Read Online The Real Cool Killers by Chester Himes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Chester Himes
Ads: Link
maybe stab him to death. But I’ll bet my life ain’t no nigger up here gonna shoot down no white man in cold blood – no important white gennelman like him.”
“Would the killer have to know he was important?”
“He’d know it,” Big Smiley said positively.
“You knew him?” Grave Digger said.
“Naw suh, not to say knew him. He come in here two, three times before but I didn’t know his name.”
“You expect me to believe he came in here two or three times and you didn’t find out who he was?”
“I didn’t mean exactly I didn’t know his name,” Big Smiley hemmed. “But I’se telling you, Chief, ain’t no leads ’round here, that’s for sure.”
“You’re going to have to tell me more than that, son,” Grave Digger said in a flat, toneless voice.
Big Smiley looked at him; then suddenly he leaned across the bar and said in a low voice, “Try at Bucky’s, Chief.”
“Why Bucky’s?”
“I seen him come in here once with a pimp what hangs ’round in Bucky’s.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t recollect his name, Chief. They driv up in his car and just stopped for a minute like they was looking for somebody and went out and drive away.”
“Don’t play with me,” Grave Digger said with a sudden show of anger. “This ain’t the movies; this is real. A white man has been killed in Harlem and Harlem is my beat. I’ll take you down to the station and turn a dozen white cops loose on you and they’ll work you over until the black comes off.”
“Name’s Ready Belcher, Chief, but I don’t want nobody to know I told you,” Big Smiley said in a whisper. “I don’t want no trouble with that starker.”
“Ready,” Grave Digger said and got down from his stool.
He didn’t know much about Ready; just that he operated up-town on the swank side of Harlem, above 145th Street in Washington Heights.
He drove up to the 154th Street precinct station at the corner of Amsterdam Avenue and asked for his friend, Bill Cresus. Bill was a colored detective on the vice squad. Noone knew where Bill was at the time. He left word for Bill to contact him at Bucky’s if he called within the hour. Then he got into his car and coasted down the sharp incline to St. Nicholas Avenue and turned south down the lesser incline past 149th Street.
Outwardly it was a quiet neighbourhood of private houses and five- and six-story apartment buildings flanking the wide black-paved street. But the houses had been split up into bed-sized one-room kitchenettes, renting for $25 weekly, at the disposal of frantic couples who wished to shack up for a season. And behind the respectable-looking facades of the apartment buildings were the plush flesh cribs and poppy pads and circus tents of Harlem.
The excitement of the dragnet hadn’t reached this far and the street was comparatively empty.
He coasted to a stop before a sedate basement entrance. Four steps below street level was a black door with a shiny brass knocker in the shape of three musical notes. Above it red neon lights spelled out the word
BUCKY’S
.
It felt strange to be alone. The last time had been when Coffin Ed was in the hospital after the acid throwing. The memory of it made his head tight with anger and it took a special effort to keep his temper under wraps.
He pushed and the door opened.
People sat at white-clothed tables beneath pink-shaded wall lights in a long narrow room, eating fried chicken daintily with their fingers. There was a white party of six, several colored couples, and two colored men with white women. They looked well-dressed and reasonably clean.
The walls behind them were covered with innumerable small pink-stained pencil portraits of all the great and the near-great who had ever lived in Harlem. Musicians led nine to one.
The hat-check girl stationed in a cubicle beside the entrance stuck out her hand with a supercilious look.
Grave Digger kept his hat on and strode down the narrow aisle between the tables.
A
“Would the killer have to know he was important?”
“He’d know it,” Big Smiley said positively.
“You knew him?” Grave Digger said.
“Naw suh, not to say knew him. He come in here two, three times before but I didn’t know his name.”
“You expect me to believe he came in here two or three times and you didn’t find out who he was?”
“I didn’t mean exactly I didn’t know his name,” Big Smiley hemmed. “But I’se telling you, Chief, ain’t no leads ’round here, that’s for sure.”
“You’re going to have to tell me more than that, son,” Grave Digger said in a flat, toneless voice.
Big Smiley looked at him; then suddenly he leaned across the bar and said in a low voice, “Try at Bucky’s, Chief.”
“Why Bucky’s?”
“I seen him come in here once with a pimp what hangs ’round in Bucky’s.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t recollect his name, Chief. They driv up in his car and just stopped for a minute like they was looking for somebody and went out and drive away.”
“Don’t play with me,” Grave Digger said with a sudden show of anger. “This ain’t the movies; this is real. A white man has been killed in Harlem and Harlem is my beat. I’ll take you down to the station and turn a dozen white cops loose on you and they’ll work you over until the black comes off.”
“Name’s Ready Belcher, Chief, but I don’t want nobody to know I told you,” Big Smiley said in a whisper. “I don’t want no trouble with that starker.”
“Ready,” Grave Digger said and got down from his stool.
He didn’t know much about Ready; just that he operated up-town on the swank side of Harlem, above 145th Street in Washington Heights.
He drove up to the 154th Street precinct station at the corner of Amsterdam Avenue and asked for his friend, Bill Cresus. Bill was a colored detective on the vice squad. Noone knew where Bill was at the time. He left word for Bill to contact him at Bucky’s if he called within the hour. Then he got into his car and coasted down the sharp incline to St. Nicholas Avenue and turned south down the lesser incline past 149th Street.
Outwardly it was a quiet neighbourhood of private houses and five- and six-story apartment buildings flanking the wide black-paved street. But the houses had been split up into bed-sized one-room kitchenettes, renting for $25 weekly, at the disposal of frantic couples who wished to shack up for a season. And behind the respectable-looking facades of the apartment buildings were the plush flesh cribs and poppy pads and circus tents of Harlem.
The excitement of the dragnet hadn’t reached this far and the street was comparatively empty.
He coasted to a stop before a sedate basement entrance. Four steps below street level was a black door with a shiny brass knocker in the shape of three musical notes. Above it red neon lights spelled out the word
BUCKY’S
.
It felt strange to be alone. The last time had been when Coffin Ed was in the hospital after the acid throwing. The memory of it made his head tight with anger and it took a special effort to keep his temper under wraps.
He pushed and the door opened.
People sat at white-clothed tables beneath pink-shaded wall lights in a long narrow room, eating fried chicken daintily with their fingers. There was a white party of six, several colored couples, and two colored men with white women. They looked well-dressed and reasonably clean.
The walls behind them were covered with innumerable small pink-stained pencil portraits of all the great and the near-great who had ever lived in Harlem. Musicians led nine to one.
The hat-check girl stationed in a cubicle beside the entrance stuck out her hand with a supercilious look.
Grave Digger kept his hat on and strode down the narrow aisle between the tables.
A
Similar Books
