'And when he left here he went directly to work?'
'Yas suh, you find him right dar on de job. He a good boy and always mind me what Ah say.'
'And your roomers, where are they?'
'They is in they room, suh. Hit's in the front. They got visitors with 'em.'
'Visitors?'
'Gals.'
'Oh!' Then to his assistants he said, 'Come on.'
They went through the middle room like hounds on a hot scent. The sergeant tried the handle to the front- room door without knocking, found it locked and hammered angrily.
'Who's that?' Sheik asked.
'The police.'
Sheik unlocked the door. The cops rushed in. Sheik's eyes glittered.
'What the hell do you keep your door locked for?' the sergeant asked.
'We didn't want to be disturbed.'
Four pairs of eyes quickly scanned the room.
Two teenaged colored girls sat side by side on the bed, leafing through a colored picture magazine. Another youth stood looking out the open window at the excitement on the street.
'Who the hell you think you're kidding with this phony stage setting?' the sergeant roared.
'Not you, ace,' Sheik said flippantly.
The sergeant's hand flicked out like a whip, passing inches in front of Sheik's eyes.
Sheik jumped back as though he'd been scalded.
'Jagged to the gills,' the sergeant said, looking minutely about the room. His eyes lit on Choo-Choo's half- smoked package of Camels on the table. 'Dump out those fags,' he ordered a cop, watching Sheik's reaction. 'Never mind,' he added. 'The bastard's got rid of them.'
He closed in on Sheik like a prizefighter and shoved his red sweaty face within a few inches of Sheik's. His veined blue eyes bored into Sheik's pale yellow eyes.
'Where's that A-rab costume?' he asked in a browbeating voice.
'What Arab costume? Do I look like an A-rab to you?'
'You look like a two-bit punk to me. You got the eyes of a yellow cur.'
'You ain't got no prize-winning eyes yourself.'
'Don't give me none of your lip, punk; I'll knock out your teeth.'
'I could knock out your teeth too if I had on a sergeant's uniform and three big flatfeet backing me up.'
The cops stared at him from blank shuttered faces.
'What do they call you, Mo-hammed or Nasser?' the sergeant hammered.
'They call me by my name, Samson.'
'Samson what?'
'Samson Hyers.'
'Don't give me that crap; we know you're one of those Moslems.'
'I ain't no Moslem; I'm a cannibal.'
'Oh, so you think you're a comedian.'
'You the one asking the funny questions.'
'What's that other punk's name?'
'Ask him.'
The sergeant slapped him with such force it sounded like a. 22-caliber shot.
Sheik reeled back from the impact of the slap but kept his feet. Blood darkened his face to the color of beef liver; the imprint of the sergeant's hand glowed purple red. His pale yellow eyes looked wildcat crazy. But he kept his lip buttoned.
'When I ask you a question I want you to answer it,' the sergeant said.
He didn't answer.
'You hear me?'
He still didn't answer.
The sergeant loomed in front of him with both fists cocked like red meat axes.
'I want an answer.'
'Yeah, I hear you,' Sheik muttered sullenly.
'Frisk him,' the sergeant ordered the professor, then to the other two cops; said, 'You and Price start shaking down this room.'
The professor set to work on Sheik methodically, as though searching for lice, while the other cops started dumping dresser drawers onto the table.
The sergeant left them and turned his attention to ChooChoo.
'What kind of Moslem are you?'
Choo-Choo started grinning and fawning like the original Uncle Tom.
'I ain't no Moslem, boss, I'se just a plain old unholy roller.'
'I guess your name is Delilah.'
'He-he, naw suh boss, but you're warm, It's Justice Broome.'
All three cops looked about and grinned, and the sergeant had to clamp his jaws to keep from grinning too.
'You know these Moslems?'
'What Moslems, boss?'
'The Harlem Moslems in this neighbourhood.'
'Naw suh, boss, I don't know no Moslems in Harlem.'
'You think I was born yesterday? They a neighbourhood gang. Every black son of a bitch in this neighbourhood knows who they are.'
'Everybody 'cept me, boss.'
The sergeant's palm flew out and caught Choo-Choo unexpectedly on the mouth while it was still open in a grin. It didn't rock his short thick body, but his eyes rolled back in their sockets. He spit blood on the floor.
'Boss, suh, please be careful with my chops — they're tender.'
'I'm getting damn tired of your lying.'
'Boss, I swear 'fore God, if I knowed anything 'bout them Moslems you'd be the first one I'd tell it to.'
'What do you do?'
'I works, boss, yes suh.'
'Doing what?'
'I helps out.'
'Helps out with what? You want to lose some of your pearly teeth?'
'I helps out a man who writes numbers.'
'What's his name?'
'His name?'
The sergeant cocked his fists.
'Oh, you mean his name, boss. Hit's Four-Four Row.'
'You call that a name?'
'Yas suh, that's what they calls him.'
'What does your buddy do?'
'The same thing,' Sheik said.
The sergeant wheeled on him. 'You keep quiet; when I want you I'll call you.' Then he said to the professor, 'Can't you keep that punk quiet?'
The professor unhooked his sap. 'I'll quiet him.'
'I don't want you to quiet him; just keep him quiet. I got some more questions for him.' Then he turned back to Choo-Choo. 'When do you punks work?'
'In the morning, boss. We got to get the numbers in by noon.'
'What do you do the rest of the day?'
