blood.
The high yellow was holding his broken wrist in one hand, trying to get to his feet. I helped him. My hand hooked in his collar and dragged him up. I took the side of my free hand and smashed it across his nose. The bone shattered and blood poured out. That guy probably was a lady killer in Harlem, but them days were gone forever. He let out a little moan and slumped to the floor. I let him drop.
Just for the hell of it, I went through his pockets. Not much there. A cheap wallet held a few photos of girls, one of them white, eleven dollars and a flock of number stubs. The coal black covered his ruined face when I went near him, rolling his eyes like a cow. I found a safety-razor blade in his pocket with a matchstick through it. Nice trick. They palm the blade, letting it protrude a bit through the fingers, and slap you cross the face. The matchstick keeps it from sliding through their fingers. That blade can cut a face to pieces.
The Negro tried to pull away, so I smashed him again. The pad of my fist landing on that busted jaw was too much for him. He went out too. Bobo was still in his chair, only now he was grinning again. “Gee, Mike, you’re pretty tough. Wish I was like that.”
I pulled a five spot from my pocket and slipped it in his shirt pocket. “Here’s something to buy a king for that queen bee, kid,” I said to him. “See you later.” I grabbed the two jigs by their collars and yanked them out of the door. Big Sam saw me coming with them. So did a dozen others in the place. Those at the door looked like they expected something more.
“What’s the idea, Sam? Why let these monkeys make a try for me? You know better than that.”
Big Sam just grinned broader than ever. “It’s been a long time since we had some excitements in here, Mistah Hammah.” He turned to the guys at the bar and held out a thick palm. “Pay me,” he laughed at them. I dropped the high yellow and his friend in a heap on the floor as the guys paid Sam off. The next time they wouldn’t bet against me.
As I was waving so long to Sam, Bobo came running out of the back room waving the five. “Hey, Mike,” he yelled. “Queens don’t need no kings. I can’t buy a king bee.”
“Sure they do, Bobo,” I called over my shoulder. “All queens have to have kings. Ask Sam there, he’ll
The drive home took longer than I had expected. Traffic was heavy and it was nearly six when I got there. After I parked the car I took the stairs to my apartment and started to undress. My clean shirt was a mess. Blood was spattered all over the front of it and my tie was halfway around my neck. The pocket of my jacket was ripped down the seam. When I saw that I wished I’d killed that bogie. In these days decent suits were too hard to get.
A hot and cold shower made me feel fine. I got rid of my beard in short order, brushed my teeth and climbed into some fresh clothes. For a moment I wondered whether it would be decent to wear a gun when calling on a lady, but habit got the better of me. I slipped the holster on over my shirt, shot a few drops of oil in the slide mechanism of my .45 and checked my clip. Everything in order, I wiped the gun and shoved it under my arm. Anyway, I thought, my suit wouldn’t fit unless old ironsides was inside it. This was a custom-made job that had space built into it for some artillery.
I checked myself in the mirror to be sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. Without Velda to give me a once-over before I went anywhere, I couldn’t tell whether I was dolled up for a circus or a night club. Now I wished I had been more careful with the Bellemy mouse. Velda was too good a woman to lose. Guess I could expect the silent treatment for a week. Someday I’d have to try treating her a little better. She was land of hard on a guy though, never approved of my morals.
The jalopy needed gas so I ran it into a garage. Henry, the mechanic, and an old friend of mine, lifted the hood to check the oil. He liked that car. He was the one who installed an oversized engine in it and pigged down the frame. From the outside it looked like any beat-up wreck that ought to be retired, but the rubber was good and the engine better. It was souped up to the ears. I’ve had it on the road doing over a hundred and the pedal was only half down. Henry pulled the motor from a limousine that had the rear end knocked in and sold it to me for a song. Whenever a mech saw the power that was under the hood, he let out a long low whistle. In is own way it was a masterpiece.
I pulled out of the garage and turned down a one-way street to beat the lights to Charlotte’s apartment. I couldn’t forget the way she looked through me the last time we met. What a dish.
The road in front of her house was lined with cars, so I turned around the block and slid in between a black sedan and a club coupe. Walking back to her place I kept hoping she didn’t have a dinner date or any company. That would be just my luck. What we would talk about was something else again. In the back of my mind was the idea that as a psychiatrist, she would have been more observant than any of the others. In her line it was details that counted, too.
I rang the downstairs bell. A moment later the buzzer clicked and I walked in. The darky maid was at the door to greet me, but this time she had on her hat and coat.
“Come right in, Mistah Hammah,” she said, “Miss Charlotte’s expecting ya’ll.” At that I really raised my eyebrows. I threw my hat down on a table beside the door and walked in. The maid stayed long enough to call into the bedroom, “He’s heah, Miss Charlotte.”
That cool voice called back. “Thank you. You can go ahead to the movies now.” I nodded to the darky as she left and sat on the couch.
“Hello.”.! jumped to my feet and took the warm hand she offered me.
“Hello yourself,” I smiled, “What’s this about expecting me?”
“I’m just vain, I guess. I was hoping so hard that you’d call tonight. I got ready for you. Like my dress?” She swirled in front of me, and glanced over her shoulder at my face. Gone was the psychiatrist. Here was Charlotte Manning, the woman, looking delightfully young and beautiful. Her dress was a tight-fitting blue silk jersey that clung to her like she was wet, concealing everything, yet revealing everything. Her hair hung long and yellow to her neck, little tight curls that sparkled. Even her eyes had cupids in them.
She strode provocatively across the room and back toward me. Under the dress her body was superb, unlike what I imagined the first time. She was slimmer, really, her waist thin, but her shoulders broad. Her breasts were laughing things that were firmly in place, although I could see no strap marks of a restraining bra. Her legs were encased in sheer nylons and set in high heels, making her almost as tall as I was. Beautiful legs. They were strong looking, shapely. . . .
“Well, do you like it?” she asked again.
“Lovely. And you know it.” I grinned at her. “You remind me of something.”
“What?”
“A way of torturing a guy.”
“Oh, please, I can’t be that bad. Do I affect you like that? Torture you, I mean?”
“No, not quite. But if you take a guy that hasn’t seen a woman in five years, let’s say, and chain him to a wall and let you walk past him the way you did just now—well, that would be torture. See what I’m getting at?”
Her laugh was low and throaty. She threw back her head a little and I wanted to grab her and kiss the beauty of her throat. Charlotte took my arm and led me to the kitchen. The table was laid out for two. On the table was a big pile of fried chicken and another equally large basket of French fries.
“Just for us. Now sit down and eat. I’ve already held supper an hour waiting for you.”
I was dumbfounded. Either she kept a complete file of my likes and dislikes or she was clairvoyant. Chicken was my specialty.
As I pulled out a chair and sat down, I said, “Charlotte, if there was an angle to this, I’d think the chow was poisoned. But even if it is, I’m going to eat it anyway.”
She was putting a red-bordered apron on. When she finished she poured the coffee. “There is an angle,” she said casually.
“Let’s have it,” I said through a mouthful of chicken.
“When you came in to see me I saw a man that I liked for the first time in a long time.” She sat down and continued. “I have hundreds of patients, and surprisingly enough, most of them are men. But they are such little men. Either they had no character to begin with or what they had is gone. Their minds are frail, their conception limited. So many have repressions or obsessions, and they come to me with their pitiful stories; well, when you constantly see men with their masculinity gone, and find the same sort among those whom you call your friends,
