Lawrence mopped his hot red face.
“How about yours and Johnson’s testimony?”
“Let her go, let her go,” Grave Digger said harshly. He looked as if he were riding the crest of a rage. “Ed and I will square accounts. We’ll catch her uptown some day with her pants down.”
“No, I can’t have that,” Lawrence said. “I’ll hold her in five thousand dollars’ bail.”
25
Mr. Clay was having his afternoon nap when Jackson arrived. Jackson found the front door open and walked in without knocking. Smitty, the other chauffeur, was whispering with a woman in the dimly lit chapel.
Jackson opened the door to Mr. Clay’s office softly and entered quietly. Mr. Clay lay on the couch, facing the wall. Dressed in his tailcoat attire, his long bushy gray hair floating on the coverlet, parchment-like skin framed by the dark wall, he looked like a refugee from a museum, in the dim light from the floor lamp that burned continuously in the front window.
“That you, Marcus?” he asked suddenly without turning.
“No sir, it’s me, Jackson.”
“Have you got my money, Jackson?”
“No sir—”
“I didn’t think so.”
“But I’m going to pay you back every cent, Mr. Clay – that five hundred dollars I borrowed and that two hundred you advanced me on my salary. Don’t you worry about that, Mr. Clay.”
“I’m not worrying, Jackson. You can put in a claim against the county for the money those hoodlums swindled you out of.”
“I can? Against the county?”
“Yes. They had eight thousand dollars in their possession. But just keep it to yourself, Jackson, just keep it to yourself.”
“Yes sir, I’ll certainly do that.”
“And Jackson—”
“Yes sir?”
“Did you bring back my hearse?”
“No sir. I didn’t know whether I could. I left it parked in front of the station house.”
“Then go get it, Jackson. And hurry back, because there’s work for you to do.”
“You’re going to take me back, Mr. Clay?”
“I haven’t never let you go, Jackson. A good man like you is hard to find.”
“Yes sirree. Will you bury my brother for me, Mr. Clay?”
“I’m in the business, Jackson. I’m in the business. How much insurance did he have?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Find out then, Jackson, and we’ll talk business.”
“Yes sir.”
“How’s that yellow woman of yours, Jackson?”
“She’s fine, Mr. Clay. But she’s in jail right now.”
“That’s too bad, Jackson. But anyway, you know she ain’t cheating on you.”
Jackson forced a laugh. “You’re always joking, Mr. Clay. You know she wouldn’t do anything like that.”
“Not as long as she’s in jail, anyway,” Mr. Clay said sleepily.
“I’m going down to try to see her now.”
“All right, Jackson. See Joe Simpson and have him go her bail – if it’s not too much.”
“Yes sir. Thank you, Mr. Clay.”
Joe Simpson had his office on Lenox Avenue, around the corner. Jackson rode with him back downtown to the county building.
When Assistant DA Lawrence learned that Imabelle was making bail, he sent for Joe Simpson. Grave Digger and the court stenographer had gone, and Lawrence was alone in his office.
“Joe, I want to know who’s going that woman’s bail?” he asked.
Simpson looked at him in surprise.
“Why, Mr. Clay is.”
“Jesus Christ!” Lawrence exclaimed. “What is this? What’s going on here? What have they got on him? They steal his money, wreck his hearse, take advantage of him in every way that’s possible, and he hastens to go their bail to get them out of jail. I want to know why.”
“Two of those fellows had eight thousand dollars on them when they were killed.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Why, I thought you knew how that worked, Mr. Lawrence. The money goes for their burials. And Mr. Clay got their funerals. It’s just like they’ve been drumming up business for him.”
Jackson was in the other wing of the building, waiting in the vestibule, when the jailor brought Imabelle from her cell. He gave a long sighing laugh and took her in his arms. She wriggled closely against the curve of his fat stomach and welded her bruised lips against his sweaty kiss.
Then she drew back and said, “Daddy, we got to hurry and see that old buzzard and get our room back so we’ll have somewhere to sleep tonight.”
“It’s going to be all right,” he told her. “I got my job back. And it was Mr. Clay who went your bail.”
She held him at arms’ length and looked into his eyes.
“And you got your job back too, Daddy. Well ain’t that fine?”
“Imabelle,” he said sheepishly. “I just want to tell you, I’m sorry I lost your trunk full of gold ore. I did the best I could to save it.”
She laughed out loud and squeezed his strong, fat arms.
“Daddy, don’t you worry. Who cares about an old trunk full of gold ore, as long as I got you?”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHESTER HIMES was born in Missouri in 1909. He began writing while serving a prison sentence for a jewel theft and published just short of twenty novels before his death in 1984. Among his best-known thrillers are Blind Man With a Pistol, Cotton Comes to Harlem, The Crazy Kill, The Real Cool Killers, and The Heat’s On, all available from Vintage.
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