Read Online Blind Man With a Pistol by Chester Himes - Free Book Online
Authors: Chester Himes
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Detective and Mystery Stories, Police, Police Procedural, African American police, African American, Police - New York (State) - New York, Harlem (New York; N.Y.), Johnson; Coffin Ed (Fictitious character), Jones; Grave Digger (Fictitious character)
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orderly crowd. Police cars lined the streets. But the cops had nothing to do except avoid the challenging stares. Most of the patrol-car cops were white, but they had become slightly reddened under the hysterical ranting of the speaker and the monotonous repetition of "BLACK POWER".
A black Cadillac limousine, shining in the sun like polished jet, whispered to the curb in the no-parking zone for the crosstown bus stop, within touching distance of the orator's barrel. Two dangerous-looking black men clad in black leather coats and what looked like officers' caps in a Black Power army sat in the front seat, immobile, staring straight ahead with not a muscle twitching in their lumpy scarred faces. On the back seat sat a portly gray-haired black man between two slender, sedate, clean-cut brownskinned young men dressed as clerics. The gray-haired man had smooth black velvety skin that looked recently massaged. Despite his short-cropped gray kinky hair, his light-brown eyes beneath thick glossy black eyebrows were startlingly clear and youthful. Long black eyelashes gave him a sexy look. But there was nothing lush about his appearance, still less about his demeanour. He was dressed in dark gray summer worsted, black shoes, dark tie, white shirt, and wore no jewelry of any sort, not even a watch. His manner was calm, authoritative, his eyes twinkled with good humor but his mouth was firm and his face grave.
The leather-coated flunky next to the chauffeur jumped to the curb and held open the back door. The cleric on the inside stepped to the pavement, the gray-haired man followed him.
The speaker stopped abruptly in the middle of a sentence and descended from his barrel. He approached the gray-haired man with a diffidence that didn't become the masterful exhorter of Black Power. He made no attempt to shake his hand. "Doctor Moore, I need a relief," he blurted. "I'm beat."
"Carry on, J," Doctor Moore commanded. "I'll send L to relieve you shortly." His voice was modulated, his enunciation perfect, his manner pleasant, but it held an authority that brooked no contradiction.
"I'm awfully tired," J whined.
Doctor Moore gave him a sharp look, then he softened and patted his shoulder. "We are all tired, son, carry on just a little longer and you will be relieved. If just one more soul," he added, shaking his finger to emphasize his point, "gets the message our labors will not be in vain."
"Yes, sir," J said meekly and hefted his wet flabby belly back on to his barrel.
"And now, Sister Z, what have you for the cause?" Doctor Moore asked the buxom black-uniformed matron presiding over the gilt keg of BLACK POWER.
She grinned a smile of pure gold; it was like seeing Mona Lisa break into a laugh. "The keg is most near filled," she said proudly, rows of gold teeth, uppers and lowers, flashing in the light.
Doctor Moore looked at her teeth regretfully, then nodded to the cleric, who opened the trunk of the car and undid a large leather suitcase. The leather-coated flunky took the keg of money and dumped it into the suitcase, which was already half-filled with similar coins and bills.
The onlookers watched this operation in a petrified silence. From down the street the white cops in front of the 135th Street precinct station looked on curiously but didn't move. None took notice that the limousine was parked illegally. No one challenged Doctor Moore's authority to collect the money. No one seemed to think there was anything strange about the entire procedure. But yet there were many black people among the crowd and most of the white cops in the police cars who didn't know who Doctor Moore was, who had never seen him or even heard of him. He had such a positive air of authority it seemed logical that he would collect the money, and it was taken for granted that a black Cadillac limousine filled with uniformed black
A black Cadillac limousine, shining in the sun like polished jet, whispered to the curb in the no-parking zone for the crosstown bus stop, within touching distance of the orator's barrel. Two dangerous-looking black men clad in black leather coats and what looked like officers' caps in a Black Power army sat in the front seat, immobile, staring straight ahead with not a muscle twitching in their lumpy scarred faces. On the back seat sat a portly gray-haired black man between two slender, sedate, clean-cut brownskinned young men dressed as clerics. The gray-haired man had smooth black velvety skin that looked recently massaged. Despite his short-cropped gray kinky hair, his light-brown eyes beneath thick glossy black eyebrows were startlingly clear and youthful. Long black eyelashes gave him a sexy look. But there was nothing lush about his appearance, still less about his demeanour. He was dressed in dark gray summer worsted, black shoes, dark tie, white shirt, and wore no jewelry of any sort, not even a watch. His manner was calm, authoritative, his eyes twinkled with good humor but his mouth was firm and his face grave.
The leather-coated flunky next to the chauffeur jumped to the curb and held open the back door. The cleric on the inside stepped to the pavement, the gray-haired man followed him.
The speaker stopped abruptly in the middle of a sentence and descended from his barrel. He approached the gray-haired man with a diffidence that didn't become the masterful exhorter of Black Power. He made no attempt to shake his hand. "Doctor Moore, I need a relief," he blurted. "I'm beat."
"Carry on, J," Doctor Moore commanded. "I'll send L to relieve you shortly." His voice was modulated, his enunciation perfect, his manner pleasant, but it held an authority that brooked no contradiction.
"I'm awfully tired," J whined.
Doctor Moore gave him a sharp look, then he softened and patted his shoulder. "We are all tired, son, carry on just a little longer and you will be relieved. If just one more soul," he added, shaking his finger to emphasize his point, "gets the message our labors will not be in vain."
"Yes, sir," J said meekly and hefted his wet flabby belly back on to his barrel.
"And now, Sister Z, what have you for the cause?" Doctor Moore asked the buxom black-uniformed matron presiding over the gilt keg of BLACK POWER.
She grinned a smile of pure gold; it was like seeing Mona Lisa break into a laugh. "The keg is most near filled," she said proudly, rows of gold teeth, uppers and lowers, flashing in the light.
Doctor Moore looked at her teeth regretfully, then nodded to the cleric, who opened the trunk of the car and undid a large leather suitcase. The leather-coated flunky took the keg of money and dumped it into the suitcase, which was already half-filled with similar coins and bills.
The onlookers watched this operation in a petrified silence. From down the street the white cops in front of the 135th Street precinct station looked on curiously but didn't move. None took notice that the limousine was parked illegally. No one challenged Doctor Moore's authority to collect the money. No one seemed to think there was anything strange about the entire procedure. But yet there were many black people among the crowd and most of the white cops in the police cars who didn't know who Doctor Moore was, who had never seen him or even heard of him. He had such a positive air of authority it seemed logical that he would collect the money, and it was taken for granted that a black Cadillac limousine filled with uniformed black
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