Free Cotton Comes to Harlem by Chester Himes

outside of Small’s and drove them to an address far out on Bedford Avenue in Brooklyn. He said the men didn’t look like people who go to Small’s and the woman was just a common prostitute.”
    “Give me his address and the firm he works for.”
    Anderson gave him the information but said, “That’s Homicide’s baby. We got nothing on O’Hara. What’s your score?”
    “We’re going to Hijenks’ shooting gallery looking for a junkie called Loboy who might know something.”
    “Hijenks. That’s up on Edgecombe at the Roger Morris, isn’t it?”
    “He’s moved down on Eight. Why don’t the Feds knock him off? Who’s he paying?”
    “Don’t ask me; I’m a precinct lieutenant.”
    “Well, look for us when we get there.”
    They drove down to 110th Street and turned back to Eighth Avenue and filled in the square. Near 112th Street they passed an old junk man pushing his cart piled high with the night’s load.
    “Old Uncle Bud,” said Coffin Ed. “Shall we dig him a little?”
    “What for? He won’t co-operate; he wants to keep on living.”
    They parked the car and walked to the bar on the corner of 113th Street. A man and a woman stood at the head of the bar, drinking beer and swapping chatter with the bartender. Grave Digger kept on through to the door marked “Toilet” and went inside. Coffin Ed stopped at the middle of the bar. The bartender looked quickly towards the toilet door and hastened towards Coffin Ed and began wiping the spotless bar with his damp towel.
    “What’s yours, sir?” he asked. He was a thin tall, stoopedshouldered, light-complexioned man with a narrow moustache and thinning straight hair. He looked neat in a white jacket and black tie; far too neat for that neck of the woods, Coffin Ed thought.
    “Bourbon on the rocks.” The bartender hesitated for an instant and Coffin Ed added, “Two.” The bartender looked relieved.
    Grave Digger came back from the toilet as the bartender was serving the drinks.
    “You gentlemen are new around here, aren’t you?” the bartender asked conversationally.
    “We aren’t, but you are,” Grave Digger said.
    The bartender smiled noncomittally.
    “You see that mark down there on the bar?” Grave Digger said. “I made it ten years ago.”
    The bartender looked down the bar. The wooden bar was covered with marks — names, drawings, signatures. “What mark?”
    “Come here, I’ll show you,” Grave Digger said, going down to the end of the bar.
    The bartender followed slowly, curiosity overcoming caution. Coffin Ed followed him. Grave Digger pointed at the only unmarked spot on the entire bar. The bartender looked. The couple at the front of the bar had stopped talking and stared curiously.
    “I don’t see nothing,” the bartender said.
    “Look closer,” Grave Digger said, reaching inside his coat.
    The bartender bent over to look more closely. “I still don’t see nothing.”
    “Look up then,” Grave Digger said.
    The bartender looked up into the muzzle of Grave Digger’s long-barreled, nickel-plated .38. His eyes popped from their sockets and he turned yellow-green.
    “Keep looking,” Grave Digger said.
    The bartender gulped but couldn’t find his voice. The couple at the head of the bar, thinking it was a stickup, melted into thenight. It was like magic, one instant they were there the next instant they were gone.
    Chuckling, Coffin Ed went through the “Toilet” and opened the “Closet” and gave the signal on the nail holding a dirty rag. The nail was a switch and a light flashed in the entrance hallway upstairs where the lookout sat, reading a comic book. The lookout glanced at the red bulb which should flash the bartender’s signal that strangers were downstairs. It didn’t flash. He pushed a button and the back door in the closet opened with a soft buzzing sound. Coffin Ed opened the door to the bar and beckoned to Grave Digger, then jumped back to the door upstairs to keep it from closing.
    “Good