All Shot Up_ The Classic Crime Thriller - Chester Himes [12]
“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 breathe.
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.
“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