Chester Himes - The Heat's on

Some of these old ladies think all God has got to do is wait on them, he thought sourly and shifted into gear.

Sister Heavenly waited until he had driven out of sight. Then she walked across the street into the park and selected a bench where she could watch the entrance to the apartment unobserved unless Pinky deliberately looked about for her.

Whistles began to blow as she took her seat. She pulled out her locket-watch to see if it was correct. It read twelve noon on the dot.

It was twelve noon sharp when Coffin Ed turned his Plymouth sedan into the northbound stream of traffic on lower Broadway.

“What do two cops do who’ve been kicked off the force?” he asked.

“Try to get back on,” Grave Digger said in his thick, cotton-dry voice.

He didn’t say another word all the way uptown; he sat burning in a dry, speechless rage.

It was twelve-thirty when they checked into the Harlem precinct station to turn in their shields to Captain Brice.

They stood for a moment on the steps of the precinct station, watching the colored people pass up and down the street, all citizens of Harlem who stepped out of the way to let the white cops by who had business in the station.

The vertical rays of the sun beat down.

“First thing to do is find Pinky,” Grave Digger said. “All we had on Jake is possession. If we get evidence he was peddling H too, that might give us a start.”

“He’s got to talk,” Coffin Ed pointed out.

“Talk! TALK! You think he ain’t going to talk! Much as you and me need a few kind words. Ain’t no mother-raper who ever knew Jake going to refuse to do a little talking.”

Fifteen minues later they pulled up before the apartment on Riverside Drive.

“Do you see what I see?” Coffin Ed remarked as they alighted.

“There couldn’t be but one of ’em,” Grave Digger said.

The dog was lying in front of the iron gate to the rear entrance. It lay on its side with its back to the gate and all four feet extended. It seemed to be asleep. The vertical rays of the midday sun beat down on its tawny hide.

“It must be cooking in this heat,” Coffin Ed said.

“Maybe she’s dead.”

It still wore the heavy muzzle reinforced with iron and the brass-studded collar with the chain attached.

They walked toward it by common accord.

Its lambent eyes half opened as they approached and a low growl, like distant thunder, issued from its throat. But it didn’t move.

Green flies were feeding from a dirty open wound in its head from which black blood oozed.

“The African did a poor job,” Grave Digger observed.

“Maybe he was in a hurry to get back.”

Grave Digger reached down and took hold of the chain close to the collar. The rest was underneath the dog. He pulled gently and the dog climbed slowly to her feet in sections, like a camel getting up. She stood groggily, looking disinterested.

“She’s about done in,” Coffin Ed said.

“You’d be done in too if you were knocked in the head and thrown in the river.”

The dog followed docilely as they went back to the front entrance and rang the superintendent’s bell. There was no answer. Coffin Ed stepped over to the mailboxes and pushed buttons indiscriminately.

The latch clicked with a ratchetlike sound that went on and on.

“Everyone’s expecting.”

“Looks like it.”

As they were descending the stairs to the basement, Coffin Ed said curiously, “What do we do if we run into trouble?”

They were still in their shirtsleeves and they had left their revolvers at home that morning.

“Pray,” Grave Digger said thickly, the rage building up in him again. “Don’t forget we’re subject to the charge of impersonating officers if we claim to be cops.”

“How can I forget it,” Coffin Ed said bitterly.

The first thing they noticed was that the trunk was gone.

“Looks like we’re too late.”

Grave Digger said nothing.

There was no reply to the janitor’s bell. Grave Digger looked at the Yale lock above the old-fashioned mortise lock. He passed the dog’s chain to Coffin Ed to hold and took a Boy Scout’s knife from his pants pocket.

“Let’s just hope the night lock ain’t on,” he said, opening the screwdriver blade.

“Let’s just hope we don’t get caught, you mean,” Coffin Ed amended, turning to watch all the entrances.

Grave Digger forced the blade between the doorjamb and the lock, slowly forced back the bolt and pushed open the door.

Both of them grunted from shock.

The body of the African was lying in a grotesque position in the center of the bare linoleum floor with its throat cut from ear to ear. The wound had stopped bleeding and the surrounding blood had coagulated, giving the impression of a purple-lipped monster’s mouth.

Blood was everywhere, over the furniture, the floor, the African’s white turban and crumpled robe.

For a moment there was only the sound of their labored breathing and the buzzing of an electric fan somewhere out of sight.

Then Coffin Ed reached behind him, knocking the dog aside, and closed the door. The sound of the clicking of the lock released them from their trance of shock.

“Whoever did that wasn’t joking,” Grave Digger said soberly, the anger drained from him.

“As many as I’ve seen, I always get a shock,” Coffin Ed confessed.

“Me too. This mother-raping senseless violence!”

“Yeah, but what you gonna do?” Coffin Ed said, thinking about themselves.

“Hell, meet it is all.”

The dog inched forward unnoticed and suddenly Coffin Ed looked down and saw it sniff at the cut throat and lick the blood.

“Get back, Goddammit!” he shouted, snatching up the chain.

The dog backed up and cringed.

Finally they got around to noticing that the room was in a shambles. Rugs were scattered; drawers were emptied, the contents strewn about the floor; the stuffed birds and animals had been gutted, the statuettes smashed, the overstuffed furniture slashed and the packing ripped apart; the broken-down TV sets and the radio had been pried open, the housing of the organ bashed in.

Without commenting, Coffin Ed looped the handle of the dog chain over the doorknob. Then he and Grave Digger poked into the other rooms, taking care not to step into the blood. Doors led from the parlor into the kitchen and one bedroom, beyond which was a bathroom. There was the same disorder in all. They went back and stared at the body of the African.

The macabre hideousness of the bloody corpse was accentuated by the buzzing of the fan. Grave Digger bent over and sent his gaze along the floor, underneath the blood stained shattered furniture, searching for it. The fan lay overturned beneath the dining table, half hidden by a broken television screen. He located the wall socket and jerked out the plug.

Silence came down. It was the dinner hour and the basement was deserted.

They could almost hear their thoughts moving around.

“If what the janitor’s wife said about Pinky is true, he might have cut the African’s throat.” Coffin Ed spoke his thoughts aloud.

“I don’t figure him for this,” Grave Digger said. “What would he be looking for?”

“Search me. What about her? Cat-eyed women are known for cutting throats.”

“And search her own house?” Grave Digger said.

“Who knows? All this heat is affecting people’s minds. Maybe she thought her husband had something hidden here.”

“Why would she kill the African? It looked to me like they were cooking with the same gas. It was obvious he was laying her.”

“I don’t dig this at all,” Coffin Ed confessed. “Somebody wanted something bad, but they didn’t find it.”