Cotton comes to Harlem

4

When Grave Digger and Coffin Ed arrived at the lot where the Back-to-Africa rally had taken place, they found it closed off by a police cordon and the desolate black people, surrounded by policemen, standing helpless in the rain. The police cruiser was still smoking in the barbecue pit and the white cops in their wet black slickers looked mean and dangerous. Coffin Ed's acid-burned face developed a tic and Grave Digger's neck began swelling with rage.

The dead body of the young recruiting agent lay face up in the rain, waiting for the medical examiner to come and pronounce it dead so the men from Homicide could begin their investigation. But the men from Homicide had not arrived, and nothing had been done.

Grave Digger and Coffin Ed stood over the body and looked down at all that was left of the young black face which a few short minutes ago had been so alive with hope. At that moment they felt the same as all the other helpless black people standing in the rain.

"Too bad O'Malley didn't get it instead of this young boy," Grave Digger said, rain dripping from his black slouch hat over his wrinkled black suit.

"This is what happens when cops get soft on hoodlums," Coffin Ed said.

"Yeah, we know O'Malley got him killed, but our job is to find out who pulled the trigger."

They walked over to the herded people and Grave Digger asked, "Who's in charge here?"

The other young recruiting agent came forward. He was hatless and his solemn black face was shining in the rain. "I guess I am; the others have gone."

They walked him over to one side and got the story of what had happened as he saw it. It wasn't much help.

"We were the whole organization," the young man said. "Reverend O'Malley, the two secretaries and me and John Hill who was killed. There were volunteers but we were the staff."

"How about the guards?"

"The two guards with the armored truck? Why, they were sent with the truck from the bank."

"What bank?"

"The African Bank in Washington, D.C."

The detectives exchanged glances but didn't comment.

"What's your name, son?" Grave Digger asked.

"Bill Davis."

"How far did you get in school?"

"I went to college, sir. In Greensboro, North Carolina."

"And you still believe in the devil?" Coffin Ed asked.

"Let him alone," Grave Digger said. "He's telling us all he knows." Turning to Bill he asked, "And these two colored detectives from the D.A.'s office. Did you know them?"

"I never saw them before. I was supicious of them from the first. But Reverend O'Malley didn't seem perturbed and he made the decisions."

"Didn't seem perturbed," Grave Digger echoed. "Did you suspect it might be a plant?"

"Sir?"

"Did it occur to you they might have been in cahoots with O'Malley to help him get away with the money?"

At first the young man didn't understand. Then he was shocked. "How could you think that, sir? Reverend O'Malley is absolutely honest. He is very dedicated, sir."

Coffin Ed sighed.

"Did you ever see the ships which were supposed to take you people back to Africa?" Grave Digger asked.

"No, but all of us have seen the correspondence with the steamship company — The Afro-Asian Line — verifying the year's lease he had negotiated."

"How much did he pay?"

"It was on a per head basis; he was going to pay one hundred dollars per person. I don't believe they are really as large as they look in these pictures, but we were going to fill them to capacity."

"How much money had you collected?"

"Eighty-seven thousand dollars from the… er… subscribers, but we had taken in quite a bit from other things, church socials and this barbecue deal, for instance."

"And these four white men in the delivery truck got all of it?"

"Well, just the eighty-seven thousand dollars we had taken in tonight. But there were five of them. One stayed inside the truck behind a barricade all the time."

The detectives became suddenly alert. "What kind of barricade?" Grave Digger asked.

"I don't know exactly. I couldn't see inside the truck very well. But it looked like some kind of a box covered with burlap."

"What provision company supplied your meat?" Coffin Ed asked.

"I don't know, sir. That wasn't part of my duties. You'll have to ask the chef."

They sent for the chef and he came wet and bedraggled, his white cap hanging over one ear like a rag. He was mad at everything — the bandits, the rain, and the police cruiser that had fallen into his barbecue pit. His eyes were bright red and he took it as a personal insult when they asked about the provision company.

"I don't know where the ribs come from after they left the hog," he said angrily. "I was just hired to superintend the cooking. I ain't had nothing to do with them white folks and I don't know how many they was — 'cept too many."

"Leave this soul-brother go," Coffin Ed said. "Pretty soon he wouldn't have been here."

Grave Digger wrote down O'MaIley's official address, which he already knew, then as a last question asked, "What was your connection with the original Back-to-Africa movement, the one headed by Mr Michaux?"

"None at all. Reverend O'Malley didn't have anything at all to do with Mr Michaux's group. In fact he didn't even like Lewis Michaux; I don't think he ever spoke to him."

"Did it ever occur to you that Mr Michaux might not have had anything to do with Reverend O'Malley? Did you ever think that he might have known something about O'Malley that made him distrust O'Malley?"

"I don't think it was anything like that," Bill contended. "What reason could he have to distrust O'Malley? I just think he was envious, that's all. Reverend O'Malley thought he was too slow; he didn't see any reason for waiting any longer; we've waited long enough."

"And you were intending to go back to Africa too?"

"Yes, sir, still intend to — as soon as we get the money back. You'll get the money back for us, won't you?"

"Son, if we don't, we're gonna raise so much hell they're gonna send us all back to Africa."

"And for free, too," Coffin Ed added grimly.

The young man thanked them and went back to stand with the others in the rain.

"Well, Ed, what do you think about it?" Grave Digger asked.

"One thing is for sure, it wasn't the syndicate pulled this caper- not the crime syndicate, anyway."

"What other kinds of syndicates are there?"

"Don't ask me, I ain't the F.B.I."

They were silent for a moment with the rain pouring over them, thinking of these eighty-seven families who had put down their thousand-dollar grubstakes on a dream. They knew that these families had come by their money the hard way. To many, it represented the savings of a lifetime. To most it represented long hours of hard work at menial jobs. None could afford to lose it.

They didn't consider these victims as squares or suckers. They understood them. These people were seeking a home — just the same as the Pilgrim Fathers. Harlem is a city of the homeless. These people had deserted the South because it could never be considered their home. Many had been sent north by the white southerners in revenge for the desegregation ruling. Others had fled, thinking the North was better. But they had not found a home in the North. They had not found a home in America. So they looked across the sea to Africa, where other black people were both the ruled and the rulers. Africa to them was a big free land which they could proudly call home, for there were buried the bones of their ancestors, there lay the roots of their families, and it was inhabited by the descendants of those same ancestors — which made them related by both blood and race. Everyone has to believe in something; and the white people of America had left them nothing to believe in. But that didn't make a black man any less criminal than a white; and they had to find the criminals who hijacked the money, black or white.

"Anyway, the first thing is to find Deke," Grave Digger put voice to their thoughts. "If he ain't responsible for this caper he'll sure as hell know who is."

"He had better know," Coffin Ed said grimly.

But Deke didn't know any more than they did. He had worked a long time to set up his movement and it had been expensive. At first he had turned to the church to hide from the syndicate. He had figured if he set himself up as a preacher and used his reward money for civil improvement, the syndicate would hesitate about rubbing him out.

But the syndicate hadn't shown any interest in him. That had worried him until he figured out that the syndicate simply didn't want to get involved in the race issue; he had already done all the harm he could do, so they left him to the soul-brothers.

Then he'd gotten the idea for his Back-to-Africa movement from reading a biography of Marcus Garvey, the Negro who had organized the first Back-to-Africa movement. It was said that Garvey had collected over a million dollars. He had been sent to prison, but most of his followers had contended that he was innocent and had still believed in him. Whether he had been innocent or not was not the question; what appealed to him was the fact his followers had still believed in him. That was the con-man's real genius, to keep the suckers always believing.

So he had started his own Back-to-Africa movement, the only difference being when he had got his million, he was going to cut out — he might go back to Africa, himself. He'd heard that people with money could live good in certain places there. The way he had planned it he would use two goons impersonating detectives to impound the money as he collected it; in that way he wouldn't have to bank it and could always keep it on hand.

He didn't know where these white hijackers fitted in. At the first glimpse he thought they were guns from the syndicate. That was why he had hidden beneath the table. But when he discovered they'd just come to grab the money, he had known it was something else again. So he had decided to chase them down and get the money back.

But when they had finally caught up with the meat delivery truck, the white men had disappeared. Perhaps it was just as well; by then he was outgunned anyway. Neither of his guards had been seriously hurt, but he'd lost one of his detectives. The wrecked truck hadn't told him anything and the driver of the truck that had run into them kept getting in the way.

He hadn't had much time so he had ordered them to split and assemble again every morning at 3 a.m. in the back room of a pool hall on Eighth Avenue and he would contact his other detective himself.

"I've got to see which way this mother-raping cat is jumping," he said.

He had enough money on him to operate, over five hundred dollars. And he had a five-grand bank account under an alias in an all-night bank in midtown for his getaway money in case of an emergency. But he didn't know yet where to start looking for his eighty-seven grand. Some kind of lead would come. This was Harlem where all black folks were against the whites, and somebody would tell him something. What worried him most was how much information the police had. He knew that in any event they'd be rough on him because of his record; and he knew he'd better keep away from them if he wanted to get his money back.

First, however, he had to get into his house. He needed his pistol; and there were certain documents hidden there — the forged leases from the steamship line and the forged credentials of the Back-to-Africa movement — that would send him back to prison.

He walked down Seventh Avenue to Small's bar, on the pretense of going to call the police, and got into a taxi without attracting any attention. He had the driver take him over to Saint Mark's Church, paid the fare and walked up the stairs. The church door was closed and locked, as he had expected, but he could stand in the shadowed recess and watch the entrance to the Dorrence Brooks apartment house across the street where he lived.

He stood there for a long time casing the building. It was a V-shaped building at the corner of 138th Street and St Nicholas Avenue and he could see the entrance and the streets on both sides. He didn't see any strange cars parked nearby, no police cruisers, no gangster-type limousines. He didn't see any strange people, nothing and no one who looked suspicious. He could see through the glass doors into the front hall and there was not a soul about. The only thing was it was too damn empty.

He circled the church and entered the park on the west side of St Nicholas Avenue and approached the building from across the street. He hid in the park beside a tool shed from which he had a full view of the windows of his fourth-floor apartment. Light showed in the windows of the living-room and dining-room. He watched for a long time. But not once did a shadow pass before one of the lighted windows. He got dripping wet in the rain.

His sixth sense told him to telephone, and from some phone booth in the street where the call couldn't be traced. So he walked up to 145th Street and phoned from the box on the corner.

"Hellooo," she answered. He thought she sounded strange.

"Iris," he whispered.

Standing beside her, Grave Digger's hand tightened warningly on her arm. He had already briefed her what to say when O'Malley called and the pressure meant he wasn't playing.

"Oh, Betty," she cried. "The police are here looking for — "

Grave Digger slapped her with such sudden violence she caromed off the center table and went sprawling on her hands and knees; her dress hiked up showing black lace pants above the creamy yellow skin of her thighs.

Coffin Ed came up and stood over her, the skin of his face jumping like a snake's belly over fire. "You're so goddamn cute — "

Grave Digger was speaking urgently into the telephone: "O'Malley, we just want some information, that's — " but the line had gone dead.

His neck swelled as he jiggled the hook to get the precinct station.

At the same moment Iris came up from the floor with the smooth vicious motion of a cat and slapped Coffin Ed across the face, thinking he was Grave Digger in her blinding fury.

She was a hard-bodied high-yellow woman with a perfect figure. She never wore a girdle and her jiggling buttocks gave all men amorous ideas. She had a heart-shaped face with the high cheekbones, big wide red painted mouth, and long-lashed speckled brown eyes of a sexpot and she was thirty-three years old, which gave her the experience. But she was strong as an ox and it was a solid pop she laid on Coffin Ed's cheek.

With pure reflex action he reached out and caught her around the throat with his two huge hands and bent her body backward.

"Easy, man, easy!" Grave Digger shouted, realizing instantly that Coffin Ed was sealed in such a fury he couldn't hear. He dropped the telephone and wheeled, hitting Coffin Ed across the back of the neck with the edge of his hand just a fraction of a second before he'd have crushed her windpipe.

Coffin Ed slumped forward, carrying Iris down with him, beneath him, and his hands slackened from her throat. Grave Digger picked him up by the armpits and propped him on the sofa, then he picked up Iris and dropped her into a chair. Her eyes were huge and limpid with fear and her throat was going black and blue.

Grave Digger stood looking down at them, listening to the phone click frantically, thinking, Now we're in for it; then thinking bitterly, These half-white bitches. Then he turned back to the telephone and answered the precinct station and asked for the telephone call to be traced. Before he could hang up, Lieutenant Anderson was on the wire.

"Jones, you and Johnson get over to 137th Street and Seventh Avenue. Both trucks are smashed up and everyone gone, but there are two bodies DOA and there might be a lead." He paused for a moment, then asked, "How's it going?"

Grave Digger looked from the slumped figure of Coffin Ed into the now blazing eyes of Iris and said, "Cool, Lieutenant, everything's cool."

"I'm sending over a man to keep her on ice. He ought to be there any moment."

"Right."

"And remember my warning — no force. We don't want anyone hurt if we can help it."

"Don't worry, Lieutenant, we're like shepherds with new-born lambs."

The lieutenant hung up.

Coffin Ed had come around and he looked at Grave Digger with a sheepish expression. No one spoke.

Then Iris said in a thick, throat-hurting voice, "I'm going to get you coppers fired if it's the last thing I do."

Coffin Ed looked as though he was going to reply, but Grave Digger spoke first: "You weren't very smart, but neither were we. So we'd better call it quits and start all over."

"Start over shit," she flared. "You break into my house without a search warrant, hold me prisoner, attack me physically, and say let's call it quits. You must think I'm a moron. Even if I'm guilty of a murder, you can't get away with that shit."

"Eighty-seven colored families — like you and me — "

"Not like me!"

"— have lost their life's savings in this caper."

"So what? You two are going to lose your mother-raping jobs."

"So if you co-operate and help us get it back you'll get a ten-per cent reward — eight thousand, seven hundred dollars."

"You chickenshit cop, what can I do with that chicken feed? Deke is worth ten times that much to me."

"Not any more. His number's up and you'd better get on the winning side."

She gave a short, harsh laugh. "That ain't your side, big and ugly."

Then she got up and went and stood directly in front of Coffin Ed where he sat on the sofa. Suddenly her fist flew out and hit him squarely on the nose. His eyes filled with tears as blood spurted from his nostrils. But he didn't move.

"That makes us even," he said and reached for his handkerchief.

Someone rapped on the door and Grave Digger let in the white detective who had come to take over. Neither of them spoke; they kept the record straight.

"Come on, Ed," Grave Digger said.

Coffin Ed stood up and the two of them walked to the door, Coffin Ed holding the bloodstained handkerchief to his nose. Just before they went out, Grave Digger turned and said, "Chances go around, baby."