Chester Himes - All shot up

“You ain’t just saying it,” Casper cut in.

“So Mister Leighton feels it is essential that we give you the protection necessary for a public figure whose life is in danger.”

“Mister Leighton has already made one mistake by going ahead on his own,” Casper said.

“That’s why he doesn’t want to make another,” Peters said. “That’s why we are requesting your co-operation in advance.” He paused for a moment, then added, “We will have to cover you in any event, whether you like it or not; but it would be much better all around if we had your co-operation.”

Casper conceded. “All right. I’ll call you tomorrow and tell you when I’m checking out. Will you be there?”

“If I’m not, someone else will.”

“Okay, give me the number.”

When he had hung up, he waited for a minute, then dialed the number he’d been given.

An unfamiliar voice said, “Pinkerton Detective Agency.”

“Let me speak to Herbert Peters.”

“Who’s calling, please.”

“Casper Holmes.”

A moment later Peters’ calm voice said, “Yes, Mister Holmes?”

“I’m just checking,” Casper said. “Being as I can’t look through the telephone and see just who really is phoning me.”

“I understand, Mister Holmes. Is that all, sir?”

“That’s all.”

Casper cradled the receiver and sat up in bed, thinking. The trainee had finished and closed the windows and left, but he hadn’t noticed.

He lifted the receiver and told the switchboard operator not to put through any more calls.

“If some one telephones, what shall I say?”

“Say that I am sleeping and ask them to phone back after eight o’clock.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And give me an outside line.”

When he heard the central office buzz, he dialed a number.

A woman’s voice answered. “Hel-looo?”

“Marie?”

“Yes. Is that you, Casper?”

“Yeah. Is Joe in?”

“Yes. I’ll call him. How’s your noggin?”

“Palpitating. Let me talk to Joe.”

He heard her calling, “Jooooe! It’s Casper.”

Joe Green was the biggest numbers banker in Harlem; he had a part of three lotteries.

“Casper, how’s the boy?” he greeted in a husky voice.

“Ain’t nothing that a little sleep won’t cure.”

“Can’t hurt you hitting you on the head,” Joe said. “But snatching all that long green off you must have given you a running fit.”

“It wasn’t mine,” Casper said. “They didn’t hurt nothing but my feelings.”

“And you’ll never forgive the mother-rapers for that.”

“Now that’s for sure. But what I called you for is I want to borrow a couple of your boys for later in the day.”

“For bodyguards or running errands?”

“I’m going to check out here at seven-thirty in one of Clay’s hearses-”

Joe chuckled. “Just don’t go by the way of the cemetery, daddy.”

Casper laughed. “By way of Clay, neither. Naw, I’m going home. I want to dodge the newsboys; I got a pop call to make on the way. I just want them to trail me.”

“It’s done,” Joe said. “How ’bout Big Six and George Drake in the Cadillac? They ought to handle any situation that might jump up. Or do you want another one?”

“Naw, they’ll do. I want them to pick up the hearse at Clay’s and stay with it, but not too close. I don’t want it looking like no procession.”

“I got you, daddy. What time?”

“I’m leaving here at seven-thirty. They’d better get to Clay’s by seven.”

Joe hesitated. “Can’t you make it earlier, daddy? If this snow keeps coming down like it is now, ain’t much going to be moving by seven-thirty.”

“I’m going to be moving,” Casper said.

“Okay, daddy, I got you covered,” Joe said. “Don’t do nothing I wouldn’t do.”

“It’s made then,” Casper said. “I’ll see you in church.”

When the connection was broken, he began dialing another number without putting down the receiver.

A proper male voice said, “H. Exodus Clay’s Funeral Parlor. Good afternoon. May we be of service to you?”

“I don’t want to be buried, if that’s what you mean,” Casper said. “Just let me speak to Clay.”

“Mr. Clay is resting; he’s having his customary after-noon nap. Perhaps I can help you.”

“Wake him up,” Casper said. “This is Casper Holmes.”

“Oh, Mister Holmes. Yes sir, right away, sir.”

A few moments later Clay’s thin, querulous voice came over the wire, “Casper. I was hoping to do some business with you.”

“You are, Hank, but not the kind you want.” Only a few people in Harlem knew that the H in Clay’s name stood for Henry; most people thought it stood for either Heaven or Hell. “I want to hire a hearse.”

“For yourself, or for a friend?”

“For myself.”

“The reason I asked, I have three hearses now. I use the old one for poor folks, the middle one for rich and the new one for celebrities. I’ll give you the new one.”

“Naw, give me the middle-newest. I don’t want to attract any attention to myself. I want to slip away from this hospital without anybody seeing me. And let Jackson drive it; nobody going to look at him twice.”

“Jackson!” Clay echoed. “Listen, Casper, I don’t want any shenanigans with my hearse. I never will forget the time Jackson was running all over town dodging the police with my hearse full of dead bodies.”

“What are you beefing about?” Casper said. “He made you a lot of business.”

“I’d rather get my business in the normal way; I’m not expecting a depression.”

“All right, Hank, have it your way. I just want to get this hearse over here at the back door at seven-thirty sharp.”

“The streets will be snowed under by that time,” Clay complained. “Can’t you make it earlier, or wait another day?”

“Naw. Just put some chains on it. And there’s going to be some boys of Joe Green’s following it. So don’t let that worry you.”

“Boys of Joe Green’s!” Gay exclaimed apprehensively. “Listen, Casper, if anything happens to my hearse, I’m going to bill the national party for it.”

“Okay, you do that. And tell Jackson to drive me first to my office on One-twenty-fifth Street.”

“Tell him yourself,” Clay said, losing interest and already drifting back to sleep.

Casper cradled the receiver and picked up his wrist watch from the night stand. It was thirteen minutes past five o’clock. He peered between the drawn curtains at the drifting snow. Everything that met his eye was white, except the gray sky. He selected a cigar, clipped it carefully, stuck one end between his lips and rolled it about. Then, he put it down on the edge of the night stand, picked up the receiver again and began dialing.

“Do you want an outside line?” the operator asked.

“What the hell do you think I’m dialing for,” he said.

He waited for the dial tone and began over. He heard the phone ringing at the other end.

A cool, contralto voice said, “Yes.”

“Leila. Casper,” he said.

“How are you, sugar,” she said in the same tone that she had said yes.

“Listen, I’ll be home around eight o’clock,” he said. His voice was as impersonal as hers. “I want you to stay there until after I get there-or say until nine o’clock. Then you can go wherever in the hell you want to. Understand?”

“I’m not deaf.”

“Naw, but you’re dumb sometimes.”

“That blow on your head hasn’t changed your disposition,” she observed.

“If anybody phones me, tell them I’m still in the hospital and won’t be home until Tuesday. Tell them I’ve had a relapse and am in a coma again. Get that?”