Chapter 18 Chapter fifteen

The house was one of a row of old four-story mansions at 139th Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues.The limestone facade has a hand-carved mahogany door with panels of crystal glass – now blackened – while the house is flanked by Ionic columns.The carriage access is on the side and the carriage house has been converted into a garage. Years ago, many upstarts settled on this street, and the area used to be quite pretentious.In the 1920s, a shrewd black real estate agent let these ancient houses live in black professionals with social ambitions. Since then, it has become known as the "Struggle Street" throughout Harlem.

But during the Great Depression of the 1930s, hard times began to strike like locusts, and the street soon fell into disrepair.The house was divided first into apartments and later into suites.Then the madam took over the place, and the room was full of prostitutes. Ed "Coffin Bucket" parked the car in front of the house, got out and opened the back door.He reached in and grabbed the handle of the dog's chain, and pulled out the gigantic dog.Its muzzle was on again, and the wound on its head was well bandaged, and it looked respectable. He led it around the side of the house, past the carriage entrance, and rang the rear doorbell.

The kitchen door was wide open, only the heavy screened outer door was locked. Ed "Coffin Bucket" saw a fat woman in a loose dressing gown swaying towards him. She looked out through the screen and said, "My God, it's Coffin Bucket Ed." She unlocked it and opened the door to let him in, but at the sight of the dog she backed away. "What's that?" "It's a dog." She raised her eyebrows.The dyed hair was almost the same color as her eyes, and the wrinkled skin was thickly smeared with powdered powder, and reddish-brown powder.Her name is Mary Read.

"It doesn't bite, does it?" Her voice sounded like a lump in her throat, and her heavily painted red lips were pursed to reveal her gold, lipstick-stained teeth. "It can't bite you," he said as he squeezed into the kitchen. This is a modern kitchen with appliances.Everything was spotless and sparkling white.Active and still competitive young prostitutes dream of diamonds and furs.But the dream of an aging whore, inactive, old and ugly, or promoted to a rich landlord, is to have a kitchen like this.It includes every little appliance imaginable, such as a large white porcelain electric clock above the stove.

Ed "Coffin Bucket" looked at the clock.Four twenty-three.Time is running out. On a small white china table to the side, an enamel radio plays on top of a light brown television.A program was playing on the TV screen, but the volume was turned off. A tall, listless man with short, curly red hair that fell in balls around a bald spot sat on a tubular stainless steel chair, his elbows resting on the large white china kitchen table. "We were just listening to the radio," he said. "The radio says 'Gravedigger' Jorns has been shot and wounded, and you've both been kicked off the force."

He sounded gloating, but not happy enough to get his teeth knocked out. "Coffin Bucket" Ed was standing indoors, holding the dog chain loosely in his hand. "Listen," he said. "You can act like it's none of your business. But I don't have that much time. Where can I find Pinkie?" His voice sounded unnatural, as if his throat was tied up, and the twitching of the muscles faded away. The man glanced at "Coffin Bucket" Ed, turned his gaze back to the whiskey bottle on the table in front of him, and then stretched out his hands and stroked the bottle with his fingertips.

He has a large flat face, rough reddish skin, and reddish eyes that ooze tears.His name is Channing Reid.He might have something to do with Pinky. He wore an open-collared silk white shirt, red and green checked suspenders, tan gabardine trousers, white and brown pointe shoes, and the expensive gold ornaments common to wealthy brothel owners: A gold ring with an unknown huge opalite, a 0.75-carat yellow diamond ring, and a gold ring in the shape of an owl with two rubies in its eyes. He quickly exchanged glances with Mary who was standing behind Ed "Coffin Bucket" on the left, and then spread his thick fingers, staring at the gun-shaped bump on Ed "Coffin Bucket" Ed's shoulder.

"We're clear," he whispered. "We didn't make trouble for the sheriff, and you don't have any power to interfere now." "We don't even know Pinkie," Mary said aloud. "You're just asking for trouble now," Ed "Coffin Bucket" said.He suppressed his anger, and the muscles in his jaw twitched slightly. "You don't have any fucking reason to cover Pinkie. You just hate me because I'm a cop. You can take a stand now, but you're making mistakes." "What's wrong?" Channing asked.The arrogance could hardly be concealed in the voice.

"You're over fifty," Ed "Coffin Bucket" said. "Thirteen years for second-degree murder. You're doing pretty well. You won the lottery by luck, bought this house, and promoted this ex-whore to a madam. I know everything about the two of you. She was serving time for the attempted assassination of a young prostitute. When she got out of prison and came back to work, she worked as a street bum for a wimpy pimp named Dandy who was cut off by a dupe Throat, because he fiddled with the blackjack cards. Now you two are in trouble, the timing is perfect, and the charlatans are everywhere. The streets are full of hidden nests, gullible fools everywhere, and the money is rolling in. You Buying people with money makes life very comfortable. But you have made a mistake."

"You said that before. What's wrong?" Ed "Coffin Bucket" let the dog chain fall to the floor. "I'm not kidding," he said. Channing Reid folded his arms and leaned back in his chair.His eyes fell slightly to the gun marks stuck between the belts of "Coffin Bucket" Ed. "You have absolutely no right to come in here and ask me about anyone." He spoke, and Mary across the table warned, "Don't push him, Channing." "I didn't push him, but I didn't let him push me either. I told him I didn't know any Pinkies, and he could—"

He'd never get a chance to say what Ed "Coffin Bucket" could do. "Coffin Bucket" Ed's entire side face muscles twitched violently, and his right hand flashed to his hip.Channing Reid moves with animal reflexes; he twists his head, his eyes following Ed "Coffin Bucket"'s gesture; He didn't see the movement of "Coffin Bucket" Ed's left hand at all. That hand held the pistol of "Gravedigger" Jorns and attacked him head-on. Channing Reid's entire front row of teeth sank into his mouth, the bottom two teeth flew out like popcorn, and Channing Reid fell backward from his chair.The back of his head hit the linoleum floor with a muffled thud, and his feet kicked up in response, hitting the bottom of the white porcelain table.The whiskey bottle flew six inches into the air and shattered when it fell. The sudden, deafening noise startled the dog.It leaped at Channing Reid's face and headed for the inner door.Channing Reid thought it was going to bite his throat, so he tried to scream.But he saw blood splatter and heard no sound, and he choked on his own teeth. "Coffin Bucket" Ed didn't look at Channing Reid.He had already turned around and aimed his left pistol at Mary's abdomen, and he froze her movements halfway - her right hand swung forward, her left hand floated in the air behind her, her huge loose and fat body was balanced on tiptoe of her right toe, as if It's a ballerina dancing a funny version of "Swan Lake." But no one thought it was funny.Her face was distorted with horror, and Ed "Coffin Bucket" looked like a murderer. The chair scratched, and Channing rolled out of the chair, scratching his throat and making a choked sound. "Coffin Bucket" Ed's headache was extremely severe, and the sound in his head was like a curse.Out of nowhere the thought came to Channing to try to draw his gun, so he turned sharply and kicked Channing hard in the jaw. "Cough!" Channing Reid grunted and fainted. The dog rushed through the inner door and ran all the way down the corridor, dragging it behind with clangs and clatters. Mary Read clung to the edge of the table for support, but slipped her fingers and fell heavily to the floor. A woman's scream came from the front of the house. "Coffin Bucket" Ed stood in the center of the room, holding a long-barreled nickel-plated pistol in one hand and a rubber stick in the other, with a dazed expression as if he had just recovered from electroshock therapy for psychosis. On the TV screen were three skinny idiots dancing back and forth, shoulder to shoulder, rolling their eyes and opening and closing their mouths without making a sound. "Coffin Bucket" Ed's head suddenly cleared up; only the weak and sharp tinnitus that was almost imperceptible remained in both ears. He pocketed the stick, tucked the pistol back into his belt, and reached over to flip Channing Reid on his stomach. "Oh, my God, don't kill him," wailed Mary Read. "I say." "Give me a big spoon and shut up," Ed "Coffin Bucket" said grumpily. "He'll fucking tell me himself." She crawled around the table on all fours and took a spoon from a drawer. "Bring it here," Ed "Coffin Bucket" said, and knelt down beside Channing Reid before lifting his head. Channing Reid licked his tongue. Ed "Coffin Bucket" then pushed the spoon up Channing's throat until he could pull out a long enough tongue with his other hand and hold the tip.The bloody tongue was slippery and hard to hold, and it took him six or seven attempts to grab the tip and hold it in place.A lot of blood dripped from his hands to the floor, and four teeth fell out. "Come here, hold his tongue down until he breathes again." He ordered Mary to do so, and told her to hold the spoon handle. He got up and went to the sink, turned on the tap, rinsed the blood off his hands with cold water, and dried them with a kitchen towel.There was a little blood on the cuff of his blue shirt, but he didn't care. He doubled back and stood in front of the two men on the floor. "I'm going to ask some questions—" "I'll answer," said Mary. "Let him answer. If the answer is yes, you just nod. Do you understand?" Channing Reade nodded cautiously. "If the answer is no, shake your head. Remember not to make any more mistakes." Channing Reid nodded again. "It will hurt him," Mary Read said. "I just want him to hurt," Ed "Coffin Bucket" said. "You run an indoor meeting place here?" Channing nodded. "Just a normal party," Mary Read said defensively. "Only some male whores come here every once in a while, just some gay men—" "And the drug dealers," Ed "Coffin Bucket" cut her off. Channing shook his head. "If I catch you lying—" "I'd rather God kill me," Mary Read blurted out. "We don't let drug dealers in here. It's just that when we have parties, some people bring their own stuff. We do have some drug injectors, but they don't inject enough heroin to be addicted. And none of them really Drug addiction. Most of them just smoke marijuana, looking for a little thrill. We don't do this kind of business, we only do sex business here." "Pink Boy has a drug addiction." "Yes, but—" "Let him answer." Channing nodded. Ed "Coffin Bucket" backed away from the pool of blood that flowed to his feet. "For God's sake, he didn't come here to feed his addiction," Mary said. "He's not even here to get drunk. He's just here for whores." "Does he have any preferences?" "He's too ugly to choose here; he's as philanthropic as Jesus, either one will do." "Where is he today?" Channing shook his head. "What about last night?" Channing shook his head again. "Do you know where he lives?" The answer remains the same. "You've been talking a lot, now you should talk more," Ed "Coffin Bucket" said to Mary. "We don't know anything about Pinkie, I swear to God; he's just here to see girls, and I wish he'd picked them up somewhere else; I don't need his money because I can't stand his looks .” "Where is he hanging out?" "Sloshing?" She began to dodge the question, but a glance at Ed "Coffin Bucket"'s face relented, and she began to stammer. "All I know is Blackie's gym. I heard him say he just came from there once. Do you know any other places, Channing?" Channing shook his head. "Okay," Ed "Coffin Bucket" said. "The dog I brought is Pinkie's. I'm going to take him around the house and sniff it. If I catch you lying—" "God is my savior, my guardian, my refuge—" Mary began to mutter, but Ed "Coffin Bucket" interrupted her. "You make me sick. How do you fucked up whores get on good terms with God?" "Not all of him," said Mary gravely. "It's Jesus Christ." He couldn't tell if she was serious in reply.He pushed open the door and went to the front porch to call the dog. "Here it is!" a woman responded. He walked up the front stairs to the second floor and followed the sound to an open bedroom at the back.A brown-skinned whore in morning wig was stuffing milk chocolate into the dog's mouth from the muzzle.The dog was clearly in love. "Coffin Bucket" Ed took the dog on the leash and led the dog away.He didn't know what he was really looking for, he just did it out of intuition.He got nothing but cursing from the prostitutes who were doing business. "Damn it!" said a girl, exasperated, because her white patron had shrunk suddenly at the sight of a tall Negro protruding into the room with a giant dog. "It took so long to get this slow doctor to stand up and say—" Ed "Coffin Bucket" saw a payphone on the front porch, so he went over and called the hospital. The answer remained the same. When he passed through the street house, Channing and Mary had disappeared. He led the dog around the table, avoiding the pool of blood, and then around the house through the back door.He met no one, and the whole neighborhood seemed deserted. He put the dog in the back of the car and got into the driver's seat himself.He checks his watch.It's four fifty. He suddenly had a wild, desperate feeling that he was looking for a needle in a haystack and wasting time when, in fact, time was the most precious thing.