A young fellow in a polo shirt was sitting on a bench and I suppose he thought she was walking by herself. He whistled at Lee, started to follow her. I ran up feeling quite alarmed—I never was much of a brawler, even though dancing has kept me in shape. The fellow came alongside Lee, made some joking remark. Lee suddenly turned and swung... actually swung her fist in an overhand punch. There wasn't anything feminine about the blow. It hit the young man flush on the face, staggered him. Before he could fall, Lee grabbed him and threw him into the bushes lining the walk. I ran up and took her arm and we kept walking—fast. There wasn't any expression on her face, except her eyes had narrowed a little. When I looked back the young man still hadn't got on his feet.
Lee never said a word about it and I was too amazed to speak.
Harlem was the locale when Lee next swung into action.
Now and then I went up to the Apollo Theatre on 125th Street, where they still have vaudeville, and some of the best (and almost unknown) Negro dancers, especially tap dancers. One Friday night I took in the show and Lee was with me. With her drawl I was curious to see what her reaction would be to Negroes. She didn't show any reaction, being neither interested nor resentful at being with colored people—which was probably the only normal reaction she ever had. We ate in Frank's, a restaurant I like, near St. Nicholas Avenue and 125th Street, and then took in the show at the Apollo, which wasn't too good. The dance act consisted of three vigorous tap dancers who went through standard routines with a great deal of sweating and energy, and the band was much too loud and brassy. This was followed by a corny stage skit which would have been assailed (and rightfully so) as horribly chauvinistic if it had played in any downtown theatre. We left before the movie and I decided to walk across 125th Street to Madison Avenue, take the bus down.
It was about ten o'clock and the street was fairly deserted. Somewhere between Lenox and Fifth Avenues we passed one of the many bars that dot Harlem (and any other poor neighborhood) and a couple of colored men were hanging around in front of it. At the time I didn't notice them, but one of them—a slender, dark-skinned man in a worn sport jacket and slacks—stared at Lee as we passed. I didn't think anything of it, her height and size caused many men—and women—to glance at Lee. But this fellow broke away from the others, said to Lee, “Pardon but...” and then broke into some foreign language.
Lee kept walking but I stopped, and as she was holding my arm, she had to stop. She was staring at this man without showing any signs of recognition, and I was about to ask what he wanted, when he spoke again. He seemed to be friendly and I think he was speaking Italian. A strange look of intense anger flooded her big face and she yanked her arm out of mine and hit him across the face. The blow knocked him against the wall of a building and before he knew what was happening, Lee started punching and kicking him like a maniac.
For a split second his friends and I were taken by surprise, then we stared at each other for another split second—a suspicious look—only natural in a land where the colored man is a second-class citizen. I finally grabbed Lee, had trouble holding on to her arm. One of the Negro men grabbed her other arm and said, “Lee! Lee, stop it!”
The fellow was still against the wall, his face bleeding, looking bewildered and ready to pass out. The man holding her other arm said to me, “For God's sake, mister, get her out of here before the cops come and whip everybody's head!”
Lee had calmed down a little, had stopped struggling with me, but the way she stared at the beaten man gave me the shivers. I said, “Get me a cab while I hold her.”
Another man stopped a cab as a small crowd quickly gathered. Lee let me walk her to the cab and I told the driver to take us to 90th Street and Fifth Avenue. Lee sat back in the cab, refused to answer my questions except to say, “That bad man.”
“But who is he? What did he say?”
“All bad, bad,” she said fiercely, then shut up. At 90th Street I waited till the cab was out of sight, took another one down to the house. I don't know why I changed cabs; maybe I was conditioned by the movies I've seen.
Lee was upset. I wanted to dance when we got home but she refused, lay across the bed, paying no attention to me. Except for the strange language I would have thought it was her southern blood acting up, or maybe she'd seen the man in the South someplace. It was too big a puzzle for me.
She was still staring at the ceiling when I finished dancing, had my bath and dried off under the sun-lamp. I undressed her and when we went to bed, for the first time she didn't drop right off to sleep.
Fortunately the next day was Saturday and I didn't have to go to the office. About noon I left the house and took a cab to the bar on 125th Street. There were two bartenders, one of them white. I made a mistake: I went over to the white bar-keep, asked, “Where can I find the man who was involved in the fight with the lady last night?”
“Fight? Don't know what you're talking about, mac,” he said, obvious hostility in his voice. There was a small silence in the bar and I knew everybody knew what I was talking about.
“There was a scene outside here last night and...”
“I don't know nothing about what goes on outside,” he said. “125th Street is one of the busiest streets in...”
“Cut the chamber of commerce bunk,” I said, giving my voice a crisp executive edge, to see if he was impressed.
He looked me over for a moment, said softly, “I don't know what you're talking about, chief. We run a good place here, no fights, ain't looking for no trouble.”
One thing about real expensive clothes, their cost always stands out—in a quiet, conservative way. I knew he thought I was “class,” to use the trite word, he was impressed by the two-hundred-dollar suit, the thirty-dollar hat, and the Countess Mara tie I was wearing. He was running his eyes over my clothes. I said, “There isn't going to be any trouble. The man can help me, perhaps.”
He didn't say anything and the Saturday-afternoon drinkers were watching us with interest. The barkeep stood there, his face troubled. I snapped, “Look here, this man can do me a considerable favor, by merely talking to me. I'm rather anxious to find him. Of course if you won't help, I can go to some friends on the liquor board. That could be messy, possibly mean revoking your license or...”
“You just want to talk to him?” he asked suddenly.
“That's all. In fact, if it turns out he can help me, I'm willing to pay him for his time.”
The bartender called out to somebody at the other end of the bar, “Ed, go around 126th Street and find Ollie. Tell 'em I want to see him—now.” He turned to me as the man left the bar, said, “He'll be back in a couple minutes. Like a shot?”
I said no and lit a cigarette. He moved away to wait on a customer, then returned and put his big fat head next to mine, whispered, “You know how it is up here, got to be careful with them.” I was astonished at the fellow's galclass="underline" this was supposed to be the protective intimacy of two white skins in a black ghetto—made by white skins.