'If Reverend O'Malley gets hurt, it will be God's will,' she repeated dutifully in a low voice.
'We must all bow to God's will.'
'We must all bow to God's will.'
With his free hand he opened her legs.
'God's will must be served,' he said.
'God's will must be served,' she repeated.
'This is God's will,' he said hypnotically.
'This is God's will,' she repeated trance-like.
When he penetrated her she believed it was God's will and she cried, 'Oh-oh! I think you're wonderful!'
7
Grave Digger drove east on 113th Street to Seventh Avenue and Harlem showed another face. A few blocks south was the north end of Central Park and the big kidney-shaped lagoon; north of 116th Street was the 'Avenue' — the lush bars and night clubs, Shalimar, Sugar Ray's, Dickie Well's, Count Basie's, Small's, The Red Rooster, The Hotel Theresa, the National Memorial Book Store (World History Book Outlet on 600,000,00 °Colored People); the beauty parlors (hairdressers); the hash joints (home cooking); the undertakers and the churches. But here, at 113th Street, Seventh Avenue was deserted at this late hour of the night and the old well-kept stone apartment buildings were dark.
Coffin Ed telephoned the station from the car and got Lieutenant Anderson. 'Anything new?'
'Homicide got a colored taxi driver who picked up three white men and a colored woman outside of Small's and drove them to an address far out on Bedford Avenue in Brooklyn. He said the men didn't look like people who go to Small's and the woman was just a common prostitute.'
'Give me his address and the firm he works for.'
Anderson gave him the information but said, 'That's Homicide's baby. We got nothing on O'Hara. What's your score?'
'We're going to Hijenks' shooting gallery looking for a junkie called Loboy who might know something.'
'Hijenks. That's up on Edgecombe at the Roger Morris, isn't it?'
'He's moved down on Eight. Why don't the Feds knock him off? Who's he paying?'
'Don't ask me; I'm a precinct lieutenant.'
'Well, look for us when we get there.'
They drove down to 110th Street and turned back to Eighth Avenue and filled in the square. Near 112th Street they passed an old junk man pushing his cart piled high with the night's load.
'Old Uncle Bud,' said Coffin Ed. 'Shall we dig him a little?'
'What for? He won't co-operate; he wants to keep on living.' They parked the car and walked to the bar on the corner of 113th Street. A man and a woman stood at the head of the bar, drinking beer and swapping chatter with the bartender. Grave Digger kept on through to the door marked 'Toilet' and went inside. Coffin Ed stopped at the middle of the bar. The bartender looked quickly towards the toilet door and hastened towards Coffin Ed and began wiping the spotless bar with his damp towel.
'What's yours, sir?' he asked. He was a thin tall, stooped-shouldered, light-complexioned man with a narrow moustache and thinning straight hair. He looked neat in a white jacket and black tie; far too neat for that neck of the woods, Coffin Ed thought.
'Bourbon on the rocks.' The bartender hesitated for an instant and Coffin Ed added, 'Two.' The bartender looked relieved.
Grave Digger came back from the toilet as the bartender was serving the drinks.
'You gentlemen are new around here, aren't you?' the bartender asked conversationally.
'We aren't, but you are,' Grave Digger said.
The bartender smiled noncomittally.
'You see that mark down there on the bar?' Grave Digger said. 'I made it ten years ago.'
The bartender looked down the bar. The wooden bar was covered with marks — names, drawings, signatures. 'What mark?'
'Come here, I'll show you,' Grave Digger said, going down to the end of the bar.
The bartender followed slowly, curiosity overcoming caution. Coffin Ed followed him. Grave Digger pointed at the only unmarked spot on the entire bar. The bartender looked. The couple at the front of the bar had stopped talking and stared curiously.
'I don't see nothing,' the bartender said.
'Look closer,' Grave Digger said, reaching inside his coat.
The bartender bent over to look more closely. 'I still don't see nothing.'
'Look up then,' Grave Digger said.
The bartender looked up into the muzzle of Grave Digger's long-barreled, nickel-plated. 38. His eyes popped from their sockets and he turned yellow-green.
'Keep looking,' Grave Digger said.
The bartender gulped but couldn't find his voice. The couple at the head of the bar, thinking it was a stickup, melted into the night. It was like magic, one instant they were there the next instant they were gone.
Chuckling, Coffin Ed went through the 'Toilet' and opened the 'Closet' and gave the signal on the nail holding a dirty rag. The nail was a switch and a light flashed in the entrance hallway upstairs where the lookout sat, reading a comic book. The lookout glanced at the red bulb which should flash the bartender's signal that strangers were downstairs. It didn't flash. He pushed a button and the back door in the closet opened with a soft buzzing sound. Coffin Ed opened the door to the bar and beckoned to Grave Digger, then jumped back to the door upstairs to keep it from closing.
'Good night,' Grave Digger said to the bartender.
The bartender was about to reply but lights went on in his head and briefly he saw the Milky Way before the sky turned black. A junkie was coming from outside when he saw Grave Digger hit the bartender alongside the head and without putting down his foot turned on his heel and started to run. The bartender slumped down behind the bar, unconscious. Grave Digger had only hit him hard enough to knock him out. Without another look, he leapt towards the 'Toilet' and followed Coffin Ed through the concealed door in the 'Closet' up the narrow stairs.
There was no landing at the top of the stairs and the door was the width of the stairway. There was no place to hide.
Halfway up, Grave Digger took Coffin Ed by the arm. 'This is too dangerous for guns; let's play it straight,' he whispered.
Coffin Ed nodded.
They walked up the stairs and Grave Digger knocked out the signal and stood in front of the peephole so he could be seen.
Inside was a small front hallway furnished with a table littered with comic books; above hung a rack containing numerous pigeonholes where weapons were placed before the addicts were allowed into the shooting gallery. A padded chair was drawn up to the table where the lookouts spent their days. On the left side of the door there were several loose nails in the doorframe. The top nail was the switch that blinked the lights in the shooting gallery in case of a raid. The lookout peered at Grave Digger with a finger poised over the the blinker. He didn't recognize him.
'Who're you?' he asked.
Grave Digger flashed his shield and said, 'Detectives Jones and Johnson from the precinct.'
'What you want?'
'We want to talk to Hijenks.'
'Beat it, coppers, there ain't nobody here by that name.'
'You want me to shoot this door open?' Coffin Ed flared. 'Don't make me laugh,' the lookout said. 'This door is bulletproof and you can't butt it down.'
'Easy, Ed,' Grave Digger cautioned, then to the lookout: 'All right, son, we'll wait.'
