in gasps. A white froth had collected in both corners of his mouth. Finally he mumbled, 'You can't take me outa here without no warrant.' 'Go ahead with the man and shut up,' Reba said quickly. He gave her a pleading look. 'You gonna let him take me outa here?' 'If he don't I'm going to throw you out myself,' she said. 'I don't want any hollering and screaming in here scaring my white clients.' 'That's gonna cost you,' Ready threatened. 'Don't threaten me, nigger,' she said dangerously. 'And don't set your foot in my door again.' 'Okay, Reba, that's the lick that killed Dick,' Ready said slowly. 'You and him got me oumumbered.' He gave her a last sullen look and turned to go. Reba walked to the door and let them out. 'I hope I get what I want,' Grave Digger said. 'If I don't I'll be back.' 'If you don't it's your own fault,' she said. He marched Ready ahead of him down the shaky stairs. The old man in the ragged red chair looked up in surprise. 'You got the wrong nigger,' he said. 'Hit ain't him what's makin' all the trouble.' 'Who is it?' Grave Digger asked. 'Hit's Cocky. He the one what's always pulling his shiv.' Grave Digger filed the information for future reference. 'I'll keep this one since he's the one I've got,' he said. 'Balls,' the old man said disgustedly. 'He's just a halfass pimp.'
10
White light coming from the street slanted upward past the edge of the roof and made a milky wall in the dark.
Beyond the wall of light the flat tar roof was shrouded in semi-darkness.
The sergeant emerged from the edge of light like a hammerhead turtle rising from the deep. In one glance he saw Sonny frantically beating a flock of panic-stricken pigeons with a long bamboo pole, and Inky standing motionless as though he'd sprouted from the tar.
'By God, now I know why they're called tarbabies!' he exclaimed.
Gripping the pole for dear life with both gauntleted hands, Sonny speared desperately at the pigeons. His eyes were white as they rolled toward the red-faced sergeant. His ragged overcoat flapped in the wind. The pigeons ducked and dodged and flew in lopsided circles. Their heads were cocked on one side as they observed Sonny's gymnastics with beady apprehension.
Inky stood like a silhouette cut from black paper, looking at nothing. The whites of his eyes gleamed in the dark.
The pigeon loft was a rickety coop about six feet high, made of scraps of chicken wire, discarded screen windows and assorted rags tacked to a frame of rotten boards propped against the low brick wall separating the roofs. It had a tarpaulin top and was equipped with precarious roosts, tin cans of rusty water, and a rusty tin feeding pan.
Blue-uniformed white cops formed a jagged semi-circle in front of it, staring at Sonny in silent and bemused amazement.
The sergeant climbed onto the roof, puffing, and paused for a moment to mop his brow.
'What's he doing, voodoo?' he asked.
'It's only Don Quixote in blackface dueling a windmill,' the professor said.
'That ain't funny,' the sergeant said. 'I like Don Quixote.'
The professor let it go.
'Is he a halfwit?' the sergeant said.
'If he's got that much,' the professor said.
The sergeant pushed to the center of the stage, but once there hesitated as though he didn't know how to begin.
Sonny looked at him through the corners of his eyes and kept working the pole. Inky stared at nothing with silent intensity.
'All right, all right, so your feet don't stink,' the sergeant said. 'Which one of you is Caleb?'
'Dass me,' Sonny said, without an instant neglecting the pigeons.
'What the hell you call yourself doing?'
'I'se teaching my pigeons how to fly.'
The sergeant's jowls began to swell. 'You trying to be funny?'
'Naw suh, I didn' mean they didn' know how to fly. They can fly all right at day but they don't know how to night fly.'
The sergeant looked at the professor. 'Don't pigeons fly at night?'
'Search me,' the professor said.
'Naw suh, not unless you makes 'em,' Inky said.
Everybody looked at him.
'Hell, he can talk,' the professor said.
'They sleeps,' Sonny added.
'Roosts,' Inky corrected.
'We're going to make some pigeons fly, too,' the sergeant said. 'Stool pigeons.'
'If they don't fly, they'll fry,' the professor said.
The sergeant turned to Inky. 'What do they call you, boy?'
'Inky,' Inky said. 'But my name's Rufus Tree.'
'So you're Inky,' the sergeant said.
'They're both Inky,' the professor said.
The cops laughed.
The sergeant smiled into his hand. Then he wheeled abruptly on Sonny and shouted, 'Sonny! Drop that pole!'
Sonny gave a violent start and speared a pigeon in the craw, but he hung on to the pole. The pigeon flew crazily into the light and kept on going. Sonny watched it until he got control of himself, then he turned slowly and looked at the sergeant with big innocent white eyes.
'You talking to me, boss?' His black face shone with sweat.
'Yeah, I'm talking to you, Sonny.'
'They don't calls me, Sonny, boss; they calls me Cal.'
'You look like a boy called Sonny.'
'Lots of folks is called Sonny, boss.'.
'What did you jump for if your name isn't Sonny? You jumped halfway out of your skin.'
'Most anybody'd jump with you hollerin' at 'em like that, boss.'
The sergeant wiped off another smile. 'You told your grandma you were going downtown to work.'
'She don't want me messin' 'round these pigeons at night. She thinks I might fall off'n the roof.'
'Where have you been since supper?'
'Right up here, boss.'
'He's just been up here about a half an hour,' one of the cops volunteered.
'Naw suh, I been here all the time,' Sonny contradicted. 'I been inside the coop.'
'Ain't nobody in heah but us pigeons, boss,' the professor cracked.
'Did you look in the coop?' the sergeant asked the cop.
The cop reddened. 'No, I didn't; I wasn't looking for a screwball.'
The sergeant glanced at the coop. 'By God, boy, your pigeons lead a hard life,' he said. Then turning suddenly to the other cops, he asked, 'Have these punks been frisked?'
'We were waiting for you,' another cop replied.
The sergeant sighed theatrically. 'Well, who are you waiting for now?'
Two cops converged on Inky with alacrity; the professor and a third cop took on Sonny.
'Put that damn pole down!' the sergeant shouted at Sonny.
'No, let him hold it,' the professor said. 'It keeps his hands up.'
'What the hell are you wearing that heavy overcoat for?' The sergeant kept on picking at Sonny. He was frustrated.
'I'se cold,' Sonny said. Sweat was running down his face in rivers.
