“I never did have any time for Harlem,” said Miss Curdy. “When I was high up in society all respectable colored people lived in Washington. There was no Harlem full a niggers then. I declare—”
“I should think the nigger heaven of a theater downtown is better than anything in this heah Harlem,” said Susy. “When we feels like going out, it’s better we enjoy ourse’f in the li’l corner the white folks ’low us, and then shuffle along back home. It’s good and quiet ovah in Brooklyn.”
“And we can have all the inside fun we need,” said Miss Curdy.
“Brooklyn ain’t no better than Harlem,” said Strawberry Lips, running the words rolling off his tongue. “Theah’s as much shooting-up and cut-up in Prince Street and—”
“There ain’t no compahrison atall,” stoutly maintained Susy. “This here Harlem is a stinking sink of iniquity. Nigger hell! That’s what it is. Looka that theah ugly black nigger loving up a scrimpy brown gal right bef oh mah eyes. Jest daring me to turn raw and loose lak them monkey-chasing womens thisanight. But that I wouldn’t do. I ain’t a woman abandoned to sich publicity stunts. Not even though mah craw was full to bursting. Lemme see’m tonight. … Yessam, this heah Harlem is sure nigger hell. Take me way away from it.”
When Zeddy at last said good night to his newfound brown, he went straight to an all-night barrelhouse and bought a half a pint of whisky. He guzzled the liquor and smashed the flask on the pavement. Drew up his pants, tightened his belt and growled, “Now I’m ready for Susy.”
He caught the subway train for Brooklyn. Only local trains were running and it was quite an hour and a half before he got home. He staggered down Myrtle Avenue well primed with the powerful stimulation of gin-and-whisky.
At the door of Susy’s apartment he was met by his suitcase. He recoiled as from a blow struck at his face. Immediately he became sober. His eyes caught a little white tag attached to the handle. Examining it by the faint gaslight he read, in Susy’s handwriting: “Kip owt that meen you.”
Susy had put all Zeddy’s belongings into the suitcase, keeping back what she had given him: two fancy-colored silk shirts, silk handkerchiefs, a mauve dressing-gown, and a box of silk socks.
“What he’s got on that black back of his’n he can have,” she had said while throwing the things in the bag.
Zeddy beat on the door with his fists.
“Wha moh you want?” Susy’s voice bawled from within. “Ain’tchu got all you stuff theah? Gwan back where youse coming from.”
“Lemme in and quit you joking,” cried Zeddy.
“You ugly flat-footed zigaboo,” shouted Susy, “may I ketch the ’lectric chair without conversion ef I ’low you dirty black pusson in mah place again. And you better git quick foh I staht mah dawg bawking at you.”
Zeddy picked up his suitcase. “Come on, Mistah Bag. Le’s tail along back to Harlem. Leave black woman ’lone wif her gin and ugly mug. Black woman is hard luck.”
VIII
The Raid of the Baltimore
The blazing lights of the Baltimore were put out and the entrance was padlocked. Fifth Avenue and Lenox talked about nothing else. Buddy meeting buddy and chippie greeting chippie, asked: “Did you hear the news?” … “Well, what do you know about that?”
Yet nothing sensational had happened in the Baltimore. The police had not, on a certain night, swept into it and closed it up because of indecent doings. No. It was an indirect raid. Oh, and that made the gossip toothier! For the Baltimore was not just an ordinary cabaret. It had mortgages and policies in the best of the speakeasy places of the Belt. And the mass of Harlem held the Baltimore in high respect because (it was rumored and believed) it was protected by Tammany Hall.
Jake, since he had given up hoping about his lost brown, had stopped haunting the Baltimore, yet he had happened to be very much in on the affair that cost the Baltimore its license. Jake’s living with Rose had, in spite of himself, projected him into a more elegant atmosphere of worldliness. Through Rose and her associates he had gained access to buffet flats and private rendezvous apartments that were called “nifty.”
And Jake was a high favorite wherever he went. There was something so naturally beautiful about his presence that everybody liked and desired him. Buddies, on the slightest provocation, were ready to fight for him, and the girls liked to make an argument around him.
Jake had gained admission to Madame Adeline Suarez’s buffet flat, which was indeed a great feat. He was the first longshoreman, colored or white, to tread that magnificent red carpet. Madame Suarez catered to sporty colored persons of consequence only and certain groups of downtown whites that used to frequent Harlem in the good old pre-prohibition days.
“Ain’t got no time for cheap-no-’count niggers,” Madame Suarez often said. “Gimme their room to their company any time, even if they’ve got money to spend,” Madame Suarez came from Florida and she claimed Cuban descent through her father. By her claim to that exotic blood she moved like a queen among the blue-veins of the colored sporting world.
But Jake’s rough charm could conquer anything.
“Ofay’s mixing in!” he exclaimed to himself the first night he penetrated into Madame Suarez’s. “But ofay or ofay not, this here is the real stuff,” he reflected. And so many nights he absented himself from the Congo (he had no interest in Rose’s art of flirting money out of hypnotized newcomers) to luxuriate with charmingly painted pansies among the colored cushions and under the soft, shaded lights of Madame Suarez’s speakeasy. It was a new world for Jake and he took it easily. That was his natural way, wherever he went, whatever new people he met. It had helped him over
