asked.
Anderson looked at him curiously. 'Lay off him,' he warned, 'I admit it's a stupid pitch, but it's strictly on the legitimate. The captain has questioned him and checked his licence and credentials; they're all in order. And he's got influential friends.'
'I don't doubt it,' Grave Digger said drily. 'All southern crackers got influential friends up north.'
Anderson looked down.
'The Back-to-Africa members are picketing him,' Coffin Ed said. 'They don't want that crap in Harlem.'
'The Muslims haven't bothered him,' Anderson said defensively.
'Hell, they're just giving him enough rope.'
'Just his timing is bad,' Coffin Ed argued. 'Right after this Back-to-Africa movement is hijacked he opens this go-south-and-pick-cotton pitch. If you ask me, he's looking for trouble.'
Anderson thumbed through the reports on his desk. 'Last night at ten p.m. he phoned and reported that his car had been stolen from in front of his office on Seventh Avenue. Gave his home address as Hotel Dixie on 42nd Street. A cruiser stopped by but the office was closed for the night. We gave it a routine check at midnight. The desk said he had come home at ten-thirty-five p.m. and hadn't left his suite. His nephew was with him.'
'What kind of car?' Grave Digger asked.
'Black limousine. Special body. Ferrari chassis. Birmingham, Alabama, plates. And just lay off of him. We got enough trouble as it is.'
'I'm just thinking that cotton grows in the South,' Grave Digger said.
'And tobacco grows in Cuba,' Anderson said. 'Go home and get some sleep. Whatever's going to happen has happened by now.'
'We're going, boss,' Grave Digger said. 'No more we can do tonight anyway. But don't hand us that crap. This caper has just begun.'
16
Everything happens in Harlem six days a week, but Sunday morning, people worship God. Those who are not religious stay in bed. The whores, pimps, gamblers, criminals and racketeers catch up on their sleep or their love. But the religious get up and put on their best clothes and go to church. The bars are closed. The stores are closed. The streets are deserted save for the families on their way to church. A drunk better not be caught molesting them; he'll get all the black beat off him.
All of the Sunday newspapers had carried the story of the arrest of Reverend D. O'Malley, leader of the Back-to-Africa movement, on suspicion of fraud and homicide. The accounts of the hijacking had been rehashed and pictures of O'Malley and his wife, Iris, and Mabel Hill added to the sensationalism.
As a consequence Reverend O'Malley's interdenominational church, 'The Star of Ham', on 121st Street between Seventh and Lenox Avenues, was crowded with the Back-to-Africa followers and the curious. A scattering of Irish people who had read the story in The New York Times, which didn't carry pictures, had made their way uptown, thinking Reverend O'Malley was one of them.
Reverend T. Booker Washington (no relation to the great Negro educator), the assistant minister, led the services. At first he led the congregation in prayer. He prayed for the Back-to-Africa followers, and he prayed that their money be returned; and he prayed for sinners and for good people who had been falsely accused, and for all black people who had suffered the wages of injustice.
Then he began his sermon, speaking quietly and with dignity and understanding of the unfortunate robbery, and of the tragic deaths of young Mr and Mrs Hill, members of the church and active participants in the Back-to- Africa movment. The congregation sat in hushed silence. Then Reverend Washington spoke openly and frankly of the inexplicable tragedy which seemed to haunt the life of that saintly man, Reverend O'Malley, as though God were trying him.
'It is as though God was testing this man with the trials of Job to ascertain the strength of his faith and his endurance and courage for some great task ahead.'
'Amen,' a sister said tentatively.
Reverend Washington moved carefully, sampling the reaction of his audience before proceeding to controversial ground.
'All of his life this noble and selfless man has been subjected to the cruel and biased judgement of the white people whom he defies for you.'
'Amen,' the sister cried louder and with more confidence. A few timid 'amens' echoed.
'I know Reverend O'Malley is innocent of any crime,' Reverend Washington said loudly, letting passion creep into the solemnity of his voice. 'I would trust him with my money and I would trust him with my life.'
'Amen!' the sister shouted, rising from her seat. 'He's a good man.'
The congregation warmed up. Ripples of confirmation ran through all the women.
'He will conquer this calumny of false accusation; he will be vindicated!' Reverend Washington thundered.
'Set him free!' a woman screamed.
'Justice will set him free!' Reverend Washington roared. 'And he will get back our money and lead us out of this land of oppression back to our beloved homeland in Africa.'
' Amens ' and ' hallelujas ' filled the air as the congregation was swept off its feet. In the grip of emotionalism, O'Malley appeared in their imaginations as a martyr to the injustice of whites, and a brave and noble leader.
'His chains will be broken by the Almighty God and he will come and set us free,' Reverend Washington concluded in a thundering voice.
The Back-to-Africa followers believed. They wanted to believe. They didn't have any other choice.
'Now we will take up a collection to help pay for Reverend O'Malley's defence,' Reverend Washington said in a quiet voice. 'And we will delegate Brother Sumners to take it to him in his hour of Gethsemane.'
Five hundred and ninety-seven dollars was collected and Brother Sumners was charged to go forthwith and present it to Reverend O'Malley. The precinct station where O'Malley was being held for the magistrate's court was only a few blocks distant. Brother Sumners returned with word from O'Malley before the service had adjourned. He could scarcely contain his sense of importance as he mounted the rostrum and brought them word from their beloved minister.
'Reverend O'Malley is spending the day in his cell praying for you, his beloved followers — for all of us — and for the speedy return of your money, and for our safe departure for Africa. He says he will be taken to court Monday morning at ten o'clock when he will be freed to return to you and continue his work.'
'Lord, protect him and deliver him,' a sister cried, and others echoed: 'Amen, amen.'
The congregation filed out, filled with faith in Reverend O'Malley, blended with compassion and a sense of satisfaction for their own good deed of sending him the big collection.
On many a table there was chicken and dumplings or roast pork and sweet potatoes, and crime took a rest.
Grave Digger and Coffin Ed always slept late on Sundays, rarely stirring from bed before six o'clock in the evening. Sunday and Monday were their days off unless they were working on a case, and they had decided to let the hijacking case rest until Monday.
But Grave Digger had dreamed that a blind man had told him he had seen a bale of cotton run down Seventh Avenue and turn into a doorway, but he awakened before the blind man told him what doorway. There was a memory knocking at his mind, trying to get in. He knew it was important but it had not seemed so at the time. He lay for a time going over in detail all that they had done. He didn't find it; it didn't come. But he had a strong feeling that if he could remember this one thing he would have all the answers.
He got up and slipped on a bathrobe and went to the kitchen and got two cans of beer from the refrigerator.
'Stella,' he called his wife, but she had gone out.
