“Don't worry about it,” I said, walking her over to my Jag, which left her speechless—for once. I drove across 145th Street toward the West Side Highway, thankful I had gas.
In the fifteen or twenty minutes it took us to reach Forty-first Street she told me—for no reason—all about her unhappy first marriage, how lousy her husband had been. I listened politely, wanting to tell her it takes two to be good or bad. But I kept my mouth shut.
“... The kind of male slob who objected to my having a career. Career! It's a job. What he refused to understand was that in this world of nobodies, everybody has the yen to be a somebody. I'm sure you know that.”
“I'm afraid to even try to think about it.”
She turned in the low seat abruptly. “Don't ever make fun of me! I can't stand that; it's the height of rudeness!”
“I'm not making fun of you, Miss Robbens. And—”
“I told you to call me Kay.”
She sat in silence for a minute. As I cut off the highway she asked, “Why did you buy a Jaguar, Touie?”
“As you said, everybody wants to be a somebody,” I told her, cleverly, I thought. I checked the freight-company address in my notebook. It would be a waste of time trying to find free parking space, so I turned into a parking lot, paid the man a buck. Miss Robbens showed a lot of leg getting out but I knew that wasn't what the white attendant was staring at.
It was eleven fifteen when we reached the freight company. She said, “Thomas comes out for lunch at noon. We have plenty of time and I'm hungry.”
“Nothing but joints around here.”
“I don't mind,” she said, walking toward Eighth Avenue and into one of those overgrown bars that's a combination cafeteria and gin mill. There were some dozen men at the bar and tables, all of them white, of course. We gathered another round of “looks” as we got a couple of greasy hamburgers, beers, found a table. Two characters dressed like truckers were at a table near us, and one of them, a lardy redhead in his late twenties, began talking about us in a husky whisper. I didn't have to hear to know what he was saying.
Robbens was enjoying herself, babbling about places like this giving her a “refreshing sense of balance.” I kept an eye on Red because you never know what some whites will do. They might even kill you.
We finished our beers and Miss Robbens pulled the string—she had to smoke her pipe. We were a circus sensation now. Red snickered and he and his pal laughed too loudly at something which had as a tag line ”... she must like it.”
When Kay glanced at their table and wrinkled her nose as if smelling something rotten, I knew I was in for action, going to earn my dough the hard way. Usually I let most of that talk in one ear and out the other, but now I couldn't have my client's confidence in me shaken. Also I was steamed, at both Red and my client.
While I was wondering how I'd make my play, Red obliged by getting up for coffee. As he was returning to his table, I told Miss Robbens loudly, “I'll get you some water.”
“I don't want any....”
Pretending to look back at Kay, I walked into Red—hard. He weighed about 170, and my 234 pounds sent him flat on the dirty floor. Unfortunately he didn't spill the coffee over himself—only on the floor.
I said, “Sorry, old clumsy me,” and picked him up. I lifted him off the floor and onto his feet, squeezing the hell out of his arms, working my thumbs into his muscle. It looked as though I was lifting him with ease, but I had my legs set, was straining. He tried to move his numb arms and couldn't as he said, “Why don't you watch it?”
“I told you it was an accident,” I said slowly, waiting to see what he was going to do, watching his buddy at the table, too.
Red wasn't sure of himself; he'd taken a rugged fall. He decided not to do anything. Brushing himself off he said, “Lost a cup of Java, too....”
I tossed a dime on the counter. “Give sonny a refill,” and continued on my way to the water fountain, bringing a glass back to Kay.
Knocking the ashes out of her pipe, she squeezed my hand, whispered, “A magnificent bit.” She was happy as the devil.
“Look,” I said, keeping my voice down, “let's get one thing settled. Don't make a civil-rights case out of everything.”
“Me? Really, I fail to see where I—”
“I'm only saying when I want a cup of coffee I want coffee and not a scene. When I want to make a test case of something, I will. I'm not blaming you or anybody. Not even that redhead louse. I'm merely making a statement.”
“I don't get it.”
“When you go in for food you don't think a thing about it. But me, in a white restaurant, there's always a doubt, a... Forget it.”
“Forget what? Do you mean you only want to eat in Harlem restaurants?”
“Of course not. I mean, in the future, tell me what you want, food or excitement.” I was about to add she had a pipe, she didn't need me and the pipe to attract attention. Instead, I smiled as if we'd been kidding, said in a normal voice, “Only have about ten minutes; shouldn't we be on our way?”
“Yes,” she said, making a casual but smiling exit. Outside she said. “This disturbs me. I've always gone out of my way to be considerate to Negroes, but you're all so touchy.”
“I always go out of my way to be nice to you people, too.”
“Why must you make fun of me? I told you I don't like it.”
“I'm not making fun of you—you're the one who's touchy,” I told her, and told myself to shut up before she pulled me off the case. I gave her a best grin, added, “We're fighting over nothing. Let's get to work. We'll be too conspicuous standing opposite or outside the freight entrance together. Has Thomas ever seen you?”
“No. I've been quite a detective on my own. Here's all our data on him, home address, age, etc. This is a snap of him taken six years ago. He hasn't changed much, except he keeps his hair crew-cut, and it's a sandy blond now. You can pick him out from the snap, but if you want, I'll point him out.”
“To be on the safe side, you might as well finger him. Look, we'll stand across the street, but not together. Soon as you see him, start walking toward the corner. I'll stop you and ask for a match. Corny, but it will do. Without looking across at him, you'll tell me what he's wearing, to be doubly certain I have the right man. Keep walking and wait for me at the corner. I'll drive you back to your office.”
“Don't bother, I can take a cab. You'll phone me at my apartment around eight tonight and let me know how it's going?”
“Sure,” I said, putting the papers she gave me in my pocket.
She gave me the dazzling smile again. “You've made this a most interesting morning for me.”
“That's fine. People are coming out for lunch; let's get going.”
We were on the fringe of the garment district and the street started to fill up, mostly with women, many of them Puerto Ricans and/or Negroes. Miss Robbens stood near the entrance of a building, looking like a model waiting for a lunch date. I leaned against the window of a small coffeepot, packing my pipe.
Across the street, a steady stream of men and women came out of the freight-company building, which was a modest skyscraper housing a couple of dozen other concerns and dress factories. Miss Robbens walked toward me and we went through the match routine. I felt silly but as I lit my pipe she said in a fierce hammy whisper, “He's the one in the blue sweat shirt. See him?”
“Yeah. I'll phone you tonight.” She walked on and I watched her stop a cab.
Thomas was an easy make, tall and wiry with a stiff, military way of holding himself and a lean sharp face— except for his lips, which were thin and almost girlish. It was an easy face to remember, those lips and the strong square jaw. He looked about twenty-five, and if his dirty-blond hair was dyed it was a good job. He was wearing dungarees, a blue sweat shirt, and work shoes. With a couple of other young fellows, he marched into a luncheonette. Crossing the street, I read the hand-written menu pasted on the luncheonette window. Thomas was sitting at the counter, blowing on a cup of coffee. He had a cigarette behind one ear and his right cheek was pockmarked.
I went to the corner and bought an afternoon paper, looked through it, and twenty minutes later walked slowly back to the luncheonette. Thomas was lounging against the counter, the cigarette pasted to his funny lips, bulling with the other guys. From the relaxed way they were leaning against the counter, they did hard physical work: looked like pugs resting between rounds. I walked away as they came out, went across the street to lean against a parked truck and talk some more as they got a little sun. I stood in the lobby of a building, smoking my pipe and watching Thomas until he went back to work at twelve forty-five. Kay's info said he knocked off at five, leaving me free till then. Life was terrific; a month's work and I was getting it on a silver platter.
Back at the parking lot I found one of my whitewalls flat. Maybe the attendant did it because he saw a white woman with me, and maybe it was a leaky valve, as he said. My rubber was old. He kept a straight face and, since the tire wasn't cut, I had him put in a new valve and air.
Sybil works as a long-lines operator, a service assistant— a kind of foreman—and worked a split tour: 11 a.m. to 2 p.m., then back at 8 p.m. to work till 11 p.m. She liked the tour because she didn't have to get up early and actually only worked six hours although she was paid for eight. I phoned her at the public phone in the locker room, left a message with some girl that I'd pick her up at two. I called Sid to thank him for recommending me, and to get a line on Miss Robbens, but he was out.
With an hour to kill I phoned Ted Bailey, but he was busy on another skip-tracing job in the Village. I told him to be in front of his building in a few minutes, I'd drive him downtown.
When I got out of the army in '48 and went to N.Y.U. on the G.I. Bill, I told Sid I needed a part-time job and he had Bailey take me on as a weekend guard at the department store. Sid is a real sweet guy; he was a pilot and we got drunk together in Rome back in '45, have been friends ever since. Bailey ran a fairly big agency, used seven men in the department store, and was okay. Didn't treat me any different than the rest of his men—he was huffy with all of us. I was called back into service in '50, and when I came out in '53—lucky enough not to go to Korea—the store had its own guards. They were using one of Ted's men for the Friday and Saturday rush. Ted said it wasn't worth bothering with, gave me the job, which was how and why I started my own agency.
Ted was waiting for me; I didn't have to double-park. He dresses and looks like a fat hick. Actually he's a rough oscar and far from stupid—as a dick. I get a bang out of the way he speaks in grunts—as if talking was a waste of time.
As he sat down beside me I saw he was still wearing old-fashioned high shoes. Ted said, “What a car for an investigator. An operator should have an ordinary buggy— nothing stands out like this. Jeez, what seats—like I'd slipped off a bar stool. Get my letter?”
“Thanks. I'll work on it tomorrow. Kind of busy now. Where do you want to go?”
“Drop me at Sheridan Square. So you're busy, Toussaint?”
He never called me Touie. “Things have picked up.”
“You're lucky. Whole damn racket is changing. Today you can't make your pork chops unless you're a regular mechanical whiz, and even then you need contracts. I just hired me a kid who got busted out of engineering school.”
“That's what I want to talk about. I'm thinking of expanding.”
He pulled out a cigar and began chewing on it. “Expand where? Why stay in this two-bit racket? Ain't enough money in Harlem to make it worth your while.”
“That's what I mean by expanding—out of Harlem.”
“Naw, naw. Too many guys in the game now. No work. Divorce stuff, skip tracing, guard duty; they don't amount to a hill of beans. Burns, Pinkerton, Holmes have the big guard jobs sewed up. Know why I hired this engineer, why I'm paying him as much as I take home? Only money around these days is in industrial spying. For that you need bugs and recorders and all kinds of electrical gadgets, and it adds up to nothing but a lousy overhead unless you got an 'in.'”
“Are you getting any of this industrial gravy?”
He gave his cold cigar a workout between his teeth as he said, “I'm getting the wrong end of the stick. Toussaint, in the old days, if a guy was sober and willing to put in hours, he could make a fair living, even big money if he wanted to be a rat and labor fink. Now... I got a... a small manufacturer, coming out with a new cheap line. His success will depend on when a competitor, the big company in the business, puts their product on the market. You see, if my boy comes out first, the big company can undersell him, so he has to catch them when they're in full production and no time to cut his throat. All he can pay is a lousy grand.”
“What's lousy about a thousand bucks?”
“What I'm trying to tell you, it don't mean nothing no more. Takes me a week and plenty of dough to find out where one of the big company's executives hangs around. Then I hire a broad to pick him up and we got her joint rigged like an electrical plant, with guys outside listening to the conversation. £ got to pay for three nights of loving and whiskey before Lover says anything we can use. The nut comes out to over nine hundred bucks—where's my pork chops?”
“Why did you take it?”
“Had to; only way to get in with these industrial big boys. You should see the bunk I give out with—make a presentation, everything typed up with wide margins, in an expensive folder. This guy, he plays golf with a real big boy, washing-machine manufacturer who's interested in learning about the new models due next year. But you see me on a skip-tracing deal now, still hustling for a lousy ten bucks. Pull over there, in front of the cigar store. I'll blow.”
I double-parked and Ted got out, straightened his clothes and cursed my bucket seats. Then he said, “You're still young enough to get in something else. If there ain't nothing in the racket for us wh—downtown boys, what's in it for you?”
“I'm doing okay.”
“Sure, for this month. And next month you're bouncing drunks at dances for pennies. Toussaint, hop on that case I gave you.”
“I will. Keep your blood pressure down, Ted.”
I drove down to Canal Street and parked outside the phone building, lit my pipe. Miss Robbens said the TV studio had other work for investigators; if I buttered her up, remained her pet Negro for a while—how much of it could I get? Ted had said the main thing was contacts; she could be that. First thing I had to do was move out of my bedroom-office, put up a big-time front. It would cost but it was worth the gamble.
