“That’s my money,” a big whiskey-headed ex-pug shouted, pushing through the crowd toward Jackson. “That mother — has done picked my pocket.”
Someone laughed.
“Don’t let that joker scare you, honey,” one of the whores encouraged.
Another one said, “That raggedy stud ain’t had two white quarters since Jesus was a child.”
“I don’t want no trouble in here,” the bartender warned, reaching for his sawed-off bat.
“I know my money,” the ex-pug shouted. “Can’t nobody tell me I don’t know my own money.”
“What’s the difference between your money and anybody else’s money?” the bartender said.
A medium-sized, brown-skinned man, dressed in a camel’s-hair coat, brown beaver hat, hard-finished brown-and-white striped suit, brown suede shoes, brown silk tie decorated with hand-painted yellow horses, wearing a diamong ring on his left ring-finger and a gold signet-ring on his right hand, carrying gloves in his left hand, swinging his right hand free, pushed open the street door and came into the bar fast. He stopped short on seeing the ex-pug grab Jackson by the shoulder. He heard the ex-pug say in a threatening voice, “Leave me see that mother-rapin’ roll.” He noticed the two bartenders close in for action. He saw the whores backing away. He cased the situation instantly. Pushing his way through the jam, he walked up behind the ex-pug, took hold of his arm, spun him about and kicked him solidly in the groin.
The big ex-pug doubled forward, blowing spit in a loud grunt. The man stepped back and kicked him in the solar plexus. The ex-pug’s face ballooned as he gasped for breath, folding head-downward toward the floor. The man stepped back another pace and kicked him in the face with the curve of his instep, hard enough to close one eye without breaking any bones, and timed so that the ex-pug fell on his chest instead of his face. Then the man daintily inserted the tip of his brown suede shoe underneath the ex-pug’s shoulder and flipped him over onto his back. Slowly he stuck his right hand into the side pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a short-barreled .38 police special revolver.
The customers scattered, getting out of range.
“You’re the son of a bitch who robbed me last night,” the man said to the half-conscious ex-pug on the floor. “I’ve got a good notion to blow out your guts.”
He had a good voice and spoke in a soft, slow manner that made him sound like an educated man, to the customers in that joint.
“Don’t shoot him in here, Mister,” one of the bartenders said.
At sight of the gun the ex-pug’s eyeballs rolled back in his head so that only the whites showed. He kept swallowing his tongue as he tried to talk.
“Twarn’t me, Boss,” he finally managed to blubber. “I swear ’fore the cross it warn’t me. I ain’t never tried to rob you, Boss.”
“The hell it wasn’t you. I’d know you anywhere. You jumped me on 129th Street right after midnight last night.”
“I swear it warn’t me, Boss. I been right here in this bar all last night. Joe the bartender’ll tell you. I been right here all last night. Didn’t leave no time.”
“That’s right,” the bartender said. “He was here all last night. I seen him.”
The ex-pug wallowed about the floor, feeling his eye and groaning as though half dead, trying to win sympathy.
The man put away his gun and said evenly, “Well, you son of a bitch, I might be mistaken this time. But you’ve sure as hell robbed somebody in your lifetime, so you just got what was due you.”
The ex-pug got to his feet and backed away a distance.
“I wouldn’t rob you, Boss, no suh, not with what you got.”
No one thought it was funny but they all laughed.
“Not you, Boss, not a man of your position,” the ex-pug kept clowning for laughs. “Anybody here will tell you I ain’t had no real money in my pockets for weeks.” Suddenly he recalled that he’d just accused Jackson of picking his pocket, and added, “Maybe it was that man at the bar what robbed you, boss. he’s sportin’ a big roll he got from somewheres.”
The man looked at Jackson for the first time.
“Listen, don’t get me into that,” Jackson said. “I hit the numbers for my money. I can prove it.”
The man went over and stood beside Jackson at the bar and ordered a drink.
“Don’t worry, friend, I know it wasn’t you,” he said in a friendly voice. “It was some big ragged mugger like that bastard there. But I’ll find him.”
“How much did you lose?”
“Seven hundred dollars,” the man said, turning the shot glass between his fingers. “If that had happened to me a week ago, I’d have tracked the bastard to hell. But now it don’t make too much difference. I’ve lucked up on a good thing since then, something that’s solid gold. Eight or nine months from now I’ll be able to give a bastard that much money just to keep from having to kill him.”
At the word gold, Jackson looked up quickly at the reflection of the man in the mirror behind the bar. He ordered another drink, pulled out his roll and peeled off a bill to pay for it.
The man eyed Jackson’s roll.
“Friend, if I was you I wouldn’t flash my money in this joint. That’s just asking for trouble.”
“I don’t usually come in here,” Jackson said. “But my woman’s not at home right now.”
The man gave Jackson a poker-faced look. He’d gotten a tip from one of the cheap hustlers he employed as lookouts that a square loaded with a big roll was in the joint. But Jackson looked too much like a square to be a real square. The man wondered if Jackson was trying to rook him with a confidence game of his own. He decided to go slow.
“I figured that,” he said noncommittally.
The whores began closing in on Jackson again and the man beckoned to the bartender.
“Give these whores what they’re drinking and get them off my back.”
The bartender took a bottle of gin and a tray of shot glasses to one of the booths. The whores melted away from the bar, looking hostile but as though they couldn’t be so much bothered as to be offended.
“You shouldn’t talk that way to women,” Jackson protested.
The man looked at Jackson queerly. “What can you call a two-bit whore but a whore, friend?”
“They were good enough for Jesus to save,” Jackson said.
The man grinned with relief. Jackson was his boy.
“You’re right, friend. I’m upset a little, don’t usually talk like that. My name’s Gus Parsons.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m in the real-estate business.”
Jackson shook hands, also relieved.
“Glad to meet you, Gus. They call me Jackson.”
“What business are you in, Jackson?”
“I’m in the undertaking business.”
Gus laughed. “Business must be good, considering that roll you’re carrying around. How much are you carrying there, anyway?”
“It didn’t come from my business. I just work for an undertaker. I hit the numbers.”
“That’s right. You did say you’d had a hit.”
“Had twenty dollars on four eleven. I drew down ten thousand dollars.”
Gus whistled softly and looked suddenly serious.
“You take my advice, Jackson, keep that roll in your pocket and go straight home. The streets of Harlem are not safe for a man with that kind of money. You’d better let me go along with you until you see a policeman.”
He turned and called to the bartender. “How much do I owe?”
“Let me buy you a drink before we leave,” Jackson said.
“You can buy me a drink somewhere else if you want, Jackson,” Gus said, paying for his drink and the bottle of gin. “Some place that’s clean and where a man can feel safe. Let’s get away from these hoodlums and thieves. I tell you, let’s walk down to the Palm Café.”