All Shot Up_ The Classic Crime Thriller - Chester Himes [23]
Mister Baron gripped the back of the front seat and pulled himself to his knees. His long, wavy hair hung down over his forehead; his eyes rolled loosely in their sockets.
“Let me out,” he said, moaning. “I’m going to be sick.”
Roman stopped the car in front of a red brick building with a fluted façade. Big new cars lined the curbs.
“Shut up!” he said, “if it hadn’t been for you, I never would have run off after hitting that old lady.”
Mister Baron’s mouth ballooned, but he held it back, “I’m going to be sick in the car,” he blubbered.
“Let him out,” Sassafras said. “If you’d listened to me, none of this would have happened.”
“Get out, man,” Roman shouted. “You want me to lift you?”
Mister Baron opened the curbside door and polled to his feet. He staggered groggily toward a lamppost. Roman jumped from the other side and followed him.
Mister Baron clung to the post and heaved. Steam rose as though he were spouting boiling water. Roman backed away.
“Jesus Christ in heaven,” Mister Baron moaned.
Roman let him finish and clutched him by the arm. Mister Baron tried weakly to free himself.
“Let me go—I got to make a phone call,” he said.
“You ain’t going nowhere until I find my car,” Roman muttered, pushing him toward the Buick.
Mister Baron pulled back, but he could scarcely stand. His head was filled with shooting pains, and his vision wouldn’t focus. “Fool, how can I help you find your car if you won’t let me telephone? I want to call the police and report that it’s been stolen.” His voice sounded desperate.
“Naw, you don’t; you ain’t telling the police nothing,” Roman said, pushing him into the back of the car and slamming the door. He went around the car and climbed back beneath the wheel. “You think I want to get arrested?”
“Those weren’t real police, you idiot,” Mister Baron said.
“I know they weren’t police. You think I’m a fool? But what am I going to tell the sure enough police about hitting that old lady?”
“You didn’t hurt that old lady. I looked back once when you were driving off and saw her getting up.”
Roman stared at Mister Baron while that sunk in. Sassafras turned about to look at Mister Baron, too. The two of them, suddenly staring and immobile—he with his Davy Crockett coonskin cap and she with the tasseled red knitted cap topping her long, black face—looked like people from another world.
“You knew I didn’t hurt her, and you kept egging me to run away.” Roman’s thick Southern voice sounded dangerous.
Mister Baron fidgeted nervously. “I was going to stop you, but before I could say anything those bandits drove up and took advantage of the situation.”
“How do I know you ain’t in with ’em?”
“What for?”
“They stole my car. How do I know you ain’t had ’em do it?”
“You’re a fool,” Mister Baron cried.
“He ain’t such a fool,” Sassafras said.
“Fool or not, I’m going to hold on to you until I find my car,” Roman told Mister Baron. “And, if I don’t find it, I’m going to take my money ’way from you.”
Mister Baron started laughing hysterically. “Go ahead and take it. Search me. Beat me up. You’re big and strong.”
“I worked a whole year for that money.”
“You worked a whole year. And you saved up sixty-five hundred dollars—”
“That’s nearmost every penny I made. I went without eating to save that money.”
“So you could buy a Cadillac. You weren’t satisfied with an ordinary Cadillac. You had to buy a solid gold Cadillac. And I’m the—the—I’m the one who sold it to you. For a thousand dollars less than list price. Ha ha ha! You had it twenty minutes and let somebody steal it—”
“What’s the matter with you, man? You going crazy?”
“Now you want your money back from me. Ha ha ha! Go ahead and start hitting me. Take it out of my skin. If that don’t satisfy you, throw me down and rape me.”
“Look out now, I don’t go for that stuff.”
“You don’t go for that stuff. You goddam chicken-crap square.”
“You’re going to make me hit you.”
“Hit me! Come on and hit me.