Chief.'
'Why Bucky's?'
'I seen him come in here once with a pimp what hangs 'round in Bucky's.'
'What's his name?'
'I don't recollect his name, Chief. They driv up in his car and just stopped for a minute like they was looking for somebody and went out and drive away.'
'Don't play with me,' Grave Digger said with a sudden show of anger. 'This ain't the movies; this is real. A white man has been killed in Harlem and Harlem is my beat. I'll take you down to the station and turn a dozen white cops loose on you and they'll work you over until the black comes off.'
'Name's Ready Belcher, Chief, but I don't want nobody to know I told you,' Big Smiley said in a whisper. 'I don't want no trouble with that starker.'
'Ready,' Grave Digger said and got down from his stool.
He didn't know much about Ready; just that he operated up-town on the swank side of Harlem, above 145th Street in Washington Heights.
He drove up to the 154th Street precinct station at the corner of Amsterdam Avenue and asked for his friend, Bill Cresus. Bill was a colored detective on the vice squad. No one knew where Bill was at the time. He left word for Bill to contact him at Bucky's if he called within the hour. Then he got into his car and coasted down the sharp incline to St. Nicholas Avenue and turned south down the lesser incline past 149th Street.
Outwardly it was a quiet neighbourhood of private houses and five- and six-story apartment buildings flanking the wide black-paved street. But the houses had been split up into bed-sized one-room kitchenettes, renting for $25 weekly, at the disposal of frantic couples who wished to shack up for a season. And behind the respectable-looking facades of the apartment buildings were the plush flesh cribs and poppy pads and circus tents of Harlem.
The excitement of the dragnet hadn't reached this far and the street was comparatively empty.
He coasted to a stop before a sedate basement entrance. Four steps below street level was a black door with a shiny brass knocker in the shape of three musical notes. Above it red neon lights spelled out the word BUCKY'S.
It felt strange to be alone. The last time had been when Coffin Ed was in the hospital after the acid throwing. The memory of it made his head tight with anger and it took a special effort to keep his temper under wraps.
He pushed and the door opened.
People sat at white-clothed tables beneath pink-shaded wall lights in a long narrow room, eating fried chicken daintily with their fingers. There was a white party of six, several colored couples, and two colored men with white women. They looked well-dressed and reasonably clean.
The walls behind them were covered with innumerable small pink-stained pencil portraits of all the great and the near-great who had ever lived in Harlem. Musicians led nine to one.
The hat-check girl stationed in a cubicle beside the entrance stuck out her hand with a supercilious look.
Grave Digger kept his hat on and strode down the narrow aisle between the tables.
A chubby pianist with shining black skin and a golden smile who was dressed in a tan tweed sport jacket and white silk sport shirt open at the throat sat at a baby grand piano wedged between the last table and the circular bar. Soft white light spilled on his partly bald head while he played nocturnes with a bedroom touch.
He gave Grave Digger an apprehensive look, got up and followed him to the semi-darkness of the bar.
'I hope you're not on business, Digger. I pay to keep this place off-limits for cops,' he said in a fluttery voice.
Grave Digger's gaze circled the bar. Its high stools were inhabited by a varied crew: a big dark-haired white man, two slim young colored men, a short heavy-set white man with blond crew-cut hair, two dark women dressed in white silk evening gowns, a chocolate dandy in a box-backed double-breasted tuxedo sporting a shoestring dubonet bow. A high-yellow waitress waited nearby with a serving tray. Another tall, slim ebony young man presided over the bar.
'I'm just looking around, Bucky,' Grave Digger said. 'Just looking for a break.'
'Many folks have found a break in here,' Bucky said suggestively.
'I don't doubt it.'
'But that's not the kind of break you're looking for.'
'I'm looking for a break on a case. An important white man was shot to death over on Lenox Avenue a short time ago.'
Bucky gestured with lotioned hands. His manicured nails flashed in the dim light. 'What has that to do with us here? Nobody ever gets hurt in here. Everything is smooth and quiet. You can see for yourself. Genteel people dining in leisure. Fine food. Soft music. Low lights and laughter. Doesn't look like business for the police in this respectable atmosphere.'
In the pause that followed, one of the marcelled ebonies was heard saying in a lilting voice, 'I positively did not even look at her man, and she upped and knocked me over the head with a whisky bottle.'
'These black bitches are so violent,' his companion said.
'And strong, honey.'
Grave Digger smiled sourly.
'The man who was killed was a patron of yours,' he said. 'Name of Ulysses Galen.'
'My God, Digger, I don't know the names of all the ofays who come into my place,' Bucky said. 'I just play for them and try to make them happy.'
'I believe you,' Grave Digger said. 'Galen was seen about town with Ready. Does that stir your memory?'
'Ready?' Bucky exclaimed innocently. 'He hardly ever comes in here. Who gave you that notion?'
'The hell he doesn't,' Grave Digger said. 'He panders out of here.'
'You hear that!' Bucky appealed to the barman in a shrill horrified voice, then caught himself as the silence from the diners reached his sensitive ears. With hushed indignation he added, 'This flatfoot comes in here and accuses me of harboring panderers.'
'A little bit of that goes a long way, son,' Grave Digger said in his flat voice.
'Oh, that man's an ogre, Bucky,' the barman said. 'You go back to your entertaining and I'll see what he wants.' He switched over to the bar, put his hands on his hips and looked down at Grave Digger with a haughty air. 'And just what can we do for you, you mean rude grumpy man?'
The white men at the bar laughed.
Bucky turned and started off.
Grave Digger caught him by the arm and pulled him back. 'Don't make me get rough, son,' he muttered.
'Don't you dare manhandle me,' Bucky said in a low tense whisper, his whole chubby body quivering with indignation. 'I don't have to take that from you. I'm covered.'
The bartender backed away, shaking himself. 'Don't let him hurt Bucky,' he appealed to the white men in a frightened voice.
'Maybe I can help you,' the white man with the blond crew cut said to Grave Digger. 'You're a detective, aren't you?'
'Yeah,' Grave Digger said, holding on to Bucky. 'A white man was killed in Harlem tonight and I'm looking for the killer.'
The white man's eyebrows went up an inch.
'Do you expect to find him here?'
'I'm following a lead, is all. The man has been seen with a pimp called Ready Belcher who hangs out here.'
The white man's eyebrows subsided.
'Oh, Ready; I know him. But he's merely — '
Bucky cut him off: 'You don't have to tell him anything; you're protected in here.'
'Sure,' the white man said. 'That's what the officer is trying to do, protect us all.'
'He's right,' one of the evening-gowned colored women said. 'If Ready has killed some trick he was steering to Reba's the chair's too good for him.'
'Shut your mouth, woman,' the barman whispered fiercely.
