The crazy kill

13

It was after seven o'clock when Grave Digger and Coffin Ed parked in front of Goldstein's Poultry Store on 116th Street between Lexington and Third Avenues.

The name appeared in faded gilt letters above dingy plate glass windows, and a wooden sihouette of what passed for a chicken hung from an angle-bar over the entrance, the word chickens painted on it.

Chicken coops, most of which were empty, were stacked six and seven high on the sidewalk flanking the entrance, and were chained together. The chains were padlocked to heavy iron attachments fastened to the front of the store.

"Goldstein don't trust these folks with his chickens," Coffin Ed remarked as they alighted from the car.

"Can you blame him?" Grave Digger replied. There were more stacks of coops inside the store containing more chickens.

Mr. and Mrs. Goldstein and several younger Goldsteins were bustling about, selling chickens on the feet to a number of late customers, mostly proprietors of chicken shacks, barbecue stands, nightclubs and after-hours joints.

Mr. Goldstein approached them, washing his hands with the foul-scented air. "What can I do for you gentlemen?" he asked. He had never run afoul of the law and didn't know any detectives by sight.

Grave Digger drew his gold-plated badge from his pocket and exhibited it in the palm of his hand.

"We're the men," he said.

Mr. Goldstein paled. "Are we breaking the law?"

"No, no, you're doing a public service," Grave Digger replied. "We're looking for a boy who works for you called Iron Jaw. His straight monicker is Ibsen. Don't ask us where he got it."

"Oh, Ibsen," Mr. Goldstein said with relief. "He's a picker. He's in the back." Then he began worrying again. "You're not going to arrest him now, are you? I've got many orders to fill."

"We just want to ask him a few questions," Grave Digger assured him.

But Mr. Goldstein wasn't assured. "Please, sirs, don't ask him too many questions," he entreated. "He can't think about but one thing at a time, and I think he's been drinking a little, too."

"We're going to try not to strain him," Coffin Ed said. They went through the door into the back room. A muscular, broad-shouldered young man, naked to the waist, with sweat streaming from his smooth, jet-black skin, stood over the picking table beside the scalding vat, his back to the door. His arms were working like the driving rod of a speeding locomotive, and wet feathers were raining into a bushel basket at his side.

He was singing to himself in a whisky-thick voice:

"Cap'n walkin' up an' down,

Buddy layin' there dead, Lord,

On de burnin' ground,

If I'da had my weight in line,

I'da whup dat Cap'n till he went stone blind."

Chickens were lined up on one side of the big table, lying quietly on their backs with their heads tucked beneath their wings and their feet stuck up. Each one had a tag tied to a leg.

A young man wearing glasses come from behind the wrapping table, glanced at Grave Digger and Coffin Ed without curiosity, and walked over behind the picker. He pointed at one of the live chickens on the far corner of the table, a big-legged Plymouth Rock pullet, minus a tag.

"What's that chicken doing there, Ibsen?" he asked in a suspicious voice.

The picker turned to look at him. In profile his jaw stuck out from his muscle-roped neck like a pressing iron, and his flat-nosed face and sloping forehead slanted back at a thirty-degree angle.

"Oh, that there chicken," he said. "Well, suh, that there chicken belongs to Missus Klein."

"Why ain't it got a tag on it then?"

"Well, suh, she don't know whether she gonna take it or not. She ain't come back for it yet."

"All right, then," the young man said peevishly. "Get on with your work. Just don't stand there-we got these orders to fill."

The picker turned and his arms began working like locomotive driving rods. He began again to sing to himself. He hadn't seen the two detectives standing just inside the doorway.

Grave Digger gestured toward the door with his head. Coffin Ed nodded. They slipped out silently.

Mr. Goldstein deserted a customer for a moment as they passed through the front room. "I'm glad you didn't arrest Ibsen," he said, washing his hands with air. "He's a good worker and an honest man."

"Yeah, we noticed how much you trust him," Coffin Ed said.

They got in their car, drove two doors down the street, parked again and sat waiting.

"I'll bet a pint of rye he gets it," Grave Digger said.

"Hell, what kind of bet is that?" Coffin Ed replied. "That boy has stole so many chickens from those Goldsteins he's one quarter chicken himself. I'll bet he could steal a chicken out of the egg without cracking the shell."

"Anyway, we're going to soon see."

They almost missed him. The picker left by the back door and came out into the street from a narrow walk ahead of them.

He was wearing a big loose-fitting olive drab canvas army jacket with a ribbed cotton collar and a drawstring at the bottom, and his nappy head was covered with a GI fatigue cap worn backward, the visor hanging down the back of his neck. In that getup his iron jaw was more prominent. He looked as though he had tried to swallow the pressing iron and it had sunk between his bottom teeth underneath his tongue.

He went over to Lexington Avenue and started uptown, staggering slightly but careful not to bump into anyone, and whistling the rhythm of Rock Around The Clock in high, clear notes.

The detectives followed in their car. When he turned east on 119th Street, they pulled ahead of him, drew in to the curb and got out, blocking his path.

"What you got there, Iron Jaw?" Grave Digger asked. Iron Jaw tried to get him into focus. His large muddy eyes slanted upward at the edges and had a tendency to look out from opposite corners. When finally they focused on Grave Digger's face they looked slightly crossed.

"Why don't you folks leave me alone," he protested in his whisky-thick voice, swaying slightly. "I ain't done nothing."

Coffin Ed reached out quickly and pulled his jacket zipper open almost to the bottom. Smooth black shiny skin gleamed from a muscular hairless chest. But, down near the stomach, black and white feathers began.

The chicken lay cradled in the warm nest at the bottom of the jacket, its yellow legs crossed peacefully like a corpse in a casket, and its head tucked out of sight underneath its outer wing.

"What are you doing with that chicken then?" Coffin Ed asked. "Nursing it?"

Iron Jaw looked blank. "Chicken, suh. What chicken?"

"Don't give me that cornfed Southern bull," Coffin Ed warned him. "My name ain't Goldstein."

Grave Digger reached down with his index finger and lifted the chicken's head from beneath the wing.

"This chicken, son."

The chicken cocked its head and gave the two detectives a startled look from one of its beady eyes, then it turned its head completely about and looked at them from its other eye.

"Looks like my mother-in-law whenever I have to wake her up," Grave Digger said.

All of a sudden the chicken started squawking and flapping about, trying to get out of its nest.

"Sounds like her, too," Grave Digger added.

The chicken got a footing on Iron Jaw's belly and flew toward Grave Digger, flapping its wings and squawking furiously, as though it resented the remark.

Grave Digger speared at it with his left hand and caught hold of a wing.

Iron Jaw pivoted on the balls of his feet and took off, running down the center of the street. He was wearing dirty canvas rubber-soled sneakers, similar to those worn by Poor Boy, and he was running like a black streak of light.

Coffin Ed had his long barreled nickel-plated pistol in his hand before Iron Jaw had started to run, but he was laughing so hard he couldn't cry halt. When he finally got his voice he yelled, "Whoa, Billy-boy, or I'll blast you!" and fired three rapid shots into the sky.

Grave Digger was hampered by the chicken and was late with his pistol, which was identical with Coffin Ed's. Then he had to clip the chicken in the head to save it for evidence. When he finally looked up he was just in time to see Coffin Ed shoot the fleeing Iron Jaw in the bottom of the right foot.

The. 38 caliber slug caught in the rubber sole of Iron Jaw's canvas sneaker and ripped it from his foot. His foot sailed out from underneath him, and he slid along the pavement on his rump. His flesh hadn't been touched, but he thought he'd been shot.

"They kilt me!" he cried. "The police has shot me to death!"

People began to collect.

Coffin Ed came up, swinging his pistol at his side, and looked at Iron Jaw's foot.

"Get up," he said, yanking him to his feet. "You haven't been scratched."

Iron Jaw tested his foot on the pavement and found that it didn't hurt.

"I must be shot somewhere else," he argued.

"You're not shot anywhere," Coffin Ed said, taking him by the arm and steering him back to their car.

"Let's get away from here," he said to Grave Digger. Grave Digger looked about at the curious people crowding about. "Right," he said.

They put Iron Jaw between them on the front seat and the dead chicken on the back seat and drove east on 119th Street to a deserted pier on the East River.

"We can get you thirty days in the cooler for chicken stealing or we can give you back your chicken and let you go home and fry it," Grave Digger began. "It just depends on you."

Iron Jaw looked slantwise from one detective to the other.

"I don't know what y'all means, boss," he said.

"Listen, son," Coffin Ed warned. "Cut out that uncle tomming. Save it for the white folks. It doesn't have any effect on us. We know you're ignorant, but you're not that stupid. So just talk straight. You understand?"

"Yassuh, boss."

Coffin Ed said, "Don't say I didn't warn you."

"Who was riding with Johnny Perry when he drove down 132nd Street this morning just before Poor Boy robbed the A and P store manager?" Grave Digger asked. Iron Jaw's eyes stretched. "I don't know what you all is talking about, boss. I was dead asleep in bed all morning 'til I went to work."

"Okay, son," Grave Digger said. "If that's your story that'll cost you thirty days."

"Boss, I swear to God-" Iron Jaw began, but Coffin Ed cut him off, "Listen, punk, we've already got Poor Boy tagged for the job and are holding him for the morning court. He said you were standing in a doorway on 132nd Street just off of the Avenue, so we know you were there. We know that Johnny Perry drove past on 132nd Street while you were standing there. We're not trying to stick you for the robbery. We've already got you on chicken stealing. All we want to know is who was riding with Johnny Perry."

Sweat glistened on Iron Jaw's sloping, flat-featured face. "Boss men, I don't want no trouble with that Johnny Perry. I'd just as leave take my thirty days."

"There's not going to be any trouble," Grave Digger assured him. "We're not after Johnny. We're after the man who was with him."

"He stuck Johnny up and got away with two grand," Grave Digger improvised, taking a shot in the dark.

Iron Jaw whistled. "I thought there was something funny," he admitted.

"Didn't you notice that the man had a gun stuck in Johnny's side when they drove past?" Grave Digger said.

"Naw suh, I didn't see the gun. They drove up and parked just 'fore the corner, and the top was up and I couldn't see no gun. But I thought there was something funny 'bout them stopping right there as if they didn't want nobody to see 'em."

Grave Digger and Coffin Ed exchanged looks across Iron Jaw's stupid expression.

"Well, that pins that down," Grave Digger said. "He and Val had parked on 132nd Street before Poor Boy robbed the A and P store manager." He addressed his next question to Iron Jaw. "Did they get out of the car together or did Val get out alone?"

"Boss, I ain't seen no more that what I just told you, I swear to God," Iron Jaw declared. "When Poor Boy cut out with that poke, with that cop and that white man chasing him, there was a man looking out a window, and when they turned the corner it seemed like he tried to look around the corner to see where they was going, and the next thing I seed he was falling through the air. So I just naturally took off up Seventh Avenue, 'cause I didn't want to be there when the cops got there and started asking a lot of questions."

"You didn't notice how badly he was hurt?" Grave Digger persisted.

"Naw suh, I just figured he was dead and gone to Jesus," Iron Jaw said. "And it warn't like as if I was a big shot like Johnny Perry. If the cops found me there they was just liable as not to claim I pushed him out the window."

"You make me sad, son," Grave Digger said seriously. "Cops are not that bad."

"We'd like to let you take your chicken and go home and have your pleasure," Coffin Ed said. "But Valentine Haines was stabbed to death this morning, and we've got to hold you as a material witness."

"Yassuh," Iron Jaw said stoically. "That's what I mean."