1 Here it was the twenty-eighth of December and he still wasn't sober. In fact, he was drunker than ever. An ice-cold, razor-edged wind whistled down Fifth Avenue, billowing his trench coat open and shaving his ribs. But it didn't occur to him to button his coat. He was too drunk to give a damn. He staggered north toward 37th Street, in the teeth of the wind, cursing a blue streak. His lean hawk-shaped face had turned blood-red in the icy wind. His pale blue eyes looked buck wild. He made a terrifying picture, cursing the empty air. When he came to 37th Street he sensed that something had changed since he'd passed before. How long before he couldn't remember. He glanced at his watch to see if the time would give him a clue. The time was 4:38 a.m. No wonder the street was deserted, he thought. Every one with any sense was home in bed, snuggled up to some fine hot woman. He realized the lights had been turned off in the Schmidt and Schindler luncheonette on the corner where the porters had been working when he had passed before, whenever that was. He distinctly remembered the ceiling lights being on for the porters to work. And now they were off. He was instantly suspicious. He tried the plate-glass doors set diagonally in the corner. But they were locked. He pressed his face against the plate-glass window at front. Light from the Lord & Taylor Christmas tree was reflected by the stainless-steel equipment and plastic counters. His searching gaze probed among the shining coffee urns, steam soup urns, grills, toasters, milk and fruit juice cisterns, refrigerated storage cabinets, and along the linoleum floor on both sides of the counter. But there was no sign of life. He hammered on the door and shook the knob. "Open this goddamned door!" he shouted. No one appeared. He lurched around the corner toward the service entrance on 37th Street. He saw the Negro at the same time the Negro saw him. The Negro was wearing a tan cotton canvas duster overtop a blue cotton uniform, white work gloves, and a dark felt hat. He held something in his hand. He knew immediately that the Negro was a porter. But sight of a Negro made him think that his car had been stolen instead of lost. He couldn't have said why, but he was suddenly sure of it. He stuck his right hand inside of his trench coat and staggered forward. The Negro's reaction was just as sudden but different. Upon seeing the drunken white man staggering in his direction, he thought automatically, Here comes trouble. Every time I get ready to put out the garbage, some white mother-raper comes by here drunk and looking for trouble. He was alone. The other porter, Jimmy, who was helping him with the garbage, was down in the basement stacking the cans onto the lift. And the third porter, Fat Sam, would be in the refrigerator in the pantry getting some chickens to fry for their breakfast. From there, even with the blower turned off, he wouldn't be able to hear a call for help. And he doubted if Jimmy could hear him down in the basement. And here was this white mother-raper already making gun motions, like an Alabama sheriff. By the time he could get any help he could be stone cold dead. He looped the heavy wire cable attached to the metal switch box once around his wrist, fashioning a weapon to defend himself. If this mother-raper draws a gun on me, I'm gonna whip his head 'till it ropes like okra, he thought. But another look at the white man changed his thoughts. This makes the third time a white mother-raper has drawed a gun on me down here, his second thoughts ran. I'm gonna quit this job, if I live and nothin' don't happen, and get me a job in a store where there's lots of other people working, as sure as my name is Luke Williams. Because this white man looked dangerous. Not like those other white drunks who were just chicken-shit meddlers. This white man looked mean. He looked like he'd shoot a colored man just for the fun. A snap-brim hat hung precariously on the back of his head and his yellow hair flagged low over his forehead. Even from a distance Luke could see that this face was flushed and his eyes had an unfocused maniacal look. The white man staggered to a stop at point-blank range and stood weaving back and forth on widespread legs. He kept his hand inside of his coat. He didn't speak. He just stared at Luke through unfocused eyes. Whiskey fumes spewed from his half-open mouth. Luke began to sweat, despite the fact he wore only a cotton duster. Working twenty years on the night shift had taught him anything could happen to a colored man downtown at night. "Look man, I don't want no trouble," he said in a placating voice. "Don't move!" the white man blurted thickly. "If you move you're dead." "I ain't gonna move," Luke said. "What's that you're holding in your hand?" "It's just a switch for the elevator," Luke said nervously. The white man drew a revolver slowly from beneath his coat and aimed it at Luke's stomach. It was a regulation .38-caliber police special. Luke's voice went desperate. "I just came out here to bring the elevator up with the garbage. This is just the safety switch." The white man glanced briefly at the folded iron doors on which he was standing. Luke made a slight motion, pointing to the female plug in the wall. The white man looked up in time to catch the motion. "Don't move!" he repeated dangerously. Luke froze, afraid to bat an eye. "Drop it!" the white man ordered. Gooseflesh rippled down Luke's spine. With infinite caution he detached the cable from his wrist and dropped the switch to the iron doors. The metallic clang shattered his nerves. "I ought to gut-shoot you, you thieving son of a bitch," the white man said in a threatening voice. Luke had seen a night porter shot by a stickup man. He had been shot three times in the stomach. He recalled how the porter had grabbed his guts with both hands and doubled over as though attacked by sudden cramps. Sweat leaked into the corner of his eyes. He felt his own knees buckle and his legs begin to tremble, as though he had already been shot. "I ain't got no money, I swear, mister." His voice began to whine with pleading. "There ain't none in the store neither. When they close this place at nine they take--" "Shut up, you son of a bitch," the white man cut him off. "You know what I'm talking about. You came out here an hour ago, using that switch as a blind, and watched out while your buddy stole my car." "Stole your car!" Luke exclaimed in amazement. "Nawsuh, mister, you got me wrong." "Where is the garbage then?" Luke realized suddenly the man was serious. He became extremely careful with his words. "My buddy is down in the basement stacking the cans on the elevator. When he's got it loaded he'll rap for me to bring it up. I plugs in the cable and pushes the switch. That way can't nobody get hurt." "You're lying, you were out here before." "Nawsuh, mister, I swear 'fore God. This is the first time I've been outside all night. I ain't even seen your car." "I know all about you night porters," the white man said nastily. "You're nothing but a bunch of finger men and lookouts for those uptown Harlem thieves." "Look, mister, please, why don't you call the police and report your car stolen," Luke pleaded. "They'll tell you that we porters here are all honest." The white man dug into his left pants pocket and brought out the velvet-lined leather folder containing his detective badge. "Take a good look," he said. "I'm the police." "Oh no," Luke moaned hopelessly. "Look, boss, maybe you parked your car on 35th or 39th Street. They both run the same way as this street. It's easy to make a mistake." "I know where I parked my car--right across from here. And you know what happened to it," the detective charged. "Boss, listen, maybe Fat Sam knows something about it," Luke said desperately. "Fat Sam is the mopping porter." He figured Fat Sam could handle a drunk cop better than himself. Fat Sam had a soft line of Uncle Tom jive and white folks who were distrustful of a lean Negro like himself were always convinced of Fat Sam's honesty. "He was mopping the floor on the side and he might have seen something." Anyway, once the cop got inside and Fat Sam got some hot coffee into him, maybe he'd come to his senses. "Where's this Fat Sam?" the detective asked suspiciously. "He's in the icebox," Luke said. "You go in through the door here and it's on the other side of the pantry. The door might be closed--the icebox door that is--but he'll be inside." The detective gave him a hard look. He knew the Harlem expression. "By way of Fat Sam," meant by way of the undertaker, but the Negro looked too scared to pull a gag. So all he said was, "He'd better know something." 2 The pantry had white enamel walls and a red brick floor. All available space was occupied by the latest of equipment needed for a big fast turnover in short orders, but it was so expertly arranged there were ample passages from the outside and the basement and into the lunchroom. Racks of glassware and dishes, stacked eight feet high, sat on roller coasters. Fitted tin trays, empty now to be returned, on which cooked items came fresh each morning from the factory, were stacked six feet high. Heavy metal trays filled with freshly polished silver were stacked beside the silver polishing machine. Everything was spic and span and in readiness for the rapid service which would begin at breakfast. An atmosphere of sterilized order prevailed, such as in a hospital. It was so typical of all New York stores and offices after the night's cleaning the detective experienced a definite feeling of doubt as he silently crossed the red brick floor to the refrigerator. He paused momentarily beneath the red light above the closed door that indicated there was someone inside. The feeling was so strong that he was making a mistake he debated whether to turn around and leave. But he decided to scare the Negroes anyway. It'd be good for them. If they were innocent it'd help keep them that way. He pulled open the door. The fat black man in a blue denim porter's uniform, holding an armful of frying chickens, gave such a start a chicken flew from his arms as though it were alive. His eyes popped. Then he recovered himself and said testily, "Jesus Christ, white folks, don't scare me like that." "What'd you jump for?" the detective asked accusingly. "Force of habit," Fat Sam confessed, grinning sheepishly. "I always jumps when somebody slips up on me while I'm handling chickens." "You're a goddamned liar," the detective accused. "You jumped because you're guilty." Fat Sam drew himself up and got on his dignity. "Guilty of what? Who the hell are you to come in here accusing me of something?" "You were mopping the floor along the 37th Street side," the detective charged. "You could see everything happening on the street." "What the hell you got to do with it?" Fat Sam asked while picking up the fallen chicken. "I could see everything happening inside too. I could see all over. Are you one of the firm's spies?" Slowly and deliberately, the detective flashed his badge, watching Sam's face for a sign of guilt. But Fat Sam looked unimpressed. "Oh, so you're one of them. What's that got to do with me? You think I'm stealing from the company?" "There was a car stolen from across the street while you were working on that side," the detective said in a browbeating voice. Fat Sam laughed derisively. "So you think I stole a car? And hid it here in this icebox, I suppose?" He looked at the detective pityingly. "Come on in and look, Master Holmes. You won't find nothing in here but us perishables--meat, milk, juices, eggs, lettuce and tomatoes, soup stock, leftovers, and me--all perishables. No automobiles, Master Holmes. You been looking too long through your magnifying glass. That ain't no automobile you see, that's a cockroach. Haw-haw-haw." For a moment the detective looked as though he had swallowed some castor oil. "You're so funny you'd get the stiffs laughing in the morgue," he said sourly. "Hell, what's funnier than you looking in here for an automobile?" Fat Sam said. "I'll tell you how you did it," the detective said in a blurred, uncertain voice. "You came back here from out front and used that telephone by the street door. Your buddy was working and he didn't notice." By now the detective had got his eyes focused on Fat Sam's face and they looked dangerous. "You telephoned up to Harlem to a car thief and told him to come down and lift it. That's right, ain't it, wise guy?" Fat Sam was astonished into speechlessness. The cracker's even got it all figured out, he was thinking. "What was his name?" the detective asked suddenly. And suddenly Fat Sam realized the man was serious. He felt cold sweat break out on his skull beneath his short kinky hair. "I don't know any car thief in Harlem or anywhere else," he said solemnly. "You stood out there toward the front of the counter, faking with your mop, where you could watch both Fifth Avenue and 37th Street at the same time and give a signal if you saw a police car come in sight," the detective hammered as though trying to get a confession. Covertly Fat Sam studied his face. Bright red spots burned on the high cheekbones and the lick of hair hung down like a curled horn. He couldn't make out whether the white man's eyes were blue or gray; they had a reddish tinge and glowed like live coals. The thought came to him that white folks could believe anything, no matter how foolish or impossible, where a Negro was concerned. In a careful voice he said, "Take it easy, chief. Let me fix you a good hot cup of coffee. You drink some hot coffee and give this problem some study. Then you won't believe the first thing pops in your mind, 'cause you'll see that I couldn't 'a had anything to do with stealing a car." "The hell you didn't," the detective accused bluntly and illogically. He and Fat Sam were about the same height, a little over six feet, and his stare bored into Fat Sam with a diabolical malevolence. "As God be my secret judge--" Fat Sam began eloquently but the detective cut him off. "Don't hand me that Uncle Tom shit. I'll bet you're a preacher." Fat Sam was touched to the quick. "What if I have been a preacher?" he challenged hotly. "You think I've been a porter all my life?" "A chicken-stealing preacher like you is just the type to be a lookout for car thieves," the detective said brutally. "Just because I've been a preacher don't mean I stole any chickens, or cars either," Fat Sam replied belligerently. "What's that you got in your hands?" the detective asked pointedly. "Chickens," Fat Sam admitted. "But I ain't stealing these chickens," he denied. "I'm just taking them. There's a difference between stealing and taking. We're allowed to take anything we want to eat. I'm taking these out to fry them on the grill. Okay?" The detective reached beneath his coat and drew his service revolver. With slow deliberation he aimed it at Fat Sam's stomach. "You'd better tell me who the car thief is or you'll never eat fried chicken again," he threatened. Fat Sam felt his intestines cramp. "Listen, chief, as God be my secret judge, I'm as innocent as a baby," he said in the gentle tone one uses on a vicious dog. "You've been drinking kind of heavy and naturally you're upset because someone lifted a car on your beat. But it happens all the time. You're going about it like it's your own personal problem." "It is personal," the detective said flatly. "It's my car." "Oh no," Fat Sam cried. He tried to stem his laughter but couldn't. "Haw-haw-haw!" His mouth stretched open, showing all his teeth, and his fat belly rocked. "Haw-haw-haw! Here you is, a detective like Sherlock Holmes, pride of the New York City police force, and you've gone and got so full of holiday cheer you've let some punk steal your car. Haw-haw-haw! So you set out and light on the first colored man you see. Haw-haw-haw! Find the nigger and you've got the thief. Haw-haw-haw! Now, chief, that crap's gone out of style with the flapper girl. It's time to slow down, chief. You'll find yourself the last of the rednecks. Haw-haw-haw!" Fat Sam's laughter had authority. It touched the white man on the raw. He stared at Fat Sam's big yellow teeth and broke out with frustrated rage. Instead of scaring these Negroes they were laughing at him. "And when I find who stole my car he's going out of style too," he threatened. "Out of style and out of sight and out of life. And if you had anything to do with it you're going to wish you'd never been born." Fat Sam wanted to tell the detective that he wasn't frightened by his threats, but it didn't look like the time to tell this white man anything. The detective had gone off again as though in a maniacal trance and his shoulders rose as though he were heaving. "Control yourself, chief," Fat Sam urged desperately. "You're gonna find your car. It ain't like you lost your life." Slowly the detective returned the service revolver to its holster. Fat Sam breathed with relief; but the relief was short-lived for the detective drew another revolver from his trench coat pocket. Fat Sam felt his throat tighten; it got too small to swallow. Hot sweat broke out beneath the cold sweat on his body, giving him the itch. But he was afraid to scratch. He watched the detective through white-walled eyes. "Take a good look," the detective said, waving the pistol in front of him. It was a .32-caliber revolver with a silencer attached. To Fat Sam it looked as big as a frontier Colt. "This pistol was taken off a dead gangster," the detective went on in his strange unemotional voice. "The serial number has been filed off. The ballistic record is in the dead file. This pistol doesn't exist. I can kill you and the son of a bitch who helped you steal my car and go down the street and buy a drink. No one can ever prove who did it because the weapon will never be found. The weapon doesn't exist. Got it, Sambo?" A chicken slipped from Fat Sam's trembling hands. His shiny black skin began turning ashy. "What're you thinking about, chief?" he asked in a terrified whisper. "You wait, you'll see. First I'm going to knock the bastard down." He went into a frenzy of rage and began jumping about, demonstrating just how he would do it. "Then I'm going to kick out his teeth. I'm going to break his jaw and kick out his eyes" . . . Fat Sam watched the antics of the raving madman in fascinated terror . . . "then I'm going to kick him in the nuts until he's spayed like a dog." He was talking through gritted teeth as he jumped about. A tiny froth of saliva had collected in each corner of his mouth. Fat Sam had never seen a white man go insane like this. He had never realized that the thought of Negroes could send a white man out his head. He wouldn't have believed it. He had thought it was all put on. And now this sight of violence unleashed because of race terrified him as though he had come face to face with the devil, whom he'd never believed in either. "Then I'm going to shoot the son of a bitch in his belly until his guts run out," the detective raged on in a deadly voice. Three sounds followed one behind another like a cold motor coughing. Fat Sam's eyes widened slowly in ultimate surprise. "You shot me," he said in an incredulous voice. The chickens slipped one by one from his nerveless fingers. The detective looked down in shock at the gun in his hand. A thin wisp of smoke curled from the muzzle and the smell of cordite grew strong in the small cold room. "Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed in a horrified whisper. Fat Sam grabbed the handle of the tray to support himself. He could feel the sticky mess pouring from his guts. "God in heaven!" he whispered. He fell forward, pulling the tray from the rack along with him. Thick, cold, three-day-old turkey gravy poured over his kinky head as he landed, curled up like a fetus, between a five-gallon can of whipping cream and three wooden crates of iceberg lettuce. "Have mercy, Jesus," he moaned in a voice that could scarcely be heard. "Call an ambulance, chief, you done shot me for nothing." "Too late now," the detective said in a voice gone stone cold sober. "Ain't too late," Fat Sam begged in a fading whisper. "Give me a chance." "It was an accident," the detective said. "But no one will believe it." "I'll believe it," Fat Sam said as though it were his last chance, but his voice didn't have any sound. The detective raised the pistol again, took aim at Fat Sam's gravy-coated head, and pulled the trigger. As the gun coughed, Fat Sam's body gave a slight convulsion and relaxed. The detective bent over and vomited on the floor. Excerpted from Run Man Run: A Novel by Chester B. Himes All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
