Runaway (13 page)

Well, he'd try. You can't stop a man from trying, that's for sure. But first he'd have to clear up all this stinking mess. You can't get a job, good or otherwise, when the cops are after you. Well, today he'd start asking some questions, sniff around a little. He felt a lot better today, except for the throbbing, and today he'd turn copper. Like “Harlem Dectective” on TV. Now, there was a good show. Why in hell had they dropped it?

He walked to the stove, struck a match, and lighted the flame beneath the coffeepot. He found a cup and saucer in the cabinet over the range, and then he took the buns from the breadbox and brought them to the table. When the coffee was hot, he poured a cup and sat at the table to drink it, black. It was curious how he wasn't hungry any more. He supposed his stomach had shrunk or something.

Where was Cindy?

He wanted her to come back to the apartment very badly. He felt very strong, but he also felt very lonely, and it seemed as if she'd been gone for ten years. He wanted to see her again. He wanted to sit at the table with her and share a pot of coffee, and then he'd tell her about everything that had happened to him, and she'd listen with her face tilted a little bit, with the lipstick on her mouth and just that faint touch of rouge on each cheek. She had good bones, Cindy, a good face. And her eyes were very nice. Her whole face paid close attention when you talked to her, and her eyes especially. He wanted to talk to her and feel her eyes on him while he talked. When you talked to Cindy, she made you feel like you were the only person in the world, but where the hell was she now?

He swallowed the hot coffee and then nibbled at one of the buns. The bun was stale, but that wasn't her fault. She wasn't expecting company.

He smiled at that. The man who came to dinner. How long would he have to stay here at Cindy's place? Would the cops come back? Wouldn't it be a hell of a thing if they caught him before he had a chance to see her again? Suppose the goddamn cops came to get him, and fried him, and he never saw Cindy again? And then, twenty years later, the bastard who shot Luis would come to the police and confess, and Molly would sue the city and the state for eight million dollars, but that still wouldn't do him any good. He'd be dead and buried, six feet under, and he wouldn't ever have seen Cindy again, and when you're dead, you're dead, man.

The thought began to plague his mind until it became almost a reality. Come on, Cindy, he pleaded. Come home, baby.

When the knock sounded on the door, he leaped to his feet instantly, whirling.

“Cindy?” he asked.

There was a brief hesitation on the other side of the door, and he wondered for a panicky moment if there were cops out there. He waited breathlessly, and then the voice came after what seemed a very long time.

“No. That you, Johnny?”

He recognized the voice. Hank Sands. He felt relieved until he realized Sands could be as dangerous as the cops, and then he debated opening the door. There was no sense in keeping it closed now. Sands knew he was here.

“Just a minute,” he said.

He crossed to the door and opened it quickly.

“Come in,” he said. “Fast.”

Sands smiled and stepped into the apartment. He looked at the rumpled bed, and his smile got bigger.

“'Lo, Johnny,” he said. “Didn't 'spec to find you here.”

“Then what are you doing here?” Johnny asked.

“Oh, jus' thought I'd pass the time o' day with Cindy. No harm in that, is there?” He paused and looked around the apartment again. “She … uh … gone?”

“Yes,” Johnny said.

“Mmmm.” Sands nodded. “Say, I see you got some coffee there. Mind?”

“Help yourself,” Johnny said.

Sands looked around until he spotted the cabinet. He walked to it, took down a cup and saucer, and then brought them back to the table. He lifted the coffeepot from the table and shook his head.

“Shun't do that, man, leave a hot pot on a wooden table. Liable'a burn a hole.” He poured his cup full and then asked, “You want another cup, Johnny?”

“All right,” Johnny said.

Sands poured and then carried the pot back to the stove. “I see sugar on the table,” he said, “but no milk. In the icebox?”

“I suppose,” Johnny answered. The idea of Sands' coming to see Cindy annoyed the hell out of him.

Sands rummaged in the icebox and came up with a half-full bottle of milk. He brought this to the table and sat opposite Johnny.

“Why'd you come here, Sands?” Johnny asked.

Sands opened his eyes wide. “Me? Well, like I tol' you. Jus' to pass the time o' day with Cindy.”

“She wouldn't pass
wind
with you, Sands. Why'd you come?”

“Man, I never see such a distrustful cat. I tol' you, boy.”

“Did you know I was here?”

Sands considered this gravely. “Well, now, I wun't say that.”

“Did you know I was here, Sands?”

“Not 'zactly. I mean, the rumble is out, but—”

“What rumble?”

Sands smiled. “Man, they a big search out for you. Din't you know that?”

“Of course I knew it! Why the hell do you think—But what rumble? What do you mean, the rumble's out?”

“Well, way I got it, the cops figure you to be one o' two places. Either here or up with Molly.”

“Who told you that, Sands?”

“Oh, you hear things.”

Sands sipped at his coffee and then put down the cup. He reached for a bun, bit into it, pulled a sour face, and dropped it to the table.

“Where'd you hear it, Sands?”

“Oh, around.”

“Any cops downstairs when you came up?”

“Nary a one. Now, dona let me worry you, boy. I jus' sayin' what I heard, thass all. Now, there ain' no need to get excited.”

“If the cops think I'm here, why haven't they come after me?”

“Now, I wouldn't know, Johnny, and thass the truth. I jus' sayin' what the rumble has, thass all.”

“You sure there were no cops downstairs?”

“I'm sure, boy. I wun't a come up if there hadda been.”

Johnny considered what Sands had just told him. If the cops figured him to be here, why hadn't they closed in yet? The problem bothered him.

“'Course,” Sands said, “they figger you to be pretty dang'rous, way I got it. Maybe they waitin' for reinforcements or sutthin'.”

“Dangerous? Me? Are you kidding?”

“Hell, Johnny, you
did
kill a man, you know,” Sands said, seemingly offended.

“I told you I didn't kill nobody. Whoever killed Luis is still out there someplace, laughing himself sick.”

Sands smiled. “Is he, now?”

“Yes, he is,” Johnny said angrily. “That sonovabitch. If I had him here, I'd—”

“Well, too bad the cops ain' hip to the situation,” Sands said. “Too bad they lookin' for the wrong man, eh, boy?”

“You trying to rub it in, Sands?”

“No, no, hell, no. I jus' tryin' to recap, you know. I tryin' to 'splain the setup to you, thass all, Johnny. Things don't look too good fum where I sit.”

“Shut up, Sands. I can see the picture without you explaining it.”

“I on'y tryin' to help out, man.”

“You can help but by shutting the hell up.”

“Sure,” Sands said. He smiled and sipped at his coffee again. “You … uh … spend the night here, Johnny?”

“Why?”

“I jus' askin'.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Mmmmm,” Sands said, lifting his eyebrows and rolling his eyes.

“Look, Sands …”

“Cindy gone now, huh? She comin' back soon?”

“What business is that of yours?”

“Jus' thought I might say hello. No need to get upset, Johnny.”

“I don't want you saying hello to her, Sands.”

“Well, now, a man in your position, the cops after him an' all, now that ain' a nice way to talk. Man, that dragnet gettin' tighter and tighter all the time.”

“Shut up, Sands.”

“'F I was you, Johnny, I'd cut out o' here. Now I know you like Cindy an' all that, but man, those cops ain' kiddin', you know? 'Sides, if you really cared 'bout her, you wouldn't want to get her in trouble, now would you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it sure ain' goan look good for her when the cops find you here, now is it?”

Johnny didn't answer. He pulled at his lip and blinked his eyes.

“I think you should cut out, man,” Sands said. “Thass what I think.”

“Maybe you should be the one cuttin' out,” Johnny answered.

Sands smiled broadly. “Thass a nice way to talk, all right. Man comes here and wises you up on the situation, an' you talk to him like that.”

“You didn't tell me nothing I didn't already know.”

“You didn't know the cops figured you to be here, did you?”

“Well, that I didn't know.”

“Well, man, now you know it.”

“Thanks.”

“Doan mention it. You gonna cut out?”

“Why?”

“I jus' askin'.

“Maybe,” Johnny said.

“Thass the smart thing t' do. No sense gettin' Cindy in a jam, too.”

“I suppose not,” Johnny said. “You better go now, Sands.”

“O.K.,” Sands said. He rose and buttoned the top button of his heavy overcoat. “Johnny, I sure as hell is sorry you went and killed Luis. I—”

“I didn't kill that bastard!” Johnny shouted. “How many times do I have to tell you that? My God, Sands, you're enough to—”

“Now easy, boy, easy. I jus' sayin' what I heard, thass all. An' I
am
sorry you in trouble. You need any help, you jus' call on me, John.”

“Yeah.”

“No, I mean it.”

“Sure. You'll probably go right to the cops the second you leave here.”

“Me? Man, you think
I'd
do a thing like that?” Sands looked hurt. “I on'y got your interests at heart, Johnny.”

“I'll bet. Cut out, Sands.”

Sands walked to the door. “See you, boy.”

He unlocked the door and stepped out into the hallway. Johnny rose from the table, walked to the door, and locked it again. He wasn't at all sure that Sands would not go to the cops. Especially since he'd said the cops already figured him to be here. It would be just like that sonovabitch to turn him in.

And even if he didn't, there was no sense staying here any longer. Sands had been right about that, anyway. It would only get Cindy in trouble, and he didn't want that. He'd have to leave.

The thought galled him because he'd really wanted to see Cindy again. He'd barely talked to her last night before he corked off, and he was annoyed that he wouldn't get a chance to talk to her now. He shoved the thought out of his mind. He stalled around for a few minutes, hoping she might show up, and then he realized he was just stalling, and he looked for a pencil and then took Cindy's note from his pocket.

On the bottom of the note he scribbled: “Cops may come, honey. I'll get in touch with you. J.”

He put the note against the sugar bowl on the table, sighed, and then shrugged into Barney Knowles's overcoat.

When he reached the street, he did not see Hank Sands standing in the hallway across the street, watching him leave.

Eleven

If you looked hard, you could see the Empire State Building down there, and the other tall one, that was the Chrysler Building. And you could see bridges from up here, too, and all the rivers that hemmed in Manhattan. You could see the Triboro, and the Queensborough, and on the other side the George Washington, which was his favorite bridge. The rivers looked like snakes from up here, and if you listened hard, you could hear the lonesome sound of the tug sometimes, and once in a while one of the big liners going down the Hudson.

Most of all, you could see Harlem.

You could see all of Harlem stretched out at your feet, spreading down there below you. You could see Harlem, and you could feel it, feel the vibration of Harlem under the rooftops, almost taste Harlem.

It was warm up there on the roof. The day had turned mild, and the sun had scattered the dismal fog of early morning. It was almost spring up there on the roof, and he breathed the air deeply and forgot for the first time that he was running. He could see Cindy's building from where he stood, and he could also see his own building, and he could pick out other spots that he knew by the roofs alone. Johnny Lane was not a stranger to rooftops.

They spread out below him in a crazy vertical and horizontal patchwork quilt. Black and brown and tan, like the people of Harlem. And white sheets flapping from clotheslines, and the white was fitting, too, because there were white men in Harlem, among the black and the brown and the tan.

There was something very tranquil about rooftops. He used to go up on the roof of his own building a lot when he was a little kid. He used to go up on the roof then only to lean on a skylight maybe and look out over Harlem and think about things.

When he got a little older, the roof began to mean other things to him. The roof meant a place to take a girl. You could always take a girl up to the roof, usually at night, but sometimes even during the day. It was best at night, with the stars making a big canopy up there, and the neons tinting the horizon, and the jukes going strong in all the bars along the avenue. You spread a blanket out and then you lay side by side, and the girl's flesh was always cool somehow, even on the hottest summer nights when the roof couldn't escape the pent-up city heat. You usually got chased. If somebody stumbled up there and caught you, he screamed like a bastard, and you had to run, but that didn't matter because there were other roofs and other girls, but still you didn't like to run, it was kind of embarrassing for the girl.

And sometimes the roof was a sanctuary. You ran up there whenever one of the guys pulled a purse snatch. You ran up there after you swiped a stick of gum from a candy counter. You ran up there after you hit a bar with a pail, had it filled with beer, making out it was for your old man, and then cut out without paying for the pail. You ran up there with the other guys, and you drank it, and it tasted better because you'd swiped it. A guy could cross all of Harlem, practically, by taking to the rooftops, and it was senseless to chase you up there. The roofs were real good for running, and there was a lot of running when he was growing up.