Uggam sought out Tom Edwards, once a Pullman porter, now prosperous
proprietor of a cabaret, and told him:--
‘Chief, I got him: a baby jess in from the land o’ cotton and so dumb
he thinks ante bellum’s an old woman.’
‘Where’d you find him?’
‘Where you find all the jay birds when they first hit Harlem--at the
subway entrance. This one come up the stairs, batted his eyes once or
twice, an’ froze to the spot--with his mouth open. Sure sign he’s from
’way down behind the sun an’ ripe f’ the pluckin’.’
Edwards grinned a gold-studded, fat-jowled grin. ‘Gave him the usual
line, I suppose?’
‘Didn’t miss. An’ he fell like a ton o’ bricks. ’Course I’ve got him
spotted, but damn ’f I know jess how to switch ’em on to him.’
‘Get him a job around a store somewhere. Make out you’re befriendin’
him. Get his confidence.’
‘Sounds good. Ought to be easy. He’s from my State. Maybe I know him or
some of his people.’
‘Make out you do, anyhow. Then tell him some fairy tale that’ll switch
your trade to him. The cops’ll follow the trade. We could even let
Froggy flop into some dumb white cop’s hands and “confess” where he got
it. See?’
‘Chief, you got a head, no lie.’
‘Don’t lose no time. And remember, hereafter, it’s better to sacrifice
a little than to get squealed on. Never refuse a customer. Give him a
little credit. Humor him along till you can get rid of him safe. You
don’t know what that guy that died may have said; you don’t know who’s
on to you now. And if they get you--I don’t know you.’
‘They won’t get _me_,’ said Uggam.
* * * * *
King Solomon Gillis sat meditating in a room half the size of his
hencoop back home, with a single window opening into an airshaft.
An airshaft: cabbage and chitterlings cooking; liver and onions
sizzling, sputtering; three player-pianos out-plunking each other;
a man and a woman calling each other vile things; a sick, neglected
baby wailing; a phonograph broadcasting blues; dishes clacking; a girl
crying heartbrokenly; waste noises, waste odors of a score of families,
seeking issue through a common channel; pollution from bottom to top--a
sewer of sounds and smells.
Contemplating this, King Solomon grinned and breathed, ‘Dog-gone!’ A
little later, still gazing into the sewer, he grinned again. ‘Green
stockin’s,’ he said; ’loud green!’ The sewer gradually grew darker.
A window lighted up opposite, revealing a woman in camisole and
petticoat, arranging her hair. King Solomon, staring vacantly, shook
his head and grinned yet again. ‘Even got cullud policemans!’ he
mumbled softly.