A
734,791



PROPERTY OF
University of
Michigan
Libraries
1817
ARTES SCIENTIA VERITAS








THE HIT





a novel by JULIAN MAYFIELD
The Vanguard Press, New York


828
M469 hi
Copyright, 1957, by Julian Mayfield
Published simultaneously in Canada by the
Copp, Clark Publishing Company, Ltd., Toronto
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any
form without the written permission of the publisher,
except by a reviewer who may wish to quote brief
passages in a review for a newspaper
or magazine.
Library of Congress Catalogue Card Number: 57–12251
Manufactured in the United States of America by
H. Wolff, New York.
Designed by Marshall Lee


13-112121
This book is for
my father and mother
Hudson and Annie Mayfield





THE HIT





Hubert Cooley was the superintendent of four
tenement buildings on One hundred and twenty-
sixth Street in Harlem. In one of these, on the
ground floor, he and his family occupied a small
apartment rent free. One Saturday night during
the summer, when it was very warm, he was sit-
ting with his wife Gertrude in their living room.
She had been reading the Baptist News for more


12
r
than an hour and was not aware that her husband
was staring at her. He was thinking: What a mess!
How I ever came to marry this woman I will never
know. Imagine living with her for twenty-five
years! How did I ever stand it?
“I think I'll walk a little,” he announced sud-
denly.
"All right,” said Gertrude.
Leaving the apartment, Hubert told himself
that Gertrude was not—and never had been—the
woman for him. She had not even looked up from
her paper when he spoke. She had not said Good
night, God bless you, or Good night, Dog. He cer-
tainly had no reason to feel guilty about going to
call on another woman.
Out on the street Hubert thought: Nothing
short of death can keep a Negro in his house on a
Saturday night. By this he did not mean himself,
but his neighbors who were lounging on the front
stoops and in the open windows of their apart-
ments. They were laughing and talking too loud,
and some of them were drinking beer and wine.
They greeted him, but he only nodded his head
and walked on. They were not his friends, but
Gertrude's. No, indeed! He minded his own busi-
ness and he hoped they would mind theirs. He
had no use for the trifling kind of Negro; they did
not know how to act in public. Even now, as late
as it was, their dirty little kids were playing in the
streets, catching ball, pitching pennies, and play-


13
ing three-card molly under the lamplight. As he
crossed Lenox Avenue a very black boy driving an
Oldsmobile tried to run him down. This was con-
vincing proof that young Negroes went crazy as
soon as they got behind the wheel of a car.
Sister Clarisse lived alone in a small two-room
apartment near Seventh Avenue. Her husband had
been a deacon at Little Calvary Baptist Church
before he passed on to glory. Both Sister Clarisse
and Hubert's wife Gertrude were very active in
the affairs of Little Calvary. They were members
of both The Willing Workers' Society and The La-
dies' Auxiliary. Sometimes on Sundays they were
referred to from the pulpit as “pillars” of the
church, but to Hubert they were as different as
night and day. Sister Clarisse was the kind of
woman he should have married: sweet, gentle,
and, most important, very feminine. She did not
give a man a hard way to go, by contradicting
him, arguing with him all the time. Gertrude was
a thorn in a man's side, bothersome, constantly
after him to do this or that. Hubert firmly believed
that a man ought to have peace from his old lady
and not a lot of lip.
Sister Clarisse's apartment was a first-floor front
just above the sidewalk. This evening she was sit-
ting in the window seat fanning herself. She
laughed and said, “Why, Mister Hubert! What in
the world are you doing over here?”
He answered that he just happened to be walk-


14
ing by, and she wanted to know why he did not
come in and sit a while. He could see nothing
wrong with this idea and soon he was seated be-
side her.
Sister Clarisse had lived alone for several years,
and she enjoyed casual flirtations. It certainly was
not her fault if some of the brothers happened to
pass her apartment now and then. Keeping them
at a respectable distance, she possessed a definite
charm they could not and did not want to resist. A
pleasant-looking, light-brown woman in her for-
ties, she had a dark mole on one cheek that they
never failed to notice. Hubert was fond of her
high musical laugh. If he made a joke, she would
spread her hands and laugh in a Southern way,
saying, “You stop it now, Brother Hubert, coming
over here and making a girl laugh herself almost
to death over your foolishness.” He would go to
almost any lengths to make her laugh, because
sometimes when she was really tickled she would
slap him on his knee, and that would make him
feel warm all over.
After saying good night to her, Hubert decided
to walk down Lenox Avenue; he never wanted to
go directly home after leaving Sister Clarisse. At
the corner of One hundred and twenty-fifth Street
he stopped to listen to a Black Nationalist who
stood on a small platform making a speech to an
audience of thirty or forty people. The Nationalist
was a fine-looking man with glistening black skin.


15
His mustache was thick like his eyebrows and
trimmed neat and sharp. His tongue seemed crim-
son against the ebony of his skin. In a broad West
Indian accent his screaming words slashed at his
listeners: “Black mawn, wake up! Wake up! Drive
this gowddawm white mawn out of Harlem where
he comes and takes your mawney, mawn, out of
your pockets. He molests your women while little
children got no decent schools and go without
food in their belly. Wake up! You hear me? I say,
black mawn, black womawn! Wake up and recog-
nize Africa as your true home. Do you hear me?
Wake up!”
When the Nationalist finished, Hubert was so
moved that he could not help joining in the loud
applause, although he did not want to go to Africa
or any other place where there were so many Ne-
groes. He walked on.
At One hundred and twenty-fourth Street an old
man with a clean-shaven head had somehow
pushed taps into his bare feet and was dancing on
the sidewalk. He must once have been a profes-
sional, for he moved effortlessly and gracefully in
his small circle, setting up a machine-gun rhythm
with heel and toe. Now he mumbled, “Pick up on
this. Hey! . . . one . . . one ... one two . . . one
one one two two.” Sometimes he would whirl six
or seven times, tapping as he went. As he
settled down he would shake his head sadly
and say:


"Old Bill Robinson is dead and gone
But Lightfoot Charlie dances on."
Jere C
Then he would compliment himself with a raspy
laugh and a loud slap on his leg: “Goddog your
time, boy. You know one thing? You're a dancing
fool.” He wore a white shirt with broad green
stripes and pink trousers rolled up to his knees so
everyone could see that the sounds were coming
from his bare feet. But no one paid him any atten-
tion, and the old hat he had placed on the side-
walk remained empty. Hubert felt instant dislike
for the passers-by who hardly glanced at the
clownish dancer. Sure, he was foolish, but at least
he was trying. Hubert felt a sudden kinship for
the man. He dropped a dime in the hat.
Farther down Lenox Avenue a young woman
brushed against him with her hips. “Hi, Pops."
Hubert did not know her and resented the famili-
arity. And who was she calling Pops? He ignored
her and walked on. At One hundred and twentieth
Street he stopped to listen to singing that poured
out of a little store-front church with white painted
windows. As the congregation inside shouted the
words, they stamped their feet and clapped their
hands.
Lordy, Lordy, they keep crucifying you.
Lordy, Lordy, they do it every day.
Atom Bombs and H-bombs,
Crucifying You, Lord, in every way.


17
ro0
A crayoned sign on the door said that this was
the Happiness Holiness Church. Inside, the song
went on and on. Women screamed and fainted.
Everybody shouted and the song went on.
At One hundred and fourteenth Street in a tene-
ment hallway a dark brown boy was kissing a cop-
per-colored girl. It was a long, sensuous kiss, and
both of them moved their bodies in time with
mambo music from a nearby jukebox. Hubert
strongly disapproved of this kind of carrying on.
No wonder, he thought, our young people find it
so hard to get along. They don't know how to act.
Farther on, Hubert saw a barroom where the
Negroes seemed to be standing three deep. The
jukebox, as usual, was turned up full volume, and
they were laughing and shouting over its noise.
Such scenes always disgusted Hubert. All these
years of freedom had not taught them the most
important thing about being free: to hold on to
your money and make it work for you. Wasn't that
the way the big white man stayed on top? Did you
ever catch him spending a dime unless he ex-
pected to make two more? If the good Lord would
let Hubert catch one of those lucky numbers he
would show everybody that there was one Negro
who knew how to put his money to work.
As Hubert neared the park he began to hear
Spanish from groups of people clustered on the
sidewalk. He wondered why foreign people would
choose to settle in Harlem. Many of them seemed


18
light-complexioned enough to live anywhere they
wished. If Hubert had been blessed with fairer
skin he would have crossed the color line and
never returned.
It was a soft night, a gentle night on Central
Park West. Girls and boys strolled arm in arm. Hu-
bert sat down next to a man and a woman on one
of the long benches. His thoughts turned to San
Francisco, where he was going if he ever won at
the numbers. Once someone had told him that
Negroes had very good opportunities in the West.
Some of them had their own businesses and all of
them were industrious because that was the kind
of city 'Frisco was—a place where willingness to
work was rewarded. The very thought of himself
on the West Coast made him feel good. Impul-
sively he turned to the woman sitting beside him.
“You ever been to San Francisco?”
The woman was startled. She turned to her com-
panion, a man of about thirty, who leaned forward
so he could get a better look at Hubert.
"What did you say, fella?"
Hubert didn't answer. He couldn't understand
why the man sounded so belligerent.
“Do you know this lady?”
“No, I don't,” Hubert replied. Then he realized
that the man thought Hubert was flirting with the
young woman. That was silly. After all, a man his
age ...
“Then what the hell are you talking to her for?”


19
The man stood up. He had a wide, tan face and a
lower lip that jutted out.
The woman said, “Aw, I don't think he meant
nothing, J.C.”
“I think you'd better beat it, buddy.”
"Aw, J.C. ..." She looked pityingly at Hubert.
"Gowan, Pop,” said J.C. “Beat it.”
What was there to do? Hubert got up and
walked away. It was just like a Negro of that low
type to show off in front of his girl. Hubert wished
he were younger and nearly the same size as that
big yellow bastard. He would have beaten J.C. un-
til his socks dropped off.
Behind him Hubert heard, “Aw, baby, the poor
little guy didn't mean nothing. Just a little off,
that's all.”
“This park is full of nothing but freaks,” said
J.C. “This whole city is full of all kinds of freaks.
They ought to exterminate 'em all.”
Hubert walked down Central Park West. The
farther he walked, the less he felt inclined to re-
turn to Harlem. And so it happened that he never
went back home that Saturday night.


Hubert Cooley had but one obsession, and that
was to leave family, home, and Harlem as far be-
hind as possible and create a new life for himself.
He had lived with this idea for more than five
years. He wanted to go to another city, San Fran-
cisco preferably, and set himself up in some small
business. For this he had some qualifications. Dur-
ing the nineteen thirties, he had, at various times,


22.
any time it came to mind: standing in a crowd,
working, walking down the street-anywhere.
True, their long-standing relationship was under-
going considerable strain. Hubert had not re-
ceived his due reward. Soon it would be too late;
already he was more than fifty years old. But he
was optimistic. Where was the meaning of life if
God did not correct His errors? If Justice and
Right did not triumph?
More than twenty-four hours after Hubert left
home he found himself sitting on Central Park
South. It was near midnight and he was tired. He
sat on a bench and crossed his legs. He had been to
Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx, and now he was
thinking about returning home. He had never
spent the night away from home before, and
Gertrude was bound to be worried. But this did
not bother him. It was simply that his money was
gone and he would soon be hungry again.
On Central Park South the skyscraper hotels
look northward over the park toward Harlem and
the Bronx. These hotels are like high glass for-
tresses that guard Manhattan's sparkling midtown
district. What fascinated Hubert were the pent-
houses. Their tiny lights peeked out into the night
like small, excited eyes. He wondered what it was
like to live so far above the ground. This was an
exceptionally hot night, but there were probably
cooling, gentle breezes up there. Certainly it was


23
quiet-not at all like One hundred and twenty-
sixth Street, where the children whooped and
yelled until all hours and the Lenox Avenue drunks
raised holy hallelujah every night.
Hubert had never been inside such a fine hotel
as the one across the street, and only in the movies
and in magazines had he seen the interiors of
penthouses. But as he stared up at their lights he
could easily imagine the tall, casual men and the
luxurious women with their soft, clear skin. He saw
them lighting cigarettes and sipping chilled drinks
from thin-stemmed glasses. He heard their pleas-
ant, educated talk and quiet, refined laughter.
Across the street a taxicab drew up before the
hotel and stopped under its white light. A smiling
doorman in a blue-and-white uniform helped the
passengers to the sidewalk, and the taxi moved
away. The guests were in their fifties. The man was
short, rotund, and a little lame, it seemed, for he
walked with the aid of a cane. The woman ap-
peared taller in her dark evening dress. There was
something in her hair that sparkled; for a moment
the hotel lights seemed to set it afire. There was a
joke between them, and they were laughing. The
doorman touched his finger to his cap as they
passed, but they took no notice of him. The glass
doors closed behind them and they vanished into
the lobby.
Hubert was excited and breathless. It had
seemed such a simple thing, and yet how grand,


24
how magnificent the whole thing was! The way
the guests had stepped from the taxi and had
hardly looked at the uniform that saluted and held
the door for them! And they seemed so at home in
that wonderful setting.
Hubert thought: If I had been born white this
would have been the kind of life I would have led.
He knew, of course, that there were many white
people who were almost as bad off as colored folk.
But Hubert could not imagine himself being both
white and poor. The two things simply did not go
together. Even God, who had often disappointed
Hubert, could not have been so cruel and thought-
less as to bless him with fair skin and leave out the
silver spoon.
It was past one o'clock in the morning when a
policeman stopped to chat with the doorman of
the hotel. The doorman nodded toward Hubert,
and the policeman started across the street. When
Hubert saw the policeman coming toward him he
told himself that he had no reason to be afraid.
Central Park was for the public. He was not a bum,
because he had an address and he worked for
a living. Nor did he look like a bum. His necktie
matched his blue suit, and, as always, his shoes
shone brilliantly. No one, Hubert assured himself,
could mistake him for anything but what he was: a
respectable citizen. Still, he could not shake off a


25
dark guilt feeling as the uniform of the law ap-
proached.
The policeman stopped a few feet away and
took a good look at the little Negro man. He saw a
small dark man with tense, nervous features. He
did not know exactly what to think of Hubert.
Manhattan was in the middle of a heat wave, and
yet this man was wearing a heavy blue pin-stripe
suit. It was just possible that Hubert was one of
those foreign Negroes from Haiti or Africa or some-
place like that. Perhaps one of those attached to
the United Nations. They caused trouble when
they were mistaken for local Negroes. The police-
man, a man with fifteen years' experience, decided
to proceed with caution.
"Hello,” he said.
"Hello,” Hubert responded brusquely.
“What are you doing there?”
"I'm sitting,” Hubert's voice shot back. “What
did you think I was doing?” The words sounded
just the way he had wanted them to, bold and
self-possessed. He was pleased with himself.
“I'm just asking you a question, Pop."
“Well, I just answered you,” said Hubert. “And
my name ain't Pop.”
"What is your name?”
“Never you mind about that.”
“You're up kind of late,” said the policeman.
“So are you,” Hubert replied. “So what?”


26
Thus far Hubert felt he had done well, but a
deep-seated fear of and respect for white authority
made him think he might have gone just a little
too far. So he added, in a protesting tone, “I ain't
done nothing. I'm just sitting here where I've got
a right to be."
The cop moved two or three steps closer. He was
a man with blunt features. He stood easily with his
hands on his belt. He was not threatening Hubert,
but the little man felt intimidated anyway.
“Come on, Pop,” said the policeman, “let's move
it along and call it a night, what d'ya say?"
If Hubert had stood up then and walked away,
the matter would have ended there and most of
his dignity would have been left intact. But again
the policeman had called him out of his name, and
this was something he especially disliked. Besides,
he reflected angrily, this was a public park and he
did have a right to sit there. He was a citizen.
So by way of replying Hubert used an old
Southern expression: “You and Lets move it along
if you want to. I'm gonna stay right here.” He
folded his arms on his chest and recrossed his legs.
You couldn't let these people push you around all
your life. Sometimes you had to stand up for your
rights.
Before Hubert knew what was happening, the
policeman had reached down, caught him by the
shoulders of his jacket, and jerked him off the
bench. In one deft movement Hubert was spun


27
around so that he was facing away from the po-
liceman. At the same time the policeman reached
under the back of Hubert's jacket and caught a
grip on the trousers' belt. With this grip the police-
man jerked upward, forcing the breath from Hu-
bert and causing him to stand on tiptoe to avoid
being cut between his legs by the crotch of his
trousers. All this happened very quickly.
The cop's patient voice now became a growl. “A
nice quiet night and then you had to come along.”
Keeping his grip on the belt and holding it so
high that Hubert was forced to walk on the very
tips of his toes, the policeman began taking long
steps toward Columbus Circle. Naturally Hubert
knew better than to struggle against a policeman.
As he was being pushed and carried along, he
tried to make it appear as if he were moving under
his own power, but without much success. Hubert
and the policeman passed a boy strolling arm-in-
arm with a blond girl. Hubert could hardly see
their faces in the dark but he was certain they
smiled. He could easily imagine how ridiculous he
must look with his trousers pulled high above the
tops of his socks. It was very undignified.
At Columbus Circle they had to pause to let the
cars go by. Both of them were breathing hard.
“What's your name, boy?” the cop demanded.
Then Hubert had an idea which seemed excep-
tionally good. Here was his way to repay the cop.
He would not reveal his name.


28
“Just call me Pop," said Hubert.
Instead, the policeman called him a so-and-so
sonofabitch and pushed the little Negro toward the
precinct. But Hubert smiled fiercely. Now that he
saw the cop was boiling mad, he somehow felt
repaid for the indignity he was suffering. He was
not afraid any more. They could pour hot oil over
his naked body, set fire to his hair, and extract his
teeth one by one. But he would never, never tell
them his name. Never.
At the precinct station nobody seemed to care.
After he refused to answer the first time, they
shrugged their shoulders and continued their dis-
cussion of baseball. All of them agreed the Giants
had a good team that year. One of them expressed
the opinion that although the Dodgers had got off
to a slow start, the team had now begun to catch
fire and was steadily rolling toward the pennant.
There was loud disagreement. They thoroughly re-
viewed the two previous seasons in defense of both
points of view. This done, the desk sergeant took
a look at Hubert and decided that the little man
was a mental case, and all of his subordinates
agreed.
"Hey, Al,” the sergeant said to one of his men,
"take this guy upstairs someplace.”
"Okay. I'll put him with the Preacher. He's on
his way to Bellevue tomorrow morning, too."
"My God, is Preacher back? What's the matter
nan
was


29
with those guys down on Psycho? Why do they
keep letting him out?"
“They say he's just an average nut and they
don't have any room for average nuts. The city's
full of them.”
The man took Hubert by the arm and walked
him up two flights of stairs. He unlocked the door
of a room that smelled of disinfectant and urine.
He asked Hubert if he wanted to go to the toilet,
and when Hubert said no, the policeman locked
Hubert inside the little room and went away.
For several minutes Hubert stood just inside the
doorway without moving. Out of the darkness
came broken, unintelligible murmurings that
might have been used in a prayer. Suddenly the
words would halt and there would be the heavy
breathing of a sleeping man. In a moment the mur-
murings would begin again.
“Lord, the cross is heavy ... Lord ... Thy
will be done ... down with the devil . . . pure
and white for Thee I'll keep my soul, O Lord. ...
Though he tempt me I will never ... Most High
... never, never . . . Amen.”
The man's voice was raspy and hoarse. Could he
be dangerous? Hubert turned and felt for a door
knob but there was none, nor was there a place
where one had been. Silently he pushed against
the door, but it refused to move. He would have
cried out but he was intimidated by the great still-
ness of the precinct building. When his eyes grew


30
ud
man
used to the darkness he saw the figure of a man on
a cot with his knees drawn up in front of him. He
lay facing the wall. He was praying and scratch-
ing himself. This was the Preacher.
Hubert walked quietly to the cot and let his
weight down upon it slowly. He certainly had no
intention of waking his roommate.
“Thy will, not mine ... suffer . . . suffer ...
with clean hands ...O Lord.”
Hubert had never in his life been inside a prison
and he had no idea what he should do next. He sat
for a long time thinking about nothing in particu-
lar. He gradually became aware that he was very
tired. Had he slept at all the night before! He
couldn't remember. He wanted to lie back on the
cot, but what if this Preacher fellow were to wake
up and find Hubert off his guard? No, it would be
better to stay awake. He would lie back and close
his eyes for just a few seconds. He lay back,
yawned, and, very much against his will, went to
sleep.
This was the best dream Hubert had ever had.
The others were usually so vague-confused im-
ages and sounds, like snatches from a hundred dif-
ferent motion pictures.
But in this dream everything was sharp and
clear. Hubert and Sister Clarisse were having sup-
per in the diner of a streamliner speeding toward
San Francisco. The black waiters were smiling and


31
arou
bowing as they set the meal before the couple,
both of whom were dressed fit to kill. She would
say to him:
“Where did you get the money?”
And he would answer: “I turned the number
around and played 417.”
"Where did you get the money?”
"I turned the number around and played 417."
Over and over they said the same thing.
“Where did you get the money?”
“I turned the number around and played 417.”.
Sister Clarisse laughed and put her hand on his
knee, which made him feel so good he wanted to
scream. Then the train plunged into a tunnel, and
Hubert and Sister Clarisse were enveloped in dark-
ness.
He sat straight up when he remembered where
he was. His fear rushed back. He had not in-
tended to sleep. Why, anything could have hap-
pened to him as he lay there with his eyes closed.
The Preacher seemed not to have moved. The man
was probably not dangerous at all but some unfor-
tunate fellow who also was being taken advantage
of by the police. An automobile passed in the
street below but barely disturbed the silence. The
precinct building was a great sleeping thing, and
Hubert lay awake in its bosom.
“Not my will ...0 Lord ... but Thine,”
mumbled the Preacher.


32
It was true that now and then Hubert had imag-
ined himself and Sister Clarisse together in San
Francisco, but he had always put such thoughts
down as wishful thinking. After all, she was a re-
spected member of the church, a devout Christian
woman. But now that the dream had again
brought the idea to mind, there could certainly be
no harm in thinking about it. The dream alone
was evidence that he had reason to hope.
A man was a fool not to pay attention to his
dreams, especially if they had numbers in them.
Of course, with everybody dreaming different num-
bers, you could not expect them all to win. You
had to be lucky and you had to have dreams so
clear that there could be no doubt about what
number was indicated.
Hubert lay back on the cot and cupped his
head in his hands. It was true that he had played
those three digits in every possible combination
except in the order four, one, seven. The week be-
fore he had come close but had not hit it.
"Four-seventeen,” said Hubert.
It had a good sound to it, and he felt good when
he said it. If I get out of this jail in the morning, he
thought, I'll start betting on 417. It probably
won't pay off, but it's better to play and lose a few
dollars than have it come out when you don't have
a penny on it. The very day you turn chicken-
hearted and decide not to play, that's the day your
number always comes.


33
He yawned deeply and felt drowsy again. He
thought of Sister Clarisse and how different his
life would have been if he had married her. Well,
what was it they said? Life begins at forty. Or was
it fifty? Who could say? Hubert Cooley might
make his big splash yet.
Tomorrow I will play 417, Hubert said to him-
self. My luck is overdue.
"Amen,” grunted the Preacher.


35
man
man in his forties, a hulk of a man with boyish red
cheeks set on each side of a florid face. This ser-
geant was not just fat, he was gigantic. The
younger man was preoccupied with his personal
problems, but still he could not help wondering
how much fat the policeman carried about with
him. Two hundred and fifty pounds? No, it was
surely closer to three hundred. But weren't there
weight limitations on the New York police force?
When the sergeant first joined he must have been
much smaller. Jesus! thought the younger man, he
must have a hell of a time trying to screw a woman.
He tried to imagine how the whole act would look
and sound but he couldn't.
The sergeant inhaled noisily and began a long,
groaning yawn as he mumbled into the telephone.
The skin of his face and neck crumbled into a
thousand tiny particles. He was not tired, but he
wanted his morning nap. Why, he wondered, was
the graveyard shift in a Harlem precinct always
like the Fourth of July? They were always kicking
up a fuss, these people, for the sole purpose of dis-
turbing his five-o'clock snooze or preventing it al-
together. He grumbled a bored thanks into the
mouthpiece and hung up the phone. As he yawned
again, more deeply this time, he let his eyes rest
on the young man in front of him.
James Lee Cooley was blacker than the average
American Negro. His was a liquid, whole black-
ness. He was a little over average height and gave


36
the impression of being a dark reservoir of
strength. His eyes were like those of a young boy:
large, intelligent, uncompromising. But his man-
ner was older, his expression almost grave. He had
a singular appearance that often caused people to
stare—they never knew quite what to make of him.
Just now the sergeant, finishing his yawn with a
soft wheeze of relief and satisfaction, was thinking:
Black as pitch ... funny-looking face ... like
sculpture . . . never know what he's thinking. Now
what was it I was just talking about on the tele-
phone? Oh, yes.
"I was right. Precinct downtown called in a few
hours ago that they had picked up a fellow who
fitted the description of the missing Hubert Coo-
ley.” The sergeant explained that the fellow down-
town was probably a psycho, at least they thought
so because he refused to give his name. What
did the young man think? Could that be Hubert
Cooley?
James Lee felt vaguely uncomfortable, a little
disloyal. The man downtown was probably his fa-
ther, and this fat sergeant was a stranger and a
white man to boot. But what did it matter? Fact
was fact. “Yes," he said, “that could be him.”
"You could save time by going down and having
a look,” said the sergeant. “Of course, it's hard to
tell. The city's full of crackpots. But they say this
fellow fits the description. A skinny little dark-


37
colored fellow. Been missing since Saturday night,
huh? That ain't so long."
“My mother was worried about him," said James
Lee. “He never stayed away before.”
“Do you know how to get to the precinct on
West Fifty-fourth Street right off Eighth Avenue?”
asked the sergeant.
James Lee knew how to find the precinct station.
Except for a very rude and unforgettable interrup-
tion of twenty-three months spent in Uncle Sam's
army, he had lived in New York all of his twenty-
six years. Going back and forth to school, he and
his gang had raised hell on the subway trains,
been chased by furious conductors through the
rumbling cars. And there was that time when
he had been unceremoniously kicked— literally
kicked-out of the Fourteenth-Street station by
two subway cops, a white one and a black one who
wasted no love on schoolboys. He had hugged girls
on the trains and pinched at their nipples when he
thought no one was looking, girls with quick an-
swers and chewing gum and bobby socks. And
later he had ridden the trains with girls in high
heels, nervous, long-legged girls, to basement par-
ties in Brooklyn and the Bronx, to the Palace
Theater and the Capitol Theater, and to the Roxy,
and to frenzied Saturday nights at the Palladium.
And some nights, cold, flat, gray nights, he had
ridden from the Brooklyn end of the line to the


38
Bronx end. This was because he had been drunk
and had slept past his stop. So now he said to the
sergeant that he knew how to get to the precinct
station downtown.
But the sergeant told him anyway, giving him
detailed directions. James Lee mumbled a thank
you and wondered if white people ever listened to
anything Negroes said.
The sergeant punctuated his thought with: “And
don't forget to get on the front of the train, d'ya
hear, young fella?"
The young man reminded himself that the ser-
geant had been helpful, not nasty as a cop could
be. So he called back a final thanks before leaving
the station.
I'm all mixed up, James Lee Cooley was think-
ing. I don't know whether I'm coming or going.
Running around, jumping into bed with everyone
I can find. Hell, is that all I'm living for? I'm
twenty-six years old and I don't know what it's all
about yet. Damn!
As the train lurched out of the One-hundred-
and-twenty-fifth-Street station he found himself a
standing place in the front car near the engineer's
booth. From here he could look ahead into the
black tunnel. As the train was throttled forward,
the tracks reflected the light of the onrushing cars
and seemed to leap under their wheels. Staring
straight ahead into the darkness, he imagined that


But no! She was probably as mad as she could be
because he had left her alone all night. By now she
had called him everything but a child of God and
was ready to throw things as soon as he opened
the door.
Now he turned his anger on himself. A sensible
guy with a girl in White Plains would keep himself
free on the nights she was able to get into town.
You did not have to be in love with her-he was
never certain how he felt about Essie—but if you
saw she was a good girl, in your corner, as the say-
ing went, you did not go out of your way to give
her a hard time. Now Essie would be hell to get
along with for two or three days. In the end, of
course, she would thaw, come around as she al-
ways did. He would kiss and pet her, maybe buy
her a present, and she would become her usual self
again. But this time winning her over would be
especially difficult, and he knew he had only him-
self to blame.
The express train flashed through the Eighty-
sixth-Street local station. James Lee became aware
of a deep-seated itching in his right buttock. He
squeezed closer to the engineer's booth, where he
put his hand under his jacket and into his back
pocket so that he could scratch himself without at-
tracting too much attention. On hot days when he
perspired he itched around the scar tissue of his
wound. When this happened he would think up
special curses for the army surgeons who had as-


sured him that they had removed all the metal
pieces.
Why was it that whenever he found himself
alone in a room with Essie he began to feel restless,
hemmed in? Sometimes he told himself that he
loved Essie and that he ought to marry her and
treat her right. At other times he felt just as cer-
tain she was just another women to please him in
bed when he felt the need and that it would be the
worst mistake to let himself think seriously about
her. When he felt this way, he tried to get away
from her as he had last night.
“Baby, I'm going out to the precinct to see if
they've got any word on Pop. I'll be back soon.”
“Okay, James Lee."
She had come around the bed and kissed him,
keeping her lips against his so long that he felt
he was being smothered. Then gently he had
pulled away and gone down the stairs.
He really had meant to come back, he told him-
self, because it was the first night of her week's
vacation. Essie had begged and pleaded with her
employer in White Plains, Mrs. Ornstein, for the
week off. Finally Essie had to threaten to quit be-
fore Mrs. Ornstein gave in. She had been excited
about spending a whole week with James Lee,
and he had felt good about it, too. But once they
were in the room together he knew he would have
to get away, at least for a little while. The strange
thing about it was that of all the women he saw
saw


regularly, Essie was the only one who made him
feel that way.
After leaving her he walked over to Bank's Bar
& Grill, where he ran into Jacky and Harold. These
were his two closest friends from high-school days.
Now Harold was married and lived out in Long Is-
land, and Jacky led the life of a Harlem sports-
man. They only saw one another occasionally.
Their meeting by accident certainly called for a
celebration. At the beginning James Lee kept
telling himself he should go back to Essie, but this
seemed less and less important as the night went
on. This morning he remembered only disconnected
conversation, jumbled fragments of voices ordering
gin, soda, ice, and—what was the crazy concoc-
tion that woman had been drinking?-oh, yes,
Scotch, milk, and sugar.
"Send the ladies another round and ask them if
we may join their party.” This was Jacky speak-
ing to the waiter at The Vet's Club. Jacky was al-
ways tailored in the best and seemed to have
money to spend. He said he earned his money
singing, but James Lee did not believe this because
Jacky's few engagements in small Harlem night
clubs never lasted for more than a week or two.
The women were picked up. They were not
goodtime girls and were so embarrassed Jacky had
to work overtime getting them to relax.
“No kidding. You're really from Georgia?”
"Sure we are. What's wrong with that?"


SPIL
was anx-
“I told you guys, didn't I? I said, “There's a
Georgia gal if I've ever seen one.””
"Aw, go on, man. Did he, sure enough?”
“He sure did.” This was Harold, who was anx-
ious to say something to prove that he was a reg-
ular fellow, which he was not. Harold was the most
successful of the three. He had a job as a layout
man with an advertising firm downtown. What
was it Ebony magazine had said in their spread
on him?
TALENT AND ABILITY
SMASH COLOR BAR
di
"That's right,” Harold was saying now, “ 'there's
a Georgia gal, fellas,' he said.”
“How'd you know?”
“ 'Cause of that evil look on your face,” said
Jacky. “Everybody knows that Georgia women
are evil as hell.”
“I knew you were lying. I told these girls, I
said, “There's a man who was born lying. We bet-
ter leave him alone.'”
“Let's have a drink.”
“Whaťre you having?”
“Tom Collins. I'm hot.”
“Me too. Gimme the same thing."
“And you? What are you drinking, pretty?"
“Scotch, milk, and sugar, handsome.”
"I told you those Georgia gals were crazy.”
“Girl, why don't you stop showing off?”


"You drink what you want. I drink what
I want.” She winked at James Lee, who so far had
not said much. He winked back and decided she
was fairly attractive.
"Waiter!”
“How do you girls happen to be out on a Sun-
day night? Don't tell me you're playgirls.”
“We all went to the ballgame today and de-
cided to make a night of it.”
“Who do you pull for?”
“Dodgers, naturally. We all pull for the Dodg-
ers.”
"If you ask me, they've got too many spooks on
that team. It'll never work out. I used to pull
for Brooklyn before they got all those Negroes on
the team. Then I switched to the Yanks. You know
Negroes never can work together.”
The women protested. “Man, you talk crazy all
the time, don't you?”
“He looks colored but he talks cracker."
"I ain't kidding. I was out at Ebbets Field the
other day and so many boots came running out
on the diamond I went to the gate and got my
money back.”
The woman named Bernice pushed her chair
back and stood up. “I ain't gonna sit here and lis-
ten to all this nonsense."
"Come on, girl. Have a drink. I'm just kidding.
I'm a Brooklyn fan myself. Jackie Robinson is
my first cousin."


45
Bernice sat down again. “Are you kidding? Is
he sure enough?”
"Sure he is. My name is Jacky and his name
is Jackie.”
Everybody laughed. Bernice asked, “Why do
you fellows travel around with a crackpot?”
“That's because he's got all the money,” said
James Lee.
“Let's go someplace else,” Harold suggested.
Jacky said, “Drink up, girls. I know a jumping
joint on Hundred-twenty-third Street. Drink up.
Life is short, you know.”
They paired off easily. James Lee found him-
self with the woman called Lottie. She was past
thirty and seemed shapely, with high pointed
breasts that pushed against him when they sat to-
gether in the taxi. The more he drank, the more
he thought about them. Later, in her bedroom,
her ample figure seemed almost liquid, dissolv-
ing and spreading when she loosened her girdle.
By then he was drunk and, in a feeble sort of
way, desperate to relieve himself sexually. Seeing
her flabby breasts sagging on an overripe figure
was only a momentary disappointment. Briefly he
pictured Essie's animal young suppleness, but he
pushed the thought away. Here was another
woman to be had in another stuffy little bedroom.
“You're different, you know that?” She snapped
off the light and lay beside him.
“What do you mean, different?” He was almost


46
gruff. He wanted to get it over with. He did not
want to talk.
“The way you look, for instance. Like you're
thinking hard about something. And you don't
talk much. That's what I mean, different. Like the
Scotch, milk, and sugar I drink. I don't even like
the stuff, but it makes me different, see?”
“Yeah.”
“Everybody ought to have something that sets
them apart. But not too much. I'm talking crazy,
I bet. That's 'cause I'm scared. Here, feel my
heart.”
“Come on,” he said.
She smelled of sweat and powder. In the dark
her flabby ugliness made no difference. He gave
himself to the situation, punished himself, going
beyond the few feeble exertions he felt capable
of, and, completely spent and disgusted with him-
self and relieved only by the knowledge that the
stupid night was almost over, finally fell asleep.
Luckily he awoke early and was able to avoid
the embarrassment that always followed these
quick affairs—the strained familiarity, the half-
hearted promises to see each other again, the say-
ing good-by to a stranger.
Outside, daylight was just coming to Harlem.
There was no need now to rush to Essie. He would
need time to think of a good excuse. He had
found himself walking near the One-hundred-and-


thirty-fifth-Street precinct station when he decided
to go in and inquire about Hubert.
Now, on his way downtown, he wished he
could remain forever where he was, at the front
of the subway train staring ahead into the tunnel.
Its blackness was relieved only by the small red,
green, and yellow signal lights that dotted the
passageway. Perhaps if he stared into the dark-
ness long enough he would find a way out of the
dark confusion of his life. But the tunnel sud-
denly burst into the brilliant black-and-white-
checkered Columbus Circle station. The Eighth
Avenue “A” train roared to a halt. Its doors hissed
open and the passengers pushed out. James Lee
turned his back to the engineer's booth, scratched
himself energetically, then squeezed through the
doorway and hurried toward the station exit.
ne
“That's him,” said James Lee.
Yes, of course he knew the little brown man
with the sleep-red eyes and the wrinkled suit. This
was his father, the queer duck of One hundred
and twenty-sixth Street.
But, thought James Lee, I don't really know
him, not really. When James Lee was very small,
in the beginning, there were the three of them in
what was called a family. But his father had never
been a part of them. He was the man who came
home to their little apartment, came home from


48
stores, shops, and poolrooms, and talked dreams
as they ate their dinner. “This is only for a little
while,” he was always saying. “Just steppingstones
on our way to bigger and better things.”
The most persistent memory James Lee had of
his earliest years was his father's shrill, hope-
charged voice insisting that nothing around them
was real and permanent. They were always on
their way to a place where there were no railroad
flats with greasy walls and piss-smelling hallways.
This was a place where there was money, good
food, and plenty of room to move around in.
This was always coming next month, next year.
Soon. These had all been lies. James Lee had un-
derstood that for a long time now. The railroad
flats with the greasy walls and stinking hallways
were all very real. Only Hubert Cooley was un-
real. James Lee could identify him as his father,
but beyond this Hubert did not exist for his son.
They were strangers and had always been so.
“Don't he know,” this new police sergeant was
saying, “that he can get into trouble hanging
around neighborhoods where he don't belong?
Suppose something had happened there last night
-a robbery, burglary, rape, or something? First
thing we do is pick up all the loafers in the neigh-
borhood.”
James Lee told the sergeant that his father had
never before been in any kind of trouble with the
police and that he was certain Hubert would not


loaf in the parks any more. The sergeant grum-
bled to himself, opened a large rectangular book,
and began writing. After a few moments he
paused and glared at Hubert.
"You wanna tell me your name now?”
Hubert mumbled his name. The sergeant's face
was suddenly red with anger. His rock-hard voice
roared at the little man. “Speak up, you! What's
the matter? Can't you talk?”
Hubert took a deep breath, cleared his throat,
and spoke again. “My name is Hubert Cooley.”
Where did Hubert live? Where did he work,
and what did he do there?
"I'm super of the building."
"What building? The one where you live?"
“Yes, and three more on the same block.”
"Well, why didn't you tell me that in the first
place? What am I supposed to do—read your
mind?”
When the sergeant had received all the answers
he wanted, he slammed the book shut, pushed it
to the corner of his desk, and glared at Hubert.
“Don't you people have enough trouble without
looking for it?” He pointed a thick, stubby finger.
“Now hear me. If I ever catch you loafing around
here again I'm gonna see that you get some
time. You can believe that.” He was a heavy-set
man, strongly built, not yet fifty. His steel-gray
hair was clipped short and added to the impres-
sion of blunt strength. His voice boomed, his slate-
mo


50
gray Irish eyes threatened. It was as if he per-
sonally had been insulted and at the slightest
provocation would leap across the five feet of desk
and railing, catch the little Negro by his scrawny
neck, and snap it.
"Now get the hell out of here,” he growled.
Hubert turned and walked from the building.
James Lee followed.
"Pop, I hope you're going right home.”
"Sure, I'm going home.” Hubert was examining
his reflection in a restaurant window. He set his
tie right and then began buttoning his vest.
“Mama's been worried about you."
"She's always worried about one thing or the
other.”
Hubert finished buttoning his jacket and his
vest. “A man ain't got the right to sit on a park
bench any more, you know that?"
“I knew that before, Pop, and so did you.”
Hubert changed the subject. “You got any
money?”
“Why?"
"I need it for something,” Hubert snapped. “Let
me have five dollars until payday.”
James Lee knew that Hubert disliked having
to ask him for money and it made James Lee un-
comfortable. His first urge was to give his father
what he wanted so that the scene would be over
as quickly as possible. But nothing annoyed him


51
mo
more than his father's expensive habit of playing
the numbers. To James Lee the numbers game
thrived on mass ignorance, and, though he might
occasionally gamble at poker or dice, he had never
chanced a nickel on the long odds of the numbers.
Besides, his father's payday never came. His mo-
ther had begun to collect the small superintend-
ent's salary. That was the only way she could
be certain any of the bills would be paid.
James Lee took some silver from his pocket.
"Here's fifty cents to get uptown with, Pop. This
is the best I can do."
Hubert did not move. "I'll pay you the five dol-
lars on payday.”
James Lee fought down a desire to snatch one
of the two bills from his pocket and give it to
Hubert. But good money was good money and
there was no sense in throwing it away. Besides,
he would probably have to buy Essie a present
to pacify her. This little man, the crazy fool!
Why couldn't he be like everybody else.
"Nothing doing, Pop.”
Without another word Hubert turned and
walked toward the Eighth Avenue subway. For all
his neatness, he was a shabby figure. James Lee
returned the silver to his pocket. He had no urge
to go after Hubert. He would call his mother and
tell her his father was coming.
He felt as if his clothes were sticking to his
body. He wanted a bath and a change of cloth-


52
ing, but first he would have to rush over to the
garage. Suppose that dispatcher had given his
taxi to someone else? He couldn't afford to lose a
day's work. After picking up the cab he would
rush home to Essie. He stopped at the corner and
caught a crosstown bus.


In the room on One hundred and twenty-fourth
Street Essie Dee Turner tried going back to sleep
but her nerves were tense. A few minutes earlier
Essie had been shocked out of her sleep by the
shrill scream of a woman. She had sat straight up
in her bed, wide awake, not daring to breathe.
Then the woman had started crying, a low, throaty
moan, and Essie had realized with relief that it


54
was not a woman who had screamed but only that
doggoned cat out there in the back yard. She was
certain it was the same cat that raised so much
sand every time she spent a night here. The good
Lord knew, that old pussy would cause her to
have heart failure one of these nights if she kept
screaming like that.
She lay back on her pillow and tried to get to
sleep. Where was James Lee? Could something
have happened to him? As she thought about him
it seemed that he was there, lying beside her,
touching his lips to her ears and throat, murmur-
ing all that foolish talk that always made her won-
der if he was sincere. It was: Baby, you know I
love you, don't you, honey? I'm crazy about you.
You kill me with those crazy eyes. . . . New York
nonsense talk, she called it, but she liked to hear
it. Yes, James Lee, sweet black man . . . he had
her number, all right. The tension lifted. She
yawned and fell asleep.
They were somewhere, the two of them, inside
a house. She knew this house well and felt at
home here. James Lee said something about being
sleepy and she agreed that it was time to go to
bed. She watched him take off his clothes, felt
that same anxious sensation she always experi-
enced when she saw the hardness of his body.
And she saw that he was not really sleepy; nor,
come to think of it, was she. They were together
as one, she and James Lee, making love in that


55
wild, clutching, fighting way that usually left her
weak and trembling. But it was not definite to
her, and she was vaguely dissatisfied.
And now they were in a living room. She could
see this very clearly. The light-colored furniture
was very modern, like Mrs. Ornstein's in White
Plains. It was not cheap, either, not the kind they
sell on One hundred and twenty-fifth Street, but
solid stuff she would take good care of and pol-
ish each and every day.
And there were children. She could not really
see them, but she knew they were there. Perhaps
they were a boy and a girl or two boys or two
girls. She was not certain of anything except that
they belonged to her and James Lee. They were
all over the place, those kids, running and gig-
gling and making a racket, and James Lee was
smiling all over himself because he really did like
them, after all. Well, hadn't she been telling him
all along that kids were the best things in the
world? Essie had so much happiness that every-
thing was soft and warm.
Then she saw the basin and she was living
through the whole terrible episode again. That
basin! She would never forget it, never! That
was her blood, wasn't it, the pinkish splotches
on the white enamel? At first she was not certain,
but it had to be her blood because it was she who
sat over the basin. It was strange to be looking at
it like that. The pain was there, too, the one that


for anybody. She felt herself drowning, being
sucked down into the heavy blackness, and her
throat was clogged with a terror. She opened her
mouth to scream but no sound came. She was lost.
Again Essie was sitting straight up in the bed.
Her breath came in deep, noisy gasps. Her body
was wet with perspiration and she trembled with
cold. Her eyes were wide open and unseeing.
She wanted to get out of the bed, but she could
not will her arms and legs to move.
Above, on the next landing, she could hear
heavy footsteps moving along the squeaky wooden
floors of the hallway. This meant that it was seven-
thirty and the plump, brown-skinned woman up-
stairs, the one that always reminded Essie of her
mother down home, was getting her husband off
to work before she left herself.
The woman's soprano voice seeped through the
thin floors. “Lonzo, don't you forget to go by
and see how Leo is.”
Essie knew that Lonzo was about forty-five
years old and baldheaded with a bulging pot of a
belly. He said, “Woman, if you was to stop worry-
ing about what I is supposed to do, and worried
about what you is supposed to do, you'd be a
damned sight better off.”
“Lonzo!” Her high voice was full of shock.
“Don't be cursing in the hallway like that so every-
body in the world can hear how evil you are.”


58
Now Lonzo was down to Essie's landing. He
was mumbling to himself as he walked past her
door. “With that woman, if it ain't one thing it's
the other.” Essie heard him sigh wearily as he
started to let himself down the next flight of stairs.
The talk had served to pry her mind and body
loose from the grip of the nightmare. She began
to think. Quietly and slowly the thought formed
itself: I've got to get out of here. Calmly and
soberly it took body and grew. I've got to get out
of here.
Still she did not move, and now her eyes darted
from the dirty, streaked wall in front of her and
swept around the room. They rested a moment on
the black, greasy gas stove that she had scrubbed
and scoured with steel wool and had never been
able to clean; sped on to the single window that
looked out onto the nothingness of other back
windows with the same torn green shades and
the gray grassless yards below; darted up to the
dingy ceiling and stopped on the large heavy
white patch of plaster that she had told James
Lee would one day crash down and kill them.
I've got to get out of here.
She had never liked the room, not from that
very first moment when James Lee had swung
open the door and announced that this was it.
He had done this proudly, as if he had accom-
plished something in finding it. Yes, a young cou-
ple needed a place of their own. Each time they


59
went to a hotel she was nervous and tense because
she realized the clerk and all the hotel help knew
that she and James Lee were not married. James
Lee had said this was the way people did things
in New York, but that did not make her feel any
better. So she had agreed to the room. But this
place was much too small, hardly large enough
for the roaches, let alone her and James Lee.
Why, the room she had in the Ornstein house in
White Plains was fully twice as large. Of course,
it was in the basement of somebody else's home,
but even that was better than having to walk up
four flights of stairs through a dimly lit hallway
to this dirty little back room.
Essie's body trembled under the nightgown.
It was silly to be so cold when anybody could see
that it was going to be another hot day. I've got
to get out of here. But still she did not move.
Despite her dislike for the room, their first night
had gone well. They laughed about how much
noise the bed made and decided to get some lu-
bricating oil so that everybody in the house would
not know their business. James Lee declared that
the last couple must have been pretty old if they
hadn't minded such noisy bedsprings. Later in
the night, after they had given to and taken from
each other, after they were both drowsy and sat-
isfied and ready for sleep, Essie had gone to the
bureau drawer and taken out her nightgown.
What the hell was that? James Lee wanted to


60
know. She answered that it did not seem right to
sleep naked, and he laughed so hard that Essie
was certain he would wake everybody in the
building. She had to kiss him on the mouth to
shut him up, and later they slept, her head on his
chest, their bodies warm against each other, and
the nightgown on the chair, where she had left
m
it.
* She forced herself to concentrate: I've got to
get out of here.
Now she moved for the first time, pushing back
the covers and throwing her legs over the side
of the bed. With her toes she found her bedroom
slippers and slid her feet into them. She jerked
her robe from the chair and wrapped it around
her trembling body as she stood up.
Who did James Lee think she was, anyway?
He certainly had his people confused. If he
thought she was going to sit there like a fool and
wait for him to make up his mind to come home,
he had another think coming. After pleading with
old lady Ornstein for these few days off just so
she could spend some time with this good-for-
nothing, low-down snake of a Negro—did he think
she was going to spend those days sitting in their
dirty room alone? Well, we would see about that!
Her pink toothbrush lay on the bureau in the
glass container beside the tube of toothpaste.
She picked them up and gathered her washcloth,
towel, and soap from the bureau drawer. She


61
pulled her robe tightly about her and cracked the
door to see if there was anyone in the hallway.
Finding it empty, she pulled the door shut behind
her and tiptoed along the hallway toward the
bathroom. But just then a man came down the
stairs from the floor above, a light-skinned young
man with a round porkpie hat. He smiled-she
thought it was more of a grin—and said good
morning to her. She only half nodded and hurried
to the bathroom, where she locked herself inside.
When these New York men spoke to you they were
usually after something more than a good morn-
ing. None of them had any respect for women.
Why, even married men had tried to get fresh
with her! She splashed cold water over her face
and shivered.
New York men were no good anyway, Essie
reflected. She had gone through the works with
one by name of James Lee Cooley and he was
the last one she ever would have. If anybody
ever saw her going with another New York man,
trying to fall in love or do something foolish like
that, she wanted that somebody to give her a good
swift kick.
Now she was hurrying frantically. She had to
get dressed and away before James Lee came.
If he were to come in just now ... well, she had
let him change her mind before.
In her haste she dropped the toothbrush con-
tainer and its thin glass tinkled over the floor.


62
Impatiently scooping it up, she pricked her hand
with a crystalline fragment. She said “Shoot!”,
and flung the debris into the trash basket.
Back in the room, she looked at the reflection
of her slender brown legs in the mirror as she
stepped into her skirt. Her thighs were lean and
smooth, and she told herself for the thousandth
time that she could use a few more pounds around
the hips. But then, New York girls liked being
skinny. New York . . . James Lee . . . maybe
he could push these local girls around, but he
was thinking like Grandpa dreamed if he had
any idea he could do that to her. Men were crazy.
All you had to do was let one of them know you
liked him a little bit, and right off he ... how
did the song go?
... he'll start cutting a hog.
Just be good to a man, Lord,
And he'll treat you like a dog ...
She sat down before the mirror and began brush-
ing her hair with quick, angry strokes. The ends
were breaking off, and it was time to have it done
again. Maybe when she got to her sister's house
she would call Madam Johnson's for an appoint-
ment. But why not splurge a bit? Yes, it would
not be Madam Johnson's this time but Rose Meta's.
A good hairdo would pick up her spirits.
Suddenly the hand with the brush stopped in
mid-air. She wasn't coming back! She had not


SA
meet old lady Graham on the first floor. Mrs.
Graham was the landlady from Barbados who al-
ways looked at Essie Dee as if she knew the girl
was living in sin. One thing was certain: if she
stuck her head into the hallway this morning,
she would get a piece of Essie's mind. But old
lady Graham, perhaps sensing danger, did not ap-
pear. Essie opened the door and stepped into the
street.
The loudspeaker of the record shop at the cor-
ner was giving out with a hot record by a white
woman who sounded almost colored:
Going to Chicago, sorry I can't take you,
Going to Chicago, sorry I can't take you,
Nothing up there a man like you can do.*
Essie decided that one day she would buy that
record just to remind her of the day she broke
free of James Lee.
She stopped at the corner of Lenox Avenue to
change her bag from one hand to the other, and
that was when the man bumped into her. He
bowed slightly and tipped his hat and said, “Ex-
cuse me, Miss.” He had a pencil mustache and he
was grinning. Essie was sure he had bumped into
her on purpose.
"Can I help you with your bag, Miss?” He still
* From "Goin' To Chicago Blues” by James Rushing and
Count Basie. Copyright © 1941 by Bregman, Vocco and Conn,
Inc., 1619 Broadway, New York 19, New York. Used by per-
mission.


66
Turner, that she was not the smartest person
in the world, that it sometimes took her a while to
catch on; but one thing was sure: she never made
the same mistake twice. Nobody could say that
about Mrs. Turner's little girl.


This morning Gertrude Cooley told herself that
she had too much to do to worry about Hubert.
Monday was trash collection day, and all the cans
would have to be out on the street before ten
o'clock. In the house next door they were com-
plaining about having no hot water, and she would
have to get the furnace started. This was not an
easy job once the fire died completely. A pane


68
was broken in the front door of number 67 across
the street and would have to be replaced. Sarah
Anderson was complaining that her toilet would
not flush, but this would have to wait until Hubert
came back. She couldn't be expected to do every-
thing.
She prepared bacon, eggs, hominy grits, and
coffee for herself. She always ate a good breakfast
before beginning her morning chores. When she
had finished, she put the dirty dishes in the sink
and covered them with water. A good meal for
the roaches, she thought, but this morning she did
not have time to skirmish with them. For seven-
teen years in this apartment she had been at war
with the roaches, but they seemed as plentiful as
ever. She sighed. Despite all the powders and
sprays and the efforts to starve them out by keep-
ing the kitchen clean and dry, it looked as if they
would win in the end. “You'll bury me yet,” she
murmured, taking a halfhearted whack at a black
peanut shape that scooted for refuge into a hole
under the sink.
Gertrude put on her work clothes. These con-
sisted of a green fatigue jacket and trousers James
Lee had brought home from the army, which she
had altered so they fitted her. She was a tall, heavy
woman, big-bosomed, with strong arms and shoul-
ders. Her movements seemed slow, but this was
because they were so deliberate. The average
task took less time in her hands. At almost fifty
MOV
as


years of age she was in good health, though in
the last few years she had begun to tire more
quickly.
She went down to the basement and brought
up two cans of trash. This was difficult, because
the cans were large and heavy and she had to
drag them up one step at a time. It was really a
man's work, she told herself, and she ought not
to be straining her back with heavy cans. But the
job had to be done, and if Hubert was not there
it was up to her to do it. James Lee helped oc-
casionally, but he was not home much. Nowadays
he often stayed away all night. She did not mind
this. He had a right to his life without having to
worry about the old folks. But she wished some-
one would see that she had some rights, too. Both
her men, Hubert and James Lee, ought to under-
stand that she could not keep up a house by her-
self.
She dragged the last of the cans to the front
vestibule, where she paused to catch her breath.
She would like to die, sudden-like, while they
were both away from home. She could imagine
their faces as they stood above her body.
Maybe they would cry a little--not for her, but
because they had treated her so badly and now
they would not have anybody to wash, clean, and
cook for them. It would serve them right.
She took a deep breath and began dragging the
first can down to the street. It was not like Ger-


70
trude to indulge in morbid thoughts. She never
worried about death and sickness. Besides, she
knew that if she did pass on, they would not really
care. James Lee might think he had loved his poor
old mother, but neither he nor Hubert knew any-
thing about love. Loving somebody was doing
things for them and helping to make life easier
for them. Clearly, nobody loved Gertrude.
“Good morning, Mrs. Cooley."
“Good morning, Mrs. Williams."
Mrs. Williams was a decrepit old widow who
lived across the street. Her yellow, lifeless skin
sagged on her bones and her trembling face al-
ways looked as if she were about to cry. She lived
alone in her little third-floor front room with the
idea that a mysterious group of people was plan-
ning to kill her. This same group had been respon-
sible for her husband's death fifteen years be-
fore. Like many people in the block, she found
Gertrude a sympathetic listener, and every few
days brought in new evidence she had uncov-
ered.
“It won't be long now, Mrs. Cooley.".
"It won't?”
“Oh, no, indeed,” Mrs. Williams whispered.
Gertrude detected the odor of the cheap wine
Mrs. Williams drank. It was a sweet, heavy smell,
oppressive and sad.
“Any day now, Mrs. Cooley,” she said. “In fact,
you might say any minute."


“What are you going to do about it?” Gertrude
asked. About this same time the previous year
Mrs. Williams had felt she was in immediate dan-
ger. At other times she felt she had her enemies
stymied. Gertrude had no idea what caused the
old woman to feel one way and then the other,
but it was obvious that all of Mrs. Williams' fan-
tasies were very real to her. This morning Ger-
trude was slightly annoyed. She had troubles and
complaints of her own. She wished she could
bring herself to be rude to Mrs. Williams, but
she could not.
"I ain't afraid of them, Mrs. Cooley. You know
that, don't you?" Gertrude nodded. Mrs. Williams'
deep-lined face seemed to grow duller even as
Gertrude was looking at it. “But this time I think
they will win, just the way they did with Mr.
Williams.” She rested her hand on Gertrude's arm.
“God bless you, dear Mrs. Cooley. You're the only
one that understands.” And with her odor of
sweet wine and lace, with her petticoat showing
beneath the hem of her dress, Mrs. Williams
walked across the street to her little room with its
quiet terror.
Gertrude went back to work. What was it like.
she wondered, to be like Mrs. Williams, to think
about unreal things as if they actually existed?
Gertrude counted herself among the lucky ones
of the world in that she was practical and down
to earth. Everyone who knew her shared this opin-
n


72
ion. She did not think of herself as especially
bright. She had no idea what made the world
tick, nor did she much care. But she looked upon
herself as strong. She felt a measure of pride
when friends said to her: “Gertrude, I declare,
girl, don't nothing ever get you down, does it?”
No, nothing ever did. It was almost two years
now since she had discovered that Hubert really
intended to leave her. One day she had decided to
clean his closet, and inside, pushed back into a
corner, she had found the suitcase. Even now she
could remember the smell of its new leather. She
had never seen it before, had not known it was in
the house. Under a transparent plastic covering
were shirts, ties, socks, and underwear, all new.
Certainly an ordinary thing, a suitcase with cloth-
ing, but when she thought of the hints and in-
nuendoes, the veiled threats—“Woman, you just
might wake up one of these mornings and find me
long gone”—the suitcase and the clothing, hidden
for she did not know how long, made sense to her
as soon as she discovered them.
In the cellar of the house next door she began to
gather kindling and paper for the furnace. When-
ever Hubert wandered away and let the fire go
out, she had to get it started again. The draft of
the old furnace was not good. When she set fire to
the paper and kindling the cellar filled up with
smoke. With stinging eyes, coughing and wheez-
ing, she stooped over the door of the furnace and


73
tried to nurse the tiny flame within. This was also
a man's job, she decided, and she was beginning
to think she was the only man in the house.
No, she never let anything get her down. She
had never mentioned finding the suitcase in the
closet, nor had he brought it up, though he knew
she must have seen it. It was a silent barrier be-
tween them. Well, Gertrude, she told herself,
you're pretty good. You wake up one morning and
find you don't have any marriage, that the old man
don't want you any more, but you just keep on go
ing like nothing ever happened.
Oh, she had known before that everything was
not all right. She had her ways of telling. It was
before the discovery of the suitcase, almost a year
before, that they had tried for love in bed. She
had sought to arouse in him a need, a desire for
her, and he had made an effort to respond; but
nothing had come of it, nothing but embarrass-
ment and escape to opposite sides of the bed and
heavy, forced sleep.
The color of the fire changed from a dull yellow
to an intense blue and the smoke began to clear
away. She closed the door and set the thermostat.
Then she went to her apartment and washed her
face. Her work was not half done and she was
tired already. She looked at herself in the mirror
and saw that she was ugly. Not at first, of course,
but gradually, as she was able to imagine what he
saw when he looked. Yes, she was ugly. She swal-


74
lowed hard and turned away from the glass. “To
tell you the truth,” she said aloud, "he ain't so hot-
looking either.”
Sometimes it was almost too much to bear, the
dry, empty routine with its frustration: waking,
eating and sleeping, working four apartment
houses, going to church. “I'm forty-nine years
old!” she said, thinking: Lord, only forty-nine, not
old at all. She felt she was brimming over with life
and she wanted to give everything of herself. She
was hurt that nobody wanted her—not Hubert, not
anybody. So she kept herself strong. When she felt
a need to be needed, loved, made over, she teased
herself and said, “You're not a hot girl any more,
so keep your pants on.” And sometimes she man-
aged to laugh.
Where was she to blame? During the past three
dull and empty years she had re-examined every
particle of their lives together so that she would
know where she had failed. But the most intense
remembering, the going over in her mind of every-
thing that had passed between them—all this had
uncovered nothing to clear away her confusion.
She opened the supply closet and took out a
pane of glass that would fit into the front door of
Sixty-seven. With the glass, the tools, and the putty
she crossed the street.
"Jesus, have mercy!” she muttered, and she
meant have mercy on Hubert and James Lee and
Cee


75
Gertrude Cooley. God knew she had done the best
she could.
She had stuck with him through all the hard
years. At the time they married, Hubert worked
as a messenger in the garment district. He
liked his job and his boss, Mr. Rosenblatt, who
taught Hubert the value of cloth, how to measure
and cut it. Hubert was a hard worker and thrifty.
He began saving his money because he wanted to
open a dress shop in Harlem. But Mr. Rosenblatt
was forced to shut down in 1932, and Hubert was
out of work for a while. He used up his savings be-
fore he found another job. In 1934, Hubert rented
a grocery store and managed to hold onto it for a
year before it went under. In 1936, he rented an-
other one, smaller and less ambitious, but this
failed, too. Between these ventures he worked at
anything he could find and saved until he could
try again. Later there was a poolroom that was al-
ways crowded but never seemed to show a profit,
and soon that had to be given up.
These were the lean thirties, bad thirties—the
furious years of struggling just for food and a place
to live. On gray, hopeless mornings Gertrude often
sat on the “slave block.” That was what colored
women called the little park up in the Bronx where
they were scrutinized by the white housewives
who decided which ones looked honest and clean


"I'm fixing you some breakfast.”
“Thanks.”
After Hubert had taken a bath and shaved he
came into the kitchen and sat down to the food she
had prepared. He emptied his plate and asked for
more.
“Did the trash get out all right?”
"Uh-huh. I put it out.”
“Sorry I stayed away like that.” Hubert spoke
gruffly. This was an apology.
"That's all right.” She sat down at the table and
watched him eat.
“I like four-seventeen today. Dreamed it last
night just as clear as anything."
She said, “Sounds all right.” Gertrude sometimes
played but never for more than a few pennies.
Since Hubert had begun to bet so much on the
numbers she did not like to think about them.
They were silent for a while.
Suddenly Hubert said, “Do we have any money,
Gertrude?"
"There's only seven dollars in the whole house.
Just enough for the gas and light bill.” Almost in-
voluntarily she asked why.
“Oh, nothing,” Hubert mumbled. “If we don't
have it, we don't have it.” He shrugged and went
on with his breakfast.
When he had finished he asked Gertrude what
work had to be done. She showed him the pad on
which she scribbled the complaints of the tenants.
е
:
any mo
eve
se.


79
They decided which ones should be taken care of
first, and Hubert went out.
He worked diligently. He unclogged Sarah An-
derson's toilet and stoked all the furnaces. He
swept and mopped the hallways of 67 and then
spackled over cracks that had developed in the
plaster. He set traps, he painted, he hammered,
he sawed. Hubert Cooley was absolutely the bus-
iest house superintendent in Harlem that morning
until eleven-thirty. That was when Gertrude left
the apartment to go to the store. Hubert took this
opportunity to slip into the bedroom and pry open
her bureau drawer. He took out the seven dollars
designated for the gas and electric bills. With the
money tucked snugly in his pocket, he hurried
away down the street.


The one person in the whole world Iretha did not
want to see this morning was her kid sister Essie.
They got along together well enough, but Essie al-
ways chose Iretha's busiest days to come burst-
ing in. On Mondays her schedule was always
crowded, and today was no exception. At nine-
thirty she had a beauty appointment at Rose
Meta's that she simply could not break. Then she


81
would have to rush back to the apartment, because
at noon Lillian Sommerville, Dr. Sommerville's sis-
ter, was dropping by to discuss Iretha's candidacy
for membership in the Wheatley Social Circle.
This was the charity group that gave some of Har-
lem's most important social affairs and collected
money for the poor little children in the West In-
dies. Also, sometime today Iretha would have to
sit down and write a letter of resignation from The
Fun Girls, that silly little club she had joined years
before, when she had worked as a practical nurse
at Harlem Hospital. Some of the members were
bound to say she felt she had outgrown The Fun
Girls, but that would not bother Iretha. She knew
how they were—nasty, like crabs, pulling one an-
other down. Goodness, she did have a lot to do!
Tonight she and her husband Hugh were going to
the theater. Trummy Carpenter, the well-known
lawyer who was expecting a magistrate's appoint-
ment if the November elections worked out as ex-
pected, had given Iretha and Hugh tickets for the
Broadway musical hit Guys and Dolls, which
meant that Iretha would have to arrange for a
baby sitter. It was really very thoughtless of Essie
to come visiting at eight-thirty in the morning.
She knew it was Essie by the three short, insist-
ent rings. Essie never came visiting except when
she had had an argument with James Lee. She
would moon around the house crying all morn-
ing, getting in Iretha's way and upsetting the chil-


82
dren. Then James Lee would call, and Essie
would go running back like a tamed puppy. Iretha
resolved that today she would not listen to any of
Essie's tearful stories. If the girl was silly enough
to run around with low-class Negroes, she de-
served all the trouble she was having.
Iretha had an impulse not to push the buzzer
that would open the door five flights below. Maybe
Essie would go away. Yes, that was it! She would
not answer the bell. But she felt a tinge of guilt.
After all, Essie was her sister, unsophisticated and
naïve, it was true, but her sister nevertheless.
Down below, Essie pushed the bell again, three
short, compelling rings.
“Oh, darn,” muttered Iretha. She pressed the
buzzer and bit her lower lip as she waited. It
was as if her kid sister had read her thoughts and
said, “No, no, Iretha, that wouldn't be nice.”
Iretha decided to tell Essie that if she had to drop
by unexpectedly she must try to avoid doing it on
Mondays. But Essie would be crying when she
came in. Well, Iretha would wait until she had
calmed down and tell her then. Iretha would be
firm.
No one could accuse her of having neglected
Essie. When the girl had come up from their home
in Cheraw, North Carolina, Iretha and Hugh had
taken her in. This was when there had hardly been
room for themselves, before they moved into this
larger, more modern apartment overlooking River-


side Drive. They had introduced Essie to their
friends and taken her to the Annual Christmas
Ball given by the Upper Manhattan Lawyers
Guild in the Skyline Room of the Theresa Hotel.
Iretha had insisted on buying Essie a gown for the
affair, a white silk thing, not daring and only
vaguely suggestive. The smart set had made a fuss
over her. The young men had found one pretext
after another to come over to their table and get
themselves introduced to the new young face that
seemed slightly out of place in the colored lights
and restrained conviviality of the Skyline Room.
Iretha had felt that the triumph belonged more to
her than to Essie. She foresaw her sister making a
nice marriage with one of the young doctors or
lawyers—it did not matter who it was so long as
the man was a professional who could take good
care of Essie without her having to work. Essie
would not have the long hard struggle for security
that Iretha had had during those first years in
New York, before she married Hugh. He was not
yet forty and already was an inspector with a gold
badge at the post office. That night at the ball a
photographer from the Amsterdam News snapped
Essie and Ted Thayer, Jr., the son of the well-
known New Jersey real-estate man, as they
danced. The picture had been displayed promi-
nently in that Friday's paper. But in the end the
whole thing had come to nothing because Essie
was so stubborn.


Iretha sank onto her new chaise longue and lit a
cigarette. There was one thing you could say
about the Turner girls—meaning herself and Essie
and two other sisters who still lived in the South.
There was not one of them who was hard to look
at. Iretha was thirty-five, but she felt she looked
ten years younger. Perhaps none of them was
light-complexioned, but that was a handicap
which was overcome by their tall, slender figures
and the teasing, chestnut brown of their skin.
Iretha had always felt that the baby of the family,
Essie Dee, would grow into the prettiest of them
all. She had been right.
"Tsk!” She made a noise with her tongue and
ground the cigarette into the ash tray. That was
what made it so damned tragic. A girl had to be
sharp in New York, on her toes every minute,
ready to take advantage of the slightest opportu-
nity. How she had worked to get where she was!
And she had not stopped yet, not by a long shot.
Any girl as pretty as Essie, with a sister who had
offered to pay the bills, as Iretha had, had no busi-
ness working for Jews up in Westchester. Essie
was stupid and ungrateful.
When she heard the elevator door in the hallway
open, Iretha uncrossed her legs, got up from the
chaise, and went to the door. On her face was the
smile that was always there when admitting some-
one to the apartment. She was hoping that Essie


85
would not cry very long and would leave soon so
that she could get back on her schedule. She was
surprised to find when she opened the door that
Essie stood there smiling back at her.
"Hi, baby,” said Iretha.
"Hi, yourself,” responded Essie.
They touched cheeks. Essie seemed so happy
that Iretha asked, “Girl, are you all right?”
"Well, look at me," said Essie, spreading her
arms. “Am I standing on my own two feet or am
I not?"
Iretha stared. There was a twinkle in Essie's eye
that puzzled her. She did not like to be confused
so early in the morning.
"I'm hungry,” announced Essie. She went to the
kitchen and swung open the door of the refrigera-
tor. “What you got to eat, girl? I'm starved.”
Essie began to take leftovers out of the refrigera-
tor and soon was sitting at the table eating the re-
mains of Sunday's dinner. What in the world had
got into the kid? Iretha decided that what she had
seen in Essie's eyes was not a twinkle at all but a
glint. Essie looked as if she were at war. Iretha lit
another cigarette and continued to stare.


87
Frank DaVini was a chunky Italian who smoked
and chewed cheap cigars and had ulcers. He never
nagged his men about averages. If a man's money
on the clock began to fall consistently below the
average, Frank would call him into the office and
ask him what was wrong. Didn't he like working
for Frank? Didn't he like having a new car to
drive? Didn't he like having a whole army of
mechanics waiting to take care of his car when it
broke down? Didn't he like coming to work in the
morning and knowing his car would be there wait-
ing for him? Or maybe he would like to work for
one of those companies where they made the men
shape up every morning and sometimes a hackie
didn't get a car at all. Or maybe he'd like to go to
work for National and drive one of those Check-
ers, where a man couldn't make a living because
the new DeSotos like Frank's were always stealing
fares from him. Or maybe he didn't like being able
to draw his money every day instead of having to
wait until the end of the week. And having a paid
vacation for a whole week every year. Frank never
gave the hackie a chance to argue or apologize.
He would get up from his green little desk, smile,
slap the hackie on the back, and say, “All right, get
on out there and put some money on that clock.”
Nobody's feelings were hurt. More often than not,
the cabbie worked harder and produced more
money. If he did not, he came in one morning and
found that his car had been given to someone else.


"Jesus Christ!” screamed Frank DaVini this
morning, as if he were in pain. It was a high, shrill
exclamation, almost a squeal. “What the hell is
this?" He stood in the middle of the garage point-
ing at car number three-six-eight, the only car
parked in the entire garage. Frank's outraged
voice shot into every corner and reverberated off
the walls.
“Danny! Danny! Goddamit! Come out here.”
The mechanics at work on the second tier of the
garage peeked over the railing to see what was ail-
ing the boss. Danny O'Halloran came hurrying out
of the dispatcher's office. He was a tall, blond
young man, athletically built, good-looking. He
did not think of himself as the best dispatcher in
New York City, but he was certain that as a ladies'
man he was unsurpassed. Among the drivers and
the mechanics he was known as Young Genitals.
“Da-a-aneee!”
“What is it, Frank?”
Frank had not seen Danny come up. His delib-
erately soft, self-assured voice startled Frank.
Danny always made Frank feel cold and off his
stride. The syndicate that owned the greater bloc
of stock in the garage had suggested Danny for
the job and there had been little that Frank could
do about it. On his own he would never have hired
Danny. It was not just that he was too good-look-
ing, a pretty boy, but he had never driven a hack.
What kind of garage had a dispatcher who had


89
never hacked? To Frank it was almost unethical.
“Danny, is this car in running condition?”
“Yeah, Frank, it is—”
"Then, Holy Jesus, what the hell is it doing
here? It's almost nine o'clock.”
“The driver isn't here yet.”
"Is he the only one who can drive this friggin'
car?” squealed Frank
“You know how things are in the summer,"
Danny said. “There aren't too many extra men
around.”
"Don't hand me that. There're plenty of guys
around who'd be happy to drive a new car.”
“What can I do, Frank?” said Danny with a
spread of his hands. “If an extra man had come in,
I would have given him the car—".
“Git on the phone; call some of the old drivers;
do something and git that goddamned car out of
here, Danny. You hear me!” Frank walked toward
his own car parked in the driveway. He took quick,
short puffs from the cigar. He was being loud and
authoritative, but there was also a whining note of
protest so that Danny would understand there was
nothing personal in what he was saying. “Is that
car making any dough for you or me or anybody
else while it sits here in the garage? No. Take the
car away from the damn driver if he don't want
it.”
He opened the door of his dark blue Chrysler
and got in. “Jesus Christ,” he exclaimed as he


90
slammed the door shut and started the motor.
“Nine o'clock and the friggin' car sitting up here in
the friggin' garage and not a friggin' thing wrong
with it!” He wiped the sweat from his plump face
with a handkerchief as he backed through the ga-
rage exit. “Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed again as he
drove toward Second Avenue.
Danny walked back into his office. He would
give Cooley hell when he came in. Who did that
black bastard think he was, not even calling the
office to say he would be late?
Evaline, the secretary and cashier, was seated at
her typewriter. She was a brunette, petite and at-
tractive. Danny stood behind her with his hands
on her shoulders. As he talked he strained his eyes
to see down the top of her low-cut blouse.
"If I get any calls, switch 'em upstairs, huh?”
Evaline continued her typing. Her voice was
cold and contemptuous. “You've got to give me a
rub-down to tell me that?”
He took his hands away and walked out of the
office. The little bitch! He would get her yet, just for
meanness, just to hear her cry. Yes, he would see
that she cried. Now he would tell the grease mon-
keys about the virgin he had snared over the week
end. He enjoyed seeing the looks of envy on the
faces of those married guys when they listened to
his stories. He ran a comb through his hair. Well,
some guys had it and some guys didn't. He had it.
Was it his fault?
me a


91
James Lee's fear of being late amounted almost
to a phobia. Somewhere he had heard that white
folks believed Negroes always traveled behind-
time, and, although he told himself he did not
care what white folks thought, he always made
an extra effort to be punctual where they were
concerned.
As he approached the garage he felt he espe-
cially did not want to see Frank DaVini. When
Frank started yelling at you, he never gave you a
chance to say anything and he always made you
feel that you had done him a personal injury.
Even if you did not like to be yelled at, especially
by white people, you could never really answer
Frank because there was something in his voice
that made you suspect he was halfway right in
what he was saying.
On the other hand, James Lee did not mind
meeting the new Irish dispatcher they had brought
in. He did not like the Irish anyway, and he would
never take any guff off a young punk like O'Hal-
loran. He took the dispatch card for his car and
punched the time clock.
“Hey, Cooley, wait up!”
O'Halloran's voice sounded harsh and threaten-
ing in the empty garage.
"What is it?" James Lee asked.
Danny was descending the steps from the sec-
ond tier. A cigarette was in his mouth and he was
lighting it as he came down. He spoke with slight


92
irritation in his voice. “Wait up a minute, will you? :
Another minute or two won't matter."
James Lee stopped and waited. His eyes meas-
ured the young Irishman. They were about the
same height and size, slender heavyweights.
Danny was fuller around the shoulders. Powerful
wrists and hands projected from the sleeves of his
shirt. A person would think twice before getting
into a fight with O'Halloran. They faced each other
in almost the same spot in which, fifteen minutes
earlier, Frank DaVini had yelled, “Jesus Christ!”,
pointing at three-six-eight and demanding, "What
the hell is this?”
“This is a fine time to be coming in, Cooley."
"I had something to do. Sorry.”
Immediately James Lee wished he had not
added the last word, for Danny pounced on it.
"Sorry! My God! You drag in here at nine o'clock
and all you can say is you're sorry.”
James Lee shrugged. “That's what I said. What
do you want me to do, crawl in here on my hands
and knees? I told you I had something to do.”
“This is a job, Cooley, you know.”
“I know this is a job, O'Halloran. What did you
think I thought it was?” He was thinking that
O'Halloran reminded him of Captain Queens in
Louisiana who had yelled at him, “This is the
army, Cooley, y'know.” He had had to swallow a
lot in the army, but things were different now.
“This is a business to make money. Everybody


93
loses when you keep a car laid up here this long.
There were three extras around here but I saved
the car for you."
James Lee knew this was not true. O'Halloran
already had the reputation of not doing anybody
any favors unless he was paid for it. He said noth-
ing. He was aware of the mechanics peeping over
the railing upstairs. He felt hot and uncomforta-
ble around the neck.
"Some of you guys give us a hard time, drag-
ging in here at all hours.”
“Some of what guys?” James Lee demanded.
Did he mean the Negro drivers, or hackies in gen-
eral?
"Some of you friggin' drivers,” said Danny, who
had not meant that at all. He turned on his heels
and walked toward the steps he had just come
down. “If you want this job you had better start
acting like it.” And, like Frank DaVini, he added:
"Put some money on that clock.”
James Lee got into the cab and drove it out of
the garage. He thought back over the conversa-
tion to see if he had held his own. He always did
badly in these examinations. Part of the price of
being a Negro was that he was never satisfied with
the fight he put up for his dignity and pride. He
decided he had not said anything wrong but that
he had not said enough. He should not have let
Danny have the last word. He was a hackman with
a good record. He could get a job anywhere.


94
Upstairs, Danny O'Halloran settled down onto
his favorite stool near the grease pit. “One of these
days,” he said, “I'm going to kick that nigger
where it will do him the most good.”
The three mechanics agreed that they would
like to see Danny try. It happened that all of them
were small men and this fact spiced their resent-
ment of Danny, who towered above them like a
golden-haired Hollywood hero. They would like to
see him in a scrap with somebody his own size,
though they were not certain they would want
James Lee, a Negro, to win.
One of them winked at the others and said to
Danny: “So go ahead, kid. You had just got your
hand on her brassiere and she had said, 'Please
don't, Danny darling ...?"
The young dispatcher ignored the sarcasm. “Oh,
yes . . ." He closed his eyes and let his mind swim
in the gruesome details.
There was a fan in the telephone booth where
James Lee was, but he was hot. He had just come
from the room in which he had expected to find
Essie waiting for him.
"Hello, Iretha. This is James Lee.”
“Hello, James Lee,” said Iretha, as if they were
old friends.
James Lee had met her only once and he had
not liked her. It had been a dinner for three cou-
ples, a quiet, pretentious affair that nobody en-


95
ey-
joyed. He had known what Iretha was thinking
when she looked at him: that he was strictly no ac-
count and was taking advantage of her poor little
sister.
"Is Essie Dee there?”
“Yes, uh-huh, she's here."
"Can I talk to her?”
“Just a minute.” Iretha almost sang the words.
James Lee hated her cooing voice. It was sweet
and nasty, like syrup that clung to your fingers. It
was typical of that phony crowd Iretha ran around
with. Why did Essie have to run up there every-
time she and James Lee had a fight? She had said
she hated Iretha's way of life, yet as soon as some-
thing went wrong they became thick as peas in a
pod.
“Hello, James Lee.” It was Iretha's oozing voice
again.
“Yes, Iretha?”
“I'm sorry, but Essie says she doesn't want to
talk with you.
"But ..."
"I'm sorry, James Lee.”
Iretha had hung up the receiver. James Lee's
lungs were empty. He wanted to hit somebody. He
cursed into the dead phone and slammed the
mouthpiece onto its cradle. He had passed three
fares rushing back uptown to see Essie and now he
did not have a penny on the clock. He cursed
again and rushed outdoors to his cab.


Morning on Lenox Avenue was like a blue song,
soft and soothing, with a steady bass beat, unhur-
ried, going nowhere. The doors of the saloons, the
shoe shops, and the fish-and-chip joints were
thrown open, but it was too early for customers.
One by one the corner bums took up their sta-
tions, the old folks brought their folding chairs
out to the sidewalk or found seats near the open
CS


97
windows of stuffy apartments, and the blue song
of Harlem wandered on.
“Hey, man,” called Timmy, who was known as
the Creep, “Whatcha know, John Lewis?”
“Man, I don't know nothing,” said John Lewis
as he shook hands with Timmy. When John Lewis
took his hand away he had a dollar bill hidden
in his palm that he put into his already bulging
pocket.
“Let that roll on one-six-three,” said Timmy,
“and I'll be collecting from you at about five P.m.”
“You've got it working, Pops.”
John Lewis continued his morning stroll down
Lenox Avenue. Beyond the door of Mabel's Beauty
Salon was Mabel herself. She was plump, forty,
and cheerful, with deep dimples and an extraor-
dinary head of long, blue-black hair.
“Hey, John Lewis, you big black handsome
thing, you."
"Hey, baby, you sweet little bundle of female,
you.”
Mabel left her customer and went to the cash
register. She took out five one-dollar bills that she
gave to John Lewis.
“I'm playing single action, John, honey. I want
a four to lead."
“You got it coming, baby, you got it coming.”
On down Lenox Avenue walked John Lewis.
“Hey, John Lewis, what you like today?”
“Everything, man. I like everything."


98
"Put my money on two-twelve.”
“You got it coming."
Farther.
“Hey, John Lewis, sweet poppa.”
"Hey, baby, you look good enough to eat.”
"Take my money, you robber. I'm still playing
six-nineteen, and it's beating me to death.”
“It's coming, baby. Just hold on.”
“John Lewis, you people must have those num-
bers fixed. You see how I missed those figures Sat-
urday? I came so close I got a good mind never
to play no more."
"Well, you know what Suzy Ann told Nappy
Chin?”
“No. What?”
“She says, “If you keep on gambling, you're
bound to win.""
“John Lewis, you're crazy. Here, put this on my
regular figure.”
"You got it coming,” said John Lewis. “You got
it coming."
The most popular gambling game in New York
City, and especially in Harlem, is the numbers.
The poorest, most miserable creature alive can
play. To try his luck, all he needs is a penny, and
if his guess is right the numbers bank will pay him
six dollars in return. The odds against his winning
are a thousand to one, and his payoff is only six
hundred to one, but this disparity is somewhat


99
compensated for by the comparative ease with
which he can play this supposedly illegal game.
The fat lady upstairs who sits at home all day
with her cats and dogs, the grasping little man in
the candy store across the street, the furtive, over-
dressed loafer with glistening shoes who is stand-
ing on the corner at sunrise-each will take a bet
on the numbers. The penny bet is the stock in
trade of a multimillion-dollar business with its
headquarters downtown in the city's financial dis-
trict. This business is incorporated, after a fash-
ion; it has its stockholders, its officers, its workers,
and its payroll. Its volume of business is steady,
and it is seldom in crisis, for it is based on that
most solid and persistent of all American phenom-
ena—the dream.
John Lewis was a large brown man with a good-
natured smile and a carefully cultivated mustache.
He was extremely attentive to his long black hair,
which was waved and set regularly in a local
beauty salon patronized exclusively by men. His
rich voice was warm and friendly and especially
appealing to women. Men were uncomfortably
aware of his masculinity, but they admired him.
More important for his business, everybody
trusted him. If your number hit, you never had
to look for John Lewis. He would search you out
and put every penny in your hand, no ifs, ands,
or buts.


101
the entertainers and the sporting crowd gathered.
Six days a week he took his morning stroll
down Lenox Avenue, turning into the numbered
streets along the way. He had trained himself
to carry all the bets in his head, and a curious
policeman could search John Lewis all he wished,
he would never find a slip of paper with num-
bers written on it. Sometimes when John Lewis
did more business than usual he would go home
two or three times so that he could write the
numbers down there.
By ten-thirty John Lewis had finished his pick-
ups and was in his apartment where he and his
wife Ada totaled the day's receipts. There, until
early afternoon when the first race was run, peo-
ple came in to place bets with him. At one-fifteen
the pickup man came from the numbers bank
and collected the money and the receipts. After
the third race was run, if there had been any
hits, the pickup man came again and paid John
Lewis, who in turn paid the lucky player.
It was a good living for him. He carried a large
book of regular players. He was certain of seventy
dollars a week, and with his cut from winnings
he often earned a hundred. There was really no
risk involved. The big banker took care of any
difficulty with the police, and John Lewis had no
fear of losing any money because as the middle-
man he never risked any.


102
This morning as soon as John Lewis got home
he sat down at a table and began writing down
the numbers that had been bet with him on the
street. Ada came out of the bedroom and spoke
with her lips close to his ear.
“How's it coming?"
He shivered. This always happened when she
petted him. It was silly. He could never under-
stand how such a little woman could have so
much power over a big man like him.
“Come on, baby,” he said, “don't start your
funny business. Let me write this down.”
When he had first come to New York he had
sported with the tall yellow glamour girls. It had
seemed that a big man like him needed a
shapely, statuesque woman to set him off well
when he appeared in public. Ada had changed
all that the day he walked into Don's Bar-B-Que
where she waited table. At first he had resisted
the idea— “Why, she's only as big as a minute,”
he told himself—but six weeks later they were
married.
Now she was wearing a black mandarin costume
and Chinese bangs. The hair at her neck was
caught with a bright red ribbon that matched
the color of her lips. She sat on his knee and
rested an elbow on his shoulder. She touched her
lips to his forehead.
"Nora just called,” Ada said in a voice that
seldom went above a whisper. “She wants to


103
know if we're going over to Atlantic City this
week end."
John Lewis jotted down the last of the figures.
"Baby, to tell you the truth, I don't know. Maybe
I'd better stick close and see how everything
works out before we start spending money.”
She kissed his neck below the ear. “Is it going
all right?"
"It'll work out, I think.” John Lewis rubbed
his chin with his hand. “I've got to play my cards
close and I need a little luck.”
This was absolutely true. Two weeks before,
John Lewis had forsaken the relative security of
the ordinary numbers writer. He had reasoned
that a man could not stop growing. A big man
had to step out and take a chance. Months ago he
had sat down and taken stock of his progress. He
and Ada had a few hundred dollars in the bank
and he had just had a run of luck with the
ponies at Saratoga. Why not make some real
money for himself and step into the big league?
Instead of just writing the figures and turning
the profits over to someone else, why not bank
them himself? He knew the numbers game and
he had good contacts. If he nursed his little stake
along he might build it into a real fortune. Oth-
ers had done it.
He knew very well that you did not rush head-
long into establishing a numbers bank. Harlem,


104
en
ICO
like all of New York, was divided into carefully
guarded sections, and each section had been al-
lotted long ago to specific groups. The overall
system was controlled by men with enough power
to stay on top and dictate which groups operated
and which did not. A new bank, even a small one
of a few hundred dollars, could succeed only at
the expense of another bank, so you had to have
permission to operate. You had to pay off the
right people and you had to have luck. If you
opened a bank without permission, you very
quickly ran out of luck. Many an upstart num-
bers entrepreneur had ended up dead.
But so far John Lewis had been smart. He had
used his good contacts and had played them right
so that the big boys had finally given him a nod.
To be sure, it was not much of a nod. They had
just made a little corner for him. They wouldn't
help him, and he had to pay them to operate.
But they wouldn't bother him. In a few months,
with luck, he would be in the Cadillac class.
He had set up operations with two thousand
dollars. Twelve playing days had now passed and
his bank had grown to thirty-one hundred dol-
lars.
Hubert could never relax until he had played
his number. Whatever amount of money he had
in his pocket urged him on toward his goal, the


105
numbers writer. Until the bet was safely placed,
he felt he was playing a foolish and dangerous
game by carrying the money in his pocket. So
he never tarried. As he rushed along the side-
walk, if anybody spoke to him he would give a
hasty answer and continue on his way.
"Hey there, Mister Hubert," called Mrs.
Jonas, the old woman who sold sweet-flavored
crushed ice from her little cart on One hundred
and twenty-sixth Street. “What you liking today?”
“I reckon a four,” said Hubert and hurried on.
Mrs. Jonas made a mental note of the four. All
morning she would be asking passers-by what they
liked. When she had decided which digit was the
most impressive she would risk a quarter on it,
hoping for a two-dollar return. This form of bet-
ting was called the single action, where instead of
trying to catch three numbers you tried for one.
The fellows who stood in front of the Crystal
Bar had Hubert marked down as a character who
was always good for a laugh. They had learned
from John Lewis that Hubert played large sums
of money on the numbers and this convinced
them that he was crazy. The numbers he played
sounded weird to them, and, worse, he kept
changing them all the time. This was something
no good player was supposed to do. So each day
when they saw him approach they would nudge
each other and greet him with exaggerated re-
spect.


106
cau
as
"Good morning, Mister Hubert,” they chor-
used, bowing at the waist.
"Good morning.” Hubert's response was always
brisk and unfriendly. Negroes who stood on the
corners laughing loudly and drinking wine were
the very ones who kept the race from advancing.
Flash was a kind of leader of the group be-
cause he was very resourceful in finding ways of
obtaining sneaky pete, the local term for cheap
sherry and muscatel. This morning he removed
his hat and smiled broadly, showing several gold
teeth that had been installed in better times.
“May I ask what number you're playing today,
Mister Hubert?”
"Four-seventeen," said Hubert. He always told
them, although he knew they were laughing at
him. It gave him pleasure to think that when his
number came they would remember having heard
it that morning.
They were sure that 417 was not a good
number because fours and sevens had played the
week before. So they had a good laugh wonder-
ing how much money Hubert was throwing away
again. Flash remembered he had an aunt who
lived at 417 St. Nicholas Avenue, but this dis-
turbed him only a moment. He and his aunt
were not on good terms—she had refused to have
anything more to do with him until he found a
job and it was not likely that her address would
indicate a lucky number.


107
Hubert spoke abruptly. “John Lewis, how much
money do you get for a seven-dollar hit?”
“I don't know right off, Mister Hubert.”
"Well, figure it up then,” said Hubert impa-
tiently.
After a minute John Lewis said, “That comes
to four thousand two hundred dollars."
Hubert thought about it. Forty-two hundred
dollars was a very satisfactory figure. He held
the seven dollars toward John Lewis.
"Put that on four-seventeen. Four, one, seven.”
John Lewis took the money. “Boy, you're really
playing them heavy."
"That's the only way I know how to play 'em.”
"Well, good luck to you.” John Lewis put the
money in his pocket. Hubert went out, and Ada
closed the door after him.
"That poor little man,” said Ada. “Just throw-
ing away good money after bad. Don't you feel
sorry for him?”
"If I started feeling sorry for people, I'd have
to go into another business. The reason I will
make it in this town is because I save all my
sympathy for myself. And you, of course.”
"But you know he doesn't have a chance, the
way those fours and sevens were running last
week.”
John Lewis put his big hands on her waist and
lifted her into the air. “Baby, remember that
every number is a good number until it don't


108
come out. Fellow was telling me just the other
day about a time back in the depression when
two led off every day for sixteen straight days.
What do you think of that?”
He set her down and went back to the card
table where he continued his figuring. Strictly
speaking, it was true that yesterday's number
might come back today, but it was highly un-
likely. But why should he care if Hubert threw
his money away? How could he make a living
if there were no fools with money? He turned his
mind away from the little man and the bad bet.
The question was: How much money could he
back with his own bank and how much would he
have to pass on?


Noon eased itself into the Manhattan streets.
The sun hung high over Harlem, and its heat was
heavy as a white cloak over the flat roofs and the
gray streets. Children sought the coolness of dark
basements and dank hallways. The old people sat
near their windows and looked with indifference
out onto the shimmering streets. Behind the
lunch counters brown girls and yellow girls, ir-


110
ritated by the heat and their own perspiration,
grouchily served up frankfurters with sauerkraut,
hot sausages with mustard and relish and onion,
milk shakes, malteds, coffee, and orange juice;
served these to impatient clerks and laborers
and helpers' helpers, to shoppers, policemen, and
hack drivers. Preachers napped and dreamed of
churches larger than the Abyssinian. Lawyers and
petty real-estate brokers planned and schemed
and gamblers figured. A con man dropped a wal-
let with a hundred-dollar bill in it to the sidewalk
in front of the Corn Exchange Bank and waited
for a sucker to fall for the age-old game. A hus-
tler sat in her apartment on Sugar Hill sipping
cocktails with a white merchant from downtown
who was taking a long week end, sized him up,
estimated his worth. Madam Lawson shuffled her
cards, Madam Fatima stared into her silver crys-
tal ball, and turbaned Abdul Ben Said of the
ebony skin mumbled an incantation to the
black gods of old, and lol all of them saw glory
in the morning if not sooner. There, near the
top of Manhattan Island, Harlem sizzled and
baked and groaned and rekindled its dream un-
der the midday sun.
As Hubert walked along One hundred and
twenty-fifth Street, he was, after his own fashion,
praying to God. These were hot, turbulent en-


11
O
ns
counters accompanied by furious sounds and col-
ors. The ordinary hum of the city, the horns
and the whistles, the murmur of voices, the
hoarse breathing of car and truck engines—all
these city noises changed to shrill shrieks and
senseless tumult when Hubert had a go at God.
When he was a boy he had believed in the God of
the Southern Baptist Church, the know-it-all dis-
penser of justice and glory at the end of a Chris-
tian life of trial and tribulation, showing off mir-
acles and casting fallen sinners into the hellfire.
Hubert had not really lived with God then-had
just taken His existence for granted without re-
ally acknowledging it. But now he knew that God
really did exist and that He was strictly responsi-
ble for everything, good or bad, and whenever
He did not straighten up and fly right, Hubert
gave Him down the country. Today as Hubert
walked along he sometimes gestured violently to
emphasize a point he was making. He paid no at-
tention to the people who stared at him.
The tires of the car screeched to a halt. The
driver pushed his head through the window and
said lazily, "Hey, Pop, wassa matter? Got the
blues? Tired of living, huh?” Hubert did not hear
him. He stepped onto the curb and continued
on his way.
“God, You may be all-powerful, but as far as
I am concerned You have been lax on the job.
There's right to be done and You ain't doing it.


115
had of late become a regular caller, but it pleased
Sister Clarisse to pretend she was surprised each
time he came.
She walked around the screen into her neat
little kitchenette. “Well, if we're going to have
lunch, I'd better get it fixed. Did you ever see
so much hot weather in your life? I declare, if
it gets any warmer I'll just melt, that's all.”
He did not answer. She was becoming used to
his long silences and she went on talking. She
had heard it said at Little Calvary that Hubert
was “peculiar in the head,” but this did not dis-
turb her. After all, she was not married to him,
and he always behaved himself while he was with
her.
Later, after they had eaten and she had served
Hubert a glass of cold beer, he spoke abruptly.
“Sister Clarisse, what do you think of me?"
“Well, now—"
“Do you like me?"
"Why, yes, of course”
"Then listen," he said, and he went on to tell
her about his dream. As he talked he held her
with his eyes. She felt uncomfortable. Why in the
world was he being so serious?
“'Where'd you get the money,' you kept saying
over and over again,” said Hubert. “And you and
me, we were on our way to San Francisco ...
together.”
She did not know what to say about such a


116
dream. She shifted her weight on the couch and
said nothing. Unaccountably, she crossed her legs.
"I want you to know I think an awful lot of
you, Sister Clarisse,” said Hubert.
She began to move her fan furiously. Leftright-
leftrightleftrightleftright. “Well, I'm glad, Mister
Hubert.”
"I'm not happy at home, and I ain't been for
a long time.”
“Now, Mister Hubert, I don't think you should
be telling me such personal things—”
"Hush now, Sister Clarisse. I want you to listen
because I'm building up to something I want to
say.” Her fan took up a calmer rhythm as Hu-
bert settled in his chair. He went on: “I been
watching you and thinking about you and I've
figured out that, like me, you must be awful
lonely, too_”
“Mister Hubert, please
"It's the truth, ain't it?”
She hesitated. The fan slowed. Left ... right
... left . . . right. “Well,” she said, “naturally,
we all get lonely sometimes, especially somebody
who is all by herself.” Left ... right ... left
... right ...
"Well, now, I know you never gave me no call
to talk like this, but wouldn't you rather me
speak what's on my mind than hide it?”
“Well, yes,” she said, “I expect I would.”
This was not true either. She was a woman


117
who liked pleasant banter, but when the conversa-
tion took a serious turn she quickly lost interest,
or, if it was pointed at her, she became warm
and embarrassed, as she was now. She could not
help noticing his eyes. They were definitely not
ordinary. Remembering what they whispered
about Hubert at Little Calvary, she began to won-
der if she had been wise in encouraging his at-
tention. She did not mind a casual flirtation but
... left right left right left ... What was he
saying?
"... out in California. They say a man with
a little shop can live real comfortable there. Lots
of people go out there when they're getting up in
age because of the sunshine and all. Any day now,
Sister Clarisse, I'm expecting to get the money
and make this big move. When it comes—and it
will come, it will come—I'll be asking you to
come and go with me.”
Her fan stopped abruptly. Only now did she
understand fully what he was talking about. “Mis-
ter Hubert!” was all she could say, but the ex-
clamation sounded ineffectual, without the out-
rage she wanted it to have. So she added, “Well,
I never!”
"Well, now I said it,” said Hubert, "and I'd
be pleased if you'd think about it. I know it
don't become a married man talking like this,
but you know I ain't asking you to do no wrong.
We're both lonely and we could make each other


118
happy. If things work out right, would you—you
know you ought to, but would you—come away
with me?”
Sister Clarisse did not know what to say. She
was frightened and very warm. Left right left
right left right. Somehow Hubert had moved over
to the couch and had her hand in his. She wanted
to take it away, to smile, to say something, any-
thing to regain control of the situation. Could
Hubert be dangerous? He was acting peculiar,
talking fantastically about impossible things, and
here she was, alone with him.
“Brother Hubert,” she began, “I do think I
may have given you the wrong impress—” She be-
came aware of a man's unfamiliar breath. His
lips touched hers and she inhaled sharply. He
stood up.
"I'll be going now," he said, “and please think
about what I've said.” He left.
Now she was really angry. Who did this man
think he was? She would have to get him told,
really put him in his place. But he was gone. She
raised her fingers to her lips.


120
tended not to notice each other and waited for
the light to change. The driver of the Checker
was next to the curb and by an unwritten law the
passenger belonged to him. James Lee could see
that he was planning to jump the light as soon as
it was safe to cross the intersection. James Lee
had the same idea and a faster car. The light
changed. James Lee jerked his foot off the clutch
and simultaneously slammed the accelerator to the
floor. The DeSoto leaped across the intersection.
James Lee cut in front of the Checker, who gave a
scream with his horn, and brought the DeSoto to
a halt in front of the lady with the suitcase. She
opened the door and got in.
“Boy, you sure must be hungry.” The Checker
had drawn up to the left of James Lee and the
driver was yelling in an angry voice.
James Lee felt the blood rush to his head.
“Aw, go get yourself a car and stop crying,” he
yelled.
The Checker driver was a middle-aged, stocky,
brown-skinned man with rimless eyeglasses. “Some
people will put their heads in a toilet for a buck,”
he said. He put the Checker in gear and drove
away.
“Take me up to Seventy-third and Madison,
driver. I'm in a hurry.” She was a thin white
woman with black hair and a voice that was cold
and sharp. She was not the kind to take notice of
two colored hackies who shouted at each other
ve


121
and almost wrecked their cars trying to get her as
a fare.
James Lee eased the car into the traffic and
headed uptown. He did not like having to beat
another Negro out of a fare, and he wished he
could explain to the driver that he really needed
every nickel he could get that day to keep up his
average. But why should he feel bad? It was dog
eat dog out on the streets, and he had never no-
ticed anybody holding back to let him get ahead.
"I do wish you would hurry, driver. I have a
one-thirty appointment.”
“I'm going as fast as the traffic will allow,
Madam.”
“Well, do the best you can.”
He wanted to say something else, but the
thought that he might knock himself out of a tip
stopped him. Then he examined her face in his
mirror. No, he decided, dried-up prigs like that
would never tip more than a dime, not even if it
were raining and you carried their suitcases for
them. A dime was all they thought you deserved.
"I'm free as a bird,” called Essie. Her voice
sounded as if it belonged to someone else as it
rang through the empty apartment.
“Do you hear what I say?" she demanded of
the innocent walls and chairs and tables. "I'm free
as a bird.”
Yes, that black man had had her number, all


123
though it had been exciting to meet the impor-
tant people who came to the house, she knew
nothing of the things they talked about and she
spoke very little for fear of saying something
wrong. Who was she but a poor little Southern
girl whose mother still took in washing down
home? Who was she to be sitting among these
doctors and lawyers and these fancy women with
their beautiful clothes? Essie wanted to get out on
her own. “Stay with us,” Iretha had said. “Go to
school and take one of those business courses.
With your looks you'll get a good job in no time.
And don't worry about money. Hugh and I aren't
rich but we're doing all right. Stay with us, girl.
Besides, it won't look right, your being my sister
and working in somebody else's kitchen.”
It had been a real struggle getting away from
Iretha and Hugh. They had done so much for her
that she had felt guilty leaving them when they
were obviously sincere about wanting her to stay.
Still, she knew she could not live with Iretha
and Hugh. True, a sleep-in job was not much, but
at least she had been on her own and free.
But not from loneliness. Then James Lee had
made her days in the city complete and satisfying.
During the hot months she especially liked to go
to the beach with him. She loved his body, and
when they played in the water she fancied she
knew what was going on in the minds of the
other women. And, if she said so herself, she was


125
spring. She had asked him to bring her because
she had never been rowing before. She was wear-
ing a brightly colored sailor's outfit, and James
Lee teased her, saying he thought she was over-
doing it for a mere rowboat. But she could tell he
liked the way she looked.
He rowed well and easily, moving from one
part of the lake to the other with little effort. His
strokes were rhythmical, one oar biting the water
at a time so that the boat moved along smoothly.
She complimented him. She knew he was show-
ing off a little, but that was nice, too. It was a
peaceful day, and she was glad they had come.
Then she thought that she would like to row.
“But why? Aren't you comfortable?”
“I just want to try. Please, James Lee.”
"Aw, come on and relax," he said. “These oars
are heavy."
She was vaguely disappointed. Why didn't he
want her to try?
“Please, James Lee."
"Okay,” he sighed. “Come on.”
He frowned as he helped her into the stern seat
and took hers in the bow. He would not smile
when she winked at him. Like a boy, she thought,
whose toys have been taken away. Well, she would
not ask him anything. She would learn to row all
by herself.
But he was right. The oars were heavy. She
had hardly begun before one of them slipped


126
CO
through the oarlock into the water. She managed
to retrieve it, but not before she had dropped the
other, which he lifted from the water and passed
to her without saying a word. In a few moments
she was exhausted and frustrated with her in-
ability to make the oars move with any sort of
rhythm. She gave them up and went back to her
seat, and did not say a word the rest of the time
they were on the lake. For days she was angry
with him—a quiet, frustrating anger because it
puzzled her. They had bitter little quarrels over
trifles. Then gradually she had stopped thinking
about the lake, but she had never forgotten it.
Essie went to the radio, switched it off, and re-
turned to the window seat. A tug with yellow let-
tering on it chugged down the Hudson, leaving a
pencil of black smoke.
Only now, as she looked back, was Essie aware
that she had attached so much significance to that
little incident. Since that day there had been a
new thing between her and James Lee. Figura-
tively she had tried many times to row the boat
and he had prevented her.
The abortion. What had a rowboat to do with
that? She shut her eyes tight. It hurt almost phys-
ically when she thought of it. They were con-
nected, the rowboat and the abortion, both parts
of a large pattern. She had given in to him on
that most important of things, their baby.


127
“Don't you see, Essie," he had said, "that's the
ugly way to get married? We'd always feel we'd
been forced into it.”
“But if we love each other ..." She had
paused, afraid of the thought that had come to
her. “You do love me and want to marry me,
don't you, James Lee?”.
“You know I do, baby, but not this way. As
soon as we're ready we'll get married and have a
great big family. But let's not start out this way.”
It had all been wrong. The reasoning had been
twisted out of shape, but she had listened and
been persuaded. Even now the memory of what
they had done made her go cold all over, trem-
bling because it was like yesterday, the abortion,
and there was nothing anybody could do about it.
She opened her eyes. The tugboat with the yel-
low lettering disappeared around a bend of the
river trailing its thin, black ribbon of smoke, and
her thoughts rushed on.


129
things. Everything about her overpowered you
and finally you gave in. That was being in love.
So he was not in love with Essie. He had been
sleeping with her for more than a year and he felt
he knew her like a book. She was that simple, and
she was definitely not overpowering. She was
just a pretty little girl from the South who was
crazy about him.
But his life was stuck like a car in the mud.
It was a lot of disconnected pieces and he could
not make any sense out of them. He felt guilty
about his treatment of Essie, and at the same
time he knew he had nothing to feel guilty
about. Women seemed born to hard luck. The
trouble was that he was twenty-six years old and
he did not feel he had hold of anything, that he
was growing. Essie was about the only thing in
his life that he was sure of, and he had the
strange fear that if he lost her everything might
fall apart.
The traffic was jammed for three blocks leading
up to the pier. The “Queen Mary” gave a loud,
anxious groan and waited. The traffic lurched for-
ward a few feet and came to a sudden halt. The
cab was a hot box, and James Lee's clothes were
soaked with his sweat. His buttock itched, but he
had two women passengers and could not give it
the hard scratching it needed. He had to content
himself with squirming in the seat, at the same


132
was
“Boy, what are you doing over here?” There
was not even a hint of friendliness in his gruff
greeting. “You're a long way from home.”
"I guess you are, too,” said James Lee.
“Damn if I ain't,” he agreed, and he laughed
as if he had not considered that before. “They
tell me you got your backside blasted. That
right?”
"Yeah, that's right.”
McGowan chuckled and went on with his
breakfast. It had been only a few days since James
Lee was wounded and he was in constant pain.
He was sullen and angry. “I'm glad you can see
something to laugh at, fella.”
“Boy, if you can't see something funny in that
you ain't got no sense of humor. Here you come
all the way over here carrying that rifle and that
other silly stuff they give you—all the way over
here, just to get your butt busted open.” He gave
up the struggle to keep from laughing. His
stunted little body shook so hard that he had to
push his tray away to keep from knocking it over.
“Man," he said, controlling himself for a mo-
ment, “you could've done that at home with less
trouble.”
James Lee watched in silence. The man was
obviously crazy. He wished he could lift himself
out of bed and get near enough to smash his fist
into that open mouth with its uneven teeth.
McGowan finally stopped laughing, pulled his


133
tray back into position, and began piling his
mouth full of food. “Where're you from, boy?”
“New York. Why?"
"New York,” he grunted. “I thought they made
some smart Negroes up there. Me, I'm just a
Southern boy myself. Born and bred in Kentucky.
Don't pay no attention to me 'cause I ain't got
no sense."
"That,” said James Lee dryly, “is one thing I
can believe."
“What the hell were you doing over there in
those hills, boy?” McGowan pointed in the gen-
eral direction of Korea.
“They sent me over there," James Lee retorted.
“What did you think?"
"The question is what did you think?" said Mc-
Gowan. "You look halfway intelligent. Didn't you
know you could get killed over there? Or did you
think those Koreans and China boys were fool-
ing?”
“Well, what were you doing over there?" James
Lee assumed that everybody in the ward was a
war casualty.
“Over where?” McGowan looked shocked, but
his eyes twinkled. Again he pointed. “You mean
over there! Boy, I wouldn't be caught dead or
alive over there, not as long as they're shootin'
and fightin’ and fussin’ and carryin' on." He
winked at James Lee. “I got stomach troubles,
man. They started just as soon as I heard where


134
Z-
we were going and they ain't give me no rest
since. My stomach bothers me all the time." He
took a large bite of his food and chewed at it
viciously. “You see, doctors don't know too much
about the stomach."
“You mean there's nothing wrong with you?”
James Lee said coldly. He had spent a lot of freez-
ing nights in the mud of Korea and he had a few
buddies who were still there. And then there had
been Leroy Butler.
McGowan frowned. “Shhh, man. What you try-
ing to do? Spoil my play?”
Later that same day he asked James Lee, “Say,
man, do you know what these people are fighting
about?"
James Lee said, “That's a silly question. How
the hell would I know? Do you know?”
“No, I don't,” McGowan laughed, “but I sure
thought you did, coming in here with your butt
full of lead and steel. And I'll tell you something
else, Mister. If I ever go somewhere where they're
shooting and killing, I'm gonna have a better
reason than "They sent me.' You can believe
that.”
James Lee grew to hate the man in the bed
next to him. But he also became fascinated by
him. Each morning he woke up with the thought:
What is this fool going to say next? He learned
that McGowan was from Louisville, Kentucky,
and had spent a year in a Southern college before


135
vas
men On
he was drafted. He was one of the few men on
the ward who used the Red Cross library, but to
James Lee he did not talk or act like an educated
person. Nobody liked him, and for good reason.
He was ill-mannered and aggressive. If the other
men on the ward had a general joke, McGowan
could see nothing funny about it. But when they
showed movies in the ward McGowan always
burst out laughing during the emotional scenes
that were underlined with sentimental music,
thereby embarrassing those who were involved in
the picture's plot. The wonder was that nobody
ever jumped him and gave him a good beating.
Fights were not unknown on the ward, but every-
body avoided McGowan and paid him a grudging
respect with their unsuccessful attempts to ignore
him.
One day he said to James Lee, “Man, you know
what's wrong with you? You're in danger and you
don't know it.”
“What kind of danger, Professor?" James Lee
had begun calling McGowan by the name the
ward had given him.
“When that Chinese boy busted your backside
with that grenade, didn't it make you stop and
think? I'm not talking about being scared, but
something else. Didn't you say to yourself, 'Why,
I can get killed and won't have a damned thing
to say about it?"
James Lee had thought along those lines—or,
S-


136
NO
SO
more accurately, he had felt along them—but he
said nothing.
“Most people just go through life dancing to
somebody else's tune,” McGowan went on. “They
get caught up early and they keep going along
with the act just like sheep. And when they die
it doesn't mean a damn thing because they never
lived in the first place.” McGowan put his head
back on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling.
“The first right is the right to live, boy. You got
so many years and days and minutes to do some-
thing with your life. The only way you know
what to do with your life is to think. Life is
precious, man, and it makes me feel bad when I
think of all those people who never had a life of
their own because they let somebody else or some
other thing have first call on it. It's like you're a
house and you rent out all the rooms to other
people and you end up sleeping outside because
you didn't save any room for yourself. That's
what it's like.”
Lots of what McGowan said was too vague for
James Lee to understand, but it almost always
made him uncomfortable. He could seldom think
of anything to say in reply.
One day McGowan suddenly asked, “Boy, you
got a girl back home?”
“I got lots of 'em. Why?”
McGowan snorted, but James Lee felt he was
on sure ground. It was true that he always had


137
been popular with the girls and this was certainly
something that little, ugly McGowan could not
claim.
“I guess you trim 'em up a lot, don't you?”
“I guess I do 'trim 'em up' a lot, Professor,"
said James Lee with a sneer at the country ex-
pression.
"Boy, you sure are stupid,” said McGowan.
James Lee's temper flared. “Have you got a
girl?”
"Nope, but I got a wife,” said McGowan, and
already there was a snapshot in his hand that he
passed to James Lee. The smiling woman was on
the plump side but not unattractive. She held a
baby in her arms. James Lee was surprised that
she was not ugly. How in the world had she got
stuck with a runt like McGowan?
"To really appreciate a woman, boy,” Mc-
Gowan was saying, “you've got to do more than
trim her. You've got to get inside her soul and
take a look at yourself. Then—and only then-
you are cooking with gas.” He took the snapshot
and put it under his pillow. Then he lay back
and closed his eyes and went to sleep.
The doctors were extremely attentive to Mc-
Gowan. They were of the opinion that he had the
only interesting case on the ward. He was con-
stantly being fluoroscoped and X-rayed. Visiting
specialists in internal medicine were always taken
to McGowan's bed first. Regularly his stomach be-


139
not like sitting around in a robe and pajamas
with nothing to do. He promised to send them a
post card when he got to China.
It happened at three o'clock one morning. The
hospital was quiet and peaceful when McGowan
suddenly began to scream. They were blood-
curdling shrieks that shocked James Lee out of a
deep sleep. The lights began to go on. McGowan
was sitting up in his bed staring straight ahead as
if something on the other wall had pushed him
beyond the border of sanity. His shrill, horrified
cries made every man tremble. Sleepy-eyed
nurses, orderlies, and doctors came running. They
approached the frenzied, stunted little man cau-
tiously. McGowan swung suddenly and viciously
and knocked one of the orderlies cold. The others
jumped him, but with surprising strength he
threw them off and jumped out of bed. With
agonizing screams he ran through the ward break-
ing windows and overturning tables. Suddenly he
stopped screaming and began to sing and dance.
“ 'Cause my hair is curly,
'Cause my teeth are pearly ...
That's why they call me Shine.” *
His pajama bottoms had fallen off now, and his
immobile face with its frenzied eyes made him
look like a crazy, wound-up doll. They rushed
• From “S-h-i-n-e.” Words by Cecil Mack and Lew Brown.
Music by Ford Dabney. Copyright MCMXXIV and copyright
MCMXLVIII by Shapiro, Bernstein & Co., Inc., 1270 Sixth
Avenue, New York, N. Y.


140
him again. He fought them off, striking out
savagely at anyone who came near. James Lee sat
in his bed transfixed, certain this was a bad dream
that had suddenly erupted in his sleep.
The scene became as bizarre as a Halloween
party, as more orderlies arrived, equipped with a
strait jacket and sheets. They fell upon Mc-
Gowan as a mass, and he went down, still strug-
gling and singing and kicking his feet as if to
dance. A doctor was standing near with a hypo-
dermic ready. When McGowan was safely fastened
inside the jacket the doctor approached and in-
jected the sedative. The muscles of McGowan's
face seemed to relax immediately, and he was
taken out of the ward. But as he was being
dragged through the door—and about this James
Lee was absolutely certain—McGowan turned his
* head toward James Lee and winked.
“Driver!” The woman's sharp voice jerked him
out of his thoughts. “Driver!"
“Yes, Madam.”
"Is this the quickest way we can go?”
"It's the quickest way I know," James Lee said.
"Midtown is always slow at—".
"Well, go over to Park Avenue. It seems to me
that Park Avenue ought to be quicker than Fifth.”
Of course she was right. Park Avenue was al-
ways quicker than Fifth, but his mind had not
been on his work. When they reached the beauti-


141
ful six-laned avenue the traffic was moving slowly
but steadily. James Lee glanced at his passengers
in his mirror. The woman's husband was embar-
rassed because his wife had created a scene, but
her look was one of sharp-faced triumph.
The one good thing about driving a cab,
thought James Lee, is that when passengers get
out of your car you will probably never see them
again. He gassed his car into the Park Avenue
overpass above Grand Central Station and thought
of Essie again.
No, he did not want to marry Essie. But what
did he want? What did he want of any woman?
Damn! In four years he would be thirty. Time,
they said, went faster after that. In almost no
time he would be forty. His life was slipping
away from him. He had to get himself in hand.
The trouble was that a man's life ought to make
some sense and it didn't, not his anyway. You
spent all your time doing one thing or the other,
and all you were really doing was trying to make
life make sense. You never succeeded, he sus-
pected, but you kept trying because there was
nothing else to do. At twenty-six you ought to
know something of what it was all about.
When his cab was empty again he drove to the
West Side and pointed the car uptown. Perhaps
he would go to Iretha's apartment and see Essie.
It was better to settle these things before they
became too involved.


148
wea
was the oldest and, in a sense, the boss. She often
complimented her two operators on their work,
but the praise was always bestowed in a con-
descending manner, as if from the master to the
student. Each one took great pains to point up
the merit of her individual work. Each had her
regular clients and each took great pride in send-
ing them away fully satisfied. All things con-
sidered, they got on well together, for the shop
was small and they had to make one another com-
pany for long hours six days a week.
Mabel was running a hot comb through a
young woman's hair. “Girl, I swear it's getting
longer and prettier every day.”
"Oh, you think so, Miss Mabel?” The girl was
pleased. Her mother was one of Mabel's custom-
ers and, no doubt, if she ever had a daughter she
would be sent to Mabel's, too.
"I guess it's time you were thinking about get-
ting married and making a family,” said Mabel.
She was intensely interested in the personal life
of every one of her customers. This amounted al-
most to a passion, and a customer was hardly in
the chair before Mabel, in her friendliest man-
ner, began probing. Through the women who
came to the shop Mabel managed to know what
was going on in a large part of Harlem.
“Planning anything soon?” Mabel asked sweetly.
The girl smiled and blushed. Mabel laughed
good-naturedly and dropped the subject. The


150
Alice frowned when she had finished adding up
the total.
She looked at Mabel and asked, "What did you
play today, girl?”
“I just put five dollars on a four to lead,”
Mabel replied in her sweetest voice.
"Well, wouldn't you know it.” Alice pushed the
paper and pencil aside and went back to her
customer. “As bad as I need money, and Mabels
hit that number again. There ain't no justice.”
“Well, I play to win, girls,” said Mabel. “Ain't
no need in y'all getting mad at me."
Lucille said, “Don't tell me that number's a
four when I have all my money on sixes.”
"It's a four the way I figure it,” Alice said.
Lucille left her customer and sat down in the
same chair. “Here, girl, let me figure this thing
out for myself.” She began to count aloud. After
a minute she said, “It's a four, all right.” She
crumpled the paper and threw it into the waste-
basket. “Mabel, where in the world do you get
such luck?"
Alice said, “That baldheaded old man of hers
sure must be giving her some good treatment.”
All the women laughed except Mabel, who
smiled serenely.
"That I wouldn't deny,” she said.
A pimp walking down Seventh Avenue looked
down at the man who was shining shoes and


151
said, “What's happening today, Pops?" And Pops
looked up from the shoes and said, “Four times.”
When the pimp got to One hundred and
twenty-eighth Street a policeman was standing on
the corner twirling his nightstick. “What's hap-
pening?” he asked the pimp, and the pimp re-
plied, "A four's running.”
The cop walked over to Lenox Avenue, where
some young men were sitting in a car drinking
beer. One of them said to the cop, “What's up,
Doc?” The cop held up four fingers and walked
on.
An old woman sitting in the shade of her
newsstand called across the street, "What did he
say?” The young men told her what the first
number was.
The word went out from thousands of apart-
ments and shops and stores. It crackled through
the streets like electricity. People held up four
fingers, whispered it out of windows, and tapped
four times.
In a few apartments Negro girls examined long
lists of three-number combinations from which
they separated all those that had four in them.
From these they separated all those that began
with four. When they had the results, they pre-
sented them to their bosses, who got on the phone
and began placing bets on the next two numbers
with larger banks. This scene was duplicated
thousands of times on the east and west sides of
S2
ES


152
urance mo
Manhattan, in the Bronx and Brooklyn by white
girls sitting at adding and calculating machines,
and by their bosses who got on the phones and
began placing what they called insurance money
bets.
In a tall building downtown suave executives,
the kind who first grow gray at the temples, and
nervous executives, the chubby ones who sweat
and chew cigars, checked with their accountants
on the state of business, now that a four had
played. The girls at the switchboards channeled
the sudden flood that poured in at the same time
six days a week. Here, at the summit of the busi-
ness, men and women accepted these calls from
district banks, then immediately sent the figures
off to the accountants.
And in John Lewis's apartment he looked up
from his pad and slapped his head with his hand.
"A four! Well, what the hell do you know about
that!” he said. “A four! Where did that come
from?” He took his list and checked off his four
money. There was no rush, no emergency. It
was a routine matter. He smiled. Well, the suck-
ers guessed one number right, anyway. He
phoned in his insurance money but did not dis-
turb the twenty dollars in his pocket.
es


“A black woman shall see hard times,” Gertrude
Cooley quoted to herself as she walked toward
Lenox Avenue. A few minutes before, she had
discovered her bureau drawer pried open and the
seven dollars missing. It was possible that some-
one might have sneaked into the apartment and
stolen the money, but, as Hubert was missing,
too, it was more than likely he had taken it. The


155
OWI
W
Interior department. You know him—his father
owns all those funeral homes. Sent that boy to
Harvard. He's supposed to be one of us but he
wouldn't give a black man the time of day. He
made an Uncle Tom statement about that boy
they're trying to frame down there in Florida.
But he's supposed to be in Washington represent-
ing us. Can you beat that!” He looked over his
glasses at Gertrude and saw that she was not
listening. “Are you all right, Mrs. Cooley? Some-
thing the matter with Mister Hubert?”
“No, nothing's the matter, Mr. Curtis.” She
walked to the door. “I'll be seeing you.”
"If I can do anything to help, Mrs. Cooley,"
he said, “you just give a yell.”
“Nothing's the matter,” said Gertrude, “but
thanks anyway.”
Gertrude walked to Lenox Avenue. The after-
noon was hot, but there were quite a few people
on the street. Lord, Lord, thought Gertrude,
where in the world am I supposed to start looking
for that crazy man? Where did I sin to deserve
all this misery? I must be about the unhappiest
woman alive.
She had known Lenox Avenue for more than
thirty years, but now she seemed to see it with
new eyes, with deeper, more terrible understand-
ing. Many of the faces were familiar: the young
men on the corner laughing and boasting of
empty accomplishments; old Slim Thomas who


158
their hands high so Mrs. Jonas could see their pen-
nies. She put the ice in paper cups and flavored
it with chocolate syrup. The girls squealed eagerly
as they exchanged their money for the cups.
"I declare, Mrs. Cooley,” Mrs. Jonas said, “you
ain't looking so good today. What's the matter?”
Gertrude sighed. “A black woman born into this
world shall see hard times.”
"I know it's the truth,” Mrs. Jonas said. She be-
lieved in all the old sayings. She sat on her folding
chair and drew up the other one that she kept for
company. "Come on, Mrs. Cooley, let's sit and
chat a while.”
But Gertrude did not feel like chatting. She ex-
cused herself and went into her apartment.


160
tage of these opportunities. Then there were the
women he met when he worked the night line. He
wondered what Essie would think if she knew that
there were many women who would rather sleep
with him than pay their fares. They were not us-
ually whores, either, but ordinary women, col-
ored and white, often very well-to-do. They liked
his looks. He wondered what Essie would say if
she knew that the city was full of opportunities
for a man like him. But why worry about Essie at
all? She was just-
“Where're you going, driver? Isn't this the ad-
dress I gave you?
The passenger was a man who usually ordered
people about. He and his companion wore cool
summer business suits and an air of self-impor-
tance.
• James Lee mumbled, "Sorry,” stopped the car,
and backed up to the entrance of the apartment
building where a tall, gray-haired doorman
touched the visor of his cap as he helped the pas-
sengers to the street. The fare was eighty cents
and the man told James Lee to keep the change.
“Thanks.”
"That's all right, George,” said the man pleas-
antly. He walked into the apartment building with
his companion and the doorman slammed the taxi
door shut.
Late one Saturday night not many months be-
fore a white passenger had called James Lee


161
ma
as
“George.” James Lee had brought his car to a sud-
den halt, dragged the man out of the back seat,
and knocked him to the sidewalk, where the man
had apologized, explaining that he called every-
body George, not just colored people. James Lee
had driven away and left the man sitting there.
He was often confused about what to do when
he was called “son” or “boy,” because an older
white man might call anybody that. But he was
never in doubt about George. This time, however,
he had been caught completely unaware. The
man had gone into the building and there was
nothing he could do without feeling silly. He could
not even show the minimum protest—to curse
the passenger and throw the change in his face. A
taxi drew up behind, forcing James Lee to drive
away. Petty frustration gripped at him.
Then he knew what he had to do. He would go
see Essie and have it out with her. This day every-
thing had gone wrong for him, and it was all her
fault because she was on his mind, bothering him.
Nothing would be right until he settled with her.
He pointed the car toward Harlem.
He had been to Iretha's apartment only once,
and he had not liked it then. Now he disliked it
even more, and he knew why. It was in one of
those modern buildings at the foot of West One
hundred and fifty-third Street. Negroes had only


162
recently moved in, and there were still a few white
families in the building. Most of the new occu-
pants were big-shot professional people doctors,
lawyers, real-estate brokers, well-paid civil serv-
ants, and racketeers—that group of colored folks
who always seemed to have everything going their
way. When James Lee was around them he felt
almost insignificant, just the way he did when rich
white people got into his cab. That time Iretha
had invited him and Essie to dinner-just to ex-
amine him, he was sure—he had felt clumsy and
uncomfortable all evening.
"Oh, it's you,” Essie said. She held the door open
for him and told him to come in. She was calm
and pretty. He was irritated that she had obviously
not been crying. He remembered now that he
had not had a bath or changed his clothes, and he
needed a shave. The fancy apartment intimidated
him, made him feel dirty. Who the hell did Essie
think she was?
As they faced each other in the living room he
began aggressively, “Look, baby, what is this bus-
iness? I call you up on the telephone and you don't
want to talk to me."
She shrugged. “I didn't want to talk to you, pe-
riod. I don't want to talk to you now. I don't have
anything to talk to you about. You and me, we've
had it.” She gave a little wave of her hand.
“Look, about last night ..." He had almost for-
gotten about last night, the drinking and the
u no
ve


163
woman called Lottie. He would have to think of
something good to tell her.
“Frankly, I'm not interested.” Essie sat down on
the couch and crossed her legs, smoothing her
skirt down over her knees. This made James Lee
even more uncomfortable. Now he was the only
one standing in the center of the living room. As
large as the room was, he felt too big for it in his
wrinkled clothes. He did not know this Essie. She
was too calm. He wanted an argument or anything
that would make her someone he recognized.
He said, “I only wanted to explain.”
She returned, “You don't have to. You can go
home now-or wherever it is you spend your
nights.”
He was being dismissed like a small boy who
had come asking for something and had been re-
fused. For a moment he felt it would be better to
walk out of the apartment and try to forget the
whole thing, but that would mean he had been de-
feated. He forced himself to laugh. Then he started
shouting at her.
"Why, just look at little Essie. Where do you
get off? You're nobody to me, you understand, and
I mean nobody! I picked you up and I can drop
you just like that. Where do you get off sitting
up in this apartment putting on airs like a two-
bit whore-”
She was stung. The viciousness hurt and shocked
her out of her calm. She jumped to her feet.


164
"Nobody asked you to come up here," she
yelled. “Why don't you just go away somewhere
and leave me alone? I don't want nothing to do
with you, and I mean nothing!”
Now that she had lost her temper, he felt he
was on even ground. His voice mocked her. “If
you're mad about last night why don't you say
so? I come up here to explain something and you
start acting like a fool—"
“You're the fool but you just don't know it,"
Essie said. “That's right. You don't know it and
you never will know it, but you're the fool.”
His words slipped out easily. “Here I've been
thinking it was time we were getting married—”
“I wouldn't have you on a bet.”
Their words clashed against each other. She
was standing close to him, flinging her words
into his face. He put his arm around her waist
and snatched her to him. It seemed the natural
thing to do.
Then everything went wrong. Something, per-
haps a thousand such scenes in the movies, had
made him expect that she would, after a moment's
resistance, give herself to his embrace. But she
twisted and she struggled, she kicked and she
screamed, and he had to let her loose. Struggling
for breath, she fell against the wall.
Then he knew he had to hit her. He had to
punish her for what he was feeling. He had made
a fool of himself, and she was the cause of it. But
Tro


165
if he beat her, hurt her, she would know whether
he was a man or not.
She must have known what he was thinking,
for she stood quite still, almost in a crouch against
the wall. But even as he raised his hand he knew
that he was not going to strike her. This was
not the way he had wanted it to be. It was all
messed up. James Lee Cooley, he thought, what
the hell are you up to now? You don't have the
slightest idea. Just plain mixed up, that's what
you are, Cooley. He lowered his hand and cursed
-not Essie this time, not himself, but everything.
He opened the door and walked out of the
apartment.
Essie did not move for several moments. She
continued to stare ahead of her as if he were
still there. Then, suddenly, Essie thought she knew
something that she had not known before, some-
thing that helped to explain everything that had
happened. It surprised her because it was not
about James Lee but about herself.


James Lee fought off all thinking as he wrenched
the wheel of the car, jerking it out of its parking
area and merging it into the southbound traffic
of Riverside Drive. He had no destination, yet
he drove with a fury, switching incautiously from
one lane to the other, jumping traffic lights before
they turned green. He rigorously avoided think-
ing about Essie. He felt as if he were being chased.


168
better-than-average piece of machinery that takes
you from one place to the other; it is a symbol
of accomplishment, of triumph. When you drive
a fishtail Cadillac you're serving notice that the
world is no longer kicking you. The situation has
been reversed, and you are kicking hell out of it,
riding it like a bronco buster, breaking it in to fit
your style. They say, “A Caddie is due respect,”
meaning not the car but the man who is driving
it. They say, “Man, that woman ought to be rid-
ing in a Cadillac,” meaning that she is good to
look at, and, if they had their way, they would
see that she had the best of everything. A woman
who is not so favored has no business in a Cad-
illac. Many a young man whose fortune has taken
a sudden turn for the better has traded in not only
his Ford or his Chevrolet but also his woman.
This particular Cadillac was a powder-blue
affair with immaculate white sidewall tires and
bumpers trimmed in sparkling chromium. On
the previous Saturday night the young owner had
managed an extraordinary run of luck by throw-
ing seventeen passes in a floating crap game.
Each time he had left his winnings on the table
and they had multiplied. On the seventeenth pass
he broke the game. Sunday had been a day of
acute frustration for him because all the car deal-
ers were closed. But this very morning, he had
gone to the showroom and bought his Cadillac
for cash. When the collision came he was stand-


169
ing under the Theresa Hotel marquee talking with
his cronies, some of whom had made generous
contributions to the game on Saturday.
He turned and saw that it was his car, but he
could not believe what he saw. He drew in his
breath sharply and closed his eyes, then opened
them again. It was true: there was really a yellow
taxicab setting up on the rear end of his powder-
blue Cadillac. He turned pale with rage, and
from his head he snatched his hat, an expensive
Panama straw (also new), slammed it to the side-
walk, and stamped on it with both feet. Clench-
ing his fists, he looked up at the sky and swore a
long and terrible oath that would have shocked
and offended many of the bystanders had they all
not felt as he did, that a man with a Cadillac had
certain sacred and divine rights and that among
these was immunity from collision.
Flanked by his companions, he walked weakly
toward the scene of the accident. He attempted to
regain some of the calm he had felt that morning.
"Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle!” he said. “Boy,
the good Lord just don't like colored folks.” His
friends tried to cheer him up. “Don't worry, man,
you got to get paid. All those taxis are insured.”
He shook his head. “But, man, it'll never be like
it was. Never.”
Glumly James Lee and the unhappy Cadillac
owner went through the formalities of exchanging
credentials. While each was copying down infor-


170
mation about the other, bystanders helped to un-
tangle the automobiles. When the ceremony was
over, James Lee drove away toward the garage.
“Jesus Christ Bloody Mary! Look at that!”
They were all watching as James Lee parked
the car. The mechanics stared over the upstairs
railing and Evaline came to the door to see what
Danny was yelling about. Well, let them watch,
thought James Lee as he prepared himself for
what he knew would be an uncomfortable scene.
Just so they don't start anything with me.
Danny tramped loudly down the metal steps
and took a quick look at the car. “I'll be damned,
a front end!" At all garages the driver was con-
sidered at fault if the front end of his car was
damaged. Front ends ran up the insurance rates
because they indicated the garage employed care-
less drivers.
“How did this happen, Cooley?"
“I ran into a guy."
"You mean it was your fault?” Even with a
front end a New York hackie never admitted he
was at fault. It was against tradition.
"Yeah, I guess that's what I mean,” said James
Lee. “I was at fault.”
I don't have to stand here and be grilled by
this punk, thought James Lee. He turned to Eva-
Vels,


171
line and said, "Give me one of those accident
forms, will you, Evaline?"
"Well, hell's bells!” Danny called. “Wait a min-
ute, will you, and tell me what happened.”
“I'll put it all down on the accident form and
you can read it.”
“I don't want to read it, I want to hear it-from
you!”
"You gonna have to read it.”
"Well, get a load of him, will you, fellas?” Danny
spoke to his audience of mechanics, who were
following every word from the second floor. “He
brings in one of our cars half wrecked and he
can't even take time to tell me about it.”
He walked toward James Lee, who thought:
He's just like that Marine poster in front of the
Apollo Theater on One hundred and twenty-fifth
Street, with his blond hair and blue eyes. He's the
clean-cut American boy like the movie heroes, and
I guess I'm scared because he's just as big as I
am, but this is one day he can get a fight if he
wants one.
Danny lowered his voice. “Look, sonny, I'm just
the dispatcher around here, you know?”
“I don't care who you are” James Lee was
conscious of Evaline standing in the doorway,
"and who the hell do you think you're calling
sonny?"
“Look, Jackson, all I ask,”


172
“_and what's this Jackson business? My name's
not Jackson. You know my—"
"—to hell with what your name is. I don't give
a—"
James Lee swung first, a hard-aimed right that
he did not know he was going to throw. But it
was the next logical thing to do. Then all the ac-
cumulated fury and frustration exploded, and
there were not just James Lee, Negro-American,
and Danny O'Halloran, Irish-American, squaring
off at each other in a taxi garage. James Lee was
facing all the people who had irritated him all
day, all the confusion that had kept him from
understanding. There was Essie who was trying
to show him up and make him feel small and in-
ferior, and his father who was making a fool of
himself, and McGowan with his crazy ideas, and
the white man who had called him George and
left a twenty-cent tip for the privilege. O'Halloran
had none of this to drive him on, and he had
been caught by surprise. He fought well because
he had been in street fights and barroom tussles
before, but there was nothing outside the natural
desire to win and keep from getting hurt that im-
pelled him.
James Lee thought, I will kill him if I can or
I'll make him wish he was dead. When Danny
caught him by the shoulders and slammed him
to the floor he got up thinking, He's a good wres-
tler and I'll have to stay out of his reach. Swing


173
now and keep him off, swing now and move right
and move left and swing and keep on moving be-
cause if he catches hold of me I'm done for. But
Danny did catch hold of James Lee's head
with his left hand, pushing it down and slap-
ping it with several cutting rights that left James
Lee struggling for consciousness. In desperation
he thought, I'll break his guts, and he brought
his knee up into Danny's stomach and he heard
the wind break from the Irishman's mouth. James
Lee stepped back and with one vicious blow to
the head he staggered Danny, who was dazed
and fighting to catch his breath. With short, chop-
ping blows James Lee beat against the dispatch-
er's head, thinking, Goddamit! get down, down,
down. Finally O'Halloran was on one knee and
then the other. A grunt of final effort tore from
James Lee's lips as he slammed the heel of his
right hand down on the back of Danny's neck.
The dispatcher sprawled face downward with a
deep groan, unconscious.
Neither Evaline nor the mechanics had moved,
had hardly breathed, during the few savage mo-
ments of the brawl. Now for another full minute
they stood as if impaled by what they had seen.
Then the mechanics began running down the
metal stairs, setting up a jarring racket. Evaline
stared at the unconscious figure of Danny, stifling
a scream with her hand over her mouth.
James Lee, breathing heavily, turned and stum-


178
pushed their way into Hubert's thoughts. He had
been standing in the sun and he was drenched
with perspiration. He walked toward the barber-
shop at the crest of the hill where One hundred
and fifty-fifth Street joins St. Nicholas Avenue.
The fans in the shop droned. The barber was
called Smitty. He was in his thirties, already fat,
with the beautifully contoured lips of a man
who enjoys talking whenever the opportunity pre-
sents itself. He and his customer were discussing
a murder that had recently occupied the front
pages of the Negro newspapers.
"The guy was crazy for playing around with
a chick like that. Him with a wife and five kids."
Smitty's scissors moved with a rhythmic chatter
around the man's head. He had finished the hair-
cut sometime before, but he would never let
the customer know it until the conversation was
finished or another customer entered. “She was
bound to kill him if his wife didn't get him first.
The cat never had a chance."
"She swore it was his gun and she took it away
from him.” Both men laughed.
Smitty nodded toward Hubert who entered just
then. “Hiya, Mister Hubert, you're next.”
“No, Smitty, I don't think I need one today.”
Hubert cleared his throat. “What was the last
I
one?”


180
TO
on
hurt him any more. He was surprised to find that
he really felt sorry for them, for all the Harlem
black and brown and yellow folk, all the colored
people all over the world who had never made it.
Good-by, you poor fools, Hubert said to Harlem.
God bless you. Soon Hubert would push them
into the past like a bad dream.
John Lewis wore a large grin when he opened
the door and looked down at Hubert.
“Man," he exclaimed, “am I sorry I ever
laughed at you!” John Lewis gave a low whistle
and slapped Hubert on the back. “You sure
must've got up on the right side of the bed this
morning, Mister Hubert. That's a lot of money
you've got coming."
Hubert was uncomfortable. He did not like to
be slapped on the back. He shifted his weight
from one foot to the other.
“What are you going to do with all that money,
Mister Hubert?" asked John Lewis.
“Oh, I've got a few ways to spend it,” answered
Hubert.
John Lewis said, “Well, I know this ain't no
social call. You want to get your hands on that
loot and I don't blame you.”
“Well, I want it as soon as I can get it.”
"I tell you what I'm going to do,” John Lewis
said. “Just because it's you, I'm going and pick it
up myself. Suppose I bring it by your house at,


182
“John Lewis, boy,” he said glumly, “you’re a
fool.” For once in his life he was sure he knew
what he was talking about.
was
W


Hubert looked at women again—not a particular
one, but all of them—in a great sensuous con-
glomerate. He was the young male animal apprais-
ing each female he passed on the street. The
young woman with the green outfit was easy to
look at, and those earrings set her chestnut-brown
complexion off just right. Hubert reflected that in


184
all the world there was nobody who could beat a
colored woman wearing earrings.
And it seemed to him that the women were
taller than they used to be. At One hundred and
twenty-fifth Street he paused to look at the young
girl who stepped down from the bus. She was
tapioca-colored, with red lips. Around her waist
was a wide belt that matched the deep black
leather bag she was carrying. Hubert wondered
what in the world she would want with a bag
so large. She had fine legs, slender yet strong.
As she walked away, Hubert concentrated on the
swing of her hips and the way her tight skirt em-
phasized the swing of her thighs.
She was taller than Hubert by two or three
inches. He could not remember women being so
tall when he was young and really after them.
They had been good-looking, all right. Yes, in-
deed, women had always been pretty when a man
was on top and had life where he wanted it, but
Hubert did not think they had been so tall.
He walked on. Now he had more to do than
watch young girls. There was a woman, a real
flesh-and-blood woman waiting for him although
she did not know he was coming.
Surprise and disapproval were on Sister Cla-
risse's face when she opened the door. She had
not forgotten their conversation earlier that after-
noon. “Mister Hubert!” she frowned. “Twice in
one day? What will people think?”


185
was
Without waiting for an invitation he walked
past her into the room. “It hit,” he said.
“What did?” she asked.
“My number. It came just like I played it.”
“Good for you,” said Sister Clarisse, who was
still wondering why he had returned to her apart-
ment. “How much did you hit for?”
“Seven dollars,” he announced.
“Aw, gowan,” Sister Clarisse laughed. She knew
that no one ever hit the numbers for seven dol-
lars except big gamblers and people like that.
With poor colored folks a hit for seven cents was
more likely.
Hubert said, “That's more than four thousand
dollars I got coming."
His seriousness frightened her. “Mister Hubert,
you're joking, aren't you?”
“Not a bit,” he answered, then added with a
bold flourish, “not a damned bit.”
The language was unusual for her apartment,
but she took no notice of it. “Well, my goodness,”
she said weakly and sat down on the couch.
“This is what I was talking about when I was
here a few hours ago, Sister Clarisse, only I just
didn't know how soon it was coming. Here's our
chance, yours and mine."
Sister Clarisse was only happy in a routine
she understood. Problems bothered her because
she did not know how to begin to handle them.
She had never solved a major problem in her


186
life. There had always been someone else to take
care of them for her or she had left them to take
care of themselves. Now she felt trapped. This
man standing in front of her actually had ideas
about the two of them going away together. It
occurred to her that a woman with good inten-
tions could get into a lot of trouble by just being
nice to a man.
“I've been unhappy and dissatisfied for a long
time, and you probably have, too. For more than
ten years I've been waiting to kiss Harlem and
New York good-by and go somewhere and start
all over. All I needed was a little money to buy
myself in because I found out a long time ago
that a man has to own something to be on the in-
side. He needs money in the bank and a check
book in his pocket. That's the only thing that
makes him somebody."
Now, somehow, he was on the couch beside
her and she had not even noticed that he was so
near until he spoke again.
"I'm a man you could live with because I'm a
man who could love you and be a partner with
you in everything. We're not children any more-
I'll be fifty-one my next birthday. I figure that
we've got a little good living coming to us, Clarisse.
Now, if you say yes, by eight o'clock tonight we'll
be on our way to a new life together.”
It was a wild idea. From time to time she had
thought of doing wild and irresponsible things,


187
but she had never been what she would call
"bad.” She raised her eyes and looked at Hubert.
Yes, she liked his face. It was a man's face, smooth
and strong. She liked the heavy black hair of his
mustache, the firm lips. But the eyes bothered
her. They seemed brown at first and yet darker,
almost black. And intense, like the eyes of a
troublesome boy. He had the eyes of a wild boy
with wild dreams. Such dreams had to be beaten
out with the practicality of adulthood. A man of
fifty-one had no business with such eyes.
“Are you coming, Clarisse?”
Once, when she was seventeen and still a girl
in Alabama, she had spent several months with
relatives in another county. There had been a
boy with such eyes, a restless boy, intense and
passionate, who spoke to her of the wildest things.
They had said that he drank and gambled and
would never amount to anything, but none of
that had mattered to her. She had given more of
herself to him than to any man since. She had
loved him. But nothing ever came of it. What
happened? ... a quarrel? She could not remem-
ber. And later, when she heard that he had been
killed in an ugly gin-mill brawl, she cried for
days. Later she came to realize that every-
body had been right about him all along. Loving
that boy was the last irresponsible act she had
ever committed.
Hubert was waiting. She had to say something.


188
Then she saw them as they really were. She
was forty-eight and a widow. No matter what
some jealous folk said, she led a good, Christian
life. Her husband had been a deacon of Little
Calvary. Hubert was a man with a family, and
everybody said he was peculiar in the head. Sup-
pose she were to do the crazy thing he proposed?
That would really give the sisters something to
talk about. She could see them now, buzzing
around Sister Gertrude with their sympathy and
advice. No, Sister Clarisse would never give them
any real ammunition to use against her. Besides,
she was a good Christian woman and would never
dream of doing such a thing.
She smiled and her laugh fluttered. “Well, Mis-
ter Hubert, my goodness! What would everybody
say?” She knew it sounded childish and silly, but
how else could she put it? You could not come
right out and talk about a thing like that.
Hubert stood up. He looked at her for only
a moment. Then he turned and walked out of
the apartment. The vacant smile lingered on Sister
Clarisse's face for several minutes. Her feeling of
relief was tinged with sharp regret as she stared
at the closed door, and she only remembered to
remove the smile when she turned her eyes away.


At first the coming of the seven did not ring a
bell with the corner bums at all. They lounged
dispiritedly outside the Crystal Bar and went
through a variation of their daily routine.
“Boy, money and me, we hate each other.”
"You and me both, Pops."
“And here I am, dry as a nun's tit.”


192
When James Lee approached, one of them
yelled, “Jesus, look at the kid."
“He looks like a truck backed over him.”
“Two trucks.”
The blood from James Lee's nose had dried
into a black stain on his shirt. His jaw was puffed
and one of his eyes was swollen.
“Boy, look at your hair standing at attention.”
“And your eyes going in every which direc-
tion."
“And your jaw trying to take off like the
mumps."
“Your old man's done hit the jackpot, boy.”
“What are you guys talking about?”
“Don't you know about four-seventeen?”
He did not know. They told him. He hurried
on.
Earlier, when Gertrude had returned home, she
had sat in the big overstuffed chair and begun to
cry for the first time in many years. No, life had
not been good to her, but she had taken every-
thing without a whimper. She had known that
life was something you did something about, you
acted, so there had never been any need for tears.
But now there was nothing to do. She felt her-
self a raw, tender thing who had been roughly
handled and hurt. At first she had cried softly.
But these tears seemed to open up a well within
her, and her large body shook with great sobs.


195
bag. James Lee's voice sounded weary as he spoke.
“Pop, what do you think you're doing?”
“I'm packing a bag, boy,” said Hubert, “as any
fool can plainly see.” He went to the closet and
took out a suit.
“You going someplace?”
“That's right,” said Hubert. “You get the idea.”
“You mean you're leaving home-Mama and
everything?"
“That's right.”
James Lee was suddenly exasperated. “You're
crazy, you know that! Just plain crazy. Why, you
little jerk! You couldn't make it on your own
with fifty thousand dollars if you didn't have
somebody to play nursemaid to you.” He yelled,
“You're a number one first-class jerk!”
The words had no effect on Hubert, who went
into the bedroom. James Lee turned to Gertrude.
"Mama, aren't you going to say something? Try
to stop him?”
“Not a word. Let him go. I can't take it any
more.” Her voice was low and tense and she was
trying to keep from yelling.
When Hubert came back to the room James
Lee said, “If you're trying to hurt Mama, you
can forget it. You've already done that.”
“Not trying to hurt nobody,” he said. “I'm just
leaving. Never did like it around here. I've been
wanting to get away for many a long year.” He
went on with his packing.


197
their way through the exits and dispersed. James
Lee felt the rumble of the heavy old Seventh
Avenue trains below the street as they dragged
themselves farther uptown. A girl in a blue bon-
net, somehow pretty without rouge or lipstick,
stood near one exit selling religious magazines.
Shoeshine boys in tight-legged motorcycle dunga-
rees stood near the corner and yelled at prospec-
tive customers. People paused in front of the
newsstand to snatch a News or Mirror or a Jet
magazine that they began to read while waiting
for the traffic light to change. A bus already
packed with passengers roared past its stop and
halted in the middle of the block to discharge
some of its occupants. Some of the people who
had been waiting at the stop set up a yell of pro-
test and pushed down the street toward the bus.
A mounted policeman, a black man with dark
glasses, galloped down the block and drove the
people back onto the curb. The smell of grilled
frankfurters came from a nearby stand where
a dark brown girl was irritably reminding the
crowd that she only had two hands. The soft,
steady daytime beat of Lenox Avenue shifted.
Picking up its darktime rhythm, it became fever-
fish, mad, syncopated.
Tames Lee turned west on One hundred and
twenty-fifth Street. He was biting his lip and
talking to himself. He wished he could have said
to his father and mother what was on his mind
.


199
are
can
the spice of life ... screw 'em all while you can
... do her wrong before she does you wrong.
How many times have I wanted to really talk to
Essie?
McGowan had said it! Life is a precious thing
and you don't fill it up with dumb ideas just be-
cause there are plenty of them around. Now I see.
There are all kinds of things trying to pull a man
down, but mostly it's his own ideas. You've got to
stay on your toes and you've got to keep thinking
for yourself ... always thinking for yourself ...
it's your only hope.
Suddenly James Lee was conscious of his direc-
tion. He broke into a run toward Iretha's apart-
ment, where Essie was.


The afternoon rush hour in Grand Central Sta-
tion is a long one that begins at about half-past
three and only subsides toward seven o'clock. In
the vacant white lights that spill down from the
high chandeliers thousands of people rush toward
New York Central commuter trains that carry
them out of the city's heat to small green resi-
dential towns farther north. During these hours


201
the station is like a well-organized but over-
crowded beehive. From the world's busiest center,
Manhattan's midtown, the car horns, the millions
of voices, the thousand other distinct sounds, com-
bine into a single persistent din that envelops the
station and seeps through its walls. The hollow
voices of the public address system and the clatter
of racing footsteps echo off the high hard ceiling.
The young Negro woman who walked down
into the station from the west-side entrance car-
ried her head high. She had been shopping, and,
besides her overnight bag, she carried a large
hat box filled with her purchases. She moved with
a jaunty step that was not without youthful grace.
There were pride and sophistication in her walk,
and anyone watching her would have said def-
initely that she knew where she was going and
what she was going to do when she got there.
When you go through life being afraid, she
was thinking, you're really asking for trouble.
And you don't have to wait long before you get
it. Poor little Essie. I just had to have a big
strong man to lean on. I couldn't stand the
thought of being alone in this big old city. He
never took anything away from me. The things
that counted, I gave. But I'm somebody too.
She stopped in front of the ticket window and
bought a round-trip fare.
No wonder he wanted to hit me. If your pet
dog starts acting up, you give it a beating. Well,


205
people didn't. He had been going along just fine,
with a great future, and then a crazy, stupid num-
ber like this 417 had to show up. Why hadn't he
bet the money with the big bank in the first place
instead of taking a silly chance? Four ... one
... seven ... those three numbers could ruin
a man's whole life. Together, the hits against him
came to seven thousand dollars, and he did not
have nearly that much. And his reputation! This
was what really mattered. Well, no one could say
he hadn't tried. He really wanted to pay off the
winners. He and Ada had been on the phone two
hours trying to round up some cash. They had
called every big wheel they knew without any
luck at all. Guys he had drunk with and gambled
with, guys who could have raised the money with a
telephone call—they had turned him down. When
a new bank got busted, everybody swore it off. If
his had been an old, established bank that sud-
denly came up two hundred thousand short-
well, that would have been different. But those
low-down rats would not back him for four thou-
sand. They were willing to let him go under.
But John Lewis was a big man and he would
show them. This was what they called a tempo-
rary setback. A couple of months and he would
be back. Numbers players are funny people.
Right after they hit and don't get their money,
they're liable to kill you. But give them a little
time to think it over and they will chalk it up to


210
One by one its cars were pulled into the tunnel.
Essie was gone.
OX
enue
Evening approached Harlem. Hubert had taken
his suitcase and set it on the small landing out-
side the vestibule. From there he would be able
to see when John Lewis turned into one hundred
and twenty-sixth Street from Lenox Avenue. He
sat down on the suitcase to wait.
The news of the big hit had spread up and
down the block. Many of the Cooley neighbors
rushed through their dinners so they could see
John Lewis when he brought the money. Coming
home from work some of them had stopped to
inquire, “You taking a trip, Mister Hubert?"
“Yep.”
And when they had asked him where he was
going he had smiled and said, “Any place that
comes to mind.”
When there was no one asking him questions,
Hubert talked to himself. “A man hopes and
prays all his life for something like this to hap-
pen, and when it comes he can't back down. It's
a deal he makes with himself and that kind he
can't break.”
In their homes from time to time the children
of the block had overheard their parents say
that Hubert was crazy. Some of them now
gathered under a street lamp a few yards away
from the Cooley apartment. They played half-


211
heartedly at their games. They were really watch-
ing Hubert and waiting for John Lewis. Hubert
looked at them for a long time. Then he spoke
aloud, softly, insistently.
“It's no good around here,” he said. “You never
get a chance to do any living. Babies are born
here and old folks die here, but in between there
ain't no living."
And later he said, “I don't blame Gertrude and
I don't blame the boy. I tried to give both of
them ambition and I found out that you can't do
that. They never understood me. I don't believe
I was born to spend my whole life on this street
or any other street in Harlem. I've wanted to be
too many grand and wonderful things to find out
in the end that this was all I was ever meant to
be.”
It was almost completely dark when James Lee
came down the street. Hubert did not seem to
know him. The young man spoke gently, in a
tired voice.
“No use waiting, Pop. John Lewis won't be
here." James Lee explained what had happened
at Grand Central, but when he finished he knew
that Hubert had not listened to him. His father
sat with his eyes fixed on Lenox Avenue.
James Lee said, “It's past eight o'clock, Pop.
Believe me, he's not coming." He put his hand on
Hubert's shoulder. “He never comes, Pop. Don't
you see that? John Lewis never really comes.”


212
Hubert did not answer. James Lee became con-
scious of people watching from nearby houses. He
looked at the kids who had stopped their game
under the streetlamp and were staring. James Lee
went into the house. He would bring the old man
in later. Now he wanted to tell his mother.
After a while Hubert gave a low chuckle of
satisfaction. “They laughed at me and said I
would never make it, but I did. Maybe it ain't
true that every dog will have his day, but I'm go-
ing to have mine.” He laughed and wiped the
sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
Now he was tired. He felt as if he had no
strength in any part of his body. He took a deep
breath. “Come on, John Lewis, come on. I gave
this street too much precious time. Gave it my
youth, gave it my strength. Ain't gonna give it no
more. Come on, John Lewis, come on.”
A fire engine, clanging and hooting, roared
down Lenox Avenue. Night settled over Harlem
but brought no rest. The murmur of living,
like the river, flowed on into the evening toward
the dawn.


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