All Shot Up_ The Classic Crime Thriller - Chester Himes [51]
“The streets will be snowed under by that time,” Clay complained. “Can’t you make it earlier, or wait another day?”
“Naw. Just put some chains on it. And there’s going to be some boys of Joe Green’s following it. So don’t let that worry you.”
“Boys of Joe Green’s!” Gay exclaimed apprehensively. “Listen, Casper, if anything happens to my hearse, I’m going to bill the national party for it.”
“Okay, you do that. And tell Jackson to drive me first to my office on One-twenty-fifth Street.”
“Tell him yourself,” Clay said, losing interest and already drifting back to sleep.
Casper cradled the receiver and picked up his wrist watch from the night stand. It was thirteen minutes past five o’clock. He peered between the drawn curtains at the drifting snow. Everything that met his eye was white, except the gray sky. He selected a cigar, clipped it carefully, stuck one end between his lips and rolled it about. Then, he put it down on the edge of the night stand, picked up the receiver again and began dialing.
“Do you want an outside line?” the operator asked.
“What the hell do you think I’m dialing for,” he said.
He waited for the dial tone and began over. He heard the phone ringing at the other end.
A cool, contralto voice said, “Yes.”
“Leila. Casper,” he said.
“How are you, sugar,” she said in the same tone that she had said yes.
“Listen, I’ll be home around eight o’clock,” he said. His voice was as impersonal as hers. “I want you to stay there until after I get there—or say until nine o’clock. Then you can go wherever in the hell you want to. Understand?”
“I’m not deaf.”
“Naw, but you’re dumb sometimes.”
“That blow on your head hasn’t changed your disposition,” she observed.
“If anybody phones me, tell them I’m still in the hospital and won’t be home until Tuesday. Tell them I’ve had a relapse and am in a coma again. Get that?”
“Yes, sugar, I got it.” Under her breath she added, “And I’m going to keep it, too.”
“What’s that?”
“I didn’t say anything. Somebody must be talking on your end.”
“All right. And for once keep your lip buttoned up.”
“Is that all?”
He put down the receiver and reached for his cigar. Before he could pick it up, the phone rang. He picked up the receiver again.
“What is it?”
“Washington, D.C. calling,” the operator said “A Mister Grover Leighton. Shall I put him through?”
“Yes.”
Grover’s sunshiny, glad-handing Pennsylvania voice came on. “Casper. How are you?”
“Fine. Just resting. It’s all I can do at the moment.”
“That’s the thing to do. Just keep it up. We’ve all been worried about you.”
“Nothing to worry about. You can’t hurt an old dog like me.” Casper’s voice had taken on a subtle obsequious quality.
“That’s what I told them,” Grover said cheerfully. “And don’t you worry, either. We’ll come through again soon with the same score.”
“Oh, I’m not worrying about that,” Casper said. “But some of the city brass here have been making it a little rough.”
“For you?” Grover sounded slightly shocked. “Why so?”
“They’re trying to figure out how the hoods got the tipoff,” Casper said. “And the chief inspector claims that you told him that you had told me sometime early last week that you were stopping by last night with the payroll.”
There was a pause as though Grover was trying to remember. “Well, I guess I did tell him something like that,” he said finally. “But I thought I told you about it Wednesday, or was it Thursday, when we talked on the phone about the precinct units.”
“Listen, Grover, I want you to think, try to remember. Because I’m sure you didn’t tell me then. You might forget a thing like that, but I wouldn’t. All I’ve got to think of is my little group in Harlem, while you’ve got the whole country on your mind. And I’m sure I wouldn’t have forgotten your telling me that, because that’s what starts the cart to rolling.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Grover conceded. “It was in my mind to tell you, but it must have slipped. But that’s not important, is it?”
“Not to you and me; but the brass here are insinuating