The Real Cool Killers (9 page)

“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 went 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.”

The sergeant wheeled suddenly on Sheik as though he’d forgotten something.

“Where’s Caleb?”

“Up on the roof tending his pigeons.”

All four cops froze. They stared at Sheik with those blank shuttered looks.

Finally the sergeant said carefully, “His grandma said you told her he was working in a bowling alley downtown.”

“We just told her that to keep her from worrying. She don’t like for him to go up on the roof at night.”

“If I find you punks are holding out on me, God help you,” the sergeant said in a slow sincere voice.

“Go look then,” Sheik said.

The sergeant nodded to the professor. The professor climbed out of the window into the bright glare of the spotlights and began ascending the fire escape.

“What’s he doing with them at night?” the sergeant asked Sheik.

“I don’t know. Trying to make them lay black eggs, I suppose.”

“I’m going to take you down to the station and have a private talk with you, punk,” the sergeant said. “You’re one punk who needs talking to privately.”

The professor came down from the roof and called through the window, “They’re holding two coons up here beside a pigeon loft. They’re waiting on you.”

“Okay, I’m coming. You and Price hold these punks on ice,” he directed the other cops and climbed out of the window behind the professor.

“Get in,” Grave Digger said.

She pulled up the skirt of her evening gown, drew the black coat tight, and eased her jumbo hams into the seat usually occupied by Coffin Ed.

Grave Digger went around on the other side and climbed beneath the wheel and waited.

“Does I just have to go along, honey,” the woman said in a wheedling voice. “I can just as well tell you where she’s at.”

“That’s what I’m waiting for.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so? She’s in the Knickerbocker Apartments on 45th Street – the old Knickerbocker, I mean. She on the six story, 669.”

“Who is she?” Grave Digger asked, probing a little.

“Who she is? Just a landprop is all.”

“That ain’t what I mean.”

“Oh, I know what you means. You means who is she. You means you don’t know who Reba is, Digger?” She tried to sound jocular but wasn’t successful. “She the landprop what used to be old cap Murphy’s go-between ’fore he got sent up for taking all them bribes. It was in all the papers.”

“That was ten years ago and they called her Sheba then,” he said.

“Yare, that’s right, but she changed her name after she got into that last shooting scrape. You musta ’member that. She caught the nigger with some chippie or ’nother and made him jump buck naked out the third-story window. That wouldn’t ’ave been so bad but she shot ’im through the head as he was going down. That was when she lived in the valley. Since then she done come up here on the hill. ’Course it warn’t nobody but her husband and she didn’t get a day. But
Reba always has been lucky that way.”

He took a shot in the dark. “What would anybody shoot Galen for?”

She grew stiff with caution, “Who he?”

“You know damn well who he was. He’s the man who was shot tonight.”

“Naw suh, I didn’t know nothing ’bout that gennelman. I don’t know why nobody would want to shoot him.”

“You people give me a pain in the seat with all that ducking and dodging every time someone asks you a question. You act like you belong to a race of artful dodgers.”

“You is asking me something I don’t know nothing ’bout.”

“Okay, get out.”

She got out faster than she got in.

He drove down the hill of St. Nicholas Avenue and turned up the hill of 145th Street toward Convent Avenue.

On the left-hand corner, next to a new fourteen-story apartment building erected by a white insurance company, was the Brown Bomber Bar; across from it Big Crip’s Bar; on the right-hand corner Cohen’s Drug Store with its iron-grilled windows crammed with electric hair straightening irons, Hi-Life hair cream, Black and White bleaching cream, SSS and 666 blood tonics, Dr. Scholl’s corn pads, men’s and women’s nylon head caps with chin straps to press hair while sleeping, a bowl of blue stone good for body lice, tins of Sterno canned heat good for burning or drinking, Halloween postcards and all the latest in enamelware hygiene utensils; across from it Zazully’s Delicatessen with a white-lettered announcement on the plate-glass window:
We Have Frozen Chitterlings and Other Hard-to-find Delicacies
.