All Shot Up

by Chester Himes

  “Snake Hips,” Grave Digger said incredulously. “He’s the female impersonator at the Down Beat Club up the street.”

  “The danseur,” the bartender corrected with a straight face.

  “What did he have to do with it?” Coffin Ed asked.

  “Nothing. He was just dancing. He danced outside and we were watching him, and that’s how we saw it happen.”

  “Without a coat or hat? By himself? He left here and went outside to dance in this weather without a hat or coat—by himself?” Disbelief was written all over Grave Digger’s face.

  “He was just bitching off,” the bartender explained. He held the glass up to the light, blew on it and began polishing again. “He had got himself a new lover, and he was just low-rating the man who used to be his lover before. You know how these people are; when they get mad at you, they get out in the street and start scandalizing you.”

  “Who is the man?” Coffin Ed asked.

  “Sir?”

  “The man who was his former lover.”

  The bartender looked for a place to hang his gaze. Finally he settled on the glass he was polishing. If his skin had been lighter, the blush would have showed. Finally he whispered, “It was me, sir.”

  Grave Digger brushed it off. “All right, let’s finish with Snake Hips. Who is his current lover?”

  “I’m not sure, sir—you know how these things are with these people—” He choked a little, but they let it pass. “I mean, one never really knows. He’s been going around with a person called Black Beauty.”

  They didn’t ask him if this person was a man, and he didn’t elaborate.

  “But Black Beauty’s been seen around town with a man named Baron; and I know for a fact Baron’s been hanging around with a white man—I don’t know his name.”

  “You ever see him—the white man?” Coffin Ed asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  They avoided asking him where.

  “Was he one of the trio—the heistmen?” Grave Digger asked.

  “Oh no, sir. He wasn’t anything like that. He was a sort of a gentleman type—you find on Broadway,” he amended.

  “All right, that does for Snake Hips,” Grave Digger said as they stored away the information against future use. “You know Casper Holmes by sight?”

  “Yes, sir, he’s a customer here.”

  “What?”

  The bartender shrugged slightly, spreading his hands, holding the glass in one and the towel in the other.

  “Sometimes. Not a regular. It’s just near his office, which is upstairs, and he drops by sometimes for a short one.”

  “Did he pass by the front here?” Coffin Ed asked.

  “Yes, sir. He must have just come from his office. But he didn’t stop in here. Snake Hips was dancing, and he passed right by him as if he didn’t see him—like he had something on his mind.”

  “Does he know Snake Hips?”

  The bartender lowered his eyes. “It’s possible, sir. Mr. Holmes gets around.”

  “Could Snake Hips’ dancing act have been a tip-off?”

  “Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t that, He was just trying to drag me. You see I got a wife and two children—”

  “And you still got time for these boys?”

  “Well, that was it. I didn’t—”

  “Let him go on,” Grave Digger said harshly. “So Casper didn’t see him, or rather didn’t acknowledge him.”

  “It was more that. He must have seen him. But he was walking in a hurry, looking straight ahead and carrying a pigskin bag—”

  Both detectives stiffened to alert.

  “Brief case?” Grave Digger asked in an urgent whisper.

  “Why, yes, sir. A pigskin brief case with a handle. It looked new. He was going toward Seventh Avenue, and I figured he was going to take a taxi.”

  “Let us do the guessing.”

  “Well, he usually parks his car out front. It wasn’t there, so I figured—” Grave Digger’s look cut him off. “Well, anyway, he was just past the doorway when a black Buick sedan pulled to the curb—”

  “There was parking space?”

  “Yes, sir—it so happened that two cars had just pulled off.”

  “You know whose they were?”

  “The cars? No, sir. I think the drivers came from —or rather the passengers, there was a party of ’em—came from the Palm Café.”

  “Casper notice it?”

  “He didn’t act like it. He kept on walking. Then two cops—or rather men dressed in cops’ uniforms—got out and another one stayed behind the wheel. My first thought was that Mr. Holmes was carrying valuables and the cops were a bodyguard. But Mr. Holmes tried to walk past them—between them rather, because they sort of separated when he tried to pass them—”

  “Where was the white man?”

  “He was on Mr. Holmes’ right, toward the street. Mr. Holmes was carrying the brief case on that side. Then they took him by the arms; one took hold of each arm. Mr. Holmes seemed surprised, then mad.”

  “You couldn’t see his face from here.”

  “No, sir. But his back stiffened, and he looked like he was mad, and I know he was saying something because I could see the side of his face working. It was it by the sign light, and it seemed as if he was shouting, but of course I couldn’t hear him.”

  “Well, go on,” Grave Digger urged. “We haven’t got all night.”

  “Well, sir, that was the first I figured there was something wrong. Then the next thing I knew I saw the white man knock Mr. Holmes’ hat off; he sort of flicked it off from behind so that it fell in front of Mr. Holmes. And at the same time the colored cop—man—sapped Mr. Holmes behind the left ear; he was on Mr. Holmes’ left side.”

  “Did you see the sap?”

  “Not too well. It looked like an ordinary leather-bound sap with a whalebone handle to me.”

  “Did he hit him again?”

  “No sir, once was enough. Mr. Holmes went down like he was sitting, and the white man took the pigskin bag out of his hand.”

  “Who else in the bar here saw this happen?”

  “I don’t think anybody else saw it. You see, the customers face this way and only us bartenders face in that direction, and the other bartenders was busy. It wasn’t like they had made any noise. I saw it, but I couldn’t hear a sound.”

  “What about Snake Hips? Didn’t he see what was happening, or was he too far gone.”

  “He hadn’t been banging, if that’s what you mean. But he was dancing in a slow circle, doing a sort of shake dance, and he had his back to them.”

  “But they must have seen him.”

  “Must have. But they didn’t pay him no attention. As far as they were concerned, he was harmless as a lamppost.”

  “Why didn’t you telephone the police?” Grave Digger asked.

  “I didn’t have time. I was going to, but the next thing I knew I heard a shot. A man appeared right outside of this window like he had come from nowhere. When I first heard the shot my first thought was they’d shot Snake Hips—the silly fool—then I saw this man standing there with one of those short bulldog-looking pistols held straight out in his right hand. Then I heard him say in a hard, dry voice, ‘Get ’em up!’”

  “You heard him?”

  “Yes, sir. You see, he didn’t speak until after he had shot; and at the sound of the shot everybody inside of here went stone quiet.”

  “That’s when the two heistmen started shooting,” Coffin Ed surmised.

  “No, sir. I don’t know what they did because I wasn’t looking at them no more. But they didn’t start shooting with that man pointing that gun at them. But the cop—man—in the car started shooting. It was dark inside the car, and I could see the orange lashes.”

  He ceased polishing the glass for the moment, and his brown face went ashy at the memory.

  “Of course the man wasn’t shooting at me, but the gun was pointing this way, and it seemed like I was looking down the barrel. I was scared e
nough to drop six babies, because it looked like he never was going to stop shooting.” He wiped sweat drops from his ashy face with the polishing towel.

  “Eleven-shot automatic,” Coffin Ed said.

  “It sounded like more than eleven shots to me,” the bartender contended.

  “That’s when you ducked,” Grave Digger said disappointedly, figuring the account was finished,

  “That’s when I should have ducked,” the bartender admitted. “Everybody else ducked. But I ran to the front of the bar, trying to get Snake Hips’ attention and call him inside, as if he hadn’t heard all that shooting more than I did. But you don’t know what you’re thinking at a time like that. So I stood there waving my arms while the man in the car ducked out of sight. The white man had fell flat on his stomach when the shooting started, and I don’t think he was hit then, I wasn’t really looking, although I could see him from where I stood; but I was looking at the car, and he must have shot back at the man in the car because I saw two bullet holes suddenly appear in the right front window.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Coffin Ed said.

  “Check,” Grave Digger echoed.

  “I was still trying to get Snake Hips’ attention,” the bartender admitted. “But he was scared blind. He was just standing there with his arms straight up and his hands shaking like leaves. He was trembling all over and his coat was open, and I knew he must have been cold. I think he was saying—begging rather—for them not to shoot him—”

  “Leave Snake Hips,” Coffin Ed said brutally. “What about the other two?”

  “Well, they must have begun shooting when the man in the car finished. Maybe they took advantage to get out their guns. When the shooting from the car stopped more shooting was still going on, and I looked over and saw flashes coming from both of their guns. Their pistols looked like the same kind of snub-nosed pistol the man had on the ground. One of them was shooting from his right hand and the other from his left—”

  “The white man the lefty?”

  “No, sir, it was the colored man. He had his sap in his right hand and was shooting from his hip—”

  “From his hip?” Grave Digger said.

  “Yes sir, like a real Western gunman—”

  “Hollywood style,” Coffin Ed said scornfully.

  “Let him go on,” Grave Digger snapped.

  “The white man had the brief case in his left hand, and he was shooting with his right hand held straight out in front of him like the man on the ground had done—”

  “He’s the son,” Coffin Ed muttered.

  “Was either of them hit?” Grave Digger asked.

  “I don’t think so. I don’t think the man on the ground ever got a chance to shoot at them. After the man in the car had finished shooting they opened up; or they might have even opened up before he finished shooting. Anyway, the man on the ground never had a chance.”

  “And you were standing there watching all the time?” Grave Digger asked.

  “Yes, sir, like a fool. I saw when Snake Hips was hit. At least I knew he was hit because he went straight down. He didn’t fall like they do in the motion pictures; he just collapsed. I don’t know who shot him, of course; but it was one of them up there beside Mr. Holmes, because the man in the car had quit shooting by then. I figure it was the white man who shot him, because he was the one who was holding his pistol so high.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” Coffin Ed said. “That son wasn’t throwing bullets that wide apart.”

  “His number came up, and that’s that,” Grave Digger said. “And you didn’t see the man on the ground catch his.”

  “Next time I noticed him he was just lying there like he had gone to sleep on his stomach, but to tell you the truth, sir, I wasn’t paying him no attention especially. I was waiting for the three cops—heistmen I mean—to leave so I could go out and get Snake Hips. Then when they did leave I thought what was the use—he was dead; I knew he was dead when he went down; then I remembered I wasn’t supposed to move a dead body. So I just stood there.”

  “And even then you didn’t call the police,” Coffin Ed accused.

  “No, sir.”

  “What in the hell were you doing then? Hiding when it was all over?”

  The bartender lowered his eyes. When his voice came it was so low they had to lean forward to hear it. “I was crying,” he confessed.

  For a moment neither Grave Digger nor Coffin Ed had anywhere to look.

  Then Grave Digger asked, in a voice unnecessarily harsh, “Did you see the license of the Buick, by any chance?”

  The bartender got himself under control. “I didn’t exactly look at it, I mean make a point of it—looking at it, I mean; then I couldn’t see it too well; but it clicked in the back of my mind that it was a Yonkers number.”

  “How did you notice that?”

  “I live in Yonkers, and I was thinking It was fate that the car carrying the murderers of Snake Hips came from the place where I live.”

  “Goddammit, let’s bury Snake Hips,” Coffin Ed said roughly. “Give us a description of the two men who got out of the car.”

  “You’re asking me more than I can do, sir. I really didn’t look at their faces. Then the orange neon light from the bar sign was shining on them, and that makes faces look different from what they actually are; so I hardly ever look at faces outside. All I know is one man was black—”

  “Not half black?”

  “No sir, all black. And the other one was white.”

  “Foreign.”

  “It didn’t strike me that way. I’d say Southern. Something about him reminded me of one of those Southern deputy sheriffs—sort of slouching when he moved, but moving faster than what it looked, and strong. Something sort of mean-looking about him, sadistic, I’d say. The kind of man who thinks just being white is everything.”

  “Not the kind who’d be welcome in here,” Grave Digger said.

  “No, sir. The fellows would be scared of him.”

  “But not whores?”

  “Whores, too. But they’d take his money just the same. And he might be the kind who’d spend it on cheap whores.”

  “All right, describe the car.”

  “It was just a plain black Buick. About three years old, I’d say offhand. Plain black tires. Just the ordinary lights, as far as I saw. I wouldn’t have noticed it if it hadn’t been for them.”

  “And they drove off toward Eighth Avenue?”

  “Yes, sir. Then people came from everywhere. A man came in here from Blumstein’s and telephoned the police. And that’s all I know.”

  “It’s been like pulling teeth,” Grave Digger said.

  “All right, get on your coat and hat—you’re going to the station,” Coffin Ed said.

  The bartender looked shocked. “But I thought—”

  “And you can put down that glass before you wear it out.”

  “But I thought if I told you everything I saw—I mean—you’re not arresting me, are you?”

  “No, son, you’re not being arrested, but you got to repeat your story for the Homicide officers and for the record,” Grave Digger said.

  Outside, the experts had itemized the material clues. The Assistant Medical Examiner had been and gone. He hadn’t disclosed anything that wasn’t obvious.

  An examination of the white stiff’s clothes had revealed that he was an operative for the Pinkerton Detective Agency.

  “It won’t take long to check with the New York office and find out his assignment. That will tell us something,” the Homicide lieutenant said. “What did you boys find out?”

  “Just what could be seen without knowing what it meant,” Grave Digger said. “This is the bartender; he saw it all.”

  “Fine. We’ll get it down. Too bad you didn’t have a stenographer with you.”

  “We might not have got what we did,” Coffin Ed said. “No one talks freely when it’s being taken down.”

  “Anyway, you got it in your heads, if I
know you two,” the Homicide lieutenant said. “As soon as they move these stiffs, we’ll all get together in the precinct station and correlate what we got.” He turned to the precinct lieutenant, Anderson. “What about those bar jockeys? You want any more of them?”

  “I’m having a man take their names and addresses,” Anderson said. “I’ll go along with Jones and Johnson on the witness they picked.”

  “Right,” the lieutenant said, beating the cold from his gloved hands and looking up and down the street. “What’s happening to those dead wagons?”

  Chapter 6.

  On his radio, Anderson got a call to come in. The bored voice of the switchboard sergeant informed him that the prowl car sent up to the convent reported a corpse, and asked what he wanted done.

  Anderson told him to order the car to stay put and he’d send the Homicide crew up there.

  The Homicide lieutenant ordered one of his detectives to call the Assistant Medical Examiner again.

  Haggerty said, “Old Doc Fullhouse ain’t going to like spending his nights in Harlem with bodies as cold as these.”

  Anderson said, “You go along with Jones and Johnson; I’ll take the witness back to the station in my car.”

  Grave Digger and Coffin Ed, with Haggerty in back, led the Homicide car down 125th Street to Convent Avenue and up the hill to the south side of the convent grounds.

  The prowl car was parked by the convent wall in the middle of the block. There was not a pedestrian in sight.

  The three cops were sitting inside their car to keep warm, but they jumped out and looked alert when the Homicide car drew up.

  “There is it,” one of them said, pointing toward the convent wall. “We haven’t touched anything.”

  The corpse was flattened against the wall in an upright position, with its arms hanging straight down and its feet raised several inches from the pavement. It was entirely covered, except for the head, by a long, black, shapeless coat, threadbare and slightly greenish, with a moth-eaten, rabbit-fur collar. The hands were encased in black, knitted mittens; the feet in old-fashioned, high-buttoned shoes that had recently been cleaned with liquid polish. The face seemed to be buried in the solid concrete, so that only the back of the head was visible. Glossy waves of black, oily hair gleamed in the dim light.