The Real Cool Killers Part 22

An elderly man, a head taller, with a face grizzled from hard outdoor work, stood beside him. Kinky hair grew like burdock weeds on his shiny black dome, and worried brown eyes looked down at Bones from behind steel-rimmed spectacles.

"Go 'head, tell 'em, so, don't be no fool," he said; then he looked up and saw Grave Digger approaching with his prisoners. "Here comes Digger Jones," he said. "You can tell him, cain't you?"

Everybody looked about.

Grave Digger held Good Booty by the arm and Big Smiley and Ready Belcher, handcuffed together, were walking in front of him.

He looked at Anderson and said, "I closed up the Dew Drop Inn. The manager and some juvenile delinquents are being held by the officers on duty. You'd better send a wagon up there."

Anderson whistled for a patrol car team and gave them the order.

"What did you find out on Galen?" the chief asked.

"I found out he was a pervert," Grave Digger said.

"It figures," the homicide lieutenant said.

The chief turned red. "I don't give a G.o.dd.a.m.n what he was," he said. "Have you found out who killed him?"

"No, right now I'm still guessing at it," Grave Digger said.

"Well, guess fast then. I'm getting G.o.dd.a.m.ned tired of standing up here watching this comedy of errors."

"I'll give you a quick fill-in and let you guess too," Grave Digger said.

"Well, make it short and sweet and I d.a.m.n sure ain't going to guess," the chief said.

"Listen, Digger," the colored civilian interposed. "You and me is both city workers. Tell 'em my boy ain't done no harm."

"He's broken the Sullivan law concerning concealed weapons by having this gun in his possession," the homicide lieutenant said.

"That little thing," Bones's father said scornfully. "I don't b'lieve that'll even shoot."

"Get these people away from here and let Jones report," the chief said testily.

"Well, do something with them, Sergeant," Lieutenant Anderson said.

"Come on, both of you," the sergeant said, taking the man by the arm.

"Digger --" the man appealed.

"It'll keep," Grave Digger said harshly. "Your boy belonged to the Moslem gang."

"Naw-naw, Digger--"

"Do I have to slug you," the sergeant said.

The man allowed himself to be taken along with his son across the Street.

The sergeant turned them over to a corporal and hurried back. Before he'd gone three steps the corporal was summoning two cops to take charge of them.

"What kind of city work does he do?" the chief asked.

"He's in the sanitation department," the sergeant said. "He's a garbage collector."

"All right, get on Jones," the chief ordered.

"Galen picked up colored school girls, teenagers, and took them to a crib on 145th Street," Grave Digger said in a flat toneless voice.

"Did you close it?" the Chief asked.

"It'll keep; I'm looking for a murderer now," Grave Digger said. Taking the miniature bull whip from his pocket, he went on, "He whipped them with this."

The chief reached out silently and took it from his hand.

"Have you got a list of the girls, Jones?" he asked.

"What for?"

"There might be a connection."

"I'm coming to that--"

"Well, get to it then."

"The landprop, a woman named Reba -- used to call herself Sheba -- the one who testified against Captain Murphy--"

"Ah, that one," the chief said softly. "She won't slip out of this."

"She'll take somebody with her," Grave Digger warned. "She's covered and Galen was, too."

The chief looked at Lieutenant Anderson reflectively.

The silence ran on until the sergeant blurted, "That's not in this precinct."

Anderson looked at the sergeant. "No one's charging you with it."

"Get on, Jones," the chief said.

"Reba got scared of the deal and barred him. Her story will be that she barred him when she found out what he was doing. But that's neither here nor there. After she barred him Galen started meeting them in the Dew Drop Inn. He arranged with the bartender so he could whip them in the cellar."

Everyone except Grave Digger seemed embarra.s.sed.

"He ran into a girl named Sissie," Grave Digger said. "How doesn't matter at the moment. She's the girl friend of a boy called Sheik, who is the leader of the Real Cool Moslems."

Sudden tension took hold of the group.

"Sheik sold Sissie to him. Then Galen wanted Sissie's girl friend Sugart.i.t. Sheik couldn't get Sugart.i.t, but Galen kept looking for her in the neighbourhood. I have the bartender here and a two-bit pimp who has a girl at Reba's. He steered for Galen. I got this much from them."

The officers stared appraisingly at the two handcuffed prisoners.

"If they know that much, they know who killed him," the chief said.

"It's going to be their a.s.ses if they do," Grave Digger said. "But I think they're leveling. The way I figure it, the whole thing hinges on Sugart.i.t. I think he was killed because of her."

"By who?"

"That's the jackpot question."

The chief looked at Good Booty. "Is this girl Sugarrit?"

The others stared at her, too.

"No, she's another one."

"Who is Sugart.i.t then?"

"I haven't found out yet. This girl knows but she doesn't want to tell."

"Make her tell."

"How?"

The chief appeared to be embarra.s.sed by the question. "Well, what the h.e.l.l do you want with her if you can't make her talk?" he growled.

"I think she'll talk when we get close enough. The Moslem gang hangs out somewhere near here. The bartender here thinks it might be in the flat of a boy who has a pigeon loft."

"I know where that is!" the sergeant exclaimed. "I searched there."

Everyone, including the prisoners, stared at him. His face reddened. "Now I remember," he said. "There were several boys in the flat. The boy who kept pigeons, Caleb Bowee is his name, lives there with his Grandma; and two of the others roomed there."

"Why the h.e.l.l didn't you bring them in?" the chief asked.

"I didn't find anything on them to connect them with the Moslem gang or the escaped prisoner," the sergeant said, defending himself. "The boy with the pigeons is a halfwit -- he's harmless, and I'm sure the grandma wouldn't put up with a gang in there."

"How in the h.e.l.l do you know he's harmless?" the chief stormed. "Half the murderers in Sing-Sing look like you and me."

The homicide lieutenant and Anderson exchanged smiles.

"They had two girls with them and--" the sergeant began to explain but the chief wouldn't let him.

"Why in the h.e.l.l didn't you bring them in, too?"

"What were the girls' names?" Grave Digger asked.

"One was called Sissieratta and --"

"That must be Sissie," Grave Digger said. "It fits. One was Sissie and the other was Sugart.i.t. And one of the boys was Sheik." Turning to Big Smiley, he asked, "What does Sheik look like?"

"Freckle-faced boy the color of a bay horse, with yellow cat eyes," Big Smiley said impa.s.sively.

"You're right," the sergeant admitted sheepishly. "He was one of them. I should have trusted my instinct; I started to haul that punk in."

"Well, for G.o.d's sake, get the lead out of your a.s.s now," the chief roared. "If you still want to work for the police department."

"Well, Jesus Christ, the other girl, the one Jones calls Sugart.i.t, was Ed Johnson's daughter," the sergeant exploded. "She had one of those souvenir police ID cards signed by yourself and I thought--"

He was interrupted by the flat whacking sound of metal striking against a human skull.

No one had seen Grave Digger move.

What they saw now was Ready Beicher sagging forward with his eyes rolled back into his head and a white cut -- not yet beginning to bleed -- two inches wide in the black pockmarked skin of his forehead. Big Smiley reared back on the other end of the handcuffs like a dray horse shying from a rattlesnake.

Grave Digger gripped his nickel-plated thirty-eight by the long barrel, making a club out of the b.u.t.t. The muscles were corded in his rage-swollen neck and his face was distorted with violence. Looking at him, the others were suspended in motion as though turned to stone.

"Stop him, G.o.d d.a.m.n it!" the chief roared. "He'll kill them."

The sculptured figures of the police officers came to life. The sergeant grabbed Grave Digger from behind in a bear hug. Grave Digger doubled over and sent the sergeant flying over his head toward the chief, who ducked in turn and let the sergeant sail on by.

Lieutenant Anderson and the homicide lieutenant converged on Grave Digger from opposite directions. Each grabbed an arm while he was still in a crouch and lifted upward and backward.

Ready was lying p.r.o.ne on the pavement, blood trickling from the dent in his skull, a slack arm drawn tight by the handcuffs attached to Big Smiley's wrist. He looked dead already.

Big Smiley gave the appearance of a terrified blind beggar caught in a bombing raid; his giant frame trembled from head to foot.

Grave Digger had just time enough to kick Ready in the face before the officers jerked him out of range.

"Get him to the hospital, quick!" the chief shouted; and in the next breath added, "Rap him on the head!"

Grave Digger had carried the lieutenants to the ground and it was more than either could to do to follow the chief's command.

The sergeant had already picked himself up and at the chief's order set off at a gallop.

"G.o.d d.a.m.n it, phone for it, don't run after it!" the chief yelled. "Where the h.e.l.l is my chauffeur, anyway?"

Cops came running from all directions.

"Give the lieutenants a hand," the chief said. "They've got a wild man,"

Four cops jumped into the fray. Finally they pinned Grave Digger to the ground.

The sergeant climbed into the chief's car and began talking into the telephone.

Coffin Ed appeared suddenly. No one had noticed him approaching from his parked car down the street.

"Great G.o.d, what's happening, Digger?" he exclaimed.

Everybody was quiet, their embarra.s.sment noticeable.