Across 145th Street, Seventh Avenue passed between two housing developments, the Rockefeller-built Dunbar Apartments and the slum clearance Federal Housing Project. They looked dead, too.
At 155th Street the bus turned west onto the end of the bridge over the Harlem River and passed high above one of Father Divine's Heavens on the roof of which, in giant white letters, was the word peace. Then it turned north into the winding strip of Edgecombe Drive, overlooking the flats along the river bank.
Dummy heard the bell ring, and, as the bus slowed down for the stop at 157th Street, he saw the young man go down the stairs. He let the young man alight; then, just before the door closed, he jumped up to follow as though he'd forgotten his stop. The young man recognized him; Dummy was known to everyone in the Harlem underworld.
But Dummy didn't give the young man a glance. He waited for the bus to drive on and cut across the street.
Only one side of the Drive was built up; the other was a steep rocky park descending to the flats, on which were built the Polo Grounds and a new housing development.
Without hesitating, Dummy entered the ornate lobby of the Roger Morris Apartment House, better known as 555. In its day it had been a very pretentious apartment dwelling for upper income whites, but now it was occupied for the most part by successful colored racketeers, jazz musicians, madames and current prize fighters.
He knew that, when the young man had come this far, he was coming here. And he knew there would be nothing to arouse the young man's suspicions in his coming here, too. He stood in the hall, talking in sign language to the dumb porter, whose hero he was. The young man came in and saw them talking. His face burst into its sudden moronic grin, and he made some eccentric gestures with his hands as though to join in the conversation. The two mutes ignored him.
He went back to the elevators and went upstairs.
Dummy and the porter talked about prize fighting. The porter leaned on his mop and let the water stand on the floor. A young woman, passing as a model or a showgirl, came from the elevator and had to walk through the dirty soapy water in her fragile pink shoes. She complained with shocking vulgarity, and the porter told her with gestures what she could do. Dummy went on saying that with a few weeks training he'd be in shape to take on the Cuban Kid.
The young man came down accompanied by a middle-aged man equally as tall but slimmer, with a pale tan ascetic-looking face. He was dressed in a tropical worsted suit of slate blue, black and white shoes, a dull ivory-colored shirt and a tie and matching display handkerchief the color of tarnished silver.
"Who are they?" Dummy asked his friend.
"The slick is a payoff man for the Tia Juana numbers house," the porter said. "I haven't ever seen the starker before." Then he added, "The slick is called Slick."
With his hands Dummy said, "I'll be hearing you," and moved off.
Outside, Slick and the starker separated. Slick got into an olive green Chrysler New Yorker hardtop and drove off south. The starker walked down the corner and stood waiting for the bus.
Dummy walked the short block up the incline to St. Nicolas Avenue and caught the faster Number Three Fifth Avenue bus and was down on 116th Street waiting for the starker. He had resumed his seat on the stool behind the pushcart watermelon stand, and was watching a customer sink his grinning teeth into a quarter of bright red, black-seeded, ice-cold watermelon, when the starker walked rapidly from Seventh Avenue and re-entered the hotel.
Then suddenly Dummy's roving gaze picked up the debonair figure of Slick lounging before the entrance to Sweet Prophet's Temple across the street. Dummy got up, crossed the street and sat on the front stool of a lunch counter, where he could command a view of the whole sidewalk. He pointed to a grill-plate covered with roasting hot dogs. The counter-girl served him one off the front, put it in a bun and slid him the mustard. He then pointed to a shiny nickel-plated juice machine, and the girl drew him a glass of pale yellow liquid called lemon squeeze. He sat there, munching his hot dog in his tongueless mouth and sipping the cold chemical-tasting drink, while watching Slick out of the corners of his eyes.
He noticed that Slick was watching the entrance of the hotel across the street under the pretense of being interested in Sweet Prophet's press clippings, which were on display under glass in the Temple entrance.
Following Slick's gaze, Dummy saw that the starker had reappeared in the hotel entrance, smoking a cigarette. From the way he held the cigarette, pinched between the thumb and forefinger of the right hand, and sucked at it, Dummy knew it was a marijuana cigarette. The starker was watching the entrance to the stairs that led to Sweet Prophet's private quarters, while Slick watched him. There was an intentness about both of them that caused Dummy to wonder.
Suddenly the starker tipped his beaver hat to nothing. Slick stepped quickly from the shadowed entrance of the Temple into the bright sunshine. As he passed the entrance to Sweet Prophet's quarters, a legal size Manila envelope slipped from beneath his coat and fluttered to the sidewalk. He walked a few steps further and paused with his left hand on the handle of a parked car while he fumbled in his pockets with his right hand, as though searching for the keys. No one was close by at the moment, and seemingly no one but Dummy noticed the lost envelope. Nevertheless, the starker kept his gaze riveted on it.
At that moment a buxom colored woman emerged from Sweet Prophet's entrance and stepped from the sidewalk. She stopped for a moment to adjust her tight-fitting cotton print dress more sedately over her corseted figure. She looked like a sister who would say "Amen" at the drop of a hat. The pious expression on her face fought a losing battle with a flaunting pride; her soul was saved, and she knew it. Beneath a bare, hamsized, dull black arm she carried a flat, black, narrow attache case. Her hostile gaze roved over the street scene disapprovingly; then she got astride her dignity and started off.
Her sharp eye lit on the Manila envelope. She started to pass it, but something she saw written on it made her hesitate. She peered with drawn brows, her lips moving slightly as she read. Then suddenly her whole demeanor underwent a complete change. Greed replaced the pious expression on her face. Her dignity gave way to stealth. She looked about furtively to see if she was being watched, then bent over quickly to adjust her shoe. In doing so, the attache case slipped from beneath her arm and fell directly on top of the envelope, completely hiding it. When she had finished adjusting her shoe and had straightened up with the case, the envelope had disappeared.
Once more the starker tipped his hat to the bright hot sunshine.
Slick turned quickly away from the parked car and approached the woman from the rear.
"I beg your pardon, madame, but I just dropped that envelope," he said politely. "It must have slipped from my pocket while I was putting away my wallet."
The woman looked as offended as though he had said, "Hi, baby, how about a date?" She drew up to her full fat height and said sharply, "What envelope? What are you talking about?"
They were standing in profile, and Dummy could read their lips. He swallowed with a sound like a dog gulping meat.
A slight frown creased Slick's forehead. "The one you just picked up, madame."
"I didn't pick up any envelope," she said harshly, trying to move off. "And if you don't let me alone, I'll call that policeman."
A uniformed cop was standing down at the corner, twirling his white billy.
But Slick put his hand on her arm, nevertheless, and detained her.
"Now, madame, there is no need of creating a scene," he said smoothly. "I happened to see your reflection in the window of my car when you stooped to pick up the envelope. You are holding it on the other side of that attache case."
The woman looked suddenly embarrassed. "Oh, that envelope!" she exclaimed with a laugh. Then, as she looked him over more carefully, her eyes got small and hard with suspicion. "How do I know it belongs to you?"
"How would I know you had picked it up if I hadn't dropped it?" he countered indulgently.
&nbs
p; The woman thought that over, and wasn't satisfied. "All right, if it's yours, then describe it," she demanded.
Slick lost his confident expression. He cleared his throat and said hesitatingly, "It's a brown bank envelope."
The woman pounced on him. "What bank?"
"The Corn Exchange," he said, as though guessing at random.
The woman turned her back and slipped the edge of the envelope from beneath the attache case far enough to read the return address. Nothing else was written on it.
"Hah!" she exclaimed triumphantly, turning back to confront him. "You didn't see as good as you thought; it's from the Manufacturer's Trust Company."
"That's what I meant," Slick said, putting on a bright smile. "I have money in several banks, and it slipped my mind which bank I had been to this morning."
"It slipped your mind, right enough," she sneered. "Because it don't belong to you, slicker. You just figured I was an ignorant woman and you could beat me out of it, but you figured wrong, mister man."
"Well, it doesn't belong to you either," Slick said, losing philosophically. "And my only purpose in accosting you was to see that it is returned to its owner. No one up here in Harlem can afford to lose that much money."
Her eyes narrowed. "How do you know how much money is in it," she demanded, her cupidity getting the better of her logic.
"Let's count it and see," he suggested reasonably.
"What for?" she asked with growing resentment.
"So we can divide it," he said frankly.
"I'm a law-abiding, religious woman," she said, getting on her high horse. "I'm not going to have anything to do with you."
"Then I'll call the policeman on the corner and tell him what you found," he said indifferently.
"Wait a minute," she said hastily. "Let's see how much there is, first."
She turned her back and drew forth the envelope, but he demanded, "Let me see, too."
Reluctantly, she allowed him to watch her while she opened the flap and looked at the contents. A sheaf of bright green bank notes tied with a paper band peeped out at them.
She started to pull it out but he stopped her quickly. "Watch out-don't show it. Somebody will see and get suspicious. Just leaf back the edges."
They both looked about and up and down the street, then moved closer together to form a screen. She slid the edges of the notes out far enough to show the hundred-dollar marker. She gasped. Her lips moved slightly as she leafed the notes back one by one. Her hand trembled. "My God," she whispered. "Twenty thousand dollars."
"Put them back," he cautioned.
She pushed the notes back into the envelope.
"Ten thousand apiece," he breathed. Taking a Manila envelope of similar shape and size from his inner pocket, he said, "You give me the envelope and keep your eye on the policeman while I take out my half."
Sight of the similar envelope combined with the artfulness of his request reawakened her suspicion.
"Naw you don't," she said in a strident voice, clinging to the envelope and drawing away from him. "You must take me for a square. I know all about you slick con men switching envelopes."
A look of extreme disgust contorted his features. "Here, woman," he said, handing her the envelope. "You divide it. I never saw anyone so suspicious."
But his ready acquiescence inspired her with cunning. Her face took on a look of sanctimonious concern. "We had better wait," she suggested in an earnest voice. "Maybe Sweet Prophet lost it. He's the only person around these parts who ever has that much money, and I don't want to take nothing of him. I had better take it upstairs and ask him."
"I'll go with you," he said quickly.
"No, you had better not," she said. "He'll get suspicious if he sees me bringing in a stranger, and he'll take it away from both of us and turn it over to the police."
"Listen, woman," he said, getting tough. "Do you think I'm going to trust you out of my sight with my ten thousand dollars?"
She thought for a moment, and her eyes got small as ball bearings. She thrust the attache case toward him and said, "Here, you keep this bagful of money if you don't trust me. It's Sweet Prophet's weekend take, which I was taking to the bank. I'll bet there's more money in there than there is in this envelope anyway."
Reluctantly, he accepted the case. "All right, I'm going to trust you this time," he said. "But don't you try to double-cross me, because, if you do, I'll keep the money in this bag."
"Oh, you can trust me," she lilted triumphantly as she turned away. "I believe in what is right."
He watched her pass through the entrance and start up the stairs. Then he turned and walked quickly toward his own car parked farther down the street, passing in back of Dummy without noticing him. At the same time the starker quit his post in the hotel entrance across the street, hastened down the opposite sidewalk and cut across the street to pile quickly into the back of Slick's car. The car started, and they drove off.
Dummy jumped from his stool and sprinted down the street. He turned in past the exit doorways of the theater where he had met the detectives earlier, and came out into an alley between the two streets. He was in time to see the big dark woman in the print dress come stealthily from the back entrance of Sweet Prophet's house. She turned toward Seventh Avenue, hurrying along. He followed her.
She caught a Number Three Fifth Avenue bus at 110th Street, and he just managed to get in behind her. She got off at 145th Street and Convent Avenue and walked over to Broadway. He was right behind her. She entered a branch of the Chase National Bank and stopped at the window of a receiving teller. When her turn came, the teller smiled and greeted her. "Good morning, Sister Hopeful, how is Sweet Prophet?"
"Fine and dandy," she said happily. "He wants to put three thousand dollars in the bank."
She passed him the deposit slip, already made out, and thirty bright green, brand-new hundred-dollar bills.
He looked at the top note, and his eyes widened in incredulity. Quickly he thumbed them back, staring at each in turn, his eyes becoming wider and wider. Then, very much as the Jew had done, he doubled over and began to laugh. He couldn't help it; he knew the cashier would give him hell, but what could he do?
Finally he said in a strangled voice, "You are ninety-four years late and in a different country."
She continued to grin; she didn't know what he meant.
"This is Confederate money," he explained.
"Confederate money," she echoed stupidly.
"Money issued by the Confederate states-the South-during the Civil War. It is not legal tender any more, I'm afraid."
Numb with shock, she reached over slowly and picked it up and stared at it. "It do look different, don't it?" she said stupidly. "And you say it ain't worth nothing?"
"Well," he said hesitantly, "It's valuable as a souvenir-if you're from the South."
All of a sudden, her eyes popped from their sockets as though they had exploded. Her face turned gray. Her mouth opened wide. Sound came from it-a lot of sound.
"I been robbed!" she screamed. "I been swindled. That black son of a bitch has done beat me out of all my Christian money!"
It required the efforts of two bank guards to subdue her and send her to the police station to tell her story.
Dummy stole quietly away.
16
At ten o'clock, Alberta was arraigned before the Municipal Court and bound over to the Grand Jury. Her bail was set at $2,500. No one was there to go her bail.
She was transferred downstairs from the city prison to the county prison. They are both in the same building, because Manhattan is a county as well as one of the boroughs of New York City.
She was mugged and fingerprinted, and her Bertillon measurements were taken. Then she was put in a cell with a light yellow sloppy-looking woman serving a year and a day for shoplifting.
"The top bunk, dearie," the yellow woman said.
Alberta climbed up into the top bunk and lay down.
"What's your rap, dearie?
" the yellow woman asked.
"I ain't got any rap," Alberta muttered.
"What are you down for, then?"
"I ain't down for nothing."
"That ain't going to get you nowhere, dearie, acting like that. You've got your mouth stuck out a country mile."
"What if I is," Alberta said.
The yellow woman laughed maliciously. "You'll get used to it, dearie. I've been down so long that down don't worry me."
"I want to see my preacher," Alberta said.
"Who is your preacher, dearie?"
"Sweet Prophet."
"That old hustler."
"Don't talk like that about my preacher," Alberta said.
"He ain't no preacher," the yellow woman said. "He's a pimp."
Alberta got down from her bunk and stood over the yellow woman. Her face was puffed up, and she looked threatening.
"You take that back," she demanded.
The yellow woman sized her up. "All right, dearie, I was wrong," she said. "Have you got any money?"
"I got fifty dollars," Alberta said.
"You have, honey!" the yellow woman exclaimed in a sugary voice. "You got fifty bucks. Why, honey, you just give me half of it and I'll get word to your preacher."
"How are you going to do that?" Alberta asked suspiciously.
"It's easy. You just got to grease the right palm. What's the old-er-prophet's phone number?"
"I don't know."
"Well, it don't make any difference, if he's in the book. You just give me the money and relax."
"I ain't got nothing but ten-dollar bills," Alberta said.
"Well, just give me thirty dollars," the yellow woman said. "It ain't going to break you."
Alberta fished three ten-dollar bills from her brassiere and handed them to the yellow woman.
"If he don't come, I want my money back," she said.
"I can't do no business like that, honey," the yellow woman said as she stuffed the bills into the toe of her shoe. "Use your head. All I can do is to get word to him; if he don't come, it won't be my fault."
The big gold dream cjagdj-4 Page 11