Chester Himes - If he hollers let him go

'They can put me in the pen for thirty years,' I said. 'Look, let me explain when I see you-'

'But if you're innocent the worst thing you can do is run away.'

'Listen,' I began. 'You don't understand. I didn't do anything, but I can't prove it. I was in the room with the woman when she started screaming-'

'Screaming!' She got shocked all over again. 'Did you assault her-physically, I mean?'

'I can't explain now,' I said again. 'It just happened I got caught with her and she started hollering, "Rape." I'll tell you about it-'

'But I won't help you run away,' she cut in, getting her Americanism to working. 'That doesn't make any sense. I'll engage Blakely Moore to defend you. If you're innocent, Bob, you'll be acquitted. You forget there are laws. A person just can't charge you with a crime you haven't committed.'

'Look, Alice, this is serious,' I said. 'This isn't just talk any more. I don't expect you to keep our engagement. That's off, of course. But I need some help. I know what I'm doing. You're still talking in the air. But I know if I go before trial I'll be convicted. I know I haven't got a chance. I'm telling you-'

'But you can't know that if you are innocent,' she argued.

'Okay, I don't know it, but that isn't the point right now.' My mouth felt sore and ragged and I was at the end of my patience. 'The point is will you let me have some money and your car? I've got to get away. After I'm gone you can have Moore investigate-'

'If I thought it was for your own good I wouldn't hesitate,' she said. 'But I know it isn't. You're excited and frightened and aren't thinking straight. This is the state of California-I was born here. Why can't you be sensible for once-give yourself up and I will bring Blake down with me the first thing-'

'Will you do it or won't you?' I cut in.

'No, I won't,' she said. 'I'll do anything else-within reason. But I won't help you escape. If you're innocent you have nothing to fear. I'll fight it through the courts with you until-'

I hung up, sat there for a moment, debating whether to call Hazel again and get what money she had. Finally I decided against it. It might get her into trouble.

All of a sudden my body began shaking; I began going hot and cold all over as if I had chilblains. I peered around in the darkness to see if she had anything to drink out there, found a pint bottle half full of some kind of whisky. I tilted it to my mouth, drank, swallowed, choked, then drank again. Then I remembered my pills. I shook some of them loose in my palm, I don't know how many, got a half glass of water at the sink, washed them down.

I heard motor sounds outside, thought it might be the police, ran out the back door across the yard to the fence separating the properties, ready to jump over and run through to the other street. The car passed. I went around, got into my car, backed into the street.

Instinct carried me over toward Central, into the heart of the ghetto. I parked in a dark spot in the middle of the block back of the Dunbar Hotel. I hadn't felt any pain before I'd telephoned Alice, but now I ached in every joint.

The bandages had fallen from my knees, had worked off my elbows. I pulled up my coverall legs, fingered the lacerated kneecaps. I must have landed on my knees when I fell off the jack ladder. Then I groped around underneath the seat on the floor until I found my first-aid kit, felt for the bottle of mercurochrome, slowly and painstakingly painted the lacerated spots. When my eyes became more accustomed to the darkness I wrapped fresh bandages about my knees, taped them, tried to bandage my elbows again but couldn't make it.

As long as I'd kept moving my mind had remained concentrated on the action. But now a dull hopelessness settled over it, an untempered futility. I felt pressed, cornered, black, as small and weak and helpless as any Negro share-cropper facing a white mob in Georgia. I felt without soul, without mind, at the very end. Everything was useless, fight was useless, nothing I could do would make any difference now. I switched on the ignition, looked at the gas. It was on 'Empty'-I didn't know how long it had been there. I didn't want to get into some white neighbourhood and run out of gas. If I had to be caught I'd rather be caught right there in the heart of the Negro district. Chances were they'd catch me before daybreak anyway.

I went back over everything that had happened, detail by detail. I could think about it now: it didn't make any difference at all. I felt very calm and reasonable. They were going to catch me and give me thirty years in prison. For raping a white woman I hadn't even tried to rape.

Then it burst wide open in my mind. I wasn't excited. I looked at it objectively, as if it concerned somebody else. I'd kill Johnny Stoddart and let them hang me for it. All they could ever do to me then would be to get even. I was going but I'd take him with me.

I opened the glove compartment, got out my pistol I'd put there Monday afternoon, snapped on the overhead light, looked to see if it was loaded. Satisfied, I put it back, snapped off the light, mashed the starter, turned on the headlights, I felt for a cigarette, didn't have any. I noticed that my hands were trembling, but I didn't feel nervous.

I went ahead to Central, turned south to Slauson, doing a slow twenty-five, observing all the traffic rules, stopping at the boulevard stops, putting out my hand when I turned. At Slauson I turned toward Soto, stopped at Soto for the red light.

A police cruiser pulled up beside me. The cop on the outside gave me a casual glance, saw that I was a Negro, and came to attention. He leaned out the window and said, 'Pull over to the curb, boy.'

For just an instant I debated whether to try to make a break, but I knew I didn't have enough gas to get away and there was no need of getting another whipping for nothing. I pulled over to the curb, cut the motor. The cops pulled up ahead of me, got out, and came back.

'Let's see your operator's licence,' one said.

I fished out my billfold, handed it to him.

He looked at it, turned the leaf and looked at my draft classification, then caught sight of Alice's picture. He showed it to the other cop. They grinned.

One turned his flashlight on me. 'Whew!' he whistled, then said, 'Get out!'

It wasn't until then I remembered about my pistol but it was too late to worry about that now. For an instant I hesitated, debated whether to try; then I thought What the hell's the use? got out, and stood beside the running board.

'Who you been fighting, boy?' one asked.

It startled me. I knew then that they didn't know I was wanted; they'd just stopped me because I was a black boy in a big car in a white neighbourhood.

'I was in an accident at the plant where I work,' I lisped.

'Where's your shop identification?'

'I left it at home.'

'What you doing out in this neighbourhood?'

'I was on my way home.'

He turned to the other cop. 'Let him go?' he asked.

The other cop shrugged.

The first cop flashed the light into the car, looked about the seats, pulled open the glove compartment, and brought out the pistol.

'Aha!' he said.

The other cop took me by the arm while the one with the flashlight locked the car ignition, rolled up the windows, and locked the doors. Then they got on each side of me, walked me back to the cruiser. One sat in the back with me; the other one drove.

They held me at the desk. Finally a lieutenant came out and looked at me. 'Aren't you the boy they want in Pedro for that rape at Atlas?' he asked.

I didn't reply. He slapped me.

'Answer when I speak to you,' he said.

I still didn't answer. He looked as if he was trying to decide whether to get rough with me or not, then turned impatiently to the cops who picked me up. 'What we got on him here?' he asked.