Free The Real Cool Killers by Chester Himes

chubby pianist with shining black skin and a golden smile who was dressed in a tan tweed sport jacket and white silk sport shirt open at the throat sat at a baby grand piano wedged between the last table and the circular bar. Soft white light spilled on his partly bald head while he played nocturnes with a bedroom touch.
    He gave Grave Digger an apprehensive look, got up and followed him to the semi-darkness of the bar.
    “I hope you’re not on business, Digger. I pay to keep this place off-limits for cops,” he said in a fluttery voice.
    Grave Digger’s gaze circled the bar. Its high stools were inhabited by a varied crew: a big dark-haired white man, two slim young colored men, a short heavy-set white man with blond crew-cut hair, two dark women dressed in white silk evening gowns, a chocolate dandy in a box-backed double-breasted tuxedo sporting a shoestring dubonet bow. A high-yellow waitress waited nearby with a serving tray. Another tall, slim ebony young man presided over the bar.
    “I’m just looking around, Bucky,” Grave Digger said. “Just looking for a break.”
    “Many folks have found a break in here,” Bucky said suggestively.
    “I don’t doubt it.”
    “But that’s not the kind of break you’re looking for.”
    “I’m looking for a break on a case. An important white man was shot to death over on Lenox Avenue a short time ago.”
    Bucky gestured with lotioned hands. His manicured nails flashed in the dim light. “What has that to do with us here? Nobody ever gets hurt in here. Everything is smooth and quiet. You can see for yourself. Genteel people dining in leisure. Fine food. Soft music. Low lights and laughter. Doesn’t look like business for the police in this respectable atmosphere.”
    In the pause that followed, one of the marcelled ebonies was heard saying in a lilting voice, “I positively did not even look at her man, and she upped and knocked me over thehead with a whisky bottle.”
    “These black bitches are so violent,” his companion said.
    “And strong, honey.”
    Grave Digger smiled sourly.
    “The man who was killed was a patron of yours,” he said. “Name of Ulysses Galen.”
    “My God, Digger, I don’t know the names of all the ofays who come into my place,” Bucky said. “I just play for them and try to make them happy.”
    “I believe you,” Grave Digger said. “Galen was seen about town with Ready. Does that stir your memory?”
    “Ready?” Bucky exclaimed innocently. “He hardly ever comes in here. Who gave you that notion?”
    “The hell he doesn’t,” Grave Digger said. “He panders out of here.”
    “You hear that!” Bucky appealed to the barman in a shrill horrified voice, then caught himself as the silence from the diners reached his sensitive ears. With hushed indignation he added, “This flatfoot comes in here and accuses me of harboring panderers.”
    “A little bit of that goes a long way, son,” Grave Digger said in his flat voice.
    “Oh, that man’s an ogre, Bucky,” the barman said. “You go back to your entertaining and I’ll see what he wants.” He switched over to the bar, put his hands on his hips and looked down at Grave Digger with a haughty air. “And just what can we do for you, you mean rude grumpy man?”
    The white men at the bar laughed.
    Bucky turned and started off.
    Grave Digger caught him by the arm and pulled him back. “Don’t make me get rough, son,” he muttered.
    “Don’t you dare manhandle me,” Bucky said in a low tense whisper, his whole chubby body quivering with indignation. “I don’t have to take that from you. I’m covered.”
    The bartender backed away, shaking himself. “Don’t let him hurt Bucky,” he appealed to the white men in a frightened voice.
    “Maybe I can help you,” the white man with the blond crew cut said to Grave Digger. “You’re a detective, aren’t you?”
    “Yeah,” Grave Digger said, holding on to Bucky. “A white man was killed in Harlem tonight and I’m