain," he said. "Just remember what to say when I telephone — in about an hour."

  "I will remember; and good-bye now, until then."

  He hung up. Sweat was streaming down his face. He hadn't realized until then it was so hot in the booth.

  He found the big men's room and ordered a shower. Then he undressed and gave his suit to the black attendant to be pressed while he was taking his shower. He luxuriated in the warm needles of water washing away the fear and panic, then he turned on cold and felt a new life and exhilaration replace the fatigue… The indestructible Deke O'Hara, he thought gloatingly. What do I care about eighty-seven grand as long as there are squares?

  "Your suit's ready, daddy," the attendant called, breaking off his reverie.

  "Right-o, my man."

  Deke dried, dressed, paid and tipped the attendant and sat on the stand for a shoeshine, reading about the robbery and himself in the morning Daily News. The clock on the wall read 2.21 a.m.

  Mrs Hill lived uptown in the Riverton Apartments near the Harlem River north of 135th Street. He knew she would be waiting impatiently. He was very familiar with her type: young, thought herself good-looking with the defensive conceit with which they convinced themselves they were more beautiful than all white women; ambitious to get ahead and subconsciously desired white men, hating them at the same time because they frustrated her attempts to get ahead and refused to recognize her innate superiority over white women. More than anything she wanted to escape her drab existence; if she couldn't be middle class and live in a big house in the suburbs she wanted to leave it all and go back to Africa, where she just knew she would be important. He didn't care for the type, but he knew for these reasons he could trust her.

  He went out to the ramp to get a taxi. Two empty taxis with white drivers passed him; then a colored driver, seeing his predicament, passed some white people to pick him up. The white policeman supervising the loading saw nothing.

  "You know ain't no white cabby gonna take you to Harlem, man," the colored driver said.

  "Hell, they're just losing money and ain't making me mad at all," Deke said.

  The colored driver chuckled.

  Deke had him wait at the 125th Street Station while he phoned. The coast was clear. She buzzed the downstairs door the moment he touched the bell and he went up to the seventh floor and found her waiting in her half-open doorway. Behind her the apartment was pitch dark.

  "Oh, Reverend O'Malley, I was worried," she greeted him. "I thought the police had got you."

  He smiled warmly and patted her hand as he passed to go inside. She closed the door and followed him and for a moment they stood in the pitch dark of the small front hall, their bodies slightly touching.

  "We can have some light," he said. "I'm sure it's safe enough."

  She clicked switches and the rooms sprang into view. The shades were drawn and the curtains closed and the apartment was just as he had imagined it. A living-room opening through a wide archway to a small dining-room with the closed door of the kitchen beyond. On the other side a door opening to the bedroom and bath. The furniture was the polished oak veneer featured in the credit stores that tried to look expensive, and to one side of the living-room was a long sofa that could be let out into a bed. It had already been let out and the bed made up.

  She saw him looking and said apologetically, "I thought you might want to sleep first."

  "That was very thoughtful of you," he said. "But first we must talk."

  "Oh, yesss," she agreed jubilantly.

  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 h
eld 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.