Chapter 20 Chapter Seventeen
Unlike opium extract and cocaine, marijuana produces an inexplicable appetite.
Sister Bliss has just come out from visiting Father Haidi.After listening to Papa Haidi's description of Pink Boy's recent confusion, she suddenly felt a desire to taste a certain food that she had never eaten before.She couldn't even think of what it was until she ate it; she couldn't figure out what it was all about.
Twenty-five minutes later, she left the cab and driver on Twenty-sixth Street and staggered into a small, dingy "home cooking" restaurant in the alley with a cook she knew.It's behind a shop that advertises "Seafood-Egg Dishes-Whole Chicken-Southern Cuisine."This gave her an idea.
She ordered a half dozen shell-on oysters, a bottle of corn syrup, three raw eggs, and a glass of skim milk.
The fat and strong black proprietress had to go to the next door to order food to serve the guests' orders. Then she stood in front of the Bliss sisters and watched them pour corn syrup on the oysters and mix them with raw eggs. The skim milk was drank.
"My dear, if I didn't know you, I'd say you're starving," she said.
"I'm not starving," said Sister Bliss. "On the contrary, my feet are exhausted." She said to her. "And I mean it."
Suddenly she jumped up and rushed outside into the alley to vomit.Not even a dog would touch the filth that comes out.Then she went back in and ordered fried chicken.
"That's right," said the fat cook.
After Sister Bliss finished her fried chicken, she pushed back her chair and opened her beaded bag under the table to examine its contents.In addition to cosmetics, there was a wallet containing five hundred-dollar bills, three ten-dollar bills, two one-dollar coins, a handful of change rolled around the bottom of the purse, her pipe and marijuana pouch, A key ring with thirteen keys on it, a . 38 Hawkhead revolver with the barrel sawn to an inch and loaded with dum cartridges; "Sisters of Bliss - Faith Healing" business card, three lavender linen handkerchiefs with initials, three French bauble like miniature bear-tooth necklaces, a photo of a Negro with white teeth and greasy hair - it says "Hookie to Chappie" - and a fake deputy badge.
"That doesn't spell a whore," she said self-deprecatingly. "Nothing will change."
She hadn't thought about St. Peter's, her bombed cache, or her lost house.She was too old to regret.
All she worries about now is time.She knows the clock is ticking.If the rascals hadn't caught her, the police would have come after her, she thought.If the cops haven't spotted the tricky Lincoln yet, it's almost too soon.Her deadline is only until tomorrow morning.If she didn't get it done by then, it would be too late.Because she can no longer swagger in and out of these areas.
After talking to the sweet-voiced woman from the SPCA, she figured that the cop who took Pinkie's dog was looking for Pinky.The reason why she started looking for Pink Boy was to hope to find the dog.
Her next stop is Old Black Boy's gym.
She hired an old Mercury RV driven by an unlicensed black man who looked like a rapist and drove a taxi.The man was a lean, dark-skinned, nervous-looking guy with bloodshot, startled eyes.He smokes weed, so she thinks he can be trusted.
"Turn around the corner and head toward Lenox," she said.
He shifted gears and made a dramatic 180-degree turn like a conductor.
"I know you can drive; you don't have to prove it to me," she quipped.
He looked in the rearview mirror, grinning at her, and nearly bumped into a woman pushing a stroller across the street.
As they were driving down Eighth Avenue, she inadvertently noticed a Plymouth RV heading west on the other side of the street.At that very moment, the dog poked its head toward her car window.
"Sheba!" she yelled. "Turn around!"
The driver was in a state of marijuana, pale and terribly nervous, and her sudden screams scared him out of his wits.He knew his name was not Shiba, and he didn't know who Shiba was.But he thought that if Sheba could frighten the old hag he was carrying, so much the more so.So he didn't stop to watch.
He spun the steering wheel desperately to turn.
The tires screeched sharply.Passers-by screamed everywhere.The two cars behind him collided.The shuttle bus coming in the opposite direction slammed on the brakes, and the force was so strong that the passengers were thrown into the aisle.
The Mercury RV suddenly jolted and rushed onto the opposite sidewalk.A disabled person with a sad expression leaped through the door of a bar like a kangaroo.An old lady was knocked down by a black-clothed preacher who yelled, "Praise the Lord, get out of the way!"
A wooden stand displaying religious pamphlets was knocked over by a front bumper, and twenty-four marijuana cigarettes littered the sidewalk.
The driver saw nothing.He still stepped on the accelerator tightly, relying on the arrangements of fate.
"Follow that car!" she yelled.
"What car?"
The streets are full of cars.
"It's going to the Eighth Avenue!"
By this time he was at the top of Eighth Avenue, driving through the inside lane at fifty miles an hour.But again he made a deadly sharp turn, wedged between the yellow cab and the van, within mere inches of each other; tires screeching and the driver yelling.He sped down Eighth Avenue and almost climbed into the back of a battered convertible with ten passengers in it.
The woman in the back seat screamed loudly.
Somewhere in the rear, there was a frantic blowing of police whistles.
"Don't stop!" Sister Bliss shouted.
"Do you think I'm parking the car?"
He swayed his head as he swung the car around behind the convertible, leaving behind a puff of smoke.
The bulging-eyed convertible driver poked his head out of a group of teenage girls and yelled menacingly, "Don't you try to hit my car, nigger!"
But the Mercury RV has already left, quickly approaching Ed's Plymouth RV.
"That's the car!" Sister Bliss shouted. "Don't get too close."
"Damn it, I'll overtake it," he said.
Ed "Coffin Bucket" took a look at the battered Mercury rover as it overtook it.At other times, he might be acting as a traffic policeman chasing down speeders.But he doesn't have time now. It's just another car coming out, this black Stirling Moss trying to take part in some "big race".Harlem is full of these nuts.They smoke weed and imagine they can drive straight into the sky in those gas-guzzling old eight-cylinder cars, he thought.He noticed that the back seat of the car was empty.He figured a policeman would have caught him in that lane if the motorist hadn't killed himself first.He doesn't care about it. When he parked the car in front of Papa Haidi's shop, the Mercury car had disappeared. The humble store had its front painted red like the larger United Tobacco chain.But Papa Hadid called his shop Reunion Tobacco; and there was nothing anyone could do about it. The shadows of the sun stretched. "Coffin Bucket" Ed looked at his watch.It's seven past six. The storefront was cast obliquely in the shadow of the tenements across the street.But it's too early to close now. Ed "Coffin Bucket" felt his stomach tighten. He got out of the car and crossed the sidewalk to try to open the door.The door is locked.Sixth sense told him to wipe the fingerprints off the handlebars, turn around and drive off - he wouldn't find anything here.He is an ordinary civilian on the hunt for a criminal, he has no authority to investigate anything suspicious that might reveal a crime, and he is no longer a policeman himself. "Call the police, report your concerns, and let it go," a voice inside told him. But he couldn't let go, he had already intervened and acted; now he is like an airplane that has flown over the middle line of the ocean, and has passed the turning point long ago, and there is no turning back."Gravedigger" Johns flashed through his mind, but he couldn't go any further.The headache and the salty taste in his mouth had become so natural, as if they had been a part of him all along. He took a deep breath and walked up and down the street, looking for signs of the police.He took out his scout knife, opened the round needle pry bar, and began to lock his hands and feet against the cylinder. The door had been bolted shut.No matter who was the last to leave, that person just closed the door.The door opened instantly.He locked the door behind him, fumbled for the light switch, and turned it on. The situation inside is not surprising. He found the body of Papa Haidi lying behind the glass-covered counter.There was a hole in the center of his forehead, filled with clotted blood.There are gunpowder char marks more than an inch in diameter all around.He turned the body under his shoulders with his feet to get a look at the back of the head.There was a small swelling at the root of the hair, and the bullet that had penetrated the skull effortlessly penetrated the epidermis and rushed all the way down, and finally stopped. Clean way!He thought objectively and calmly, without sound or blood.Someone must have held a suppressed pistol and pressed the trigger against Papa Haidi's head at close range.Father Haidi was caught off guard, and everything ended here.Haidi's father died. The shop was searched hastily and thoroughly.Shelves, drawers, trunks, boxes were turned out, and things were dumped on the floor in a mess.Among the unopened packets of cigarettes, scattered cigars, matches, lighters, calcium carbide, whiskey, pipes, and cigarette cases, there were a few square-folded packets of heroin and marijuana cigarettes carefully rolled into the size of amphetamine capsules.In the stagnant and smelly air, you can still smell the faint smell of smokeless gunpowder. He wades through the mess and opens the back door.There is a mini storage room in front of you, and there are two upholstered upright chairs in it.The smell of marijuana smoke fills the room.This room has also been rummaged. Clearly, the searchers didn't find what they were looking for. Two people have died.And "Gravedigger" Johns—a thought stops abruptly, then resumes: Harlem's hapless third-rate peddlers are just the outer fringes of the drug trade.How could they be involved in this, just some lowly black people looking for dirty money?This is a crime syndicate case in the Central District.There are also gunmen hired by an organization... He hadn't found any clues about Saint Peter, so he didn't know that three people had died in this operation. He wondered if he should back away before it got too far for him to handle, leaving it to the homicide and narcotics squads.Let them go and notify the FBI. Then he thought that if he reported the crime, he would be detained for hours for interrogation.His superiors would want to know what he had done with the case, even though everyone had warned him not to touch it. "They won't like it, Ed." He didn't realize he was speaking out loud. But on the other hand, they would find him anyway.He made no effort to hide his presence, leaving fingerprints everywhere.They could easily find witnesses to prove he had been there.This is really a dilemma. He thought of Johns the Gravedigger again.The thought of having to adjust to a new partner - that is, if he ever returns to the force.He knew that the Harlem thugs would be hard to deal with when Johns the Gravedigger was gone.He also thought of how "Gravedigger" Johns had tracked down the thug who threw acid in his face, and how they had shot him through the eyes.He thought the Harlem villains would have a lot of fun.He knew that if he quit now, he would be sad for the rest of his life. He got nothing here, made no progress.What you know before you come in and after you come in remains the same.I can't find them, so the only thing I can do now is let them come to me, he thought as he stepped out of the house, closing the door behind him. At this time, a little girl, about eleven or twelve years old, opened the back door of his car and was coaxing the dog down the sidewalk.But she was too frightened to reach in and lead the dog on a leash.She stood on the sidewalk keeping her distance and said, "Come here, Sheba, come here, Sheba. Come here, Sheba." "Coffin Bucket" Ed felt strange. She didn't know the dog, but she knew the name. However, before he had time to think about it, the scene he glimpsed out of the corner of his eye instinctively triggered his brain reaction.A young man stood at the corner of Thirty-seventh Street on the other side of Eighth Avenue, looking up at the sky. "Coffin Bucket" Ed naturally knew that there was nothing in the sky at this time that would attract the attention of young people in Harlem. "Don't disturb it," he told the little girl, and closed the car door. Little girl head running away.He didn't think about her any more. He walked around the car as if to get into the driver's seat.He opened the car door, closed it as if on a thought, and turned and walked across Eighth Avenue. Two cars were coming from the opposite side at the same time, so he had to stop to let them pass. The young man turned and began to walk slowly from 137th Street to St. Nicholas Avenue, as if nothing had happened. There is a chain of small grocery stores around the corner. Ed "Coffin Bucket" walked towards it.He knew that with his beret, green goggles, and suit, he didn't look like a Harlem guy out shopping and eating.But there was no way, he had to look like he was going to a certain place, he had to be totally deceptive. The young man picked up his pace.He was a charcoal-skinned boy with a thin build and long straight black hair that hung down his long oval head.He was wearing a white T-shirt, blue jeans, canvas basketball shoes and sunglasses.He was different from the other young men in Harlem because he was staring straight at Coffin Bucket Ed.Young people in Harlem always kept away from Ed "Coffin Bucket". Going in the direction of St. Nicholas Avenue, 137th Street gradually turned into a residential area.It was almost dinner time, and the street was filled with the smell of food, mixed with the smoke of hot cars.Shirtless people leaning lazily at the doorway, or sitting with their backs bent; the naked black men leaning against the windows upstairs glisten in the sun; down the neck. Any event that breaks the monotony is welcome. When "Coffin Bucket" Ed shouted at the young man: "Stop!", everyone cheered up. The young man started to run.He ran along the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians along the way. Ed "Coffin Bucket" pulled Jorns "Gravedigger"'s gun from his belt because it was getting in the way.But he did not dare to fire a warning shot as usual.He couldn't afford to risk attracting the police.This was the first time he found himself trying to hide from the police.It's just not funny at all. He strode and jumped, his feet heavy as if sunk in cement.Lightweight rubber-soled shoes helped, but his full gear weighed heavily on him, and every step set off a headache. The lean, athletic young man galloped lightly at full speed, dodging and weaving through the crowds pouring into the street.Both sides of the road were occupied by excited onlookers. "Run, boy, run!" someone yelled. "Get him, Uncle!" echoed the others. "Look at these niggers, they catch their own, their own men fix their own," a fat woman gleefully chanted. "Search carefully, man!" exclaimed a man who smoked marijuana as Ed "Coffin Bucket" passed by. Two guys jumped out of the parked car on the corner of St. Nicholas Avenue and separated to catch the fleeing young man.They didn't have a holiday with him, they just wanted to find excitement. The young man dodged to the right with his head down, and one of the guys lunged at him like a baseball catcher trying to catch a wild pitch.The young man ducked to get under the outstretched hand, but the other guy tripped him with a leg out. The young man's hands and elbows slipped forward, scraping the skin, and Ed "Coffin Bucket" closed in. Now, the two guys decided to side with the young man.They turned to Ed "Coffin Bucket," grinning confidently, and one of them jokingly said, "What's the matter, Dad?" They were both dumbfounded at the same time.One saw the nickel-plated revolver, the other saw Ed "Coffin Bucket"'s face. "For God's sake, it's 'Coffin Bucket' Ed!" whispered the first man. How the whole noisy street heard his whispers is a mystery.It's just that suddenly everyone on the street is drawn to it.The two guys ran away and rushed in the opposite direction. By the time Ed "Coffin Bucket" grabbed the young man by the scruff of his neck and dragged him to stand upright, the street was already empty, with only a few heads peeping around the street corner. Ed "Coffin Bucket" grabbed the young man by the arm and turned him over.He found himself staring into a pair of piercing black eyes.He had to resist the urge to pull out the gun of "Gravedigger" Jorns and punch the wretch in the head. "Listen to me, little bastard," he said through gritted teeth in a low voice. "Walk in front of me and go all the way to the car. If you run away again this time, I'll shoot you in the back." When he walked back, the boy's steps were still light, still caused by the effect of the marijuana smoke, and blood was dripping from his skinned elbow.They remained silent all the way. By the time they crossed Eighth Avenue and pulled up next to the car, the dog was gone. "Who took it?" "Coffin Bucket" Ed asked in an extremely hoarse voice. The young man glanced at the twitching face of "Coffin Barrel" Ed, and said, "It's Sister Bliss." "Are you sure it's not Pink Boy?" "No, sir, it's Sister Bliss." "Okay, okay, you know the family. Go around and sit in the front seat over there, and we're going to get out of the way and talk." Just as the young man was about to do so, Ed "Coffin Bucket" reached out and grabbed his arm again. "You want to talk, don't you, little one?" The young man looked at the convulsions on Ed's face again, and said in a choked voice, "Yes, sir."
Ed "Coffin Bucket" took a look at the battered Mercury rover as it overtook it.At other times, he might be acting as a traffic policeman chasing down speeders.But he doesn't have time now. It's just another car coming out, this black Stirling Moss trying to take part in some "big race".Harlem is full of these nuts.They smoke weed and imagine they can drive straight into the sky in those gas-guzzling old eight-cylinder cars, he thought.He noticed that the back seat of the car was empty.He figured a policeman would have caught him in that lane if the motorist hadn't killed himself first.He doesn't care about it. When he parked the car in front of Papa Haidi's shop, the Mercury car had disappeared. The humble store had its front painted red like the larger United Tobacco chain.But Papa Hadid called his shop Reunion Tobacco; and there was nothing anyone could do about it. The shadows of the sun stretched. "Coffin Bucket" Ed looked at his watch.It's seven past six. The storefront was cast obliquely in the shadow of the tenements across the street.But it's too early to close now. Ed "Coffin Bucket" felt his stomach tighten. He got out of the car and crossed the sidewalk to try to open the door.The door is locked.Sixth sense told him to wipe the fingerprints off the handlebars, turn around and drive off - he wouldn't find anything here.He is an ordinary civilian on the hunt for a criminal, he has no authority to investigate anything suspicious that might reveal a crime, and he is no longer a policeman himself. "Call the police, report your concerns, and let it go," a voice inside told him. But he couldn't let go, he had already intervened and acted; now he is like an airplane that has flown over the middle line of the ocean, and has passed the turning point long ago, and there is no turning back."Gravedigger" Johns flashed through his mind, but he couldn't go any further.The headache and the salty taste in his mouth had become so natural, as if they had been a part of him all along. He took a deep breath and walked up and down the street, looking for signs of the police.He took out his scout knife, opened the round needle pry bar, and began to lock his hands and feet against the cylinder. The door had been bolted shut.No matter who was the last to leave, that person just closed the door.The door opened instantly.He locked the door behind him, fumbled for the light switch, and turned it on. The situation inside is not surprising. He found the body of Papa Haidi lying behind the glass-covered counter.There was a hole in the center of his forehead, filled with clotted blood.There are gunpowder char marks more than an inch in diameter all around.He turned the body under his shoulders with his feet to get a look at the back of the head.There was a small swelling at the root of the hair, and the bullet that had penetrated the skull effortlessly penetrated the epidermis and rushed all the way down, and finally stopped. Clean way!He thought objectively and calmly, without sound or blood.Someone must have held a suppressed pistol and pressed the trigger against Papa Haidi's head at close range.Father Haidi was caught off guard, and everything ended here.Haidi's father died. The shop was searched hastily and thoroughly.Shelves, drawers, trunks, boxes were turned out, and things were dumped on the floor in a mess.Among the unopened packets of cigarettes, scattered cigars, matches, lighters, calcium carbide, whiskey, pipes, and cigarette cases, there were a few square-folded packets of heroin and marijuana cigarettes carefully rolled into the size of amphetamine capsules.In the stagnant and smelly air, you can still smell the faint smell of smokeless gunpowder. He wades through the mess and opens the back door.There is a mini storage room in front of you, and there are two upholstered upright chairs in it.The smell of marijuana smoke fills the room.This room has also been rummaged. Clearly, the searchers didn't find what they were looking for. Two people have died.And "Gravedigger" Johns—a thought stops abruptly, then resumes: Harlem's hapless third-rate peddlers are just the outer fringes of the drug trade.How could they be involved in this, just some lowly black people looking for dirty money?This is a crime syndicate case in the Central District.There are also gunmen hired by an organization... He hadn't found any clues about Saint Peter, so he didn't know that three people had died in this operation. He wondered if he should back away before it got too far for him to handle, leaving it to the homicide and narcotics squads.Let them go and notify the FBI. Then he thought that if he reported the crime, he would be detained for hours for interrogation.His superiors would want to know what he had done with the case, even though everyone had warned him not to touch it. "They won't like it, Ed." He didn't realize he was speaking out loud. But on the other hand, they would find him anyway.He made no effort to hide his presence, leaving fingerprints everywhere.They could easily find witnesses to prove he had been there.This is really a dilemma. He thought of Johns the Gravedigger again.The thought of having to adjust to a new partner - that is, if he ever returns to the force.He knew that the Harlem thugs would be hard to deal with when Johns the Gravedigger was gone.He also thought of how "Gravedigger" Johns had tracked down the thug who threw acid in his face, and how they had shot him through the eyes.He thought the Harlem villains would have a lot of fun.He knew that if he quit now, he would be sad for the rest of his life. He got nothing here, made no progress.What you know before you come in and after you come in remains the same.I can't find them, so the only thing I can do now is let them come to me, he thought as he stepped out of the house, closing the door behind him. At this time, a little girl, about eleven or twelve years old, opened the back door of his car and was coaxing the dog down the sidewalk.But she was too frightened to reach in and lead the dog on a leash.She stood on the sidewalk keeping her distance and said, "Come here, Sheba, come here, Sheba. Come here, Sheba." "Coffin Bucket" Ed felt strange. She didn't know the dog, but she knew the name. However, before he had time to think about it, the scene he glimpsed out of the corner of his eye instinctively triggered his brain reaction.A young man stood at the corner of Thirty-seventh Street on the other side of Eighth Avenue, looking up at the sky. "Coffin Bucket" Ed naturally knew that there was nothing in the sky at this time that would attract the attention of young people in Harlem. "Don't disturb it," he told the little girl, and closed the car door. Little girl head running away.He didn't think about her any more. He walked around the car as if to get into the driver's seat.He opened the car door, closed it as if on a thought, and turned and walked across Eighth Avenue. Two cars were coming from the opposite side at the same time, so he had to stop to let them pass. The young man turned and began to walk slowly from 137th Street to St. Nicholas Avenue, as if nothing had happened. There is a chain of small grocery stores around the corner. Ed "Coffin Bucket" walked towards it.He knew that with his beret, green goggles, and suit, he didn't look like a Harlem guy out shopping and eating.But there was no way, he had to look like he was going to a certain place, he had to be totally deceptive. The young man picked up his pace.He was a charcoal-skinned boy with a thin build and long straight black hair that hung down his long oval head.He was wearing a white T-shirt, blue jeans, canvas basketball shoes and sunglasses.He was different from the other young men in Harlem because he was staring straight at Coffin Bucket Ed.Young people in Harlem always kept away from Ed "Coffin Bucket". Going in the direction of St. Nicholas Avenue, 137th Street gradually turned into a residential area.It was almost dinner time, and the street was filled with the smell of food, mixed with the smoke of hot cars.Shirtless people leaning lazily at the doorway, or sitting with their backs bent; the naked black men leaning against the windows upstairs glisten in the sun; down the neck. Any event that breaks the monotony is welcome. When "Coffin Bucket" Ed shouted at the young man: "Stop!", everyone cheered up. The young man started to run.He ran along the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians along the way. Ed "Coffin Bucket" pulled Jorns "Gravedigger"'s gun from his belt because it was getting in the way.But he did not dare to fire a warning shot as usual.He couldn't afford to risk attracting the police.This was the first time he found himself trying to hide from the police.It's just not funny at all. He strode and jumped, his feet heavy as if sunk in cement.Lightweight rubber-soled shoes helped, but his full gear weighed heavily on him, and every step set off a headache. The lean, athletic young man galloped lightly at full speed, dodging and weaving through the crowds pouring into the street.Both sides of the road were occupied by excited onlookers. "Run, boy, run!" someone yelled. "Get him, Uncle!" echoed the others. "Look at these niggers, they catch their own, their own men fix their own," a fat woman gleefully chanted. "Search carefully, man!" exclaimed a man who smoked marijuana as Ed "Coffin Bucket" passed by. Two guys jumped out of the parked car on the corner of St. Nicholas Avenue and separated to catch the fleeing young man.They didn't have a holiday with him, they just wanted to find excitement. The young man dodged to the right with his head down, and one of the guys lunged at him like a baseball catcher trying to catch a wild pitch.The young man ducked to get under the outstretched hand, but the other guy tripped him with a leg out. The young man's hands and elbows slipped forward, scraping the skin, and Ed "Coffin Bucket" closed in. Now, the two guys decided to side with the young man.They turned to Ed "Coffin Bucket," grinning confidently, and one of them jokingly said, "What's the matter, Dad?" They were both dumbfounded at the same time.One saw the nickel-plated revolver, the other saw Ed "Coffin Bucket"'s face. "For God's sake, it's 'Coffin Bucket' Ed!" whispered the first man. How the whole noisy street heard his whispers is a mystery.It's just that suddenly everyone on the street is drawn to it.The two guys ran away and rushed in the opposite direction. By the time Ed "Coffin Bucket" grabbed the young man by the scruff of his neck and dragged him to stand upright, the street was already empty, with only a few heads peeping around the street corner. Ed "Coffin Bucket" grabbed the young man by the arm and turned him over.He found himself staring into a pair of piercing black eyes.He had to resist the urge to pull out the gun of "Gravedigger" Jorns and punch the wretch in the head. "Listen to me, little bastard," he said through gritted teeth in a low voice. "Walk in front of me and go all the way to the car. If you run away again this time, I'll shoot you in the back." When he walked back, the boy's steps were still light, still caused by the effect of the marijuana smoke, and blood was dripping from his skinned elbow.They remained silent all the way. By the time they crossed Eighth Avenue and pulled up next to the car, the dog was gone. "Who took it?" "Coffin Bucket" Ed asked in an extremely hoarse voice. The young man glanced at the twitching face of "Coffin Barrel" Ed, and said, "It's Sister Bliss." "Are you sure it's not Pink Boy?" "No, sir, it's Sister Bliss." "Okay, okay, you know the family. Go around and sit in the front seat over there, and we're going to get out of the way and talk." Just as the young man was about to do so, Ed "Coffin Bucket" reached out and grabbed his arm again. "You want to talk, don't you, little one?" The young man looked at the convulsions on Ed's face again, and said in a choked voice, "Yes, sir."