Grave Digger and Coffin Ed alighted and converged on the first stiff.
“Two hits through the top of the hat,” Grave Digger observed, his gaze roving. “He was lying on his belly and they nailed the hat on tighter.”
“Two in the right shoulder and one in the left neck,” said Coffin Ed. “Somebody sure wanted this son dead.”
“No one man scored five hits on this guy and him with a gun in his hand,” Grave Digger stated.
“The way I see it, two or more guns were shooting from down there where Casper is lying, and a third gun cross-fired from a car parked at the curb.”
“Yeah,” Grave Digger agreed, counting the bullet holes in the stainless-steel baseboard. “Somebody was using an automatic in the car and missed all ten times.”
“This guy was lying flat, and the gun in the car was shooting over him, but it gave the ones in front a chance to ice him.”
Grave Digger nodded. “This guy knew his business, but he was outgunned.”
“Over here!” Lieutenant Anderson called.
He and a white precinct detective named Haggerty and two prowl-car cops were standing about an unconscious colored man stretched out on the sidewalk.
Grave Digger and Coffin Ed glanced briefly at the second stiff as they ambled past.
“Know him?” Grave Digger asked.
“One of the girl-boys,” Coffin Ed said.
Detective Haggerty skinned back his teeth when they approached. “Every time I see you big fellows I think of two hog farmers lost in the city,” he greeted.
Grave Digger flipped him a look. “The office wit.”
Coffin Ed ignored him.
Both of them stared down at the unconscious figure. He had been turned over onto his back, and his bowler placed beneath his head for a pillow. His hands were folded across his chest, and his eyes were closed. But for the labored breathing, he might have been dead.
He was wearing a navy-blue cashmere coat with hand-stitched lapels and patch pockets. His shirt was hidden by a black silk scarf looped at the throat. The trousers were of a dark-blue flannel with a soft chalk stripe. Black calfskin shoes, practically new, finished the ensemble.
He had a broad, smooth-shaven face with a square, aggressive-looking chin. The black skin had a creamy, massaged look, and the short, carefully clipped kinky hair was snow-white. His appearance was impressive.
“Casper looks natural,” Coffin Ed said with a straight face.
“He was sapped behind the left ear,” Lieutenant Anderson stated.
“How do you figure it?” Grave Digger asked.
“It seems as though Holmes was robbed, but the rest doesn’t figure,” Anderson confessed.
“Laughing-boy yonder must have stepped out the bar to watch the bullets passing,” Haggerty cracked, amused by his own humor.
“One he didn’t see,” a white cop added, grinning.
Anderson wiped off the grin with a look.
“Who’s the gunman?” Coffin Ed asked.
“We haven’t made him,” Anderson said. “Haven’t touched him. We’re waiting for the M.E. and the crew from Homicide.”
“What do the witnesses say?”
“Witnesses?”
“Somebody in the bar must have seen the whole caper.”
“Yeah, but we haven’t got any of them to admit it,” Anderson said. “You know how it is when a white man gets killed. No one wants to get involved. I’ve sent for the wagon, and I’m going to take them all in.”
“Let me talk to them first,” Coffin Ed said.
“Okay, give it a try.”
Coffin Ed ambled toward the entrance to the bar, which was being guarded by a white patrolman.
Grave Digger looked enquiringly at a white civilian who had edged into the group.
“This is Mr. Zazuly,” Anderson said. “He got here right after the shooting and telephoned the station.”
“What did he see?” Grave Digger asked.
“When I got here the street was overrun with people,” Mr. Zazuly said, his magnified eyes blinking rapidly behind the thick lenses of his horn-rimmed spectacles. “The two men were lying there just as you see them, and not an officer in sight.”
“He’s an accountant for Blumstein’s,” Anderson explained.
“Did he hear the shooting?”
“Of course I heard the shooting. It sounded like the Second World War. And not a policeman in sight.” His round, owlish face glared from a mohair muffler with a look of extreme outrage. “Gang wars on a main thoroughfare like this. Right out in the broad open,” he went on indignantly. “Where were the police, I ask you?”
Grave Digger looked sheepish.
No one answered him.
“I’m going to write a complaint to the Commissioner,” he threatened.
The sound of a siren grew quickly in the night.
“Here comes the ambulance,” Anderson said with relief.
The red eye of the ambulance was coming up 125th Street fast, from the direction of Lenox Avenue.
Grave Digger addressed Mr. Zazuly directly. “And that’s all you saw?”
“What did you expect him to see?” Haggerty cracked. “Look at those specs.”
The ambulance double-parked beside a prowl car, and the cops stood by silently while the intern made a cursory examination.
“Can you give him something to bring him to?” Anderson asked him.
“Give him what?” the intern replied.
“Well, when will he be able to talk?”
“Can’t say, Inspector, he might have concussion.”
“I see you’re going to get ahead fast,” Anderson commented.
Nothing more was said while Casper Holmes was rolled onto the stretcher and moved.
Anderson glanced at his watch. “Homicide ought to be getting here,” he said anxiously.
“The stiffs won’t spoil in this weather,” Haggerty said, turning up the collar of his overcoat and putting his back to the ice-cold, dust-laden wind.
“I’m going to see how Ed’s making out,” Grave Digger said, and strolled toward the entrance to the Paris.
When Coffin Ed entered the Paris Bar, not one person looked in his direction.
It was a long, narrow room, with the bar running the length of the left side, taking up hall the space. Customers sat on bar stools or stood; there were no tables.
The usual Saturday night crowd was gathered, bitchy young men wearing peacock clothes with bright-colored caps, blue and silver and gold and purple, perched atop greasy curls straight from the barbershops at seven dollars a treatment. And the big, strong, rough-looking men who made life wonderful for them. But there was not a woman present.
Coffin Ed was not a moralist. But their cliquish quality of freezing up on an outsider grated on his nerves.
“Don’t everybody talk at once,” he shouted from the doorway.
No one said a word.
To a man, they were staring into their drinks as though competing in a contest of three wise monkeys: See nothing; hear nothing; say nothing. The contest was progressing toward a dead heat.
The three bartenders were rinsing glasses with an industriousness that would have gotten them all blacklisted by the bartenders’ union.
Coffin Ed began swelling at the gills. His gaze flickered dangerously down the line, seeking a likely candidate to begin with. But they were all equally engrossed in silence.
“Don’t try to give me that silent treatment,” he warned. “We’re all colored folks together.”
Someone in back giggled softly.
The uniformed white cop guarding the rear door stared at him with a dead-pan expression.
Coffin Ed’s temper flared, and the grafted patches on his face began to twitch.
He spoke to the back of the joker on the first stool. “All right, buddy boy, let’s start with you. Which way did they go?”
The girlish young man continued to stare into his drink as though he were stone-deaf. The indirect lighting
from the bar gave his smooth brown face a bemused look. His luminescent silver cap gleamed faintly like swamp-fire.
He was drinking a tall frappé highball of dark rum with a streak of grenadine running down the center, called a “Josephine Baker.” If La Baker herself had been reclining stark nude in the bottom of his glass, he could not have given her any more attention.
Coffin Ed took him roughly by the shoulder and tamed him about. “Which way did they go?” he repeated in a rasping voice.
The young man looked at him from big, brown, bedroom eyes that seemed incapable of comprehending anything but love.
“Go, sir? Who go?” he lisped.
Face jumping in a sudden flash of rage, Coffin Ed slapped him left-handed from the bar stool. The young man crashed against the wall and crumpled in a lump.
Eyes pivoted in his direction and pivoted away. He wasn’t hurt so much as stunned. He thought it best just to lie there.
Coffin Ed looked at the next joker in line. He was an older man, dressed conservatively. Answers gushed from his mouth without his being questioned. “They went west, that is down 125th Street, I don’t mean to California.”
Coffin Ed’s face looked so macabre the man had to swallow before he could continue.
“They was in a black Buick. There was three of ’em. One was driving and the other two pulled off the heist.”
He ran out of breath.
“Did you get the license?”
“License!” He looked as though Coffin Ed had abused his mother. “What would I be doing getting their license? They looked like straight cops when they drove up, and for all I know they might just as well be straight cops.”
“Cops!” Coffin Ed stiffened.
“And when they took off I was lying on the floor like everybody else.”
“You said they were cops!”
“I don’t mean they actually was cops,” the joker amended hastily. “I figure you would know if they was real sure enough cops. All I means is they looked like cops.”
“In uniform?” Coffin Ed was taut as a crane cable, and his voice came in a rasping whisper.
“How else would I know if they looked like cops. I don’t mean you, suh,” the joker hastened to add with an ingratiating smile. “Everybody around here knows you is the man, no matter what you wears. All I means is these cops was dressed in cops’ uniforms. Of course I ain’t had no way of knowing whether they was cops or not. Naturally I wasn’t going to ask to see their shields. All I know is what I seen, and they—”
Coffin Ed was thinking fast. He cut the joker off. “Colored men?”
“Two of ’em was. One was a white man.”
Heistmen impersonating cops. He was trying to remember when was the last time that was worked in Harlem. Generally that was a big-time deal.
“What did he look like?”
“Look like? Who look like?”
He had been concentrating so hard on trying to put the puzzle together that he had forgotten the joker. His gaze came back in hard focus.
“The white man. Don’t start getting cute.”
“It was just like I say, boss, he looked like a cop. You know how it is, boss,” he added slyly, giving Coffin Ed a confidential wink. “All these white cops look just alike.”
Under ordinary circumstances Coffin Ed would have passed that one by; the color angle worked just about the same on the force as it did in private life. He had played the “all us is black folks together” line himself on entering. But he wasn’t in the mood for comic patter.
“Listen, punk, this ain’t funny, this is murder,” he said.
“Don’t look at me, boss, I ain’t done it,” the joker said, throwing up his hands in comic pantomime as though to ward off a blow.
He didn’t really expect a blow, but he got one. Coffin Ed’s fists parted his hands and popped him in the left eye, and he sailed off the stool to join the other joker on the floor.
The customers began to mutter. He was getting their full attention now, and they were squirming into life.
The next joker in line was standing up. He was a big, rough-looking black man in a leather jacket and a cowskin fez. But suddenly he felt too big for the situation and was trying unsuccessfully to make himself smaller.
Coffin Ed measured him with bloodshot eyes. “Do you belong to the league, too?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“League? Nawsuh, boss. I mean if it’s the wrong league I sure don’t belong to it.”
“The know-nothing league.”
“Not me, boss.” The big joker showed Coffin Ed a mouthful of teeth as proof that he didn’t belong to any league, unless it was the dentist’s league. “I ain’t scairt to tell the truth. I’ll tell you everything I seen, I swear ’fore God. ’Course, that ain’t much, but—”
“You saw two men get shot to death.”
”Heard it, boss. I wasn’t in no position to see.”
“Three men masqueraded as cops—”
“I ain’t seen but two, boss.”
“Robbed a man in broad view right outside of this joint—”
“I couldn’t swear to it, boss; I didn’t seen that.”
“What did they get?”
“Get?” The joker acted as though he were unfamiliar with the word.
“Take?”
“Take? If they took anything, boss, I ain’t seen it. I thought they was just a mess of cops doing their dirty work.”
Coffin Ed flipped.
He looped a right hook to the big joker’s solar plexus, saw his mouth balloon with air. The cowskin fez flew from the big joker’s head as he jackknifed forward. Coffin Ed caught him back of the neck with a loose, pulling grip, jerked his head down and uppercut him in the face with his right knee. It was a good gimmick; the knee was supposed to smash the joker’s nose and fill his head with shooting stars. It worked nine times out of ten. But the big joker had his mouth open from the solar plexus punch, and his teeth crashed into Coffin Ed’s kneecap like the jaws of a bear trap.
Coffin Ed grunted with pain as his leg went stiff and clutched the back of the big joker’s leather jacket to keep from going down. The big joker butted him in the belly in a blind panic, trying to escape. Coffin Ed went down on his back, clinging to the leather jacket; and the big joker plunged forward over him, headed for the door. Coffin Ed pulled at the leather jacket in a choking rage. The jacket turned wrong side out, imprisoning the joker’s arm and halting the forward plunge of his shoulders. But the rest of him kept on going, and he turned in a somersault and landed on his back. Coffin Ed reared up on his shoulders, made a half spin and kicked the big Joker on the side of the jaw from topside, down. The big joker shuddered and passed out.
Coffin Ed clutched the rim of the bar and pulled to his feet, favoring his game leg. He looked about for the next man in line. But there wasn’t any line.
The customers had crowded to the back of the room and were beginning to panic. Knives lashed, and they were pushing and threatening one another.
The white cop at the back door was shouting, “Get back! Get away from me or I’ll shoot!”
Slowly and deliberately, Coffin Ed drew the long-barreled, nickel-plated .38 revolver from its shoulder holster.
“Now I want some straight answers from you minstrel-show comedians,” he said in a voice that grated on the nerves.
Someone let out a womanish scream.
Grave Digger came in from the street. Without taking a second look he opened his big mouth and shouted at the top of his voice: “Straighten up!” Before his big voice bounced from the walls he had his big nickel-plated revolver, the twin of Coffin Ed’s, out in his hand, in plain sight of everyone arrested by his voice.
Coffin Ed relaxed. A grim smile played about the edges of his scarred lips.
“Count off!” he bellowed in a voice to match Grave Digger’s.
For good measure they fired four shots into the newly decorated ceiling.
Everybody froze. Not a whisper was heard. No one dared b
reathe.
Coffin Ed had killed a man for breaking wind. Grave Digger had shot both eyes out of a man who was holding a loaded automatic. The story was in Harlem that these two black detectives would kill a dead man in his coffin if he so much as moved.
The next moment cops of all descriptions erupted from the street. The Homicide crew had arrived and they invaded in force; a lieutenant and two detectives with their pistols out, a third detective with a submachine gun. The precinct lieutenant, Anderson, followed, with Haggerty at his heels and two uniformed cops bringing up the rear.
“What’s this? What’s happening? What gives?” the Homicide lieutenant shouted harshly.
“Just them two cowboys from the Harlem Q. ranch rounding up a passel of rustlers,” Haggerty cracked.
“Jesus Christ,” Anderson said, as though gasping. “Use a little discretion, men. With what’s already happened you’ll have us filling our pants.”
“We’re just trying to get some sense out of these people,” Grave Digger said.
The lieutenant from Homicide stared at him in popeyed amazement. “You—you mean all you’re trying to do is make these witnesses talk?”
“It works,” Grave Digger said,
“It quiets them,” Coffin Ed added, “You’ll notice it has a soothing effect on their nerves.”
All eyes turned toward the quiet, passive people crowded toward the rear.
“Well, I’ll be God-damned,” the Homicide lieutenant said. “Now I’ve seen everything.”
“Naw you ain’t,” Haggerty said. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
“The wagon’s here. We’re going to take these people to the station for questioning,” Anderson said.
“Give us fifteen minutes with them first,” Grave Digger requested.
In the brief silence that followed, the head bartender said, “Don’t let ’em close us up, Chief—I’ll tell you all about it.”
Eyes swung in his direction. He was a well-fed, intelligent-looking man of about thirty-five, who could have been palmed off as a Baptist preacher from one of the poorer congregations.
“See what I mean?” Haggerty said.
“Come on,” Anderson said. “Your wit needs oiling.”
Chapter 5.
“It began with Snake Hips,” The bartender said, polishing a glass to occupy his hands.
All Shot Up Page 3