The motley group of people standing about, sitting on the wooden benches, scarcely paid any attention. It wasn’t unusual to see a woman running in that area.
But when the man hit the door, bleeding like a stuck bull, everybody sat up.
“I’m going to kill dat whore,” he raved as he burst into the waiting room.
A colored brother looked at him and said, “She sho gave him some love-licks.”
The man was halfway to the toilet when the white detective ran up and clutched him by both arms.
“Hold on, Brother Jones, hold on. What’s the trouble?”
The man twisted in the detective’s grip, but didn’t break free.
“Listen, white folks, I don’t want no trouble. That whore cut me and I’m going to get some of her.”
“Hold on, hold on, brother. If she cut you we’ll get her. But you’re not going to get anybody. Understand?”
The colored detective sauntered up, looked indifferently at the bleeding man.
“Who cut him?”
“He said some woman did.”
“Where’d she go?”
“She ran into the women’s toilet.”
The colored detective asked the cut man, “What does she look like?”
“Bright woman in a black coat and a red dress.”
The colored detective laughed.
“Better let those bright whores alone, Daddy-o.”
He turned, laughing, and went back toward the women’s toilet.
Two uniformed cops from a patrol car came in quickly, as if expecting trouble. They looked disappointed when they didn’t find any.
“Call the ambulance, will you?” the white detective said to one of them.
The cop hastened out to the patrol car to call the police ambulance on the two-way radio. The other cop just stood.
People gathered in a circle to stare at the big cut black man dripping red blood on the brown tiled floor. A porter came up with a wet mop and looked disapprovingly at the bloody floor.
Nobody thought it was unusual. It happened once or twice every night in that station. The only thing missing was that no one was dead.
“What did she cut you for?” the white detective asked.
“Just mean, that’s why. She’s just a mean whore.”
The detective looked as though he agreed.
The colored detective found the toilet door locked. He knocked. “Open up, Bright-eyes.”
No one answered. He knocked again.
“It’s the law, honey. Don’t make me have to get the stationmaster to get this door open or papa’s going to be rough.”
The inside bolt was slipped back. He pushed and the door opened.
Imabelle faced him from the mirror. She had washed and powdered her face, straightened her hair, rouged her lips, wiped off her high-heeled black suede shoes, and looked as though she’d just stepped from a band box.
He flashed his badge and grinned at her.
She said complainingly, “Can’t a lady clean up a little in this joint without you cops busting in?”
He looked around. The only other occupants were two white women of middle age, who were cowering in a far corner.
“Are you the woman who’s having trouble with that man?” he asked Imabelle, trying to trick a confession from her.
She didn’t go for it. “Having trouble with what man?” She screwed up her face and looked indignant. “I came in here to clean up. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Come on, Baby, don’t give papa any trouble,” he said, looking her over as though he might consider laying her.
She gave him a look from her big brown bedroom eyes and flashed her pearly smile as though it might be a good consideration.
“If any man says he’s having trouble with me, you can just say that’s his own fault.”
“I know just what you mean, Baby, but you shouldn’t have cut him.”
“I ain’t cut nobody,” she said, switching out into the waiting room.
“That’s the whore who cut me,” the man said, pointing a finger dripping with blood.
The morbid crowd turned to stare at her.
“Man, I’d have cut her first,” some joker said. “If you know what I mean.”
Imabelle ignored the crowd as she pushed her way forward. She walked up and faced the cut man and looked him straight in the face.
“This the man you mean?” she asked the colored detective.
“That’s the one who’s cut.”
“I ain’t never seen this man before in my life.”
“You lying whore!” the man shouted.
“Take it easy, Daddy-o,” the colored detective warned.
“What’d I cut you for, if I cut you?” Imabelle challenged.
The onlookers laughed.
One colored brother quoted:
“Come on, where’s the knife?” the white detective said to Imabelle. “I’m getting tired of this horseplay.”
“I’d better search the washroom,” the colored detective said.
“She throwed it away outside,” the cut man said, “I seen her throw it into the street, before she ran inside.”
“Why didn’t you pick it up?” the detective asked.
“Who for?” the cut man asked in surprise. “I don’t need no knife to kill that whore. I can kill her with my hands.”
The detective stared at him.
“For evidence. You say she cut you.”
“Let’s get it,” one of the patrol cops said to the other and they went outside to look for the knife.
“Course she cut me. You can see for yourself,” the cut man said.
The crowd laughed and started drifting away.
“Do you want to make a charge against this woman?”
“Charge? I’m charging her now. You can see for yourself she cut me.”
Some joker said, “If she didn’t cut you, you better see a doctor about those leaky veins.”
“What are you holding me for?” Imabelle said to the white detective. “I tell you I ain’t never seen this man before. He’s got me mistaken for somebody else.”
Another team of patrol-car cops came on the scene, looking at the cut black man with the curiosity of whites as they drew off their heavy gloves.
“You are to take these people to the precinct,” the white detective said. “The man wants to enter a charge of assault against this woman.”
“Jesus, I don’t want him bleeding all over the car,” one of the cops complained.
The whine of an ambulance sounded from the distance.
“Here comes the ambulance now,” the colored detective said.
“Why they going to take me in when I haven’t done anything?” Imabelle appealed to him.
He looked at her sympathetically. “I feel for you but I can’t reach you, Baby,” he said.
“If you prove your innocence you can sue him for false arrest,” the white detective said.
“Well, ain’t that something?” she said angrily.
Outside, the two uniformed cops searched in the gutter for the missing knife. Two colored men standing on the sidewalk watched them silently.
Finally one of the cops thought to ask them, “Did either of you men see anyone pick up a knife around here?”
“I seen a colored boy pick it up,” one of the men admitted.
The cops reddened.
“God damn it, didn’t you see us looking for it?” one asked angrily.
“You didn’t say what you was looking for, Boss.”
“By this time the bastard is probably blocks away,” the second cop complained.
“Where’d he go?” the first cop asked.
The man pointed up Park Avenue.
Both cops gave him a hard threatening look.
“What did he look like?”