The Heat's on

about the fringes of the ceiling. Beneath were pencil sketches of numerous Harlem celebrities, interspersed with autographed photos of jazz greats. A ventilator fan was laboring in the back wall without any noticeable effect.

“You want stink, you got it,” Grave Digger said.

“And everything that goes with it,” Coffin Ed amended.

Some joker was shouting in a loud belligerent voice, “I ain’t gonna pay for but two whiskeys; dat’s all I drunk. Somebody musta stole the other three ’cause I ain’t seen ’em.”

Behind a dance floor scarcely big enough to hold two pairs of feet, a shining black man wearing a white silk shirt kept banging the same ten keys on a midget piano; while a lank black woman without joints wearing a backless fire-red evening gown did a snake dance about the tables, shouting “Money-money-money- honey,” and holding up her skirt. She was bare beneath. Whenever someone held out a bill, she changed the lyric to, “Ohhhweee, daddy, money makes me feel so funny,” and gave a graphic demonstration by accepting it.

The proprietor cleared a table in the back corner for the two detectives and showed them most of the amalgam fillings in his teeth.

“I believe in live and let live,” he said right off. “What you gentlemen wish to eat?”

There was a choice of fried chicken, barbecued pork ribs and New Orleans gumbo.

They chose the gumbo, which was the specialty of the house. It was made of fresh pork, chicken gizzards, hog testicles and giant shrimp, with a base of okra and sweet potatoes, and twenty-seven varieties of seasonings, spices and herbs.

“It’s guaranteed to cool you off,” the proprietor boasted.

“I don’t want to get so cooled off I can’t warm up no more,” Grave Digger said.

The proprietor showed him some more teeth in a reassuring smile.

They followed the gumbo with huge quarters of ice-cold watermelon which had black seeds.

While they were eating it, a chorus of four hefty, sepia-colored girls took the floor and began doing a bump dance with their backs to the audience, throwing their big strong smooth-skinned hams about as though juggling hundred-pound sacks of brown sugar.

“Throw it to the wind!” someone shouted.

“Those hams won’t stay up on wind,” Coffin Ed muttered.

The tight close air was churned into a steaming bedlam.

The temptation was too great for Coffin Ed. He filled his mouth full of watermelon seeds and began spitting them at the live targets. It was a fifteen-foot shot and before he got the range he had hit a couple of jokers at ringside tables in the back of their necks and almost set off a rumpus. The jokers were puffing up to fight when finally Coffin Ed’s shots began landing on the targets. First one girl and then another began leaping and slapping their bottoms as though stung by bees. The audience thought it was part of the act. It was going over big.

One joker was inspired to give an impromptu rendition of “Ants in your pants.”

Then one of the black seeds stuck to the cream-colored bottom of one of the girls and she captured it. She held it up and looked at it. She stopped dancing and turned an irate face toward the audience.

“Some mother-raper is shooting at me with watermelon seeds,” she declared. “And I’m gonna find out who it is.”

The other three dancers examined the seed. Then all four of them, looking evil as housemaids scrubbing floors, began pushing between the tables, roughing up the customers, shaking down the joint for someone eating watermelon.

Grave Digger had the presence of mind to whip the plates containing the rinds and seeds from atop the table and hide them on the floor underneath their chairs. No one else was eating watermelon, but Coffin Ed went undiscovered.

When finally the dancing was resumed, Grave Digger let out his breath. “That was a close shave,” he said.

“Let’s get out of here before we get caught,” Coffin Ed said, wiping his mouth with the palm of his hand.

“We! What we?” Grave Digger exploded.

The proprietor escorted them to the door. He wouldn’t let them pay for the dinners. He gave them a big fat wink, letting them know he was on their side.

“Live and let live, that’s my motto,” he said.

“Yeah. Just don’t think it buys you anything,” Grave Digger said harshly.

It was pressing 5 a.m. when they came out into the street, almost an hour past their quitting time.

“Let’s take a last look for Gus,” Grave Digger suggested.

“What for?” Coffin Ed asked.

“For reference.”

“You don’t never give up, do you?” Coffin Ed complained.

It was 5:05 when Grave Digger drove past the apartment over on Riverside Drive. He kept down to Grant’s Tomb, turned around and parked on the opposite side of the street, three houses down. Gray dawn was slipping beneath an overcast sky and the sprinklers were already watering the browned grass in the park surrounding the monument.

They were about to alight when they saw the African come from the apartment, leading the mammoth dog by a heavy iron chain. The dog wore an iron-studded muzzle that resembled the visor of a sixteenth-century helmet.

“Sit still,” Grave Digger cautioned.

The African looked up and down the street, then crossed over and walked in the opposite direction. His white turban and many-colored robe looked outlandish against the dull green background of foliage.

“Good thing I’m in New York,” Grave Digger said. “I’d take him for a Zulu chief out hunting with his pet lion.”

“Better follow him, eh?” Coffin Ed said.

“To watch the dog piss?”

“It was your idea.”

The African turned down steps descending into the park and passed out of sight.

They sat watching the apartment entrance. Minutes passed. Finally Coffin Ed suggested, “Maybe we’d better buzz her; see what’s cooking.”

“Hell, if Gus ain’t there, all we’ll find is dirty sheets,” Grave Digger said. “And if he’s home he’s going to want to know what we’re doing busting into his house when we’re off duty.”

“Then what the hell did we come for?” Coffin Ed flared.

“It was just a hunch,” Grave Digger admitted.

They lapsed into silence.

The African ascended the stairs from the park.

Coffin Ed looked at his watch. It read 5:27.

The African was alone.

They watched him curiously as he crossed the street and pressed the bell to the apartment. They saw him turn the knob and go inside. They looked at one another.

“Now what the hell does that mean?” Coffin Ed said.

“Means he got rid of the dog.”

“What for?”

“The question is, how?” Grave Digger amended.

“Well, don’t ask me. I’m no Ouija board.”

“Hell with this, let’s go home,” Grave Digger decided suddenly.

“Don’t growl at me, man, you’re the one who suggested this nonsense.”

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