“Would a century note look good to you right now?” he asked the former Negro leader when he returned with his drink.
“Just show it to me, Mister,” said the waiter, licking his lips. “What you want me to do?”
“What will you do for a hundred berries?” pursued Bunny.
“I’d hate to tell you,” replied Bonds, grinning and revealing his familiar tobacco-stained teeth.
“Have you got a friend you can trust?”
“Sure, a fellow named Licorice that washes pots in back.”
“You don’t mean Santop Licorice, do you?”
“Ssh! They don’t know who he is here. He’s white now, you know.”
“Do they know who you are?”
“What do you mean?” gasped the surprised waiter.
“Oh, I won’t say anything but I know you’re Bonds of New York.”
“Who told you?”
“Oh, a little fairy.”
“How could that be? I never associate with them.”
“It wasn’t that kind of a fairy,” Bunny reassured him, laughing. “Well, you get Licorice and come to my hotel when this place closes up.”
“Where is that?” asked Bonds. Bunny wrote his name and room number down on a piece of paper and handed it to him.
Three hours later Bunny was awakened by a knocking at his door. He admitted Bonds and Licorice, the latter smelling strongly of steam and food.
“Here,” said Bunny, holding up a hundred dollar bill, “is a century note. If you boys can lay aside your scruples for a few hours you can have five of them apiece.”
“Well,” said Bonds, “neither Santop nor I have been overburdened with them.”
“That’s what I thought,” Bunny murmured. He proceeded to outline the work he wanted them to do.
“But that would be a criminal offense,” objected Licorice.
“You too, Brutus?” sneered Bonds.
“Well, we can’t afford to take chances unless we’re protected,” the former President of Africa argued rather weakly. He was money-hungry and was longing for a stake to get back to Demerara where, since there was a large Negro population, a white man, by virtue of his complexion, amounted to something. Yet, he had had enough experience behind the bars to make him wary.
“We run this town and this state, too,” Bunny assured him. “We could get a couple of our men to pull this stunt but it wouldn’t be good policy.”
“How about a thousand bucks apiece?” asked Bonds, his eyes glittering as he viewed the crisp banknotes in Bunny’s hand.
“Here,” said Bunny. “Take this century note between you, get your material and pull the job. When you’ve finished I’ll give you nineteen more like it between you.”
The two cronies looked at each other and nodded.
“It’s a go,” said Bonds.
They departed and Bunny went back to sleep.
The next night about eleven-thirty the bells began to toll and the mournful sirens of the fire engines awakened the entire neighborhood in the vicinity of Rev. Givens’s home. That stately edifice, built by Ku Klux Klan dollars was in flames. Firemen played a score of streams onto the blaze but the house appeared to be doomed.
On a lawn across the street, in the midst of a consoling crowd, stood Rev. and Mrs. Givens, Helen and Matthew. The old couple were taking the catastrophe fatalistically, Matthew was puzzled and suspicious, but Helen was in hysterics. She presented a bedraggled and woebegone appearance with a blanket around her night dress. She wept afresh every time she looked across at the blazing building where she had spent her happy childhood.
“Matthew,” she sobbed, “will you build me another one just like it?”
“Why certainly, Honey,” he agreed, “but it will take quite a while.”
“Oh, I know; I know, but I want it.”
“Well, you’ll get it, darling,” he soothed, “but I think it would be a good idea for you to go away for a while to rest your nerves. We’ve got to think of the little one that’s coming, you know.”
“I don’t wanna go nowhere,” she screamed.
“But you’ve got to go somewhere,” he reasoned. “Don’t you think so, Mother?” Old Mrs. Givens agreed it would be a good idea but suggested that she go along. To this Rev. Givens would not listen at first but he finally yielded.
“Guess it’s a good idea after all,” he remarked. “Women folks is always in th’ way when buildin’s goin’ on.”
Matthew was tickled at the turn of affairs. On the way down to the hotel, he sat beside Helen, alternately comforting her and wondering as to the origin of the fire.
Next morning, bright and early, Bunny, grinning broadly walked into the office, threw his hat on a hook and sat down before his desk after the customary salutation.
“Bunny,” called Matthew, looking at him hard. “Get me told!”
“What do you mean?” asked Bunny innocently.
“Just as I thought,” chuckled Matthew. “You’re a nervy guy.”
“Why, I don’t get you,” said Bunny, continuing the pose.
“Come clean, Big Boy. How much did that fire cost?”
“You gave me five grand, didn’t you?”
“Just like a nigger: a person can never get a direct answer from you.”
“Are you satisfied?”
“I’m not crying my eyes out.”
“Is Helen going North for her confinement?”
“Nothing different.”
“Well, then, why do you want to know the why and wherefore of that blaze?”
“Just curiosity, Nero, old chap,” grinned Matthew.
“Remember,” warned Bunny, mischievously, “curiosity killed the cat.”
The ringing of the telephone bell interrupted their conversation.
“What’s that?” yelled Matthew into the mouthpiece. “The hell you say! All right, I’ll be right up.” He hung up the receiver, jumped up excitedly and grabbed his hat.
“What’s the matter?” shouted Bunny. “Somebody dead?”
“No,” answered the agitated Matthew, “Helen’s had a miscarriage,” and he dashed out of the room.
“Somebody dead right on,” murmured Bunny, half aloud.
Joseph Bonds and Santop Licorice, clean shaven and immaculate, followed the Irish red cap into their drawing room on the New York Express.
“It sure feels good to get out of the barrel once more,” sighed Bonds, dropping down on the soft cushion and pulling out a huge cigar.
“Ain’t it the truth?” agreed the former
