11
Grave Digger halted on the sidewalk in front of the yellow frame house next door to the Knickerbocker. It had been partitioned into offices and all of the front windows were lettered with business announcements. "Can you read that writing on those windows?" Grave Digger asked Ready Belcher. Ready glanced at him suspiciously. "Course I can read that writing." "Read it then," Grave Digger said. Ready stole another look. "Read what one?" "Take your choice." Ready squinted his good eye against the dark and read aloud, "_Joseph C. Clapp, Real Estate and Notary Public_." He looked at Grave Digger like a dog who has retrieved a stick. "That one?" "Try another." He hesitated. Passing car lights played on his pockmarked black face, brought out the white cast in his bad eye and lit up his flashy tan suit. "I haven't got much time," Grave Digger warned. He read, "_Amazing 100-year-old Gypsy Bait Oil-Makes Catfish Go Crazy_." He looked at Grave Digger again like the same dog with another stick. "Not that one," Grave Digger said. "What the hell is this, a gag?" he muttered. "Just read!" "_JOSEPH, The Only and Original Skin Lightener. I guarantee to lighten the darkest skin by twelve shades in six months_." "You don't want your skin lightened?" "My skin suit me," he said sullenly. "Then read on." "_Magic Formula For Successful PRAYER_
… That it?" "Yeah, that's it. Read what it says underneath." "_Here are some of the amazing things it tells you about: When to pray; Where to pray; How to pray; The Magic Formulas for Health and Success through prayer; for conquering fear through prayer; for obtaining work through prayer; for money through prayer; for influencing others through prayer; and_-" "That's enough." Grave Digger took a deep breath and said in a voice gone thick and cottony again, "Ready, if you don't tell me what I want to know, you'd better get yourself one of those prayers. Because I'm going to take you over to 129th Street near the Harlem River. You know where that is? It's a deserted jungle of warehouses and junk yards beneath the New York Central bridge." "Yare, I know where it's at." "And I'm going to pistol whip you until your own whore won't recognize you again. And if you try to run, I'm going to let you run fifty feet and then shoot you through the head for attempting to escape. You understand me?" "Yare, I understand you." "You believe me?" Ready took a quick look at Grave Digger's rage-swollen face and said quickly, "Yare, I believes you." "My partner got suspended tonight for killing a criminal rat like you and I'd just as soon they suspended me too." "You ain't asted me yet what you want to know." "Get into the car." The car was parked at the curb. Ready got into Coffin Ed's seat. Grave Digger went around and climbed beneath the wheel. "This is as good a spot as any," he said. "Start talking." "'Bout what?" "About the Big Greek. I want to know who killed him. Ready jumped as though he'd been stung. "Digger, I swear 'fore God — " "Don't call me Digger, you lousy pimp." "Mista Jones, lissen — " "I'm listening." "Lots of folks mighta killed him if they'd knowed — " He broke off. The pockmarks in his skin began filling with sweat. "Known what? I haven't got all night." Ready gulped and said, "He was a whipper." "What?" "He liked to whip 'em." "Whores?" "Not 'specially. If they was regular whores he wanted them to be big black mannish-looking bitches like what might cut a mother-raper's throat. But what he liked most was little colored school gals." "That's it? That's why Reba barred him?" "Yas suh. He proposition her once. She got so mad she drew her pistol on him." "Did she shoot him?" "Naw, suh, she just scared him." "I mean tonight. Was she the one?" Ready's eyes started rolling in their sockets and the sweat began to trickle down his mean black face. "You mean the one what killed him? Naw suh, she was home all evening." "Where were you?" "I was there, too." "Do you live there?" "Naw, suh, I just drops by for a visit now and then." "Where did he find the girls?" "You mean the school girls?" "What other girls would I mean?" "He picked 'em up in his car. He had a little Mexican bull whip with nine tails he kept in his car. He whipped 'em with that." "Where did he take them?" "He brung 'em to Reba's till she got suspicious 'bout all the screaming and carrying on. She didn't think nothing of it at first; these little chippies likes to make lots of noise for a white man. But they was making more noise than seemed natural and she went in and caught 'im. That's when he proposition her." "How did he get 'em to take it?" "Get 'em to take what?" "The whipping." "Oh, he paid 'em a hundred bucks. They was glad to take it for that." "You're certain of that, that he paid them a hundred dollars?" "Yas suh. Not only me but lots of chippies all over Harlem knew about him. A hundred bucks didn't mean nothing to him. They boy friends knew too. Lots of times they boy friends made 'em. There was chippies all over town on the lookout for him. 'Course one time was enough for most of 'em." "He hurt them?" "He got his money's worth. Sometime he whale hell out of 'em. I s'pect he hurt more'n one of 'em bad. 'Member that kid they picked up in Broadhurst Park. It were all in the paper. She was in the hospital three, four days. She said she'd been attacked but the police thought she was beat up by a gang. I believes she was one of 'em." "What was her name?" "I don't recollect." "Where'd he take them after Reba barred him from her place?" "I don't know." "Do you know the names of any of them?" "Naw suh, he brung 'em and took 'em away by hisself. I never even seen any of 'em." "You're lying." "Naw suh, I swear 'fore God." "How did you know they were school girls if you never saw any of them?" "He tole me." "What else he tell you?" "Nuthin' else. He just talk to me 'bout gals." "How old is your girl?" "My gal?" "The one you have at Reba's?" "Oh, she twenty-five or more." "One more lie and off we go." "She sixteen, boss." "She had him, too?" "Yas suh. Once." The sweat was streaming down Ready's face. "Once. Why only once?" "She got scared." "You tried to fix it up for another time?" "Naw suh, boss, she didn't need to. Hit cost her more'n it was worth." "What were you doing with him in the Dew Drop Inn?" "He was looking for a little gal he knew and he ast me to come 'long, that's all, boss." "When was that?" "'Bout a month ago." "You said you didn't know where he took them after he was barred from Reba's." "I don't, boss, I swear 'fore-" "Can that Uncle Tom crap. Reba said she barred him three or four months ago." "Yas suh, but I didn't say I hadn't seed him since." "Did Reba know you were seeing him?" "I only seed him that once, boss. I was in the AlabamaGeorgia bar and he just happen in." Grave Digger nodded towards the three alien cars parked ahead, in front of the Knickerbocker. "One of those cars his?" "Them struggle buggies!" Scorn pushed the fear from Ready's voice. "Naw suh, he had a dream boat, a big green Caddy Coupe de Ville." "Who was the girl he and you were looking for?" "I wasn't looking for her; I just went 'long with him to look for her." "Who was she, I asked." "I didn't know her. Some little chippie what hung 'round in that section." "How did he come to know her?" "He said he'd done whipped her girl friend once. That's how come he knew her. Said Sissie's boy friend brought her to 'im." "Sissie! You said you didn't know the name of any of them." "I'd forgotten her, boss. He didn't bring her to Reba's. I didn't know nuthin' 'bout her but just what he said." "What did he say exactly?" "He just say Sissie's boy friend, some boy they call Sheik, arrange it for him and he pay Sheik. Then he wanted Sheik to arrange for the other one but Sheik couldn't do it." "What was the other one called? The one he and you were looking for?" "He call her Sugartit. She was Sissie's girl friend. He'd seen 'em walking together down Seventh Avenue one time after he'd whipped Sissie." "Where did you find her?" "We didn't find her, I swear 'fore-" "Does your girl know them?" "I didn' hear you." "Your girl, does she know them?" "Know who, boss?" "Either Sissie or Sugartit." "Naw suh. My gal's a pro and them is just chippies. I recollect him saying one time they all belonged to a kid gang over in that section. 1 means them two chippies and Sheik. He say Sheik was the chief." "What's the name of the gang?" "He say they call themselves the Real Cool Moslems. He thought it were funny." "Did you listen to the news on the radio tonight?" "You mean what it say 'bout him getting croaked? Naw suh, I was lissening to the Twelve-Eighty Club. Reba tole me 'bout it. She were lissening. That were just 'fore you come. She were telling me when the doorbell rang. She say the big Greek's croaked over on Lenox Avenue and I say so what." "You said before that lots of people might have killed him if they'd known about
him. Who?" "All I meant was some of those gal's pas. Like Sissie's or some of 'em. He might have been hanging 'round over there looking for Sugartit again and her pa might have got hep to it some kind of way and been layin' for him and when he seed him coming down the street might have lowered the boom on 'im." "You mean slipped up behind him?" "He were in his car, warn't he?" "How about the Moslems — the kid gang?" "Them! What they'd wanta do it for? He was money in the street for them." "Who's Sugartit's father?" "You mean her old man?" "I mean her father." "How am I gonna know that, boss? I ain't never heard of her 'fore he talk 'bout her." "What did he say about her?" "Just say she was the gal for him." "Did he say where she lived?" "Naw, suh, he just say what I say he say, boss, I swear 'fore God." "You stink. What are you sweating so much for?" "I'se just nervous, that's all." "You stink with fear. What are you scared of?" "Just naturally scared, boss. You got that big pistol and you mad at everybody and talkin' 'bout killin' me and all that. Enough to make anybody scared." "You're scared of something else, something in particular. What are you holding out?" "I ain't holding nothing out. I done tole you everything I know, I swear boss, I swears on everything that's holy in this whole green world." "1 know you're lying. I can hear it in your voice. What are you lying about?" "I ain't lying, boss. If I'm lying I hope God'll strike me dead on the spot." "You know who her father is, don't you?" "Naw suh, boss. I swear. I done tole you everything I know. You could whup me till my head is soft as clabber but I couldn't tell you no more than I'se already tole you." "You know who her father is and you're scared to tell me. "Naw suh, I swear-" "Is he a politician?" "Boss, I — " "A numbers banker?" "I swear, boss-" "Shut up before I knock out your goddamned teeth." He mashed the starter as though tromping on Ready's head. The motor purred into life. But he didn't slip in the clutch. He sat there listening to the softly purring motor in the small black nondescript car, trying to get his temper under control. Finally he said, "If I find out that you're lying I'm going to kill you like a dog. I'm not going to shoot you, I'm going to break all your bones. I'm going to try to find out who killed Galen because that's what I'm paid for and that was my oath when I took this job. But if I had my way I'd pin a medal on him and I'd string up every goddamned one of you who were up with Galen. You've turned my stomach and it's all I can do right now to keep from beating out your brains."
12
The reception room of the Harlem Hospital, on Lenox Avenue ten blocks south from the scene of the murder, was wrapped in a midnight hush. It was called an interracial hospital; more than half of its staff of doctors and nurses were colored people. A graduate nurse sat behind the reception desk. A bronzeshaded desk lamp spilled light on the hospital register before her while her brown-skinned face remained in shadow. She looked up inquiringly as Grave Digger and Ready Belcher approached, walking side by side. "May I help you," she said in a trained courteous voice. "I'm Detective Jones," Grave Digger said, exhibiting his badge. She looked at it but didn't touch it. "You received an emergency patient here about two hours ago; a man with his right arm cut off." "Yes?" "I would like to question him." "I will call Dr. Banks. You may talk to him. Please be seated." Grave Digger prodded Ready in the direction of chairs surrounding a table with magazines. They sat silently, like relatives of a critical case. Dr. Banks came in silently, crossing the linoleum-tiled floor on rubber-soled shoes. He was a tall, athletic-looking young colored man dressed in white. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Jones," he said to Grave Digger whom he knew by sight. "You want to know about the case with the severed arm." He had a quick smile and a pleasant voice. "I want to talk to him," Grave Digger said. Dr. Banks pulled up a chair and sat down. "He's dead. I've just come from him. He had a rare type of blood — Type O — which we don't have in our blood bank. You realize transfusions were imperative. We had to contact the Red Cross blood bank. They located the type in Brooklyn, but it arrived too late. Is there anything I can tell you?" "I want to know who he was." "So do we. He died without revealing his identity." "Didn't he make a statement of any kind before he died?" "There was another detective here earlier, but the patient was unconscious at the time. The patient regained consciousness later, but the detective had left. Before leaving, he examined the patient's effects, however, but found nothing to establish his identity." "He didn't talk at all, didn't say anything?" "Oh yes. He cried a great deal. One moment he was cursing and the next he was praying. Most of what he said was incoherent. I gathered he regretted not killing the man whom he had attacked — the white man who was killed later." "He didn't mention any names?" "No. Once he said 'the little one' but mostly he used the word mother-raper which Harlemites apply to everybody, enemies, friends and strangers." "Well, that's that," Grave Digger said. "Whatever he knew he took with him. Still I'd like to examine his effects too, whatever they are." "Certainly; they're just the clothes he wore and the contents of his pockets when he arrived here." He stood up. "Come this way." Grave Digger got to his feet and motioned his head for Ready to walk ahead of him. "Are you an officer too?" Dr. Banks asked Ready. "No, he's my prisoner," Grave Digger said. "We're not that hard up for cops as yet." Dr. Banks smiled. He led them down a corridor smelling strongly of ether to a room at the far end where the clothes and personal effects of the emergency and ward patients were stored in neatly wrapped bundles on shelves against the walls. He took down a bundle bearing a metal tag and placed it on the bare wooden table. "Here you are." From the adjoining room an anguished male voice was heard reciting the Lord's Prayer. Ready stared as though fascinated at the number 219 on the metal tag fastened to the bundle of clothes and whispered, "Death row." Dr. Banks flicked a glance at him and said to Grave Digger, "Most of the attendants play the numbers. When an emergency patient arrives they put this tag with the death number on his bundle and if he dies they play it." Grave Digger grunted and began untying the bundle. "If you discover anything leading to his identity, let us know," Dr. Banks said. "We'd like to notify his relatives." He left them. Grave Digger spread the blood-caked mackinaw and overalls on the table. It contained two incredibly filthy one-dollar bills, some loose change, a small brown paper sack of dried roots, two Yale keys and a skeleton key on a rusty key ring, a dried rabbit's foot, a dirty piece of resin, a cheese cloth rag that had served as a handkerchief, a putty knife, a small piece of pumice stone, and a scrap of dirty writing paper folded into a small square. The putty knife and pumice stone indicated that the man had worked somewhere as a porter, using the putty to scrape chewing gum from the floor and the pumice stone for cleaning his hands. That didn't help much. He unfolded the square of paper and found a note on cheap school paper written in a childish hand.
GB, you want to know something. The Big John hangs out in the Inn. How about that. Just like those old
Romans.
Bee.
Grave Digger folded it again and slipped it into his pocket. "Is your girl called Bee?" he asked Ready. "Naw, suh, she called Doe." "Do you know any girl called Bee — a school girl?" "Naw suh." "GB?" "Naw suh." Grave Digger turned out the pockets of the clothes but found nothing more. He wrapped the bundle and attached the tag. He noticed Ready staring at the number on the tag again. "Don't let that number catch up with you," he said. "Don't you end up with that tag on your fine clothes." Ready licked his dry lips. They didn't see Dr. Banks on their way out. Grave Digger stopped at the reception desk to tell the nurse he hadn't found anything to identify the corpse. "Now we're going to look for the Greek's car," he said to Ready.
They found the big green Cadillac beneath a street lamp in the middle of the block on 130th Street between Lenox and Seventh Avenues. It had an Empire State license number — UG-16 — and it was parked beside a fire hydrant. It was as conspicuous as a fire truck.
He pulled up behind it and parked. "Who covered for him in Harlem?" he asked Ready. "I don't know, Mista Jones." "Was it the precinct captain?" "Mista Jones, I — " "One of our councilmen?" "Honest to God, Mista Jones — " Grave Digger got out and walked toward the big car. The doors wer
e locked. He broke the glass of the left-side wind screen with the butt of his pistol, reached inside past the wheel and unlocked the door. The interior lights came on. A quick search revealed the usual paraphernalia of a motorist: gloves, handkerchiefs, Kleenex, half-used packages of different brands of cigarettes, insurance papers, a woman's plastic overshoes and compact. A felt monkey dangled from the rear view mirror and two medium-sized dolls, a black-faced Topsy and a blonde Little Eva, sat in opposite corners on the back seat. He found the miniature bull whip and a Manila envelope of postcard-sized photos in the right-hand glove compartment. He studied the photos in the light. They were pictures of nude colored girls in various postures, each photo revealing another developed tethnique of the sadist. On most of the pictures the faces of the girls were distinct although distorted by pain and shame. He put the whip in his leather-lined coat pocket, kept the photos in his hand, slammed the door, walked back to his own car and climbed beneath the wheel. "Was he a photographer?" he asked Ready. "Yas suh, sometime he carry a camera." "Did he show you the pictures he took?" "Naw suh, he never said nothing 'bout any pictures. I just seen him with the camera." Grave Digger snapped on the top light and showed Ready the photos. "Do you recognize any of them?" Ready whistled softly and his eyes popped as he turned over one photo after another. "Naw suh, I don't know none of them," he said, handing them back. "Your girl's not one of them?" "Naw suh." Grave Digger pocketed the envelope and mashed the starter. "Ready, don't let me catch you in a lie," he said again, letting out the clutch.
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