Room To Swing Ed Lacy

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Lacy

Room To Swing

Lacy

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Room To Swing

Ed Lacy

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If you're Toussaint Moore, a private investigator from New York City, and a Negro, framed in your own city for a white man's murder, you are going to find it tricky sledding in a small Ohio town, close to the Kentucky border. But the small town was where Moore felt he had to be, to try to find proof for the police that he was innocent of the killing.

Moore's problems had started in New York, when the publicity woman from a television show called You—Detective! came to ask him to shadow a man. The idea of the show was that the viewers were given information about a wanted man, and the first viewer to find the man and report him to the police won a reward. In short, it was a combination adventure and give-away show.

Ed Lacy has written his most unusual story—a very exciting one, and one which handles with exceptional insight a Negro's experiences in a large northern city and a small, bordering-on-the-South town.

“The mass of mankind has not been born with saddles on their backs, nor a favoured few booted and spurred.”

THOMAS JEFFERSON

I BROKE par in Bingston. It's a little town of a couple of thousand in southern Ohio and you can take in the entire town in about three minutes. It took me less than a minute to learn all I wanted to know—that I'd made a mistake coming here.

The main drag looks bigger than it should because they get a lot of trade from nearby farms. I parked my car in front of the largest store—a drugstore—and went in. The few people passing stared at me like I'd stepped out of a flying saucer. Okay, even though my Jaguar is an eight-year-old job I picked up for six hundred bucks, any foreign heap attracts attention. A fact which was worrying me nuts at the moment; attention was the last thing I needed.

I was a positive sensation inside the store—everything stopped dead still. The fat soda jerk stared at me with disbelief, a guy having breakfast at the counter spun around, toast in mouth, and made big eyes, the druggist was getting some mail from an old Negro postman and they both looked startled. It was a well-stocked place, more like a general store. I saw the phone booths and walked over. The Bingston phone book is about the size and thickness of a Broadway theater program. There wasn't any May Russell listed.

Figuring there had to be more to the phone book than this booklet, I started toward the soda jerk to ask. He reacted like a ham actor, his round face showing horror, then a fat grin of relief as he glanced at the door. I turned to see a cop coming at me, coming fast. Some small-town cops sport musical-comedy uniforms. This one was a stocky, middle-aged joker in high-polished black boots, gray breeches with a wide purple stripe down the sides, leather wind-breaker with the largest badge I ever saw, and a kind of cowboy hat. There wasn't any doubt as to why he was coming; his gun was loose in its holster and he was actually holding a billy in his right hand. I didn't see how they could be looking for me so soon, but my stomach began turning somersaults. I got set; if I could flatten this cop and make the door I was safe.

The mailman was suddenly in my way, both hands on my right fist as he whispered, “Relax, son.”

“Get out of my face!” I said, pulling my hand away. The cop was on top of us. The mailman nodded at him and said, “Hello, Mr. Williams.”

“Hello, Sam. Anything for me?”

“I left a few letters at your office,” the postman said, still blocking me.

The cop asked me, “Stranger in town, boy?”

“Yeah.” I'd been called boy more times in the last half a dozen hours than in my whole life.

“That's what I thought. I'd better explain a few things to you.”

“What things?” I said, my eyes on his billy hand. I pushed the mailman out of the way but the damn fool stepped right back in front of me.

“What you doing here, boy?”

“Looking in the phone book. That against the law?”

“Nope. I thought maybe you was thinking of eating in here. Being new, maybe you don't know it ain't the custom for colored to eat in here.”

I got a little mad and I relaxed, almost sagged with relief. I was still in the clear. The crazy thing that stuck in my mind was that this cop had a kind face, and if anything, he was talking very gently —with the billy ready for action. I told him, “I wasn't planning on eating the phone book.”

The cop grinned, his eyes taking in my Fifth Avenue clothes—and he'd sure seen the Jaguar outside. Then his eyes went over my broken nose and the fact I had about a half a foot and at least sixty pounds on him, and he looked a trifle unhappy again. “Understand, I don't want no trouble. Being you're a new boy around here, I want to straighten you out.”

“Then we're straight. That all there is to the phone book?” I nodded toward the booths.

“That's the phone book. Who you looking for?”

“Must have the wrong town. I didn't see the party listed,” I said, walking around the mailman, heading for the door.

The postman said, “I know about everybody in Bingston,” and his brown face said plainly, “As one Negro to another, let me help you.”

“That's okay, forget it.” I walked outside and looked up and down the main street, saw it all without straining my neck. A movie, two small hotels, several supermarkets, a couple dozen stores, and maybe another “business” street crossing this one about a block down.

The town letter carrier was standing beside me. He said, “Guess you must be from up North. Bingston isn't a mean town for coloured, just a little old-fashioned. No sense getting into trouble, son.”

“Skip the race-relations lecture, Uncle. You know a May Russell?”

A darker anger flooded his brown face at “Uncle.” He started to walk away, saw the cop watching us from the store door. He turned back and told me, “Look, we don't want trouble in this town. I've lived here all my life and our people have made progress in Bingston.”

“You going to straighten me out, too? I stop to look at a phone booth and I'm trouble. How far south is Ohio?”

“Asking for May Russell will start real trouble. She isn't for coloured men.”

“What's that mean?”

“She's a... a... scarlet lady!” he whispered.

I broke down and laughed. I hadn't heard that phrase since I read The Scarlet Letter in high-school and was disappointed that it wasn't hot stuff. The mailman laughed a little, showing crooked teeth. “Got me wrong, Pops. There a hotel where I can put up for a couple of days?”

“No hotel here, for coloured. We only have thirty-nine Negro families in Bingston.”

“Hell, doesn't Ohio have a civil-rights law, or any—?”

“We're right on the border of Kentucky, so—” he waved a stubby brown hand southward—“we don't get many out-of-town coloured persons. Mrs. Kelly takes in roomers but she's full up. How long do you plan on staying?”

“Couple days. I'm a... a musician. I'm on my way up to Chicago; thought this May Russell was the friend of a guy I knew.”

“I knew you were theater folk. What's the name of this friend you're looking for? Knowing everybody here is my business.”

“An army buddy. Just called him Joe.... Must have the wrong town,” I said, lying wildly. “Tell you the truth, Pops, I've been on the road a lot and have a slight cold. I want to rest up for a few days.”

“You certainly don't look sick. I'm Sam Davis. I suppose I can put you up at my house.”

“Thanks. I'm Harry Jones,” I said, picking a clever name out of the air.

As we shook hands he said, “Will two dollars a night and a dollar for meals be all right?”

“Perfect.”

“I'll phone Mary, my wife, that you're coming. You turn left on Elm, at the traffic light down the street. Then you keep walking for about five blocks and you'll see a brick house with wooden ducks on the front lawn. Wire fence. That's mine. You'll be in the coloured section. Ask anybody for Sam Davis' house. Not too much of a walk.”

“I'm on rubber,” I said, nodding at the Jaguar. He was impressed, asked, “Can you do a hundred in that?”

“With the gas pedal off the floor. Thanks for the room. I'll go right out and grab some sleep. Think it would cause a riot if I buy the local paper first?”

“Now, now, Mr. Jones, Bingston isn't that bad. The News don't come out till noon, unless you want yesterday's copy.”

“Yesterday's will do. Like to read myself to sleep.”

“You can buy one at the Smoke Shop across the street. I'll phone Mary that you're coming out.”

I got the paper and, as I slid behind the wheel, the cop walked over and asked, chummy-like, “This a European auto?”

He was really friendly, yet if I wanted to get a cup of coffee in the drugstore he would bash my head in. “English.”

“Pretty expensive, I bet?”

“You win the bet,” I said, starting the Jag.

“Any better than our cars?”

“No,” I said, backing out, I made the turn at the traffic light and pulled over to the curb. Elm Street was a lot of big houses with even bigger lawns. The paper had used the wire story from New York about a Richard Tutt being found beaten to death in his room, and that the police were looking for “a” Negro. Fingerprints had revealed Tutt's real name to be Robert Thomas and that he was a wanted criminal. At the bottom there were a few puff paragraphs about Thomas having been born in Bingston and wanted by the local police for the last six years. There wasn't anything I didn't know already, so I put the paper down and drove on.

The postman's house was better than I expected: old, but solidly built. In fact most of the houses in this “Negro” section looked pretty good. There was a driveway and a garage in the back. I parked in the driveway, in the rear of the house, locked the car. My license plates were muddy enough. A plump woman with a warm brown face opened the door, said, “You must be Mr. Jones. Come in. I've hardly had time to straighten up the guest room. Haven't used it since my cousin Allen, from Dayton, was here. Take me a minute to dust and—”

“I'm pooped,” I said, suddenly aching with tiredness. “I'd like to go to bed now.”

“You must think I'm a terrible housekeeper.”

“I don't. I'm too tired to think anything. Can I go to my room now?”

“As you wish. You do look tired. I'll get you a towel. Where are your bags?”

“In the car,” I lied. “I'll get them later.”

I followed her upstairs to a large room filled with old, heavy furniture. The bed looked wonderful. She gave me a towel, said the bathroom was down the hall, and kept chattering about the dust and things. The room looked neat as a pin to me. I stopped her mouth by hanging my Harris-tweed overcoat in the large closet. She stood in the doorway, said, “Mr. Davis told you two dollars a night and—”

“Yeah.” I gave her a five-dollar bill.

“Well, he was wrong about the meals. Food's gone up. It will be two dollars a day instead of one for meals.”

“Okay.”

“I'll give you your change later.” She hesitated, pulled at her apron with the money hand. “I hope you're not a drinking man, Mr. Jones.”

“I'm only a tired man. Good day, Mrs. Davis.” When she left I hung up my coat, locked the door, hid my wallet and badge under the mattress, the data on Thomas under the rug. Taking off my nylon shirt and underwear, I made sure the hallway was empty and sprinted to the bathroom. It was the largest I'd ever seen. I took a fast shower, washing my shirt and stuff, toweled myself dry, and made another nude sprint down the hallway. I hung up the shirt and underwear carefully, pulled the shades down, and jumped into bed.

I wanted to think; I had to think if I wanted to get out of this mess. But I hadn't slept in two days and the bed was soft as a good dream. When I jerked myself awake the pale green hands on my wrist watch said it was ten o'clock. I'd pounded my ear for a dozen hours. I felt great—and mad as hell at wasting all that time.

I pulled up the shades; it was very dark outside, the dim street lights blocks apart. My wash was dry and I got my pipe working as I dressed. It wouldn't be safe to hang around this burg for more than a day or two, if it was safe at all. Normally it would be a cinch to shake a little town like Bingston clean in two days, only it was south and I had dark skin. I'd stand out and somebody would peg me as “the" Negro being hunted by the New York police.

I was too much of a stranger. If I only had a contact, somebody in town to do the more obvious asking around. Old super sleuth me, what asking? I didn't have one idea as to what I was looking for. A hick town could be either a wonderful hideout or a trap.

Taking out the TV data on Bob Thomas I read through it for the tenth time. I felt a little better, still had a hunch the killer had to come from Bingston. Unless it was a freak job, one that didn't fit any pattern. If it was a crazy killing, then I might as well go back and put it down in the electric chair.

The house was so quiet I knew the old couple were asleep. And I was hungry enough to see what the refrigerator held. The TV was on, giving the parlor an unreal glow. There was a young girl watching the screen. I could see her face clearly, a lean dark face, skin as dark as mine, hair piled atop her head au naturel. When she saw me she stood up and turned on a lamp. She was wearing a simple knitted gray suit that clung to her tall, strong figure. In the light she looked older than I thought, about twenty-seven. Her nose was short, her eyes large and deep, and she had full, heavy lips.

“Mr. Jones? I'm Frances Davis. Mom said you might want supper. Do you?”

The voice was low and sullen, maybe even bitter. “Where is everybody?”

“Asleep. It's after ten—late for us.”

“Sorry I kept you up. I'll go out and grab a bite.”

“Where? There ain't any 'coloured' restaurants here. You didn't keep me up; I'm a TV bug. If you want to eat follow me into the kitchen.”

“Doesn't seem much worth getting up for at any time in Bingston,” I said as she walked by me toward the kitchen. She was about six feet tall, and in flat shoes.

“Not if your skin isn't pale.” She stopped in front of me. “Your shoulders make you seem short. You're not. And your clothes—they're the end. You're really togged down.”

Up close her face looked a little on the cute side, the heavy lips and eyes interesting. “Thanks, honey. I like your suit too.”

“Bought it in Cincinnati last year. How did you break your nose?” she asked, opening the kitchen door.

“Played football a lot of years ago. Had a pigskin scholarship—till the war came.” The kitchen was big and bright, and a little crazy: very modern refrigerator and freezer, electric washing machine and electric grill—and an old-fashioned coal-burning stove polished a glistening black. She pointed toward a white table and I sat down as she took various pots out of the refrigerator, which was stocked with food. “Greens, rice, roast pork, biscuits, potatoes, and pie. Coffee or tea. Okay?”

“Fine, but I'll skip the biscuits and potatoes. And tea.”

“What's your instrument and what band are you with?”

“Drums. I'm not with any outfit at the moment. Been playing a few club dates down in New Orleans and Lake Charles—heading up to Chicago for some more. Mostly wild-cat jobs.”

“How's New Orleans?”

“Hot and damp. I was glad to blow the city.”

“Man, I dug your Jaguar outside. It's the greatest.”

“Honey, why don't you cut the phony jive talk?”

She turned from the coal stove, which must have been going all the time—the kitchen was overwarm. “I was putting it on for you, being you are a jazz man. Speaking of phony things, stop calling me Honey.”

“Okay, Miss Frances. And I didn't mean to talk out of turn.”

She gave me a quiet stare as she started loading my plate. “I took it as a compliment, Mr. Jones. Tell me, why did you come to Bingston?”

I didn't get the compliment angle. And it was time I started asking questions. Between mouthfuls of the fine food I said, “No reason, merely passing through and thought I'd rest up for a couple of days. I was reading the Bingston paper this morning; seems like you had a little excitement here—a local lad was killed in New York. Did you know this Tutt—or Thomas?”

“I remember him but I didn't know him. He was white. I read about his being killed. You know, the older I get the more I'm convinced whites are crazy.”

I nodded, swallowed a lot of rice. “You remind me of my old man. He was a nationalist. Last thing I expected to find... here.”

“You mean in this wide-spot-in-the-road,” she said, sitting opposite me, nibbling on a small hunk of pie. Her brown skin looked velvet smooth, and the kitchen light showed rather high cheekbones. “We didn't have to fight for integration here—this isn't really 'South.' Yet Bingston is a prison with colour bars. A Negro girl can only work at certain jobs; she has a choice, or a chance, of marrying only two or three single men; must live within a certain area; can't eat anyplace but— But you know that too.”

“A small town is a small town, even for whites.”

“And ten times as small for us!”

“Must be buses leaving here every day. This Thomas guy took off, and look how he ended up. What does Bingston think of his murder? Any—eh—fuss because a Negro was supposed to have done it?”

“It was different for him here; he was white, although a poor one. They even were doing a TV show about him. Sometimes I think of trying to make it in New York or Los Angeles—but I'm scared. You can be lonely in a big city too. Be different if I knew people there. And I've seen pictures of the Harlem and South Side slums, know they aren't any paradise.”

“True, but at least you have more room to swing. Maybe this Thomas swung too wide?”

She shrugged her shoulders, seemed to have larger breasts than I'd thought. “I dream a lot about leaving here. Sometimes Bingston seems a living cemetery for me. Then I tell myself I'm living in a comfortable house with my folks, why should I run away? This is my town as much as the ofays'—why give it to them?”

“Doesn't Ohio have a civil-rights law?” I asked over another forkful of rice and gravy. Her words were giving me an idea—if I worked it right maybe I'd found my local helper.

“You mean do we fight back? Sure. As I told you, it isn't the actual law here as much as custom. But in the long run they mean the same thing. We're only a handful and most of us have 'good' jobs. For instance, I could make and save a lot of money as a domestic. But a few of us try to raise some sand—we've just won a two-year fight to sit in the orchestra of the movie house instead of the balcony. Big deal.” She shook her head. “I shouldn't say that, it was a big thing. Only—damn, there has to be more to living than sitting in the orchestra.”

“What do you do? Going to college?”

“My brother is at Howard. It makes me burn, Pop insisted on sending him to a coloured college. I wanted him to go to Ohio State. Another lost battle. I couldn't go to college. It wasn't a question of money—I'm just a female and marriage should be my career. Bunk!”

“Your folks are old-fashioned?”

“Pop finally sent me to a business school up in Dayton, as if anybody needs a brown secretary in Bingston. I work as a part-time typist for Mr. Ross, a mealy-mouthed tan lawyer and real-estate hustler. Has a family and a hobby— making passes at me. I also have a part-time job in a bakery a few blocks from here—result of another battle. That's what kills me; you have to fight for a lousy job selling cakes. Want your tea now?”

“Yes, thanks.” I cut into the pie. It was wonderful. “Has this Thomas killing started any feeling here against coloured?”

“No. If anything, people are relieved that he's dead.”

“According to the papers he was a one-man crime wave before he took off.”

“He broke out of jail.”

“He was in for rape and assault, wasn't he?”

She got up to get the tea. For no reason I noticed her legs were strong and not skinny. I sugared the tea as she sat down again, took out a pack of butts. I pointed to my pipe sticking out of my breast pocket as I got a match working. She blew a small cloud of smoke at the ceiling, said nothing. “Rape and assault. He must have been a sweet character,” I said, trying to get back to Thomas.

“That was a joke—the rape part. Porky Thomas never had to rape May Russell.”

“Porky?” This wasn't down on my data sheet.

“He was always hungry as a kid. He'd eat anything, like a pig. But why talk of him? He just got what a black boy gets every day If he steps out of 'line'—framed. Did you buy your Jaguar in England?”

“No.” I wondered what she meant by Thomas being framed. “Did Porky...?”

“I thought maybe you traveled abroad with a band. I'm saving for a trip to Europe. My favorite daydream.”

“That's one thing we have over the ofays; leaving the States is more of a joy for us.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Have you been abroad?”

“Paris, Berlin, Rome, Leghorn. I was a captain in the army,” I said, talking too much. “What did you mean by saying Thomas was framed?”

“A captain—well! I wanted to join the WAC's once, to travel. How is Paris, really, how is it?”

“Wonderful. Look, about—”

“Imagine being able to walk anyplace without even wondering if you're welcome. Seeing your car set me dreaming again. Those bucket seats, they're so different.”

“Care to take a ride? Any place we can stop for a drink?”

“Thank you but I don't want to take a ride,” she said, but I knew she did. “There is an after-hours shack out in the country where they sell bootleg stuff. But it's a depressing, dirty place.”

I stood up. “Then let's just take a ride.”

She didn't get up. Looking at the table she said, “No.”

“Come on, I want to see the city.”

“At night? No, Mr. Jones, it sounds too much like the well-dressed city smoothie giving the country-bumpkin gal a break.”

“What?” I laughed. “I'm not going to make a pass at you. Not that you ain't pretty, but I won't make play. Or do you think I will?”

“I think you're a liar, Mr. Jones.” She said it softly, staring up at me with bold eyes. “You told Pop you were driving all yesterday, why should you want to drive some more? You talk of New Orleans and Chicago but your car has New York plates. Exactly what are you doing in Bingston?”

“I told you, merely resting...”

“I know what you told us.”

I didn't know what to say; wondered why I was suddenly frightened of this young girl. I stood there like a dummy for a second, then for no reason I pulled out my wallet, asked, “Should I pay you now for...?”

Her eyes stopped me, although she didn't say a word for a moment; then she said, “Oh... put your damn money away! Do you think I'm asking because I'm afraid you'll run out on your bill? Maybe you're right, money-grabbing is another small-town hobby. My God, Pop and Mom, they just sock it away.... All the time I was a kid, even when I was in high school, I rarely saw Mom. She was cooking and busting suds in a white house, even bringing home leftover food for us. And Pop making as much as anybody else in town!”

She looked away and I stood there, liking Frances, feeling sorry for her—and still afraid. She broke the awkward silence with “You can stay here the night but I want you to leave in the morning. You're not a drummer. I'm a jazz nut, and I know the name of every bandman in the country. I don't believe you came up from New Orleans in that Jaguar: if you'd been in the deep South you never would have walked into the drugstore acting like you wanted to slug Mr.—the cop. Pop told me about that.”

“I seem to have been quite a conversation piece,” I said, thinking I had no choice now, I had to trust her before she asked too many questions.

“Any stranger causes talk in a small town. You want to stay in Bingston, that's your business. But you're also in our house and that makes it my business. All during supper you've been trying to quiz me about Porky Thomas and... Well, I even doubt your name is Jones.”

“You're right. I'm Toussaint Marcus Modre from New—”

She clapped her hands and laughed, the laughter lighting up her face. “How wonderful! Marcus after Marcus Garvey, of course!”

“Yeah. My father... naming me like that I don't have to tell you any more about him. Frances, you've made a lot of big talk about rights. I'm a private detective—there's a coloured man being framed for the Thomas killing back in New York. That's why I'm here. I need help badly— your help.”

She stood up. “A private eye?”

I flashed my badge.

“I'll be glad to help in any way I can, Toussaint... Touie.”

I said cautiously, “Wait up. Something else you have to know—it won't be safe or easy. Remember I said a coloured man is being framed for the murder. I certainly won't involve you, but at the same time helping me is... messy.”

“I don't care, I'll—” The bitterness came back to her face abruptly. “You?”

I nodded. “The New York City police are looking for a Negro they found with Thomas' body. That's me; I was there. You have to believe I didn't do it. New York or down in Cotton Patch Corners, when a black man is found around a body it's all the same—he's guilty.”

She was staring at me with wide eyes. “But you're a detective.”

“I was shadowing Thomas. Frances, I think the answer to the killing has to be in Bingston. I have about twenty-four hours to come up with the answer before 'a' Negro is known to be me. Still want to help?”

She was looking at me as if she was about to cry. Then she turned and started stacking the dishes in the sink. I waited a moment, feeling sick. I said, “Okay, I don't blame you. But give me one break, don't tell anyone what I've—”

“I'd like to take that ride now. I'll get my coat.”

I went upstairs and got my coat and hat. Frances was waiting at the door dressed in a plain cloth coat that looked baggy and worn, an ugly woolen stocking cap on her head. A door opened upstairs and Mrs. Davis stuck her gray head over the banister, asked, “Where are you going, Fran?”

“Mr. Jones is taking me for a ride,” she said, opening the front door.

“At this hour? Fran, I want to talk to you for a—”

“Mama, it's perfectly all right. Go to bed, please. We'll be back soon.”

Outside it was cold and dark. Unlocking the car door I turned to look at her dark face, tried to remember a poem I'd once read about the “night being dark like me.” Then I wondered if I was being taken; perhaps the ride she meant was directly to the local police station? But somehow I trusted her—not that I had any choice.

The Jag was dirty. I'd been refused service on the trip down, and had to eat in the car. “Excuse the condition of the car. I—”

“Let's drive. It's cold.” She shivered.

We got in and I backed out of the doorway and headed for noplace, just drove. I opened the heater. After a long silence Frances asked, “Can you tell me what happened, Touss... Touie?”

“Sure. I want to. All started three days ago—seems like a lifetime now. But three days ago I was sitting in my office...”

IT STARTED out as a big day—although I had made up my studio bed, turning my room into my “office,” how big a day it was going to be.

I share an old-fashioned railroad flat with a fireman named Ollie and a photographer called Roy, who works as a short-order cook to keep himself eating, and that's no joke. We live on the ground floor of a small semi-tenement up in what is stupidly known as Sugar Hill. It's a good deal: splitting expenses three ways it costs each of us about twenty-five dollars a month, which is only slightly more than you have to pay per week for a room with “kitchen privileges” in most parts of Harlem. I have the front room, which doubles as my office, a simple but dignified sign in the window stating I am a licensed private investigator. Both Ollie and Roy are younger than I, and over the weekend the place is full of girls and music. Not that I play the chick field; Sybil is about all the girl I can handle, or want to.

Ollie was working a morning tour and being a sucker for horses had left six bucks on my desk with instructions for me to play a nag called Dark Sue across the board. I had the alarm set for seven, not because I had to get up for a job, but to move my car to the other side of the street, a daily game between me and the cops since they put in this alternate-side-of-the-street parking. I showered and had coffee and juice with Roy, finally found a parking space on Amsterdam Avenue, considered washing the Jaguar but figured another day's dust wouldn't hurt. I hate to be mistaken for these clowns who spend every free minute polishing their cars, take better care of them than they do themselves. I stopped off at the delicatessen, bought some milk and bread, and put in Ollie's bet; and on a hunch put down two bucks on the horse to show, for myself. The delicatessen always amazed me; although it was only a front for the numbers syndicate, the gray-haired white guy who ran it kept it spotless and well stocked, actually had it a going business—as a delicatessen.

Back in my room I dusted my modernistic furniture, which still looked pretty good, turned on the radio, and read my mail. There was a statement from the bank; my special checking account was down to sixty bucks. There was a mimeographed letter from the Post Office Department informing me I had been reached on the mail carrier's list and had two weeks in which to tell them if I wanted the job or not. There was an ad, and a letter from a downtown agency, my former boss, Ted Bailey, giving me a skip-tracing job. He always gave me the “coloured” cases. I never knew if he was afraid of the various Harlems throughout New York City or was merely throwing business my way. But I never got a “white" skip-tracing case. A woman named James had bought a combination stove and refrigerator for $320, on time of course, paid in $150 and then left her job and last known address, taking the stove-refrigerator.

So that was the mail. I put the letter from Ted in my pocket, read a morning paper Roy had brought in the night before, and wondered what I'd do about the P.O. job. I didn't want to take it but i£ I told Sybil that she'd raise sand. While I was thinking this over, I glanced out the window—my blinds needed dusting—and saw a cab stop and a woman get out. She didn't look like she belonged on 147th Street. Not because of the slightly bewildered way she looked around, or because she was white with delicate copper-coloured hair cut short in an Italian bob snugly about her head; but because she was dressed like mid town Park Avenue. Her clothes were simple, but smart and expensive; her slim figure and handsome face had been given a lot of care—every day. She walked into the hallway and a moment later there was a knock on my door. When I opened it she slowly ran her cool eyes over my hulk, lingering for a long second at my busted nose. She actually pushed past me, walking with a kind of show-girl strut around the room. “You Mr. T. M. Moore?” she asked, talking out the side of her thin mouth.

“That's right.”

“Can you be bought? Will you double-cross me?”

“What?” She didn't look like a loon.

“Will you sell me out to the first bubble-belly dame who crosses your path? I'm in a jam, see? With a statuesque blonde who's been had by a redhead, also statuesque, see? But the mastermind is a gray-headed babe who only is Junoesque—on her father's side. Ya got the angle, Mac?” She strode over to me and slapped my chest and hips. “What, no rod? You can be reported to the private optic union for not packing a rod,”

“Stop reaching, lady. It's too early for cornballing. What do you want?”

She smiled; her teeth were very white and even and she couldn't have been more than thirty-two. In a crisp, controlled voice she said, “Please excuse me, Mr. Moore. This is my first time in a detective's office and I simply couldn't resist the gag.”

I didn't get the joke but I sat behind my desk, very businesslike, pointed to my Swedish plywood chair as I told her, “Have a seat.”

“Thank you. I approve of your furniture: modern but in low key. My name is Kay Robbens, with an 'e'. Sid Morris recommended you.” She crossed her long legs and smiled again. She didn't have to say she was enjoying herself, that being in a Negro's office was kicks to her.

I relit my pipe slowly, careful not to look at her legs, asked, “Are you in need of a private detective?”

She nodded. Her eyes were faintly made up, a delicate blue on the lids; everything about her face was delicate, maybe even pretty on second look. She took a whiff of my pipe smoke, said, “Lovely spicy odor. What is it?”

“London Dock.”

“Can I borrow some?” She pulled a tiny jeweled pipe out of her bag and I pushed my tobacco pouch across the desk without batting an eye. She wasn't Park Avenue, she was Eighth Street. Sucking on her little pipe she said, “This is nice. Any special store?”

“You can buy it most anyplace. Did Sid recommend my tobacco?”

She slipped me that smile again, sure it was dazzling me, suddenly stood up and walked over to look at my army discharge framed on the wall, the little glass showcase atop my books holding my Bronze Star and Silver Star. She even glanced at my books, then sat down again, openly staring at me over her pipe.

The act was getting a trifle boring. “Thinking of starting your own army?” I asked, wondering how she kept her blue eyes so clear and bright.

“I'm thinking of hiring you as a detective, only I must be absolutely certain of one thing—whether you take the job or not, whatever I tell you now must remain in the strictest confidence. Agreed?”

“I respect the confidence of all my clients.”

“Good. I like the way you look. If I hire you it will be for a minimum of one month. I can pay fifty dollars a day, plus moderate expenses.”

She said it easily; I tried hard to play it cool but—fifteen hundred dollars! I sat up straight, as if I'd been pulled erect, and managed to say casually, “Depends upon what you expect me to do. Has to be legit.”

“This is a shadowing job. I must know where a... somebody... is all the time. It will be your job to see that he stands still, that I can put my hands on him any time I wish.”

I glanced at the thick wedding ring on her left hand. “Sounds okay, Mrs. Robbens, so far.”

She knocked the ashes out of her pipe and took a deep breath. “Here we go, and remember, this must be top secret. I'm in the Press Information Department of Central Televising. At the moment I'm assigned as P.R. to a new show due to premiere shortly. It's to be called You— Detective! and will be carried full net across the country. It's a big-budget show. We rehash some unknown but factual crimes, and offer a reward if any viewer can nab the criminal. It's been done before; you've probably seen similar shows.”

“If it's been done before, why start another one?”

She laughed, real tinkling laughter, as if she were fifteen.

“Mr. Moore, everything has been done before, it's how you do it that makes the selling difference. Our sponsor is a bug on criminals and detectives. A bug with a large drug company and a top advertising budget, so we've been kicking this crime-detective format around for a long time. It will be on film and we already have several shows in the can. Briefly, the idea is we dig up little-known crimes—gory or sexy ones—show the actual scenes of the crime, interview some of the people involved, the police, flash some of the 'wanted' flyers on the TV screen. The narrator is an actor with a rugged square chin like Dick Tracy. He'll be known as the Chief Inspector, and he ends the show by rehashing the clues, adds a few hints from his 'stoolies,' and finally points a thick finger at the audience as he orders his staff to get the fugitive. All corny as hell, isn't it?”

I didn't know whether to nod or not. I shrugged.

“We have quite an audience-participation deal worked out: with two box tops one gets a small badge and a lot of other hocus-pocus. If a person with a badge sends in information that leads to an arrest, or reports it to the police, he gets double the reward a nonbuyer will receive. In short, it is a combination adventure and giveaway show.”

“And makes everybody a stool pigeon.”

Mrs. Robbens wrinkled up her thin nose. “It's low level, moronic, disgusting... and my job.”

“Where do I come in? Am I supposed to dig up cases for the show?”

“No, we have all we need, for now. You're to—” She suddenly noticed Ollie's scratch sheet on my desk, snapped her fingers as she glanced at the expensive watch on her bony wrist. “May I phone my bookie? I have a hunch running in the fourth race.”

She reached across the desk and took my phone before I could say yes or no, dialed somebody named Jack, told him, “This is Kay. I'd like a five-dollar lunch delivered at four. If I'm not around leave it on my desk. I'm busy on a story called Fast Bunny that looks like a winner. Okay? Thanks.” I had a feeling this was an act strictly for my benefit, although I didn't know why she had to impress me. I puffed on my pipe and looked at the sheet; the opening odds on Fast Bunny were 6 to 1.

Putting the phone back she slipped me the cool smile again. “It's silly. Butch and I spend hours at night doping the races, then I usually forget to place a bet in time. Where were we?”

“At where I come into the picture.”

“I'm sorry, I should have explained that first. As I told you, I'm public relations on the show. We have quite a publicity gimmick in the making. On the third week of the show we will use the case of Robert Thomas, wanted by the Ohio police for raping and assaulting a poor sixteen-year-old kid. A brutal crime that took place about six years ago. He's living and working here in New York under the name of Richard Tutt. You're to keep tabs on him.”

“What does 'tabs' mean to you?”

“For the next week or two, until his case is televised, all you do is check that he's on his job every day, that he doesn't move. Won't be much work. However, from the second his 'wanted' flyer is flashed on TV screens, you're to tail him twenty-four hours a day—until we rap him, which will be—”

“Until you do what?”

Her face showed surprise. “Rap him, send him up. That's the big publicity deal. A few hours after his case is shown we have a stooge set to turn Tutt in to the police, claiming it was all a result of our show. I don't have to blueprint the rest; our sponsor does a great deal of advertising, we'll make every paper in the nation and be able to have the stooge planted on several TV news programs. I'm counting on the publicity to shove the show into a top rating.”

“How did you learn where Thomas is now?”

“We do a thorough research job on all cases. One of our writers—he practically originated the show—got the data on Thomas. We used his case to audition the show, as a matter of fact. Now you understand your job: keep Thomas in sight until we're ready to lower the boom on him.”

“This Thomas... is he... I mean, is he coloured?” She looked startled.

“Oh, no. If anything, he's a Southern cracker.”

I'd been on “white” cases before. I mean, I worked every Friday and Saturday as a special doing guard work in a department store where Sid was the personnel manager. Still, my being an all-day tail in a white neighborhood raised a few obstacles. But for fifteen hundred dollars—hell, I'd make a good try at jumping over the Empire State Building. Only it was odd that Central Telecasting—she —hadn't gone to one of the big detective outfits.

Mrs. Robbens guessed my thoughts and said, “I came to you for two reasons. In a large agency there might be a leak and I don't have to tell you that if this reaches the papers ahead of time the publicity will blow up in our faces and rum the show. So a one-man agency was needed. You were recommended to me, and I feel I can count on your discretion, even after the case is ended. From time to time we have various matters needing investigation at the studio, and this can very well be your entree to Madison Avenue.

“I always try to give you people a helping hand, so very frankly I was pleased when I learned you were a Negro.” The smile again, on the patronizing side this time.

Okay, whites can sure say the jerkiest things and I'd met her type before. At least she was jerky in a friendly way; too many of them are nasty jerks.

“Will you take the case?”

“I think so,” I said, as if I was considering it.

She opened her bag and took out a thin but beautiful pile of twenty-dollar bills. “Here's two hundred dollars as a retainer. Now, for the time being this is hush-hush, even in our office. Only my immediate boss knows about the arrest and publicity angle. Matter of fact, I'm paying you out of petty cash. You're not to phone me at Central unless it's something terribly urgent. I'm in the phone book and... Here's my home phone and address. Call me at home every night. At about eight.”

“Why every night?”

“From now on it will be the only contact I'll have with you. You don't have to go into detail, merely that things are okay. However, even over my home phone you're never to say you are a detective. In TV one never knows when a phone is tapped. Every thing crystal clear, Mr. Moore? What does 'T.M.' stand for, by the bye?”

“It doesn't stand for 'bye-the-bye,'“ I wise-cracked, “but for Toussaint Marcus, Mrs. Robbens.”

“What a charming name. Toussaint. After the Haitian patriot?”

“Aha. My father was a student of Negro history, Mrs. Robbens.”

“While we're on the name bit, it happens to be Miss Robbens. I shall call you Toussaint and you may call me Kay.”

“Let me call you what I want,” I said, wondering about the “Miss" angle. She was sporting a thick wedding ring but perhaps on Madison Avenue it was better politics to be single.

“Shall we be on our way, Toussaint?”

“Keep it down to Touie, please. Where are we going?”

“Downtown. This is the address of the freight company that employs Thomas. I'll point him out, you take the ball from there.”

“Fine.” Happily my portable wasn't in hock and I typed out a receipt. As I put on my coat I went down the hall to Ollie's room; since he was civil service the apartment was in his name. I left eighty dollars in his drawer with a note saying I was paying up the two months' back rent I owed, and the balance was against future rent.

As we stepped outside a couple of cats hanging around the stoop gave us the eye, but quietly. Miss Robbens said, “We'll take a cab. About your expense account, don't overdo the padding. Be different if Central hired you directly but I—”

“Don't worry about it,” I said, walking her over to my Jag, which left her speechless—for once. I drove across 145th Street toward the West Side Highway, thankful I had gas.

In the fifteen or twenty minutes it took us to reach Forty-first Street she told me—for no reason—all about her unhappy first marriage, how lousy her husband had been. I listened politely, wanting to tell her it takes two to be good or bad. But I kept my mouth shut.

“... The kind of male slob who objected to my having a career. Career! It's a job. What he refused to understand was that in this world of nobodies, everybody has the yen to be a somebody. I'm sure you know that.”

“I'm afraid to even try to think about it.”

She turned in the low seat abruptly. “Don't ever make fun of me! I can't stand that; it's the height of rudeness!”

“I'm not making fun of you, Miss Robbens. And—”

“I told you to call me Kay.”

She sat in silence for a minute. As I cut off the highway she asked, “Why did you buy a Jaguar, Touie?”

“As you said, everybody wants to be a somebody,” I told her, cleverly, I thought. I checked the freight-company address in my notebook. It would be a waste of time trying to find free parking space, so I turned into a parking lot, paid the man a buck. Miss Robbens showed a lot of leg getting out but I knew that wasn't what the white attendant was staring at.

It was eleven fifteen when we reached the freight company. She said, “Thomas comes out for lunch at noon. We have plenty of time and I'm hungry.”

“Nothing but joints around here.”

“I don't mind,” she said, walking toward Eighth Avenue and into one of those overgrown bars that's a combination cafeteria and gin mill. There were some dozen men at the bar and tables, all of them white, of course. We gathered another round of “looks” as we got a couple of greasy hamburgers, beers, found a table. Two characters dressed like truckers were at a table near us, and one of them, a lardy redhead in his late twenties, began talking about us in a husky whisper. I didn't have to hear to know what he was saying.

Robbens was enjoying herself, babbling about places like this giving her a “refreshing sense of balance.” I kept an eye on Red because you never know what some whites will do. They might even kill you.

We finished our beers and Miss Robbens pulled the string—she had to smoke her pipe. We were a circus sensation now. Red snickered and he and his pal laughed too loudly at something which had as a tag line ”... she must like it.”

When Kay glanced at their table and wrinkled her nose as if smelling something rotten, I knew I was in for action, going to earn my dough the hard way. Usually I let most of that talk in one ear and out the other, but now I couldn't have my client's confidence in me shaken. Also I was steamed, at both Red and my client.

While I was wondering how I'd make my play, Red obliged by getting up for coffee. As he was returning to his table, I told Miss Robbens loudly, “I'll get you some water.”

“I don't want any....”

Pretending to look back at Kay, I walked into Red—hard. He weighed about 170, and my 234 pounds sent him flat on the dirty floor. Unfortunately he didn't spill the coffee over himself—only on the floor.

I said, “Sorry, old clumsy me,” and picked him up. I lifted him off the floor and onto his feet, squeezing the hell out of his arms, working my thumbs into his muscle. It looked as though I was lifting him with ease, but I had my legs set, was straining. He tried to move his numb arms and couldn't as he said, “Why don't you watch it?”

“I told you it was an accident,” I said slowly, waiting to see what he was going to do, watching his buddy at the table, too.

Red wasn't sure of himself; he'd taken a rugged fall. He decided not to do anything. Brushing himself off he said, “Lost a cup of Java, too....”

I tossed a dime on the counter. “Give sonny a refill,” and continued on my way to the water fountain, bringing a glass back to Kay.

Knocking the ashes out of her pipe, she squeezed my hand, whispered, “A magnificent bit.” She was happy as the devil.

“Look,” I said, keeping my voice down, “let's get one thing settled. Don't make a civil-rights case out of everything.”

“Me? Really, I fail to see where I—”

“I'm only saying when I want a cup of coffee I want coffee and not a scene. When I want to make a test case of something, I will. I'm not blaming you or anybody. Not even that redhead louse. I'm merely making a statement.”

“I don't get it.”

“When you go in for food you don't think a thing about it. But me, in a white restaurant, there's always a doubt, a... Forget it.”

“Forget what? Do you mean you only want to eat in Harlem restaurants?”

“Of course not. I mean, in the future, tell me what you want, food or excitement.” I was about to add she had a pipe, she didn't need me and the pipe to attract attention. Instead, I smiled as if we'd been kidding, said in a normal voice, “Only have about ten minutes; shouldn't we be on our way?”

“Yes,” she said, making a casual but smiling exit. Outside she said. “This disturbs me. I've always gone out of my way to be considerate to Negroes, but you're all so touchy.”

“I always go out of my way to be nice to you people, too.”

“Why must you make fun of me? I told you I don't like it.”

“I'm not making fun of you—you're the one who's touchy,” I told her, and told myself to shut up before she pulled me off the case. I gave her a best grin, added, “We're fighting over nothing. Let's get to work. We'll be too conspicuous standing opposite or outside the freight entrance together. Has Thomas ever seen you?”

“No. I've been quite a detective on my own. Here's all our data on him, home address, age, etc. This is a snap of him taken six years ago. He hasn't changed much, except he keeps his hair crew-cut, and it's a sandy blond now. You can pick him out from the snap, but if you want, I'll point him out.”

“To be on the safe side, you might as well finger him. Look, we'll stand across the street, but not together. Soon as you see him, start walking toward the corner. I'll stop you and ask for a match. Corny, but it will do. Without looking across at him, you'll tell me what he's wearing, to be doubly certain I have the right man. Keep walking and wait for me at the corner. I'll drive you back to your office.”

“Don't bother, I can take a cab. You'll phone me at my apartment around eight tonight and let me know how it's going?”

“Sure,” I said, putting the papers she gave me in my pocket.

She gave me the dazzling smile again. “You've made this a most interesting morning for me.”

“That's fine. People are coming out for lunch; let's get going.”

We were on the fringe of the garment district and the street started to fill up, mostly with women, many of them Puerto Ricans and/or Negroes. Miss Robbens stood near the entrance of a building, looking like a model waiting for a lunch date. I leaned against the window of a small coffeepot, packing my pipe.

Across the street, a steady stream of men and women came out of the freight-company building, which was a modest skyscraper housing a couple of dozen other concerns and dress factories. Miss Robbens walked toward me and we went through the match routine. I felt silly but as I lit my pipe she said in a fierce hammy whisper, “He's the one in the blue sweat shirt. See him?”

“Yeah. I'll phone you tonight.” She walked on and I watched her stop a cab.

Thomas was an easy make, tall and wiry with a stiff, military way of holding himself and a lean sharp face— except for his lips, which were thin and almost girlish. It was an easy face to remember, those lips and the strong square jaw. He looked about twenty-five, and if his dirty-blond hair was dyed it was a good job. He was wearing dungarees, a blue sweat shirt, and work shoes. With a couple of other young fellows, he marched into a luncheonette. Crossing the street, I read the hand-written menu pasted on the luncheonette window. Thomas was sitting at the counter, blowing on a cup of coffee. He had a cigarette behind one ear and his right cheek was pockmarked.

I went to the corner and bought an afternoon paper, looked through it, and twenty minutes later walked slowly back to the luncheonette. Thomas was lounging against the counter, the cigarette pasted to his funny lips, bulling with the other guys. From the relaxed way they were leaning against the counter, they did hard physical work: looked like pugs resting between rounds. I walked away as they came out, went across the street to lean against a parked truck and talk some more as they got a little sun. I stood in the lobby of a building, smoking my pipe and watching Thomas until he went back to work at twelve forty-five. Kay's info said he knocked off at five, leaving me free till then. Life was terrific; a month's work and I was getting it on a silver platter.

Back at the parking lot I found one of my whitewalls flat. Maybe the attendant did it because he saw a white woman with me, and maybe it was a leaky valve, as he said. My rubber was old. He kept a straight face and, since the tire wasn't cut, I had him put in a new valve and air.

Sybil works as a long-lines operator, a service assistant— a kind of foreman—and worked a split tour: 11 a.m. to 2 p.m., then back at 8 p.m. to work till 11 p.m. She liked the tour because she didn't have to get up early and actually only worked six hours although she was paid for eight. I phoned her at the public phone in the locker room, left a message with some girl that I'd pick her up at two. I called Sid to thank him for recommending me, and to get a line on Miss Robbens, but he was out.

With an hour to kill I phoned Ted Bailey, but he was busy on another skip-tracing job in the Village. I told him to be in front of his building in a few minutes, I'd drive him downtown.

When I got out of the army in '48 and went to N.Y.U. on the G.I. Bill, I told Sid I needed a part-time job and he had Bailey take me on as a weekend guard at the department store. Sid is a real sweet guy; he was a pilot and we got drunk together in Rome back in '45, have been friends ever since. Bailey ran a fairly big agency, used seven men in the department store, and was okay. Didn't treat me any different than the rest of his men—he was huffy with all of us. I was called back into service in '50, and when I came out in '53—lucky enough not to go to Korea—the store had its own guards. They were using one of Ted's men for the Friday and Saturday rush. Ted said it wasn't worth bothering with, gave me the job, which was how and why I started my own agency.

Ted was waiting for me; I didn't have to double-park. He dresses and looks like a fat hick. Actually he's a rough oscar and far from stupid—as a dick. I get a bang out of the way he speaks in grunts—as if talking was a waste of time.

As he sat down beside me I saw he was still wearing old-fashioned high shoes. Ted said, “What a car for an investigator. An operator should have an ordinary buggy— nothing stands out like this. Jeez, what seats—like I'd slipped off a bar stool. Get my letter?”

“Thanks. I'll work on it tomorrow. Kind of busy now. Where do you want to go?”

“Drop me at Sheridan Square. So you're busy, Toussaint?”

He never called me Touie. “Things have picked up.”

“You're lucky. Whole damn racket is changing. Today you can't make your pork chops unless you're a regular mechanical whiz, and even then you need contracts. I just hired me a kid who got busted out of engineering school.”

“That's what I want to talk about. I'm thinking of expanding.”

He pulled out a cigar and began chewing on it. “Expand where? Why stay in this two-bit racket? Ain't enough money in Harlem to make it worth your while.”

“That's what I mean by expanding—out of Harlem.”

“Naw, naw. Too many guys in the game now. No work. Divorce stuff, skip tracing, guard duty; they don't amount to a hill of beans. Burns, Pinkerton, Holmes have the big guard jobs sewed up. Know why I hired this engineer, why I'm paying him as much as I take home? Only money around these days is in industrial spying. For that you need bugs and recorders and all kinds of electrical gadgets, and it adds up to nothing but a lousy overhead unless you got an 'in.'”

“Are you getting any of this industrial gravy?”

He gave his cold cigar a workout between his teeth as he said, “I'm getting the wrong end of the stick. Toussaint, in the old days, if a guy was sober and willing to put in hours, he could make a fair living, even big money if he wanted to be a rat and labor fink. Now... I got a... a small manufacturer, coming out with a new cheap line. His success will depend on when a competitor, the big company in the business, puts their product on the market. You see, if my boy comes out first, the big company can undersell him, so he has to catch them when they're in full production and no time to cut his throat. All he can pay is a lousy grand.”

“What's lousy about a thousand bucks?”

“What I'm trying to tell you, it don't mean nothing no more. Takes me a week and plenty of dough to find out where one of the big company's executives hangs around. Then I hire a broad to pick him up and we got her joint rigged like an electrical plant, with guys outside listening to the conversation. £ got to pay for three nights of loving and whiskey before Lover says anything we can use. The nut comes out to over nine hundred bucks—where's my pork chops?”

“Why did you take it?”

“Had to; only way to get in with these industrial big boys. You should see the bunk I give out with—make a presentation, everything typed up with wide margins, in an expensive folder. This guy, he plays golf with a real big boy, washing-machine manufacturer who's interested in learning about the new models due next year. But you see me on a skip-tracing deal now, still hustling for a lousy ten bucks. Pull over there, in front of the cigar store. I'll blow.”

I double-parked and Ted got out, straightened his clothes and cursed my bucket seats. Then he said, “You're still young enough to get in something else. If there ain't nothing in the racket for us wh—downtown boys, what's in it for you?”

“I'm doing okay.”

“Sure, for this month. And next month you're bouncing drunks at dances for pennies. Toussaint, hop on that case I gave you.”

“I will. Keep your blood pressure down, Ted.”

I drove down to Canal Street and parked outside the phone building, lit my pipe. Miss Robbens said the TV studio had other work for investigators; if I buttered her up, remained her pet Negro for a while—how much of it could I get? Ted had said the main thing was contacts; she could be that. First thing I had to do was move out of my bedroom-office, put up a big-time front. It would cost but it was worth the gamble.

Sybil came out with a group of women and as usual she liked the idea of my Jaguar waiting for her, the impression we both made on the other women—all of them white. Although my darkness was a real “problem” to Sybil, with the phone-company white girls she made a point of giving me a big fat kiss whenever I picked her up, as if to prove she was a Negro and proud of it, and all that.

Opening the door, I watched her walk toward the car, the sway of her solid hips. I hadn't seen her for two days and now she had a blond streak in her auburn hair—the newest style. It looked phony on her.

Sybil was what my old man used to call “tinted whites”: her skin was a creamy white and her hair was “good” (an expression that used to make the old man mount his soapbox at once). I suppose Sybil could have easily “passed.” She had the kind of colour and features that if you saw her in Harlem you'd assume she was “coloured.” If you saw her downtown you might think she was Spanish, if you thought about it at all. When I was out with Sybil I often collected the same kind of “looks” I'd picked up with Kay. I suppose the reason Sybil didn't pass was her old-fashioned ideas about colour—the prestige she thought her lightness gave her in Harlem.

Sybil was a habit with me. We had been going together for about three years. Her parents were from one of the islands and when she was a kid in Washington, D.C., Sybil had tried hard to lose her accent; now she worked harder at keeping it, spoke with a kind of clipped English. She was twenty-nine years old, had married a jerk when she was a kid, worked in an aircraft factory during the war to put her husband through med school. When the army took over his education this louse divorced Sybil and married a Chicago widow who owned real estate. Sybil was a habit, as I said, and most times a very comfortable habit. We hit it off, although sometimes her phony standards made me go straight up. Like the few times I'd realized how she felt about my dark skin, or like she would never come to my room, although Roy and Ollie knew all about us.

We kissed, her mouth cool, a good smell of perfume about her. “This is a surprise, Touie.”

Cutting across Canal to the highway, I said, “I was downtown on a case. A big fish, honey. I'm going to make fifteen hundred dollars!” As we raced up the highway, the Hudson rough and cold looking, I told her as much about the case as I could. Then my ideas about opening a real office downtown, perhaps going to school for a month or so to learn about these electrical gadgets.

Sybil thought I ought to pay up my debts, bank the rest, forget my big ideas. But of course she was thrilled about me getting the dough and we were doing fine. Two mistakes. I mean driving along the Hudson in my Jag.

We reached her brownstone basement one-room “apartment”—with a view of the river, if you stuck your head far enough out the window to break your neck (and for which she was paying seventy-two dollars a month). As I took off my coat and tie, I mentioned the post-office deal. That tore it.

“Oh, Touie, darling!” Sybil said, putting everything she had into a big hug. “That's the real news. When do you start?”

“I don't know,” I said, kissing her, running my hands through her soft hair. And wondering, for no damn reason, how many generations it took to produce her creamy skin. “I don't even know if I'm going to take it.”

I felt her tighten up before she stepped back out of my arms. “Why not? It's civil service, what we've always talked about.”

“Sure, S.O.P. for a Negro. That's why they call the main post office Uncle Tom's Cabin. Sybil, honey, this TV contract changes things. This is my big chance to start a real agency.”

“You sound like a little boy infatuated with private eyes,” she said coldly, taking off her coat. She was wearing a simple striped blouse and skirt that showed off her chunky figure. Sybil was very style conscious, mainly because she had this crazy idea a coloured woman had to prove she knew how to dress. The trouble was, often the “latest” styles weren't intended for Sybil's solid figure.

Hanging up my jacket I took out my wallet. “How much do I owe you, honey?”

She pulled back the Japanese screen from the kitchenette, started the coffee working. “Thirty-five dollars.”

I gave her fifty bucks extra. “Buy yourself something.”

Very pleased, she thanked me with a tiny kiss, pocketed the money, and went on with her cooking. I started on my specialty—a tossed salad.

She put on eggs and sausages, humming to herself. I knew exactly how her mind was working. As if I were an excited kid that needed cooling off, a moment later she said, “Touie, this is your big opportunity, so let's not talk nonsense. You'll sub for a few years, but even so, you'll be making about four thousand, and what with my job we can easily afford a new apartment, perhaps in the houses being built on 125th Street, interracial, too. We'll buy all new furniture, and a new car. Or a house out in St. Albans with—”

“What's wrong with my Jag?”

“Nothing, but in time we'll buy a new one. Darling, this is security, you know that as well as I do.”

“A top detective agency, that can mean real folding money.”

“All right, get it out of your system, talk about it. Be honest, dear, you only got into the detective business by chance. What do you really know about it?”

“Told you, one of the things I'm going to use the dough for, study up on these electrical things. Hon, the private-eye business has changed. Now it's finding out for CBS what new programs NBC has in mind. Big-money stuff. Ted Bailey gave me the lowdown today.”

“I suppose these big concerns are waiting to give the business to you—a black boy?”

“Seems to me I landed this new assignment just because I am coloured.” I don't like light-skinned people, even Sybil, calling me black.

“Touie Moore, all the time I've known you, you've been rubbing pennies together. If you weren't living in that dump with those other two no-goods, you'd have been on the street most of the time. Only real job you have is that department-store weekend thing, gives you a great big twenty a week. Bouncer, guard—how degrading can you get? Let's face it, you paid tax on seventeen hundred dollars last year. I never could understand why you insist on sticking to your badge. You're personable, well dressed, you could have made double that as a sales clerk. You told me yourself this Sid offered you such a job. But no, Dick Tracy has to keep on playing cops and robbers.”

“At least my time was my own, and now it's going to pay off.”

“What time was your own? Staying up all night at dances, holding up drunks, getting vomited on? You took all these civil-service exams because you know in your heart detective work is a blind alley.”

I set up the bridge table as she took out the dishes, opened a bottle of beer. “Sybil, I'm not saying it's been easy, or that I can make it. But neither am I rushing into carrying mail for the rest of my life. I want to think it over, carefully.”

“Go ahead, but there's nothing to think about. And let's not argue while we eat. It's bad for the digestion.”

We ate listening to radio music and I was mixed up. I could understand her point; hell, she'd been making triple my income for years. Still, I couldn't dismiss the agency idea as if Miss Robbens had never been in my office.

While I washed the dishes Sybil went into the large closet she called a dressing room, and which at one time had been the pantry of the house. I was sitting on the couch, lighting my pipe, when Sybil stepped out in a long lacy nothing, modeling it for my benefit. She came over, tripping like a Maltese kitten, sat on my lap, gently pulled the pipe from my mouth and planted a long hot kiss.

Sybil and I were most compatible, but now it left me cold. I was getting the full treatment, very full. I lifted her off my lap, dropped her beside me. Her eyes were big with surprise, maybe mocking me. I said, “Let's talk sense. You see, honey, another thing I thought we could do with the money is get married.”

“We'll get married the day you're appointed a regular carrier.”

I puffed on my pipe hard. If you can't get a doctor or undertaker, marry a civil-service worker, live in the Installment rut. “I asked you to marry me a year ago; why did you say no? Be honest.”

“I wasn't sure I was in love with you.”

“Honey, you haven't been seeing any other John, so that sounds phony to me. Was it because I'm dark?”

She shrugged. “Touie, what are you trying to make me say? All right, when I first knew you, I admit I didn't like the idea you were dark. But that certainly wasn't why I turned you down, why I'm doing it now. Touie, you know how hard it is for our people to land decent jobs, and when one does, she has to be careful—so many men want to marry her for a meal ticket.”

“That's stupid.”

“Touie Moore, don't you talk to me like that in my house! And it isn't stupid. You know what I went through with my louse of a husband. Seems when a man can't find himself, he finds me. I don't want—”

“I'm not your ex-husband.”

“And I never want you to be. Suppose we married now, you'd move in here and long as I kept my job you could play detective the rest of your life. I'm not saying you're lazy, Touie, because you're not. But we'd never get anyplace.”

“Where's 'anyplace,' Sybil?”

“You know what I mean; with a steady double income, we can live well. Touie, you're almost thirty-five. It's time you settled down. I know, the war ruined your chances for professional football, and the five or seven years you were an army officer—a nice vacation. This is the first civil-service job you've been called for; you simply can't pass it up!”

“You sound like I'm on relief.”

“You want honest talk? You aren't far from relief. Ollie carries your rent, I feed you. The Jaguar, the good clothes —that's all empty front.”

That hit me like a jab to the stomach. “And what the devil is living in a swank apartment, joining these dicty social clubs, the drunken dances, but a front? Sybil, the main thing is our being together. Marriage has to be more than a money partnership.”

“Movie dialogue, Touie, white movie dialogue. What's wrong in wanting to live in a new apartment? God knows I've lived in enough old rooms and run-down flats!”

“Nothing. I'm sick of hand-me-down apartments too. If my agency goes over big, if we give it a chance, we could live like that.”

“That's a dream; a post-office check is real.” She yawned, raised her arms and stretched with a soft lazy motion. “Don't argue, Touie. My goodness, if it makes you happy, keep the detective agency going in your spare time.”

I was too restless to sit, I walked around the room, flexing my muscles. The trouble was, Sybil was right; I did have a romantic conception of marriage. Still, she was making it too much cold turkey—now that I had the P.O. job she'd let me in as a full partner.

Sybil was watching me through half-closed eyes. With a catlike movement she stretched out on the couch, her arms under her head. “Think it over for a day or two; you'll see I'm right. Come here, muscles. Come over here.”

It was too corny. “I'm too tense for sleep.”

She gave me a knowing smile that said I was being silly; that I knew I'd come to her. “Then get me a cover. I'll get some sleep. I'm working overtime tonight.”

I covered her with a blanket, turned and walked over to the window. She called me once, softly, then a few minutes later she was sleeping. Sybil could sleep any time. I swung the TV around, tuned it in low, watched some overbright comic for a while. I felt lousy. Maybe it wasn't love, but I wanted to marry her. Was it wrong to also expect some sparkle instead of a merger of salary checks? Was that kid stuff? Might even take a honeymoon when Sybil had her vacation, fly out to L.A. and see my mother, who was living with my older sister and the stuffed-shirt dentist she'd married.

I went over to Sybil's dresser, got some stationery, wrote Ma a short letter, enclosed two twenties—first time I'd sent her money in a year. I didn't have a stamp. I quietly went through Sybil's bag and found one. At four I washed up, considered shaving, changed my shirt, and took off. After making sure the Jaguar was locked, I rode the subway downtown. I had to take Robert Thomas home and put him to bed, and it's impossible to tail anybody with a car in New York City.

I was in a real funk. It wasn't just thinking about Sybil that made me so blue. Another faint thought had been knocking at the back of my mind all afternoon: I'd always drawn the line at fink work and here I was... doing what? A lousy human bloodhound tracking a joker who had jammed himself years ago but seemed to have straightened out. I was getting set to send him to jail.... For the sake of justice? No, in order to sell more cereal or pimple cream, or whatever this TV sponsor peddled.

TRAILING a person in a five-o'clock rush is candy. Thomas was wearing an old windbreaker over his blue sweat shirt and a knitted cap. He was in a big rush. After grabbing a fast sandwich and cup of coffee at the same dump where he ate lunch, he actually ran to the subway. It was packed and I let myself be crushed into the same car he was riding, but at the other end. Looking over the heads of the other passengers, I kept the knit cap in view.

Thomas-Tutt wasn't going home. He got off at downtown Brooklyn and raced up the steps of an old squat building that was dark except for the lights of a trade school on the second floor. Making a note of the address and time, I went across the street and leaned against a building. Almost all the nearby stores were shut and the neighborhood was quiet, empty of people—especially coloured people. I got my pipe going. Although I couldn't see Thomas, I saw other young fellows working on the second floor. Some sort of electrical work; there were frequent flashes and sparks.

A young cop came by, swinging his club. He looked Italian. I tried to recall why I hadn't taken the police exam. Probably over-age. He glanced at me casually and I knew what he was thinking—what's this Negro hanging around here for? Only he wasn't thinking the word Negro. If I'd been roughly dressed, he probably would have asked me.

I smoked through another pipe, thinking of Sybil, trying to clarify my thoughts about her, about us. It was after seven and I was getting tired of standing around. I didn't have to do all this, I could wait at Thomas' home address, but I wanted to know all I could about him. The cop came back, walked over to me, said, “Looks like a cold night.”

“Guess it does,” I said, tightening up inside, a reflex action. I didn't want to have to flash my gold badge.

“Waiting for somebody?”

I nodded.

“Maybe you don't know this neighborhood—there's an all-night stool joint a couple of stores down. Be warmer.”

I relaxed all at once. “Thanks. I'm waiting for a friend of mine at the school over there.”

“They don't come out till eight. Welding school. Good trade to learn.”

“Maybe I will wait over some coffee. Thanks, officer.”

The coffeepot had a sad light in the window, which was why I hadn't noticed it before, and an even sadder-looking old man behind the counter. His face was full of wrinkles but his bald dome was tight-smooth. I sat on the first stool so I ordered the day's special—pot roast—and that was okay. I could see the school entrance across the street through the dirty window. I had another cup of coffee, paid the old man, picked up an evening paper he had on the other side of the counter. Miss Robbens' horse hadn't come in; neither had mine.

I wasn't much of a detective. While I was looking at the paper, eight o'clock came by, and Thomas and seven other young fellows came out of the school, talking loudly, and damn if they didn't head straight for this stool joint. His seeing me was the last thing I wanted but there wasn't time to get out. I motioned for a third cup of Java and went on reading the paper. They trooped in, kidding the silent old man, and Thomas went to the John. When he returned there was only one empty stool—next to me, of course.

He didn't sit; instead he stood behind one of the other fellows, and ordered pie and coffee. In the dull mirror on the wall behind the counter I saw one of the students give out with a big dumb grin as he asked, “What's the matter, Tutt? Sit down, Rebel.”

“Why sure, you bet I'll sit,” Thomas-Tutt said, with a very slight drawl.

My shoulders and hips were never meant for counter stools, and he had to squeeze in and brush up against me even to sit down. I tried to give him room, leaned as far away from him as possible, didn't react when he dug my shoulder harder with his elbow than I thought necessary.

He was still cramped in, could hardly bring his spoon up to his mouth. He kept on grumbling, half aloud, something about ”... they take over...” and the loud mouth at the other end egged him on with “You ain't eating fast, Rebel, lost your appetite?” I kept my face buried in the paper, trying to ignore them, which probably encouraged them. Finally Thomas spilled some coffee on himself, gave me a dig in the ribs as he reached over for a napkin, said in a disgusted voice, “Where Ah come from, this wouldn't happen!”

The joint was very quiet and I looked over the top of the paper, watched him take another spoonful of coffee and, with a big wink at the rest of the jerks, clumsily-on-purpose spill it on my sleeve.

It would only be worse if I didn't do something, so I stood up suddenly, knocking him against the next guy, said, “Relax, you're up North now and wearing shoes.”

It was the dumbest thing I could do, but I just couldn't hold myself in. If a rumble started and that cop was called, I'd have to show my badge and that would be the end of the job. I suppose what I should have done was walk out.

There was another absolute silence; perhaps my size made Loud-mouth stop grinning. But I'd already made the mistake; now Thomas had to make a play. He said, “You damn nigger!” and got up swinging his right. I caught his hand, twisted it hard behind his back, still facing his buddies. The pain made Thomas double over and when he tried to kick back at me I pulled him up sharply, then let go suddenly. He fell to the floor and his hat came off.

I said, “That wasn't smart. I have a lot of size on you. Behave and take it slow. I'm not looking for trouble.”

“I'll kill you!” he said, the phony drawl gone from his voice.

“If you get up, kid, you'll get hurt.”

His right hand went to his back pocket, he started to get up, then he ran his left hand through his blond hair and sat down. Big-mouth said, “Don't get in an uproar, Mister. He didn't mean nothing.”

“I know he didn't; that's why I don't want him to get up—and get hurt. Or you punks to get any childish ideas about rushing me.” I tossed a dime on the counter, for the last cup of Java, said, “It's all been good clean fun, fellows,” and walked out.