Cotton Comes to Harlem (18 page)

He led them into the parlor to wait while he dressed. When he returned ready to go, he said, “My Reba don’t like it.”

The detectives didn’t comment on his Reba’s dislikes.

At first Mr Goodman did not see where anything was missing. It looked exactly as he had left it.

“All this trouble, getting up and dressing and coming all this distance in the dark hours of morning, for nothing,” he complained.

“But there must have been something in this empty space,” Coffin Ed insisted. “What are you keeping this space for?”

“Is that a crime? Always I keep space for what might come in. Did poor Josh get killed for this empty space? Just who is the lunatic, I ask you?” Then he remembered. “A bale of cotton,” he said.

Grave Digger and Coffin Ed froze. Their nostrils quivered like hound dogs on a scent. Thoughts churned through their heads like sheets of lightning.

“Uncle Bud brought in a bale of cotton this morning,” Mr Goodman went on. “I had it put out here. I haven’t thought of it since. With income taxes and hydrogen bombs and black revolutions, who thinks of a bale of cotton? Uncle Bud is one of the cart men —”

“We know Uncle Bud,” Coffin Ed said.

“Then you know he must have found this bale of cotton on his nightly rounds.” Mr Goodman shrugged and spread his hands. “I can’t ask every cart man for a bill of sale.”

“Mr Goodman, that’s all we want to know,” Grave Digger said. “We’ll drive you to a taxi and pay for your time.”

“Pay I want none,” Mr Goodman said. “But curious I am. Who would kill a man about a bale of cotton?
Cotton, mein Gott
.”

“That’s what we want to find out,” Grave Digger said and led the way to their car.

Now it was three-thirty in the morning and they were back at the precinct station talking it over with Lieutenant Anderson. Anderson had already alerted all cars to pick up Uncle Bud for questioning and they were trying to fix the picture.

“You’re certain this bale of cotton was carried by the meat delivery truck used by the jackers?” Anderson said.

“We found fibers of raw cotton in the truck. Uncle Bud finds a bale of cotton on 137th Street and sells it to the junkyard. The bale of cotton is missing. A junkyard laborer has been killed. We’re certain of that much,” Grave Digger said.

“But what could make this bale of cotton that important?”

“Identification. Maybe it points directly to the hijackers,” Grave Digger said.

“Yes, but remember the dog was dead before Josh and his murderer arrived. Maybe the cotton was gone by then too.”

“Maybe. But that doesn’t change the fact that somebody wanted the cotton and didn’t let him live to tell whether they got it, or somebody got it before.”

“Let’s quit guessing and go find the cotton,” Coffin Ed said.

Grave Digger looked at him as though he felt like saying, “Go find it then.”

During the silence the phone rang and Anderson picked up the receiver and said, “Yes … yes … yes, 119th Street and Lenox … yes … well, keep looking.” He hung up.

“They found the junk cart,” Grave Digger said more than asked.

Anderson nodded. “But Uncle Bud wasn’t with it.”

“It figures,” Coffin Ed said. “He’s probably in the river by now.”

“Yeah,” Grave Digger said angrily. “This mother-raping cotton punished the colored man down south and now it’s killing them up north.”

“Which reminds me,” Anderson said. “Dan Sellers of Car 90 says he saw an old colored junk man who’d found a bale of cotton on 137th Street right after the trucks crashed the night of the hijack. The old man was trying to get it into his cart — probably Uncle Bud — and they stopped to question him. Then he got out and helped him load it and ordered him to bring it to the station. But he never came.”

“Now you tell us,” Grave Digger said bitterly.

Anderson colored. “I’d forgotten it until now. After all, we hadn’t thought of cotton.”

“You hadn’t,” Coffin Ed said.

“Speaking of cotton, what do you know about a Colonel Calhoun who’s opened a store-front office on Seventh Avenue to recruit people to go south and pick cotton? Calls it the Back-to-the-Southland movement,” Grave Digger asked.

Anderson looked at him curiously. “Lay off him,” he warned, “I admit it’s a stupid pitch, but it’s strictly on the legitimate. The captain has questioned him and checked his licence and credentials; they’re all in order. And he’s got influential friends.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Grave Digger said drily. “All southern crackers got influential friends up north.”

Anderson looked down.

“The Back-to-Africa members are picketing him,” Coffin Ed said. “They don’t want that crap in Harlem.”

“The Muslims haven’t bothered him,” Anderson said defensively.

“Hell, they’re just giving him enough rope.”

“Just his timing is bad,” Coffin Ed argued. “Right after this Back-to-Africa movement is hijacked he opens this go-south-and-pick-cotton pitch. If you ask me, he’s looking for trouble.”

Anderson thumbed through the reports on his desk. “Last night at ten p.m. he phoned and reported that his car had been stolen from in front of his office on Seventh Avenue. Gave his home address as Hotel Dixie on 42nd Street. A cruiser stopped by but the office was closed for the night. We gave it a routine check at midnight. The desk said he had come home at ten-thirty-five p.m. and hadn’t left his suite. His nephew was with him.”

“What kind of car?” Grave Digger asked.

“Black limousine. Special body. Ferrari chassis. Birmingham, Alabama, plates. And just lay off of him. We got enough trouble as it is.”

“I’m just thinking that cotton grows in the South,” Grave Digger said.

“And tobacco grows in Cuba,” Anderson said. “Go home and get some sleep. Whatever’s going to happen has happened by now.”

“We’re going, boss,” Grave Digger said. “No more we can do tonight anyway. But don’t hand us that crap. This caper has just begun.”

Everything happens in Harlem six days a week, but Sunday morning, people worship God. Those who are not religious stay in bed. The whores, pimps, gamblers, criminals and racketeers catch up on their sleep or their love. But the religious get up and put on their best clothes and go to church. The bars are closed. The stores are closed. The streets are deserted save for the families on their way to church. A drunk better not be caught molesting them; he’ll get all the black beat off him.

All of the Sunday newspapers had carried the story of the arrest of Reverend D. O’Malley, leader of the Back-to-Africa movement, on suspicion of fraud and homicide. The accounts of the hijacking had been rehashed and pictures of O’Malley and his wife, Iris, and Mabel Hill added to the sensationalism.

As a consequence Reverend O’Malley’s interdenominational
church, “The Star of Ham”, on 121st Street between Seventh and Lenox Avenues, was crowded with the Back-to-Africa followers and the curious. A scattering of Irish people who had read the story in
The New York Times
, which didn’t carry pictures, had made their way uptown, thinking Reverend O’Malley was one of them.

Reverend T. Booker Washington (no relation to the great Negro educator), the assistant minister, led the services. At first he led the congregation in prayer. He prayed for the Back-to-Africa followers, and he prayed that their money be returned; and he prayed for sinners and for good people who had been falsely accused, and for all black people who had suffered the wages of injustice.

Then he began his sermon, speaking quietly and with dignity and understanding of the unfortunate robbery, and of the tragic deaths of young Mr and Mrs Hill, members of the church and active participants in the Back-to-Africa movment. The congregation sat in hushed silence. Then Reverend Washington spoke openly and frankly of the inexplicable tragedy which seemed to haunt the life of that saintly man, Reverend O’Malley, as though God were trying him.

“It is as though God was testing this man with the trials of Job to ascertain the strength of his faith and his endurance and courage for some great task ahead.”

“Amen,” a sister said tentatively.

Reverend Washington moved carefully, sampling the reaction of his audience before proceeding to controversial ground.

“All of his life this noble and selfless man has been subjected to the cruel and biased judgement of the white people whom he defies for you.”

“Amen,” the sister cried louder and with more confidence. A few timid “amens” echoed.

“I know Reverend O’Malley is innocent of any crime,” Reverend Washington said loudly, letting passion creep into the solemnity of his voice. “I would trust him with my money and I would trust him with my life.”

“Amen!” the sister shouted, rising from her seat. “He’s a good man.”

The congregation warmed up. Ripples of confirmation ran through all the women.

“He will conquer this calumny of false accusation; he will be vindicated!” Reverend Washington thundered.

“Set him free!” a woman screamed.

“Justice will set him free!” Reverend Washington roared. “And
he will get back our money and lead us out of this land of oppression back to our beloved homeland in Africa.”

“
Amens
” and “
hallelujas
” filled the air as the congregation was swept off its feet. In the grip of emotionalism, O’Malley appeared in their imaginations as a martyr to the injustice of whites, and a brave and noble leader.

“His chains will be broken by the Almighty God and he will come and set us free,” Reverend Washington concluded in a thundering voice.

The Back-to-Africa followers believed. They wanted to believe. They didn’t have any other choice.

“Now we will take up a collection to help pay for Reverend O’Malley’s defence,” Reverend Washington said in a quiet voice. “And we will delegate Brother Sumners to take it to him in his hour of Gethsemane.”

Five hundred and ninety-seven dollars was collected and Brother Sumners was charged to go forthwith and present it to Reverend O’Malley. The precinct station where O’Malley was being held for the magistrate’s court was only a few blocks distant. Brother Sumners returned with word from O’Malley before the service had adjourned. He could scarcely contain his sense of importance as he mounted the rostrum and brought them word from their beloved minister.

“Reverend O’Malley is spending the day in his cell praying for you, his beloved followers — for all of us — and for the speedy return of your money, and for our safe departure for Africa. He says he will be taken to court Monday morning at ten o’clock when he will be freed to return to you and continue his work.”

“Lord, protect him and deliver him,” a sister cried, and others echoed: “Amen, amen.”

The congregation filed out, filled with faith in Reverend O’Malley, blended with compassion and a sense of satisfaction for their own good deed of sending him the big collection.

On many a table there was chicken and dumplings or roast pork and sweet potatoes, and crime took a rest.

Grave Digger and Coffin Ed always slept late on Sundays, rarely stirring from bed before six o’clock in the evening. Sunday and Monday were their days off unless they were working on a case, and they had decided to let the hijacking case rest until Monday.

But Grave Digger had dreamed that a blind man had told him he had seen a bale of cotton run down Seventh Avenue and turn into a doorway, but he awakened before the blind man told him
what doorway. There was a memory knocking at his mind, trying to get in. He knew it was important but it had not seemed so at the time. He lay for a time going over in detail all that they had done. He didn’t find it; it didn’t come. But he had a strong feeling that if he could remember this one thing he would have all the answers.

He got up and slipped on a bathrobe and went to the kitchen and got two cans of beer from the refrigerator.

“Stella,” he called his wife, but she had gone out.

He drank one can of beer and prowled about the house, holding the other in his hand. He was looking inward, searching his memory. A cop without a memory is like meat without potatoes, he was thinking.

His two daughters were away at camp. The house felt like a tomb. He sat in the living-room and leafed through the Saturday edition of the
Sentinel
, Harlem’s twice-weekly newspaper devoted to the local news. The hijacking story took up most of the front page. There were pictures of O’Malley and Iris, and of John and Mabel Hill. O’Malley’s racketeer days and prison record were hammered on and the claim he had been marked for death by the syndicate. There were stories about his Back-to-Africa movement, bordering on libel, and stories of the Back-to-Africa movement of L.H. Michaux, handled with discretion; and stories of the original Back-to-Africa movement of Marcus Garvey, containing some bits of information that Garvey hadn’t known himself. He turned the pages and his gaze lit on an advertisement for the Cotton Club, showing a picture of Billie Belle doing her exotic cotton dance.
I’ve got cotton on the brain
, he thought disgustedly and threw the paper aside.

He went to the telephone extension in the hall, from where he could look outdoors, and called the precinct station in Harlem and talked to Lieutenant Bailey, who was on Sunday duty. Bailey said, no, Colonel Calhoun’s car had not been found, no, there was no trace of Uncle Bud, no, there was no trace of the two gunmen of Deke’s who had escaped.

“The
noes
have it,” Bailey said.

“Well, as long as the head’s gone they can’t bite,” Grave Digger said.

Coffin Ed phoned and said his wife, Molly, had gone out with Stella, and he was coming over.

“Just don’t let’s talk about crime,” Grave Digger said.

“Let’s go down to the pistol range at headquarters and practise shooting,” Coffin Ed suggested. “I’ve just got through cleaning the old lady.”

“Hell, let’s drink some highballs and get gay and take the ladies
out on the town,” Grave Digger said.

“Right. I won’t mind being gay for a change.”

The phone rang right after Coffin Ed hung up. Lieutenant Bailey said the Back-to-the-Southland people were assembling a group of colored people in front of their office for a parade down Seventh Avenue and there might be trouble.