Chester Himes - The real cool killers

"Why in the hell didn't you bring them in, too?"

"What were the girls' names?" Grave Digger asked.

"One was called Sissieratta and — "

"That must be Sissie," Grave Digger said. "It fits. One was Sissie and the other was Sugartit. And one of the boys was Sheik." Turning to Big Smiley, he asked, "What does Sheik look like?"

"Freckle-faced boy the color of a bay horse, with yellow cat eyes," Big Smiley said impassively.

"You're right," the sergeant admitted sheepishly. "He was one of them. I should have trusted my instinct; I started to haul that punk in."

"Well, for God's sake, get the lead out of your ass now," the chief roared. "If you still want to work for the police department."

"Well, Jesus Christ, the other girl, the one Jones calls Sugartit, was Ed Johnson's daughter," the sergeant exploded. "She had one of those souvenir police ID cards signed by yourself and I thought-"

He was interrupted by the flat whacking sound of metal striking against a human skull.

No one had seen Grave Digger move.

What they saw now was Ready Beicher sagging forward with his eyes rolled back into his head and a white cut — not yet beginning to bleed — two inches wide in the black pockmarked skin of his forehead. Big Smiley reared back on the other end of the handcuffs like a dray horse shying from a rattlesnake.

Grave Digger gripped his nickel-plated thirty-eight by the long barrel, making a club out of the butt. The muscles were corded in his rage-swollen neck and his face was distorted with violence. Looking at him, the others were suspended in motion as though turned to stone.

"Stop him, God damn it!" the chief roared. "He'll kill them."

The sculptured figures of the police officers came to life. The sergeant grabbed Grave Digger from behind in a bear hug. Grave Digger doubled over and sent the sergeant flying over his head toward the chief, who ducked in turn and let the sergeant sail on by.

Lieutenant Anderson and the homicide lieutenant converged on Grave Digger from opposite directions. Each grabbed an arm while he was still in a crouch and lifted upward and backward.

Ready was lying prone on the pavement, blood trickling from the dent in his skull, a slack arm drawn tight by the handcuffs attached to Big Smiley's wrist. He looked dead already.

Big Smiley gave the appearance of a terrified blind beggar caught in a bombing raid; his giant frame trembled from head to foot.

Grave Digger had just time enough to kick Ready in the face before the officers jerked him out of range.

"Get him to the hospital, quick!" the chief shouted; and in the next breath added, "Rap him on the head!"

Grave Digger had carried the lieutenants to the ground and it was more than either could to do to follow the chief's command.

The sergeant had already picked himself up and at the chief's order set off at a gallop.

"God damn it, phone for it, don't run after it!" the chief yelled. "Where the hell is my chauffeur, anyway?"

Cops came running from all directions.

"Give the lieutenants a hand," the chief said. "They've got a wild man,"

Four cops jumped into the fray. Finally they pinned Grave Digger to the ground.

The sergeant climbed into the chief's car and began talking into the telephone.

Coffin Ed appeared suddenly. No one had noticed him approaching from his parked car down the street.

"Great God, what's happening, Digger?" he exclaimed.

Everybody was quiet, their embarrassment noticeable.

"What the hell!" he said, looking from one to the other. "What the hell's going on."

Grave Digger's muscles relaxed as though he'd lost consciousness.

"It's just me, Ed," he said, looking up from the ground at his friend. "I just lost my head, is all."

"Let him go," Anderson ordered his helpers. "He's back to normal now."

The cops released Grave Digger and he got to his feet.

"Cooled off now?" the homicide lieutenant asked.

"Yeah. Give me my gun," Grave Digger said.

Coffin Ed looked down at Ready Belcher's bloody head.

"You too, eh, partner," he said. "What did this rebel do?"

"I told him if I caught him holding out on me I'd kill him."

"You told him no lie," Coffin Ed said. Then asked, "Is it that bad?"

"It's dirty, Ed. Galen was a rotten son of a bitch."

"That doesn't surprise me. Have you got anything on it so far?"

"A little, not much."

"What the hell do you want here?" the chief said testily. "I suppose you want to help your buddy beat up some more of your folks."

Grave Digger knew the chief was trying to steer the conversation away from Coffin Ed's daughter, but he didn't know how to help him.

"You two men act as if you want to kill off the whole population of Harlem," the chief kept on.

"You told me to crack down," Grave Digger reminded him.

"Yeah, but I didn't mean in front of my eyes where I would have to be a witness to it."

"It's our beat," Coffin Ed spoke up for his friend. "If you don't like the way we handle it why don't you take us off."

"You're already off," the chief said. "What in the hell did you come back for, anyway?"

"Strictly on private business."

The chief snorted.

"My little daughter hasn't come home and I'm worried about her," Coffin Ed explained. "It's not like her to stay out this late and not let us know where she is."

The chief looked away to hide his embarrassment.

Grave Digger swallowed audibly.

"Hell, Ed, you don't have to worry about Eve," he said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone of voice. "She'll be home soon. You know nothing can happen to her. She's got that police ID card you got for her on her last birthday, hasn't she?"

"I know, but she always phones her mother if she's going to stay out."

"While you're out here looking for her she's probably gone home. Why don't you go back home and go to bed? She'll be all right."

"Jones is telling you right, Ed," the chief said brusquely. "Go home and relax. You're off duty and you're in our way here. Nothing is going to happen to your daughter. You're just having nightmares."

A siren sounded in the distance.

"Here comes the ambulance," Lieutenant Anderson said.

"I'll go and phone home again," Coffin Ed said. "Take it easy, Digger. Don't get yourself docked, too."

As he turned and started off a fusillade of shots sounded from the upper floor of some nearby tenement. Ten shots from regulation. 38 police specials were fired so fast that by the time the sounds had reached the street they were chained together.

Every cop within earshot froze to alert attention. They strained their ears in almost superhuman effort to place the direction from which the shots had come. Their eyes scanned the fronts of the tenements until not a spot escaped their observation.

But no more shots were fired.

The only signs of life left were the lights going out. With the rapidity of gun shots, one light after another went out until only one lighted window remained in the whole block of darkened dingy buildings. It was behind a fire-escape landing on the top floor of the tenement half a block up the street.

All eyes focused on that spot.

The grotesque silhouette of something crawling over the window sill appeared in the glare of light. Slowly it straightened and took the shape of a short, husky man. It staggered slowly along the three feet of grilled iron footing and leaned against the low outer rail. For a moment it swayed back and forth in a macabre pantomime and then, slowly, like a roulette ball climbing the last hurdle before the final slot, it fell over the railing, turned in the air, missed the second landing by a breath. The body turned again and struck the third railing and started to spin faster. It landed with a resounding thud on top of a parked car and lay there with one hand hanging down beside the driver's window as though signaling for a stop.