Free Dark Stain by Benjamin Appel Page B

please.”
    Bill bit on the edge of his thumb. Through the glass door of the booth, he stared at women whose makeup seemed to have been applied with a spray gun. He would have to ring Isabelle and tell her he wouldn’t be back for dinner tonight; she’d love to hear that on their first day in this God damned town.
    A man’s voice said. “Frank R. Dent speaking.”
    “Hello. I want to talk to you right away, Mr. Dent, about some Harlem insurance.”
    “I’ve been expecting you. Can you wait until tonight?”
    “No.”
    “Come right up.”
    He stalked out of the booth. He still hadn’t phoned Isabelle.
    In Dent’s private office in the Times Square district, Bill watched the insurance man scrutinize his scarred face. The whites of Dent’s eyes weren’t white any more but pinkish; Dent, himself, looked as fatigued as his eyes. He had a wrinkled skin like a not too fresh office towel. His suit was blue serge and in his stiff celluloid collar he could have been a court bailiff. He and his office reminded Bill of the time he had been a real estate collector in New York during the depression 30’s; the green metal files, the ugly furniture might have been the property of his old boss.
    “Look here,” Bill said. “I want to meet Big Boy Bose. The sooner the better.”
    Dent picked up a paper clip from his desk and set it down again. “How soon?”
    “This afternoon. Tonight.”
    “That’s short notice.”
    “I can’t help it. I’ve got to see the nigger right away.”
    Dent rolled the tip of his tongue along his lower lip. “I don’t know you, mister. You come well recommended but it’s plain you don’t understand some things. Take my advice. When you see Big Boy, don’t you go behaving like he was a nigger shining your shoes. That stuff don’t go with Big Boy. He’s a very influential person and not only in Harlem.”
    “Thanks for the tip. Here’s your money.” He counted out five hundred dollars in twenty dollar bills.
    “And thank you. You drop by here or ring me at six and I’ll know definitely when you can see Big Boy. And if you have any trouble with him, you can always reach me at my home up to half past eight, and after nine I’m at the Mohegan Club.”
    “What trouble?”
    “The police investigations’re still on, mister.”
    “The Mohegan Club? Okay.” He stood up, flipped his hand goodbye to the insurance man, clattered out of the office and down the elevator to the street. Trouble with Big Boy? That washed-out rag of a Dent could have saved his advice. He didn’t intend to behave like Louisiana up here in Harlem. And what about Dent? Was he in the organization or was he just one of the sympathizers who could always be relied upon if the job involved niggers? No, Bill decided. This Dent was in the organization. Five hundred bucks worth. No sympathizer’d ever dream of asking such a price. The God damn sympathizers were all too hot about the communists and the kike labor lawyers ruining the niggers to ever think of snatching any of the big change for themselves.
    He passed under the red and gold sign of a drugstore to the booths in the rear. He rang the Hotel Commodore, asked for his room number. His nerves tingled as Isabelle answered. It was as if her hands had suddenly stroked his eyes. “Where are you, Bill?” she asked. “Why don’t you come on to me?”
    “Can’t. I’ve got some things to do.”
    “Bill,” she pleaded.
    “I’ll make it up, sweet. But this next day or so I’ll be busy. I don’t know when I’ll be home tonight. You go to a movie.”
    “You don’t know when you’ll be home — Bill, it’s only the afternoon — ”
    “Darling, you have a good dinner and go to a movie. I’ll see you later. Goodbye.”
    “Goodbye, Bill.”
    He hung up and glanced at his wrist watch. It was a quarter of three, a hell of a long time before he phoned Dent at six. He could have easily walked east to the Hotel. Her mournful goodbye echoed inside of him and he