All Shot Up_ The Classic Crime Thriller - Chester Himes [50]
“I understand, Mister Holmes. Is that all, sir?”
“That’s all.”
Casper cradled the receiver and sat up in bed, thinking. The trainee had finished and closed the windows and left, but he hadn’t noticed.
He lifted the receiver and told the switchboard operator not to put through any more calls.
“If some one telephones, what shall I say?”
“Say that I am sleeping and ask them to phone back after eight o’clock.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And give me an outside line.”
When he heard the central office buzz, he dialed a number.
A woman’s voice answered. “Hel-looo?”
“Marie?”
“Yes. Is that you, Casper?”
“Yeah. Is Joe in?”
“Yes. I’ll call him. How’s your noggin?”
“Palpitating. Let me talk to Joe.”
He heard her calling, “Jooooe! It’s Casper.”
Joe Green was the biggest numbers banker in Harlem; he had a part of three lotteries.
“Casper, how’s the boy?” he greeted in a husky voice.
“Ain’t nothing that a little sleep won’t cure.”
“Can’t hurt you hitting you on the head,” Joe said. “But snatching all that long green off you must have given you a running fit.”
“It wasn’t mine,” Casper said. “They didn’t hurt nothing but my feelings.”
“And you’ll never forgive the mother-rapers for that.”
“Now that’s for sure. But what I called you for is I want to borrow a couple of your boys for later in the day.”
“For bodyguards or running errands?”
“I’m going to check out here at seven-thirty in one of Clay’s hearses—”
Joe chuckled. “Just don’t go by the way of the cemetery, daddy.”
Casper laughed. “By way of Clay, neither. Naw, I’m going home. I want to dodge the newsboys; I got a pop call to make on the way. I just want them to trail me.”
“It’s done,” Joe said. “How ’bout Big Six and George Drake in the Cadillac? They ought to handle any situation that might jump up. Or do you want another one?”
“Naw, they’ll do. I want them to pick up the hearse at Clay’s and stay with it, but not too close. I don’t want it looking like no procession.”
“I got you, daddy. What time?”
“I’m leaving here at seven-thirty. They’d better get to Clay’s by seven.”
Joe hesitated. “Can’t you make it earlier, daddy? If this snow keeps coming down like it is now, ain’t much going to be moving by seven-thirty.”
“I’m going to be moving,” Casper said.
“Okay, daddy, I got you covered,” Joe said. “Don’t do nothing I wouldn’t do.”
“It’s made then,” Casper said. “I’ll see you in church.”
When the connection was broken, he began dialing another number without putting down the receiver.
A proper male voice said, “H. Exodus Clay’s Funeral Parlor. Good afternoon. May we be of service to you?”
“I don’t want to be buried, if that’s what you mean,” Casper said. “Just let me speak to Clay.”
“Mr. Clay is resting; he’s having his customary after-noon nap. Perhaps I can help you.”
“Wake him up,” Casper said. “This is Casper Holmes.”
“Oh, Mister Holmes. Yes sir, right away, sir.”
A few moments later Clay’s thin, querulous voice came over the wire, “Casper. I was hoping to do some business with you.”
“You are, Hank, but not the kind you want.” Only a few people in Harlem knew that the H in Clay’s name stood for Henry; most people thought it stood for either Heaven or Hell. “I want to hire a hearse.”
“For yourself, or for a friend?”
“For myself.”
“The reason I asked, I have three hearses now. I use the old one for poor folks, the middle one for rich and the new one for celebrities. I’ll give you the new one.”
“Naw, give me the middle-newest. I don’t want to attract any attention to myself. I want to slip away from this hospital without anybody seeing me. And let Jackson drive it; nobody going to look at him twice.”
“Jackson!” Clay echoed. “Listen, Casper, I don’t want any shenanigans with my hearse. I never will forget the time Jackson was running all over town dodging the police with my hearse full of dead bodies.”
“What are you beefing about?” Casper said. “He made you a lot of business.”
“I’d rather get my business in the normal way; I’m not expecting a depression.”
“All right, Hank, have it your way. I just