The Heat's on

black coffee.

She didn’t notice the man next to her until he spoke. “Are you a model, may I ask?”

She flicked him an absent-minded glance. He looked like a salesman, a house-to-house canvasser type.

“No, I’m one of the devil’s mistresses,” she said nastily.

The man reddened. “Excuse me, I thought maybe you were a model for some advertising agency.” He retired behind a newspaper.

It was the afternoon Journal American and she saw the streamer on the page turned toward her:

TWO HARLEM DETECTIVES SUSPENDED FOR BRUTALITY

A column was devoted to the story. To one side the pictures of Grave Digger and Coffin Ed looked like pictures of a couple of Harlem muggers taken from the rogues’ gallery.

She read as much of the story as she could before the man folded the paper.

So they killed Jake, she thought. In front of Riverside Church.

That must have been when Pinky put in the false fire alarm.

Her thoughts churned furiously. She tried to remember everything Pinky had said, how he had looked and acted. A pattern was beginning to take shape, but the answer eluded her.

Suddenly she jumped to her feet. Her table mate drew back in alarm. But she merely paid her bill and rushed outside and started walking rapidly to the nearest taxi stand.

She looked at her locket-watch when she had paid off the taxi driver in front of Riverside Church. It read 3:37.

She looked up and down the street. The prowl cars had gone and there was no sign left of the police unless it was the black sedan parked down the street from the entrance to the apartment.

She had a sinking sensation in her stomach as the thought occurred to her that it might already be too late.

She opened her parasol and holding it in her left hand and her heavy black beaded bag on her right arm, took hold of her skirt on the right side and lifting it slightly, sailed down the street and turned into the apartment house.

A big stolid-looking white cop was on guard at the door. He did a double take.

“Hey, whoa there, ma’am,” he said, stopping her. “You can’t go in here.”

On second thought he added, “Unless you live here.”

“Why not?” she countered. “Is it quarantined?”

“What do you want in here, if you don’t live here?” he reiterated.

“I’m taking up subscriptions for the colored peoples’ Old Folks Home,” she said blandly.

But he was a conscientious cop. “Do you have a license?” he demanded. “Or at least any identification or something to show who you are?”

She arched her eyebrows. “Do I need any? After all, I’m a sponsor.”

“Well, you’ll have to come back later, I’m afraid. You see, the police are conducting a search in there right now and they don’t want any strangers in the house.”

“A search!” she exclaimed, giving the impression of horrified shock. “For a body buried in the basement?”

The cop grinned. She reminded him of a character out of a stage play he had seen once.

“Well, not exactly a body, but a buried treasure,” he said.

“My land!” she said. “What’s the world coming to?”

His grin widened. “Ain’t it awful?”

She started to turn away. “Well, if they find it, don’t forget the old colored people,” she said.

He laughed out loud. “Never!” he said.

She went into the next-door apartment house and took up a station in the foyer from which she could watch the entrance next door. Passing tenants looked at her curiously, but she paid them no attention.

One thing was for sure, she was thinking; if it was there, the police would find it. But on the other hand, why hadn’t the two gunmen found it, since they would know exactly what they were looking for?

Her head swam with doubts.

I wish to Jesus Christ I knew what the hell I was looking for, she thought.

She saw a small panel truck pull up before the house next door. It had the letters S.P.C.A. painted on the sides.

Now what the hell is this? she thought.

She saw two men wearing heavy leather gloves and long white dusters alight from the compartment and enter the house.

A few minutes later they returned, leading Pinky’s dog Sheba by a heavy chain leash.

And all of a sudden it exploded in her head. All this goddamn time wasted! she thought disgustedly. And there it was all the time.

It fitted like white on rice.

She watched the attendants put the dog into the body of the S.P.C.A. truck and drive away. She had to fight back the impulse to rush out and call the bitch by name and claim her. But she knew she’d wind up in the pokey and they’d still have the dog. It was like watching a friend go down in the middle of the sea, she thought. You could feel for him but you couldn’t reach him.

She started racking her memory trying to figure out what S.P.C.A. stood for. It couldn’t be Special Police for Collaring Animals. That didn’t make any sense. What would they have special police to collar animals for when any policeman could do it?

Then suddenly she remembered: Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. Where she had heard about it she didn’t know, but there it was.

She left her station and walked over to Broadway and entered the first bar. It took a little time to find the telephone number of the Manhattan branch of S.P.C.A.

A woman’s pleasant, impersonal voice answered her call.

“I’ve heard you sell stray dogs,” Sister Heavenly said. “I’d like to buy a dog.”

“We don’t actually sell the stray dogs that are brought in to us,” the woman explained. “We try to find congenial homes for them where they will fit in with the families, and we ask for a donation of two dollars to help carry on the work of the foundation.”

“Well, that’s all right,” Sister Heavenly said. “I can spare two dollars. Have you got any dogs on hand?”

“Well, yes, but is there any particular kind of dog you would like?”

“I want a big dog. A dog as big as a lion,” Sister Heavenly said.

“We seldom have dogs that size,” the woman said doubtfully. “And we are very particular about whom we let take them. Could you give me an idea of your reasons for wanting a dog that size?”

“It’s like this,” Sister Heavenly said. “I have a roadhouse in New Jersey. It’s not far from Hoboken. And to be frank with you, it’s not the most law-abiding place you can find. But there’s a big fenced-in yard for the dog to run. And of course there’re always plenty of bones, not to mention meat, for him to eat.”

“I see. You need it for a watchdog?”

“Yes. And he can’t be too big. Our last watchdog was fairly big. He was a German dog. But prowlers killed him.”

“I see. You say him. Does it make any difference if the dog is female?”

“That’s all the better. As long as she’s big.”

“It so happens that you have called at an opportune time,” the pleasant-voiced woman said. “There might be a large female dog available within a few days. Would you mind giving me your name and address?”

“A few days!” Sister Heavenly exclaimed, filling her voice with dismay. “I thought I could get one today. I’m leaving tomorrow on two weeks’ vacation and I want to leave the dog there with the caretaker while I’m gone.”

“Oh, that’s not possible, you see we have to check.… But.… Won’t you hold on for a moment, perhaps. …”

Sister Heavenly held on.

After a time the pleasant voice said, “Hello, are you there?”