Blind Man With a Pistol (19 page)

     
The spectators winced.

     
"Give her air!" the helper cried.

     
The spectators surged pell-mell into the room.

     
A long sofa stretched across the front window. A glass-topped cocktail table sat in front of it. On one side was an armchair. On the other a white-oak television stand. Out in the center of the room was a deal table with four straight-backed chairs. Floor lamps stood about, all lit. A man's straw hat lay on the sofa, but no man was in sight. Four other doors led somewhere, but all were closed.

     
"Somebody call a doctor!" the driver cried.

     
The spectators looked about for a telephone, none was in view.

     
"Where the hell is the medicine cabinet?" the helper asked in a panic-stricken voice like a peacemaker at sight of a cut throat.

     
The spectators rushed about to look. They found all doors but the front door locked.

     
Only the big burly super had the presence of mind to ask, "What you take for these attacks, lady?"

     
The others were too busy looking at her crotch.

     
Maybe she heard him. Maybe she didn't. But suddenly she gasped, "Whiskey!"

     
Relief fell over the assemblage. If whiskey could save her, she was saved. In a matter of minutes the room looked like a whiskey store.

     
She clutched the first bottle she saw and drank from the neck as though it were water. Her face took on a different expressions, one after another, then she gasped, "My TeeVee? It's bursted."

     
"No, mam!" the driver cried. "Oh, no, mam, it ain't busted. I just opened it."

     
"Opened it? Opened my TeeVee. I'm going to call the police. Somebody call the police."

     
The spectators melted away. Maybe they went for the police. Maybe they didn't. One minute the room was filled with them. Offering her whiskey. Staring at her crotch. The women for comparison. The men for other reasons. The next minute they were gone.

     
Only she and the delivery men were left. The delivery men closed and locked the door. A half-hour later they unlocked and opened the door. They began to take away the wooden television box. It had been boarded up again. One was at the front and one at the back. It didn't seem any lighter than before. They staggered beneath the weight.

     
No one came to help them. No one appeared to look. No one appeared at all. The upstairs hall was empty. The staircase was empty. The downstairs hall was empty. They encountered no one on the sidewalk or on the street. They didn't seem surprised. The word police has the power of magic in Harlem. It can make whole houses filled with people disappear.

15

     
"Sit down between us, baby," Grave Digger said, patting the seat beside him.

     
John Babson looked from him to the towering figure of Coffin Ed beside him, and said playfully, "This is sociable, it isn't an arrest?" He was resplendent in a long-sleeved white silk shirt with a Russian collar and glove-tight skin-colored cotton satin pants that glowed like naked skin. He didn't think for a moment it was an arrest.

     
Grave Digger eyed him interestedly from behind the wheel.

     
"Go on, get in," Coffin Ed urged, taking his arm like he would a woman's. "You said you liked policemen."

     
He got in exactly like a woman and moved close to Grave Digger to make room for Coffin Ed.

     
"Because if it is, I want to call my lawyer," he continued with his little joke.

     
Grave Digger paused in the act of pressing the starter button. "You got a lawyer?"

     
He was tired of it. "The company has."

     
"Who?"

     
"Oh, I don't know. I haven't ever needed him."

     
"You don't need him now, unless you prefer his company."

     
"He's an ofay."

     
"Don't you like ofays?"

     
"I like y'all better."

     
"You'll like us even better later on," Grave Digger said, starting the car.

     
"Where y'all taking me?"

     
"A place you know."

     
"You can come to my place."

     
"This _is_ your place." He drove to the front of the building where the white man had been killed.

     
Coffin Ed got out on to the sidewalk and reached in to help John out. But he drew back against Grave Digger in alarm.

     
"This _isn't_ my place," he protested. "What kind of place is this?"

     
"Go on and get out," Grave Digger said, pushing him. "You'll like it."

     
Looking puzzled and curious, he let Coffin Ed pull him to the sidewalk.

     
"It's a basement," Coffin Ed said, taking his arm as Grave Digger came around the car and took his other arm.

     
He shook himself but he didn't struggle. "How about this!" he exclaimed softly. "Is it clean?"

     
"Be quiet now," Grave Digger whispered suggestively as they walked him down the narrow, slanting alleyway to the green door halfway down. They found the door locked and sealed.

     
"It's locked," John whispered.

     
"Shhhh!" Grave Digger cautioned.

     
A voice from an open window in the building next door whispered hoarsely, "You niggers better get away from there. The police is watching you."

     
John stiffened suddenly with suspicion. "What you trying to do tome?"

     
"Ain't this your room?" Coffin Ed asked.

     
The whites of John's eyes showed suddenly in the dark. "My room? I live on Hamilton Terrace. I ain't never seen this place."

     
"Our error," Grave Digger said, holding firmly to his arm. He could feel the trembling of his body coming through his arm.

     
"Maybe he'll like the Cozy Flats," Coffin Ed said. He intended to sound persuasive, instead he sounded sinister.

     
John's excitement suddenly left him. He felt deflated and a little scared. He was finished with the adventure.

     
"I ain't interested," he said crossly. "Just let me alone."

     
"Leave that boy alone," the voice from the darkened window said. "You come with me, baby, I'll protect you."

     
"I ain't interested in none of you mother-rapers," John said, his voice rising. "Just take me back where you got me."

     
"Come on then," Grave Digger said, steering him back to the sidewalk.

     
"I thought you said you liked us," Coffin Ed said, bringing up the rear.

     
John felt safer back on the sidewalk and he tried to shake himself loose from Grave Digger's grip. His voice was louder too.

     
"I ain't said no such thing. What you take me for? I ain't that way."

     
Grave Digger turned him over to Coffin Ed and went around the car.

     
"Just get in," Coffin Ed said, applying a little force.

     
Grave Digger slid beneath the wheel and reached over and pulled him down on to the seat. "Don't struggle, baby," he said. "We're just going to drive by the Cozy Flats and then we'll take you home."

     
"Where you can feel relaxed," Coffin Ed added, pushing in beside him.

     
"I don't want to go to the Cozy Flats," John screamed. "Leave me out here. Do you think I'm gay? I ain't gay--"

     
"Merry then."

     
"I'm straight. I just got a happy disposition. Girls like me. I ain't queer. You're making a mistake."

     
"What are you getting so hysterical about?" Grave Digger said hotly, as though he were annoyed. "What's the matter with you? What you got against the Cozy Flats? Is there somebody there you don't want to see?"

     
"I ain't never heard of the Cozy Flats, nor nobody lives there, far as I know. And turn me loose, you're hurting me."

     
Grave Digger started the car and drove off.

     
"I'm sorry," Coffin Ed said, letting go his arm. "It's just because I'm so strong."

     
"You ain't exciting me," John said scornfully.

     
Grave Digger brought the car to a stop in front of the Cozy Flats.

     
"Recognize this place?" Coffin Ed asked.

     
"I ain't never seen it."

     
"Lucas Covey is the super."

     
"What about it? I don't know no Lucas Covey."

     
"He knows about you."

     
"Lots of people know me who I don't know."

     
"I'll bet.''

     
"He said he rented you the room," Grave Digger said.

     
"What room?"

     
"The one we just left."

     
"You mean that basement what was locked up?" He looked from one hard black face to the other one. "What's this? A frame? I should'a known there was something wrong with you motherrapers. I got a right to call my lawyer."

     
"You don't know his name," Grave Digger reminded him.

     
"I'll just call the personnel office."

     
"There ain't nobody there this time of night."

     
"You dirty sadistic bastards!"

     
"Don't lose your pretty ways. We got nothing against you, personally. It was Lucas Covey who told us about you. He said he rented the room to a seal-brown young man named John Babson. He said John Babson was beautiful and sweet. That describes you."

     
"Don't hand me that shit," John said, but he preened with pleasure. "You're making that up. I ain't never heard of nobody named Lucas Covey. You take me in and I'll confront him."

     
"I thought you didn't want to go inside," Coffin Ed said. "With us, anyway."

     
"Maybe by another name," Grave Digger said.

     
"Why can't I confront him?"

     
"He ain't there."

     
"What's he look like?"

     
"Slender black man with narrow face and egg-shaped head. West Indian."

     
"I don't know nobody like that."

     
"Don't lie, baby, I saw the recognition in your eyes."

     
"Shit! You see everything in my eyes."

     
"Ain't you pleased?"

     
"But the man you described could be anybody."

     
"This one is gay, like you."

     
"Don't make a fool out of yourself; I told you, I ain't gay."

     
"All right, but we know you know this man."

     
John became appealing. "What can I do to convince you?"

     
"I thought you said you weren't gay."

     
"I didn't mean that."

     
"All right, let's negotiate."

     
"Negotiate how?"

     
"Like the East and the West. We want information."

     
John grinned and forgot to be bitchy. "You're the West then; what do I get?"

     
"There's two of us, you get double the price."

     
He broke up as though he would cry. Every time he tried to play straight they wouldn't let him. He would succumb to desire, but he wasn't sure. It all left him frustrated and a little frightened.

     
"Shit on both of you, you sadistic mother-rapers," he said.

     
"Listen, baby, we want to know about this man, and if you don't tell us, we'll whip your ass."

     
"Don't excite him," Coffin Ed cautioned. "He'd like that." Turning to John, he said, "Get this, pretty boy, I'll knock out your pretty white teeth and gouge your bedroom eyes out of shape. When I get through with you, you'll be known as the ugly fairy."

     
John got truly frightened. He put his hands between his legs and squeezed them. His voice was pleading. "I don't know nothing, I swear. You bring me here to places I ain't never seen, and ask me about a man I ain't never heard of who looks like anybody--"

     
"Richard Henderson, then?"

     
John broke off in mid-speech and his mouth hung open.

     
"I see that name scored."

     
He was ludicrous trying to get himself together. He couldn't follow the sudden switch. He didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified; whether to admit he knew him or deny all acquaintance.

     
"Er, you mean Mr Henderson, the producer?"

     
"That's the one, the white producer who likes pretty colored boys."

     
"I don't know him that well. All I know about him is he produces plays. I had a part in a play he produced on downtown Second Avenue called _Pretty People_."

     
"I'll bet you were the lead."

     
He smiled secretly.

     
"Just wipe that smirk off your face and tell us where we can find him."