The Crazy Kill

by Chester Himes

  “Gin and tonic for me,” Alamena said.

  The waitress came with the silver, glasses and napkins, and Alamena gave the attorney the menu.

  He started to grin as he read the list of dinners:

  Today’s Special — Alligator tail & rice

  Baked Ham — sweet potatoes & succotash

  Chitterlings & collard greens & okra

  Chicken and drop dumplings — with rice or sweet

  potatoes

  Barbecued ribs

  Pig’s feet à la mode

  Neck bones and lye hominy

  (Choice of hot biscuits or corn bread)

  SIDE DISHES

  Collard greens — okra — black-eyed peas & rice — corn on the cob — succotash — sliced tomatoes and cucumbers

  DESSERTS

  Homemade ice cream — deep-dish sweet potatoe pie — peach cobbler — watermelon — blackberry pie

  BEVERAGES

  Iced tea — buttermilk — sassafras-root tea — coffee

  But he looked up and saw the solemn expressions on the faces of the others and broke off.

  “I haven’t had breakfast as yet,” he said, then to the waitress, “Can I have an order of brains and eggs, with biscuits?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want some fried oysters,” Dulcy said.

  “We ain’t got no oysters. It ain’t the month for ’em.” She gave Dulcy a sly, sidewise look.

  “Then I’ll take the chicken and dumplings, but I don’t want nothing but the legs,” Dulcy said haughtily.

  “Yes’m.”

  “Baked ham for me,” Alamena said.

  “Yes’m.” She looked at Johnny with calf-eyed love. “The same as always, Mr. Johnny?”

  He nodded. Johnny’s breakfast, which never varied, consisted of a heaping plate of rice, four thick slices of fried salt pork, the fat poured over the rice, and a pitcher of blackstrap sorghum molasses to pour over that. With this came a plate of eight Southern-style biscuits an inch and a half thick.

  He ate noisily without talk. Dulcy had drunk three brandy-and-sodas and said she wasn’t hungry.

  Johnny stopped eating long enough to say, “Eat anyway.”

  She picked at her food, watching the faces of the other diners, trying to catch snatches of their conversation.

  Two people got up from a far table. The waitress went over to clear their places. Chink walked in with Doll Baby.

  She had changed into a fresh pink linen backless dress, and wore huge black-tinted sun glasses with pink frames.

  Dulcy stared at her with liquid venom. Johnny drank two glasses of ice-cold lemonade.

  The room filled with silence.

  Dulcy stood up suddenly.

  “Where you going?” Johnny asked.

  “I want to play a record,” she said defiantly. “Do you have any objections?”

  “Sit down,” he said tonelessly. “And don’t be so mother-raping cute.”

  She sat down and bit off another fingernail.

  Alamena fingered her throat and looked down at her plate.

  “Tell the waitress,” she said. “She’ll play it.”

  “I was going to play that platter of Jelly Roll Morton’s, I Want A Little Girl To Call My Own.”

  Johnny raised his face and looked at her. Rage started leaping in his eyes.

  She picked up her drink to hide her face, but her hand trembled so she spilled some on her dress.

  Across the room Doll Baby said in a loud voice, “After all, Val was my fiancé.”

  Dulcy stiffened with fury. “You’re a lying bitch!” she yelled back.

  Johnny gave her a dangerous look.

  “And if the truth be known, he was just knifed to keep me from having him,” Dolly Baby said.

  “He’d already had a bellyful of you,” Dulcy said.

  Johnny slapped her out of her seat. She spun into the corner of the wall and crumpled to the floor.

  Doll Baby let out a high shrill laugh.

  Johnny spun his chair about on its hind legs.

  “Keep the bitch quiet,” he said.

  Fats waddled over and put his bloated hand on Johnny’s shoulder.

  Pee Wee came from behind the bar and stood in the entrance.

  Silently, Dulcy got back into her chair.

  “Keep her quiet your God-damned self,” Chink said.

  Johnny stood up. Chairs scraped as everybody moved away from Chink’s table. Doll Baby jumped up and ran into the kitchen. Pee Wee moved toward Johnny.

  “Easy, pops,” Pee Wee said.

  Fats waddled quickly over to Chink’s table and said, “Get her out. And don’t you never come in here no more neither. Taking advantage of me like that.”

  Chink stood up, his yellow face flushed and swollen. Doll Baby came from the kitchen and joined him. As he left, walking high-shouldered and stiff-kneed, he said to Johnny, “I’ll see you, big shot.”

  “See me now,” Johnny said tonelessly, starting after him.

  The scar on his forehead had swollen and come alive.

  Pee Wee blocked his path.

  “That nigger ain’t worth killing, pops.”

  Fats gave Chink a push in the back.

  “Punk, you’re lucky, lucky, lucky,” he wheezed. “Git going before your luck runs out.”

  Johnny looked at his watch, giving Chink no more attention.

  “We gotta go, the funeral’s already started,” he said.

  “We all is coming,” Fats said. “But you go on ahead ’cause you is the number two mourner.”

  9

  HEAT SHIMMERED FROM the big black shiny Cadillac hearse parked before the door to the store-front church of the Holy Rollers at the corner of Eighth Avenue and 143rd Street. A skinny little black boy with big white shining eyes touched the red hot fender and snatched back his hand.

  The black painted windows of what had been a super market before the Holly Rollers took it over reflected distorted images of the three black Cadillac limousines, and of the big flashy’ cars strung out behind the big cocky hearse like a line of laying hens.

  People of many colors, clad in garb of all descriptions, their burr heads covered with straw hats of every shape, crowded about for a glimpse of the Harlem underworld celebrities attending Big Joe Pullen’s funeral. Black ladies carried bright-colored parasols and wore green eyeshades to protect them from the sun.

  These people ate cool slices of watermelon, spit out the black seeds and sweated in the vertical rays of the July sun. They drank quart bottles of beer and wine, and smaller bottles of pop and cola, from the flyspecked grocery stores nearby. They sucked chocolate-coated ice-cream bars from the refrigerated pushcart of the Good Humor man. They chewed succulent sections of barbecued pork-rib sandwiches, cast the polished bones to the friendly dogs and cats and the bread crusts to the flocks of molting Harlem sparrows.

  Trash blew from the dirty street against their sweaty skin and into their gritty eyes.

  The jumble of loud voices, strident laughter and the tinkle of the vendor’s bells mingled with the sounds of mourning coming from the open church door and the loud summer thunder of automobiles passing in the street.

  A picnic had never been better.

  Sweating horse cops astride lathered horses, harness bulls with open collars and patrol cars with rolled-down windows rode herd.

  When Johnny backed his big fishtail Cadillac into a reserved spot and climbed out behind Dulcy and Alamena, a murmur ran through the crowd and his name sprang from every lip.

  Inside the church was like an airless oven. The crude wooden benches were jam-packed with friends who had come to bury Big Joe—gamblers, pimps, whores, chippies, madams, dining-car waiters and Holy Rollers—but were being cooked instead.

  With his two women, Johnny pushed forward toward the mourners’ bench. They found places beside Mamie Pullen, Baby Sis, and the pallbearers—who included a white dining-car steward; the Grand Wizard of Big Joe’s lodge, dressed in the most impressive red
-and-blue, gold-braided uniform ever seen on land or sea; a gray-haired, flat-footed waiter known as Uncle Gin; and two Holy Roller Deacons.

  Big Joe’s coffin, banked with hothouse roses and lilies of the valley, occupied the place of honor in front of the soapbox pulpit. Green flies buzzed above the coffin.

  Behind it, Reverend Short was jumping up and down on the flimsy pulpit like some devil with the hotfoot dancing on red- and white-hot flames.

  His bony face was quivering with religious fervor and streaming with rivers of sweat that overflowed his high celluloid collar and soaked into the jacket of his black woolen suit. His gold-rimmed spectacles were clouded. A band of sweat had formed about his trousers’ belt and was coming through his coat.

  “And the Lord said,” he was screaming, swatting at the green flies trying to light on his face and spraying hot spit like a garden sprinkler. “As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten.… Does you hear me?”

  “We hears you,” the church members chanted in response.

  “Be zealous therefore, and repent …”

  “… repent …”

  “So I’m going to take my text from Genesis …”

  “ … Genesis …”

  “The Lord God made Adam in his image …”

  “… Lord made Adam …”

  “Therefore I’m your preacher and I want to make a parable.”

  “… preacher make parable …”

  “There lies Big Joe Pullen in his coffin, as much of a man as Adam ever was, as dead a man as Adam ever will be, made in God’s image …”

  “… Big Joe in God’s image …”

  “Adam bore two sons, Cain and Abel …”

  “ … Cain and Abel …”

  “And Cain rose up against his brother in the field, and he stuck a knife in Abel’s heart and he murdered him …”

  “ … Jesus Savior, murdered him …”

  “I see Jesus Christ leaving heaven with all His grandeur, clothing himself in the garments of your preacher, making his face black, pointing the finger of accusation, and saying to you unrepented sinners, ‘He who lives by the sword shall die by the sword …’ ”

  “… die by the sword, Lord, Lord …”

  “I see Him point his finger and say, ‘If Adam was alive today he’d be laying in that coffin dead and his name would be Big Joe Pullen…’ ”

  “… have mercy, Jesus …”

  “And he’d have a son named Abel …”

  “ … have a son, Abel …”

  “And his son would have a wife.…”

  “… son would have a wife …”

  “And his wife would be the sister of Cain …”

  “ … sister of Cain …”

  “I can see Him step out on the rib bone of nothing …”

  “ … rib bone of nothing …”

  Spit drooled from the corners of his fishlike mouth as he pointed a trembling finger straight in Dulcy’s direction.

  “I can hear him say, ‘Oh, you sister of Cain, why slayest thou thy brother?’ ”

  A dead silence dropped like a pall over the cooking congregation. Every eye was turned on Dulcy. She cringed in her seat. Johnny stared at the preacher with a sudden alertness, and the scar in his forehead came suddenly alive.

  Mamie half arose and cried, “It ain’t so! You know it ain’t so!”

  Then a sister in the amen corner jumped to her feet, with her arms stretched upward and her splayed fingers stiffened, and screamed, “Jesus in heaven, have mercy on the poor sinner.”

  Pandemonium broke loose as the Holy Rollers jumped to their feet and began having convulsions.

  “Murderess!” Reverend Short screamed in a frenzy.

  “… murderess …” the church members responded.

  “It ain’t so!” Mamie shouted.

  “Adulteress!” Reverend Short screamed.

  “… adulteress …” the congregation responded.

  “You lying mother-raper!” Dulcy shouted, finally finding her voice.

  “Let him rave on,” Johnny said, his face wooden and his voice toneless.

  “Fornication!” Reverend Short screamed.

  At the mention of fornication the joint went mad.

  Holy Rollers fell to the floor, frothing at the mouth, rolled and threshed, screaming, “Fornication … fornication …”

  Men and women wrestled and rolled. Benches were splintered. The church rocked. The coffin shook. A big stink of sweating bodies arose. “Fornication … fornication …” the religious, mad people screamed.

  “I’m getting out of here,” Dulcy said, getting to her feet.

  “Sit down,” Johnny said. “These religious folks are dangerous.”

  The church organist began jamming the chorus of Roberta Lee on the church harmonium trying to restore order, and a big fat dining-car waiter cut loose in a high tenor voice:

  “Dis world is high,

  Dis world is low,

  Dis world is deep and wide,

  But de longes’ road I ever did see,

  Was de one I walked and cried …”

  Thoughts of the long road brought the fanatics to their feet. They brushed off their clothes and sheepishly straightened up the broken benches, and the organist went into Roll, Jordan, Roll.

  But Reverend Short had gone beyond restraint. He’d left the pulpit and come down in front of the coffin to shake his finger in Dulcy’s face. The undertaker’s two assistants threw him to the floor and knelt on him until he’d calmed down; then the business of the funeral proceeded.

  The congregation arose to the harmonium strains of Nearer My God To Thee and filed past the coffin for a last look at Big Joe Pullen’s mortal remains. Those on the mourners’ bench were the last to pass, and when the coffin lid was finally closed Mamie flung herself across it, crying, “Don’t go, Joe, don’t leave me here all alone.”

  The undertaker pried her loose, and Johnny put his arm about her waist and started guiding her toward the exit. But the undertaker stopped him, tugging at his sleeve.

  “You’re the chief pallbearer, Mr. Perry, you can’t go.”

  Johnny turned Mamie over to the care of Dulcy and Alamena.

  “Go along with her,” he said.

  Then he took his place with the five other pallbearers, and they lifted the coffin, bore it down the cleared aisle and between the lines of police on the sidewalk and slid it into the hearse.

  Members of Big Joe’s lodge were lined up in parade formation in the street, clad in their full regalia of scarlet coats with gold braid, light blue trousers with gold stripes, and headed by the lodge band.

  The band broke out with The Coming of John, and the people in the street joined in singing with the choir.

  The funeral procession, led by the hearse, fell in behind the marching lodge brothers.

  Dulcy and Alamena sat flanking Mamie Pullen in the first of the black limousines.

  Johnny rode alone behind the third limousine in his big open-top fishtail Cadillac.

  Two cars behind him, Chink and Doll Baby followed in a blue Buick convertible.

  The band was playing the old funeral chant in swing-time, and the trumpet player took a chorus and rode the staccato notes clear and high in the hot Harlem sky. The crowd was electrified. The people broke loose in mass hysteria, marching in swingtime. But they marched in all directions, forward, backward, circling, zigzagging, their bodies gyrating to the rocking syncopation. They went rocking and rolling back and forth across the street, between the parked cars, up and down the sidewalks, sometimes a boy taking a whirl with a girl, most times marching alone to the music, but not in time with the music. They were marching and dancing to the rhythm, between the beats, not on them, marching and dancing to the feeling of the swing, and still keeping up with the slowly moving procession.

  The procession went down Eighth Avenue to 125th Street, east to Seventh Avenue, turned the corner by the Theresa Hotel and went north toward the 155th Street Bridge to the Bronx.

 
But at the bridge the band pulled up, the marchers halted, the crowd began to disperse, the procession thinned out. Harlem ended at the bridge, and only the principals crossed into the Bronx and made the long journey out Bronx Park Road, past the Bronx Park Zoo, to Woodlawn Cemetery.

  The built-in record player in the hearse began playing an organ recording, the thin saccharine notes drifting back over the procession from the amplifiers.

  They went through the arched gateway into the huge cemetery and stopped in a long line behind the yellow clay mouth of the open grave.

  The mourners encircled the grave while the pallbearers lifted the coffin from the hearse and placed it upon a mechanical derrick that lowered it slowly into the grave.

  An organ recording of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot began playing, and the choir sang a moaning accompaniment.

  Reverend Short had gotten himself under control and stood at the head of the grave, intoning in his croaking voice:

  “… in the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it was thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return …”

  When the coffin touched the bottom of the grave, Mamie Pullen screamed and tried to throw herself after it. While Johnny was holding her, Dulcy suddenly crumpled and swayed toward the edge of the pit. Alamena clutched her about the waist, but Chink Charlie stepped forward from behind and put his arm about Dulcy and laid her upon the grass. Johnny caught a glimpse of them out of the corner of his eye, and he pushed Mamie into the arms of a deacon and wheeled toward Chink, his eyes yellow with rage and the scar on his forehead livid and crawling with a life of its own.

  Chink saw him coming, stepped back and tried to pull his knife. Johnny feinted with his left and kicked Chink on the right shin. The sharp bone pain doubled Chink forward from the head down. Before the reflex motion had ceased, Johnny hit Chink back of the ear with a clubbing right; and when Chink fell reeling to his hands and knees, Johnny kicked at his head with his left foot, but missed it and grazed Chink’s left shoulder instead. His lightning glance saw a spade in a grave digger’s hand, and he snatched it out and swung the edge at the back of Chink’s neck. Big Tiny from Fats’s restaurant had closed in to stop Johnny and grabbed at his arm as he swung the spade. He didn’t get a grip but managed to turn Johnny’s arm so the flat of the spade instead of the edge hit Chink in the middle of the back and knocked him head over heels into the grave, on top of the coffin.