Chester Himes - All shot up

“I worked a whole year for that money.”

“You worked a whole year. And you saved up sixty-five hundred dollars-”

“That’s nearmost every penny I made. I went without eating to save that money.”

“So you could buy a Cadillac. You weren’t satisfied with an ordinary Cadillac. You had to buy a solid gold Cadillac. And I’m the-the-I’m the one who sold it to you. For a thousand dollars less than list price. Ha ha ha! You had it twenty minutes and let somebody steal it-”

“What’s the matter with you, man? You going crazy?”

“Now you want your money back from me. Ha ha ha! Go ahead and start hitting me. Take it out of my skin. If that don’t satisfy you, throw me down and rape me.”

“Look out now, I don’t go for that stuff.”

“You don’t go for that stuff. You goddam chicken-crap square.”

“You’re going to make me hit you.”

“Hit me! Come on and hit me.” Mister Baron thrust his womanish face toward Roman’s lowering scowl. “See if you can knock sixty-five hundred dollars out of me.”

“I don’t have to. I can just throw you down and take it.”

“Throw me down and take it! Wouldn’t I love that!”

Sassafras put in her bit. “You ain’t going to love what he’s going to take ’cause it’s just going to be money.”

“Goddammit, where were you two squares when those bandits knocked me out and robbed me?” Mister Baron asked.

“Knocked you out?” Roman said stupidly.

“Is that what was the matter with you?” Sassafras echoed.

“And they robbed you? Of my money?”

“It was my money,” Mister Baron corrected. “The car was yours, and the money was mine.”

“Jesus Christ,” Roman said. “They took the car and the money.”

“That’s right, square. Are you going to let me go and make that phone call now?”

“Naw, I ain’t. I going to take you out and search you. I might be a square, but I ain’t trusted you from the start.”

“That’s fine,” Mister Baron said, and started to get out onto the sidewalk.

But Roman reached back, grabbed him and forced him out into the street. Then he got out and started shaking him down.

“Be careful, Roman,” Sassafras said. “Somebody might come by here and think you is robbing him.”

“Let ’em think what they want,” Roman said, turning Mister Baron’s pockets inside out.

“Do you want me to undress?” Mister Baron asked.

Roman finished with his pockets and felt through his clothes; then ran his hands over Mister Baron’s body, up and down his legs and underneath his arms.

“He ain’t got it on him,” he conceded.

But he wasn’t satisfied. He searched the back of the Buick.

“It ain’t there, either.” He took off his coonskin cap and rubbed his short, curly hair back and forth. “If I catch those mother-rapers I going to kill ’em,” he said.

“Let him telephone,” Sassafras said. “He said you ain’t hurt the old lady, and I is ready to swear you ain’t even hit her.”

Roman stood in the street, thinking it over. Mister Baron stood beside him, watching his expression.

“All right, get in the car,” Roman said.

Mister Baron got back into the car.

Roman began talking through the window. “You know this neighborhood-”

“Get in the car yourself,” Sassafras said.

He got back into the front seat and continued addressing Mister Baron. “Where would they likely go with my car? It ain’t like as if they could hide it.”

“God only knows,” Mister Baron said. “Let the police find it; that’s what they get paid for.”

“Let me give it some thought,” Roman said.

“How much thought you going to give it?” Sassafras said.

“I tell you what,” Roman said. “You go and phone the police and tell ’em it’s your car. Then, if they find it, I’ll show ’em my bill of sale.”

“That’s fine,” Mister Baron said. “Can I get out now?”

“Naw, you can’t get out now. I’m going to take you to a telephone, and when you get through talking to the police we’re going to keep on looking ourselves. And I ain’t going to let you go until somebody finds it.”

“All right,” Mister Baron said. “Just as you say.”

“Where is there a telephone?”

“Drive down the street to Bowman’s Bar.”

He drove down to the end of St. Nicholas Place. Edgecombe Drive circles in along the ridge of the embankment overlooking Broadhurst Avenue and the Harlem River valley, and cuts off St. Nicholas Place at the 155th Street Bridge. Below, to one side of the bridge, is the old abandoned Heaven of Father Divine with the faded white letters of the word PEACE on both sides of the gabled roof. Beyond, on the river bank, is the shack where the hood threw acid into Coffin Ed’s face that night three years ago, when he and Grave Digger closed in on their gold-mine pitch.

One side of Bowman’s was a bar, the other a restaurant. Next to the restaurant was a barbershop; up over the bar was a dance hall. All of them were open; a crap game was going in back of the barbershop, a club dance in the hail upstairs. But not a soul was in sight. There was nothing in the street but the cold, dark air.

Roman double-parked before the plate-glass front of the bar. Venetian blinds closed off the interior.

“You go with him, Sassy,” he said. “Don’t let him try to get away with nothing.”

“Get away with what?” Mister Baron said.

“Anything,” Roman said.

Sassafras accompanied Mister Baron into the bar. Roman couldn’t tell which one of them swished the more. He was looking through the right side window, watching them, when suddenly he noticed two bullet holes in the window. He had been in the Korean war and learned the meaning of the sudden appearance of bullet holes. He thought some one was shooting at him, and he ducked down on the seat and grabbed his pistol. He lay there for a moment, listening. He didn’t hear anything, so he peered cautiously over the ledge of the door. No one was in sight. He straightened up slowly, holding the pistol ready to shoot if an enemy appeared. None appeared. He looked at the bullet holes more closely and decided they had been there all along. He felt sheepish.

It occurred to him that some one in the car had been in a gunfight. No doubt those phony cops. He turned about to examine the other side to see where the bullets had gone. There were two holes about a foot apart in the ceiling fabric above his head. He got out and looked at the top. The bullets had dented it but hadn’t penetrated. They must be in the lining of the ceiling, he thought.

He turned on the inside light and looked about the floor. He found seven shiny brass jackets of. 38 caliber cartridges sprinkled over the matting.

It had been some fight, he thought. But the full meaning didn’t strike him right away. All he could think of at the moment was how those bastards had taken his car.

He put his pistol back on the seat beside him and sat there picking his nose.

Two cops in a prowl car with the lights out slipped quietly up beside him. They were on the lookout for that particular car. But when they saw him, sitting there in his coonskin cap, looking as unconcerned as though he were fishing for eels underneath the bridge, they didn’t give the car a second glance.

“One of the Crocketts,” the driver said.

“Don’t wake him,” the other replied.

The car slipped noiselessly past. He didn’t see it until it had pulled ahead.

Trying to catch some whore hustling, he thought. Mother-rapers come along and steal my car and all these cops can do is chase whores.

The bar ran lengthwise, facing a row of booths. It was crowded. People were standing two and three deep.