All Shot Up_ The Classic Crime Thriller - Chester Himes [60]
Casper lay in the basket, fully dressed except for a hat. He wore the same dark clothes he had worn into the hospital. A soft black hat with the crown crushed in lay atop his stomach.
“Want me to help you up?” Jackson asked in a whisper.
“I can get up,” Casper said roughly. “Close the doors and watch the street.”
Jackson left the doors slightly ajar and looked one way and the other and then across the street. Cars passed in the street, a bus went by; people came and went along the sidewalks, trampling the deep snow into slush.
“Where’s Joe’s car parked?” Casper asked from the crack between the doors.
Jackson jumped. He wasn’t used to people talking to him from the back of the hearse. He looked down the street and said, “In front of the Cigar Store.”
“When you leave, give ’em a blink,” Casper instructed. “How is it now?”
For a moment there was no one nearby; no one seemed to be looking in that direction.
“All right, if you come fast,” Jackson said.
Casper came fast. He was down on the street in one jump, the black hat pulled low over his silver white hair. He cleared the back end of the station wagon in two strides, leaped over the snow banked along the curb, slipped in the slush but caught himself, and the next instant was close to the doorway of the stairs leading to his offices above. His back was to the street as he inserted the key in the lock; no one had noticed him jump from the hearse; no one had recognized him; no one was paying him the least bit of attention. He got the door open and went inside, turned once and glanced at Jackson through the upper glass panel, signaled him to go on.
Jackson got back into the driver’s seat, blinked his bright lights and looked into the rear-view mirror.
The Cadillac’s bright lights blinked in reply.
The hearse drove slowly away.
The Cadillac pulled up and double-parked in the same position beside the station wagon.
“What you going to do with this heap?” the driver asked.
“Leave it right here, with the motor running,” the white man said. “If Joe Green’s a big shot, which he’s gotta be, ain’t nobody going to bother with it.”
He took his short-barreled police special from his right overcoat pocket, held it in his lap and spun the chamber, then put it back into his pocket.
“I’ll go first,” he said.
He got out and crossed the sidewalk, side-stepped two men and a woman and tried the handle to the door.
The two colored men closed in behind him.
The handle turned; the door opened.
“He made it easy for us,” the white man said, and started up the stairs, keeping close to the edges and walking on the balls of his feet.
The colored men followed.
“Lock the door behind you,” the white man whispered over his shoulder.
Chapter 18.
Grave Digger and Coffin Ed sat in the car with the lights off on 19th Street, and waited. The motor was idling and the windshield wipers working.
Snow drifted down. The superintendents of the swank high-rent apartment houses flanking the private residences had their helpers out cleaning the sidewalks. Snowplows had already passed. The streets in this neighborhood were kept clean.
“I got a feeling we’re missing something,” Grave Digger lisped.
“Me, too,” Coffin Ed agreed. “But we got to have somewhere to start.”
“Maybe the sailor boy will hit it.”
Coffin Ed looked at his watch.
“It’s a quarter past seven. He’s had ten minutes. If he hasn’t hit it by now, he ain’t never going to hit it.”
“Blow for him then.”
Coffin Ed touched the horn, giving the prearranged signal. They watched in the rear-view mirrors.
Roman came out. Someone stood out of sight in the open door, watching him. He put his hat on the back of his head and started along the street.
When he came level, Grave Digger reached back, opened the door and said, “Get in.”
A head came out of the open door, peered briefly and then withdrew. The door closed.
“What did you make out of it?” Coffin Ed asked.
“Whew!” Roman blew. A film of sweat shone on his smooth tan skin. “Nobody knew