some of the best (and almost unknown) Negro dancers, especially tap dancers. One Friday night I took in the show and Lee was with me. With her drawl I was curious to see what her reaction would be to Negroes. She didn't show any reaction, being neither interested nor resentful at being with colored people—which was probably the only normal reaction she ever had. We ate in Frank's, a restaurant I like, near St. Nicholas Avenue and 125th Street, and then took in the show at the Apollo, which wasn't too good. The dance act consisted of three vigorous tap dancers who went through standard routines with a great deal of sweating and energy, and the band was much too loud and brassy. This was followed by a corny stage skit which would have been assailed (and rightfully so) as horribly chauvinistic if it had played in any downtown theatre. We left before the movie and I decided to walk across 125th Street to Madison Avenue, take the bus down.
It was about ten o'clock and the street was fairly deserted. Somewhere between Lenox and Fifth Avenues we passed one of the many bars that dot Harlem (and any other poor neighborhood) and a couple of colored men were hanging around in front of it. At the time I didn't notice them, but one of them—a slender, dark-skinned man in a worn sport jacket and slacks—stared at Lee as we passed. I didn't think anything of it, her height and size caused many men—and women—to glance at Lee. But this fellow broke away from the others, said to Lee, “Pardon but...” and then broke into some foreign language.
Lee kept walking but I stopped, and as she was holding my arm, she had to stop. She was staring at this man without showing any signs of recognition, and I was about to ask what he wanted, when he spoke again. He seemed to be friendly and I think he was speaking Italian. A strange look of intense anger flooded her big face and she yanked her arm out of mine and hit him across the face. The blow knocked him against the wall of a building and before he knew what was happening, Lee started punching and kicking him like a maniac.
For a split second his friends and I were taken by surprise, then we stared at each other for another split second—a suspicious look—only natural in a land where the colored man is a second-class citizen. I finally grabbed Lee, had trouble holding on to her arm. One of the Negro men grabbed her other arm and said, “Lee! Lee, stop it!”
The fellow was still against the wall, his face bleeding, looking bewildered and ready to pass out. The man holding her other arm said to me, “For God's sake, mister, get her out of here before the cops come and whip everybody's head!”
Lee had calmed down a little, had stopped struggling with me, but the way she stared at the beaten man gave me the shivers. I said, “Get me a cab while I hold her.”
Another man stopped a cab as a small crowd quickly gathered. Lee let me walk her to the cab and I told the driver to take us to 90th Street and Fifth Avenue. Lee sat back in the cab, refused to answer my questions except to say, “That bad man.”
“But who is he? What did he say?”
“All bad, bad,” she said fiercely, then shut up. At 90th Street I waited till the cab was out of sight, took another one down to the house. I don't know why I changed cabs; maybe I was conditioned by the movies I've seen.
Lee was upset. I wanted to dance when we got home but she refused, lay across the bed, paying no attention to me. Except for the strange language I would have thought it was her southern blood acting up, or maybe she'd seen the man in the South someplace. It was too big a puzzle for me.
She was still staring at the ceiling when I finished dancing, had my bath and dried off under the sun-lamp. I undressed her and when we went to bed, for the first time she didn't drop right off to sleep.
Fortunately the next day was Saturday and I didn't have to go to the office. About noon I left the house and took a cab to the bar on 125th Street. There were two bartenders, one of them white. I made a mistake: I went over to the white bar-keep, asked, “Where can I find the man who was involved in the fight with the lady last night?”
“Fight? Don't know what you're talking about, mac,” he said, obvious hostility in his voice. There was a small silence in the bar and I knew everybody knew what I was talking about.
“There was a scene outside here last night and...”
“I don't know nothing about what goes on outside,” he said. “125th Street is one of the busiest streets in...”
“Cut the chamber of commerce bunk,” I said, giving my voice a crisp executive edge, to see if he was impressed.
He looked me over for a moment, said softly, “I don't know what you're talking about, chief. We run a good place here, no fights, ain't looking for no trouble.”
One thing about real expensive clothes, their cost always stands out—in a quiet, conservative way. I knew he thought I was “class,” to use the trite word, he was impressed by the two-hundred-dollar suit, the thirty- dollar hat, and the Countess Mara tie I was wearing. He was running his eyes over my clothes. I said, “There isn't going to be any trouble. The man can help me, perhaps.”
He didn't say anything and the Saturday-afternoon drinkers were watching us with interest. The barkeep stood there, his face troubled. I snapped, “Look here, this man can do me a considerable favor, by merely talking to me. I'm rather anxious to find him. Of course if you won't help, I can go to some friends on the liquor board. That could be messy, possibly mean revoking your license or...”
“You just want to
“That's all. In fact, if it turns out he can help me, I'm willing to pay him for his time.”
The bartender called out to somebody at the other end of the bar, “Ed, go around 126th Street and find Ollie. Tell 'em I want to see him—now.” He turned to me as the man left the bar, said, “He'll be back in a couple minutes. Like a shot?”
I said no and lit a cigarette. He moved away to wait on a customer, then returned and put his big fat head next to mine, whispered, “You know how it is up here, got to be careful with
I didn't know how to answer him without getting angry, so I turned my back, glanced around the bar. It was fairly crowded and they were all watching me, without looking directly at me, of course. Although I'd been to Harlem many times, mostly to see the shows or night spots, this was the first time I felt like a
In about five minutes the man returned with Ollie, who was the fellow who had helped hold Lee last night. He came over to me, said in a surly voice, “What
I nodded toward a vacant table and we sat down. I asked, “Where can I find the man who was beaten up last night?”
“What you want with him? What you coming back to start a mess? Willie wasn't doing nothing and now...” He stopped, then muttered, “Ain't it enough he's beat up?”
“I'm sorry about the beating, and I'm not here to start anything. I want him to help me. He... eh... seemed to know the young lady. I'd like to find out what he knows about her.”
“You was with her, you ought to know about her.”
“Look, let's not argue about what I ought to know. I assure you I'm very sorry about the beating your friend Willie got last night. I don't know why it happened, but I'd like very much to find out. I won't cause him the slightest trouble. I only wish to speak to him.”
Ollie looked at me for a moment, then said, “Well... Okay, I'll take you to him. Maybe do some good. His wife is a little angry, you know, Willie coming home beat up and some big mouth telling her he was annoying a white chick. My God that gal sure hits.”
As we stood up, I said, “I'll make it worth your while, and Willie's.”
“You don't have to do that,” he said with a kind of weary dignity.
We walked down Lenox Avenue to 123rd Street, and west to a brownstone. Ollie rang the bell three times and soon a young, slender, coffee-colored girl opened the door, said, “It's you, huh.” She didn't think much of Ollie.
When she saw me her eyes became uneasy. Ollie said, “Come on, Daisy, let us in, this man wants to talk to Willie. He's the guy with the lady last night. He can tell you it wasn't nothing messy. How about that, mister?”
“That's right,” I said. “The young lady is a little... well... excitable at times, high strung. She turned on Mr.... Willie, for no apparent reason.”
“I'm Willie's wife,” the girl said, standing aside. When she moved she had a certain grace about her, and if she had the clothes, she would have been a very attractive kid.
I followed Willie inside the house. We went up two flights of stairs that were covered with a shabby green carpet, the girl following us. The inside of the rooming house seemed clean and neat, but it smelt of too much use, of too many people living there. As we turned into a room the girl said to me, “You'll have to excuse the way things look... with Willie sick I haven't been able to tidy up.”
The room was very small, with one window, and every bit of space being used. In a double bed that took up 90% of the room, Willie was lying, his face still bruised; and on the one chair, the narrow chest of drawers, and from a wire stretched across the room, clothes and towels were hanging. The room was smaller than my bathroom and I wondered how anybody could live in one room. (Of course I didn't know I was shortly to be living in rooms even worse than this one.)
Willie was astonished, and upset, on seeing me and as he sat up, he groaned, and his face filled with pain. Ollie said, “This man came over to the ginmill, said he wanted to see you, says you can help him. Says he ain't for making no trouble.”
“First he'd better explain to Daisy about...”
“He's already told me,” the
