He drank one can of beer and prowled about the house, holding the other in his hand. He was looking inward, searching his memory. A cop without a memory is like meat without potatoes, he was thinking.
His two daughters were away at camp. The house felt like a tomb. He sat in the living-room and leafed through the Saturday edition of the Sentinel, Harlem's twice-weekly newspaper devoted to the local news. The hijacking story took up most of the front page. There were pictures of O'Malley and Iris, and of John and Mabel Hill. O'Malley's racketeer days and prison record were hammered on and the claim he had been marked for death by the Syndicate. There were stories about his Back-to-Africa movement, bordering on libel, and stories of the Back-to- Africa movement of L.H. Michaux, handled with discretion; and stories of the original Back-to-Africa movement of Marcus Garvey, containing some bits of information that Garvey hadn't known himself. He turned the pages and his gaze lit on an advertisement for the Cotton Club, showing a picture of Billie Belle doing her exotic cotton dance. I've got cotton on the brain, he thought disgustedly and threw the paper aside.
He went to the telephone extension in the hall, from where he could look outdoors, and called the precinct station in Harlem and talked to Lieutenant Bailey, who was on Sunday duty. Bailey said, no, Colonel Calhoun's car had not been found, no, there was no trace of Uncle Bud, no, there was no trace of the two gunmen of Deke's who had escaped.
'The noes have it,' Bailey said.
'Well, as long as the head's gone they can't bite,' Grave Digger said.
Coffin Ed phoned and said his wife, Molly, had gone out with Stella, and he was coming over.
'Just don't let's talk about crime,' Grave Digger said. 'Let's go down to the pistol range at headquarters and practise shooting,' Coffin Ed suggested. 'I've just got through cleaning the old lady.'
'Hell, let's drink some highballs and get gay and take the ladies out on the town,' Grave Digger said.
'Right. I won't mind being gay, for a change.'
The phone rang right after Coffin Ed hung up. Lieutenant Bailey said the Back-to-the-Southland people were assembling a group of colored people in front of their office for a parade down Seventh Avenue and there might be trouble.
'You and Ed better come over,' he said. 'The people know you.'
Grave Digger called back Coffin Ed and told him to bring the car as Stella had taken his. Coffin Ed arrived before he had finished dressing, and they got into his gray Plymouth sedan and took off for Harlem. Forty-five minutes later they were rapidly threading through the Sunday afternoon traffic, heading north on Seventh Avenue.
A self-ordained preacher was standing on the sidewalk outside the Chock Full o' Nuts at 125th Street and Seventh Avenue, exhorting the passersby to take Jesus to their hearts. 'Ain't no two ways about it,' he was shouting. 'The right one is with God and Jesus and the wrong one with the devil.'
A few pious people had stopped to listen. Most of the Sunday afternoon strollers took the devil's way and passed without looking.
Diagonally across the intersection the Harlem branch of the Black Muslims was staging a mass meeting in front of the National Memorial Bookstore, headquarters of Michaux's Back-to-Africa movement. The store front was plastered with slogans: GODDAMN WHITE MAN… WHITE PEOPLE EAT DOG… ALLAH IS GOD… BLACK MEN UNITE… At one side a platform had been erected with a public-address hook-up for the speakers. Below to one side was an open black coffin with a legend: The Remains of Lumumba. The coffin contained pictures of Lumumba in life and in death; a black suit said to have been worn by him when he was killed; and other mementoes said to have belonged to him in life. Bordering the sidewalk on removable flagstaffs were the flags of all the nations of black Africa.
Hundreds of people were lined up on the sidewalk in a packed mass. Three police cruisers were parked along the kerb and white harness cops patrolled up and down in the street. Muslims wearing the red fezzes they had adopted as their symbol were lined in front of the bookstore, side by side, keeping a clear path on the sidewalk demanded by the police. The shouting voice of a speaker came from the amplifiers: 'White Man, you worked us for nothing for four hundred years. Now pay for it…'
Grave Digger and Coffin Ed didn't stop. As they neared 130th Street they saw the parade heading in their direction on the other side of the street. They knew that within five blocks it would run head-on into the Black Muslims and there'd be hell to pay. Already some of O'Malley's Back-to-Africa group were collecting at 129th Street for an attack.
Police cruisers were parked along the avenue and cops were standing by.
The detectives noted immediately that the parade was made up of mercenary hoodlums, paid for the occasion. They were laughing belligerently and looking for trouble. They carried knives and walked tough. Colonel Calhoun led them, clad in his black frock coat and a black wide-brimmed hat. His silvery hair and white moustache and goatee shone in the rays of the afternoon sun. He was calmly smoking a cheroot. His tall thin figure was ramrod-straight and he walked with the indifference of a benevolent master. His attitude seemed that of a man dealing with children who might be unruly but never dangerous. The blond young man brought up the rear.
Coffin Ed double-parked and he and Grave Digger walked over to the raised park in the center of Seventh Avenue and assessed the situation.
'You go down to 129th Street and hold those brothers and I'll turn these soul-brothers here,' Grave Digger said.
'I got you, partner,' Coffin Ed said.
Grave Digger lined himself opposite a wooden telephone post and Coffin Ed crossed to the sidewalk and stood facing the concrete wall enclosing the park.
When the parade reached the intersection at 130th Street, Grave Digger drew his long-barreled. 38 revolver and put two bullets into the wooden post. The nickel-plated pistol shone in the sun like a silver jet.
'Straighten up!' he shouted at the top of his voice.
The parading hoodlums hesitated.
From down the street came the booming blast of two shots as Coffin Ed fired into the concrete wall, followed by his voice, like an echo, 'Count off!'
The mob preparing for the attack on the parade fell back. People in Harlem believed Coffin Ed and Grave Digger would shoot a man stone cold dead for crossing an imaginary line. Those who didn't believe it didn't try it.
But Colonel Calhoun kept right ahead across 130th Street without looking about. When he came to the invisible line, Grave Digger shot off his hat. The Colonel slowly took the cheroot from his mouth and looked at Grave Digger coldly, then turned with slow deliberation to pick up his hat. Grave Digger shot it out of his hand. It flew on to the sidewalk and with slow deliberation, without another glance in Grave Digger's direction, the Colonel walked after it. Grave Digger shot it out into 130th Street as the Colonel was reaching for it.
The hoodlums in the parade were shuffling about, afraid to advance but taking no chances on breaking and running with those bullets flying about. The young blond man was keeping out of sight at the rear.
'Squads right!' Grave Digger shouted. Everyone turned but no one left. 'March!' he added.
The hoodlums turned right on 130th Street and shuffled towards Eighth Avenue. They went straight past the Colonel, who stood in the center of the street looking at the holes in his hat before putting it on his head. Midway down the block they broke and ran. The first thing a hoodlum learns in Harlem is never run too soon.
The mob at 129th Street turned towards Eighth Avenue to head them off, but Coffin Ed drew a line with two bullets ahead of them. 'As you were!' he shouted.
The Colonel stood there for a moment with three bullet holes in his hat, and residents who had come out to see the excitement began to laugh at him. The blond young man caught up with him and they turned back to Seventh Avenue and began walking towards their office, the jeers and laughter of the colored people following them. The Black Muslims had looked but hadn't moved.
Then the mob herded by Coffin Ed relaxed and started laughing too.
'Man, them mothers,' a cat said admiringly in a loud jubilant voice. 'Them mothers! They'll shoot off a man's ass for crossing a line can't nobody see.'
'Baby, you see that old white mother-raper tryna git his hat? I bet the Digger would have taken his head off if he'da crossed that line.'
'I seen old Coffin Filler shoot the fat offen a cat's stomach for stickin his belly 'cross that line.'
They slapped one another on the shouders and fell out, laughing at their own lies.
