Chapter 20 Chapter Twenty

Jackson drove down Madison Avenue onto 125th Street to the station's luggage room.He drives so carefully it's like eggs are on the road. Sweat flowed from the top of Jackson's head, down his throat, to the black soles of his feet.He was worried about Imabella, wondering if his woman was safe, and about her chest full of gold ore.Jackson hoped all was well, he had snatched the boxes back from the thugs. Driving with one hand, he crossed himself with the other and prayed, "Oh God, please don't leave me behind." Then he groaned, revealing his true melancholy: "If money were trouble, I'd be a millionaire..."

A patrol car passed Jackson, heading for the local police station like a boat from hell.It drove so fast that Jackson couldn't see Imabella sitting in the back seat.He thought the cops were taking a bunch of thugs to jail, and he hoped there were jerk lanky guys in there. Another ambulance roared by.Jackson was so frightened that cold sweat broke out down his spine, his eyes widened, trying to see who was inside; because he was so distracted, the car Jackson was driving almost collided with the taxi in front of him.He caught a glimpse of a man's profile in the ambulance, and finally he was relieved.

"Whoever it is, it's not Imabella." Jackson just wanted to know: where was his woman now, and he was so worried about Imabella that he almost ran over a fat black man who was driving his motorcycle slowly diagonally across the street. Jackson slowed the car and struggled around the big man, as if driving on a thorny road.He didn't say much, because he couldn't judge what the drunk would do next.He didn't want to cause any trouble until he had deposited the suitcase and made sure Goldie was safe. Jackson had to go around the station, drive onto Park Avenue, and pull over at the entrance to the luggage room.When Jackson parked the car, a big figure appeared behind the taxi dividing line.A car was speeding down 125th Street, heading toward Park Avenue along the Harlem River.The big man's feet dangling on the road, pressed against the bright windows of the waiting room.

No one talked to that big man, there was no need to find fault with a strong man, let alone a big man with red eyes from drunk.That was the beginning of the race riots. The police gathered nearby made Jackson feel very nervous, so nervous that he almost wanted to jump out of his shadow.He habitually left the engine off.When he got out of the car and walked to the luggage room, he found that the big man was watching him. "Little brother!..." The big man yelled, squeezing to Jackson's side, his big and fat arms resting on Jackson's short and fat shoulders, "Short, black and fat, you are like me. Just like people Say, Chunky Chunky. You can't trust fat people too much, can you?"

Jackson threw his arm angrily and said loudly, "You behave yourself, you racial scum." The big guy got on his motorcycle, put it in reverse, let the engine idle to expel the steam, climbed out again, and asked, "What race, little brother. Do you want to compete?" "I mean race, you know what I mean," Jackson said savagely. ①In English, "race" and "race" are one word - race. The big man looked at Jackson in amazement with his bloodshot eyes. "You mean you want them to believe that you're with their woman?" he yelled excitedly.

"Go to a cool place and wake up." Jackson couldn't restrain his anger and shouted loudly.Then, he quickly walked around the big man, as if around a mountain.He rushed to the luggage room and never looked back. The big man immediately forgot about him and shuffled back into the street.Jackson approached a black porter and said, "Hey, man, I want to check a box." The porter took one look at Jackson and got mad at him just because he made accusations for no reason. "Where are you going?" he asked angrily. "Chicago." "Where's your ticket?"

"I haven't got the ticket yet." Jackson shook his head. "I want to deposit my big suitcase before I get the ticket." The porter roared violently: "Bastard, if you don't have a ticket, you can't store the box, don't you know?" "Why are you so angry? Make us like the wrath of the Lord." The porter raised his shoulders as if to punch Jackson. "Listen, bug, I'm not mad, do I look mad?" Jackson took a few steps back, looked closely at the porter and said, "Listen, black boy, I don't want my box to be left alone. I want to store it here until I get a ticket tonight."

"You don't want it hanging out. Dude, what happened?" "If you don't let me deposit it, I'll go find your boss." Jackson threatened. The boss here is a white man.The porter didn't want to have anything to do with that person. "You want to store it." The porter reluctantly compromised, "You just say, you can store your luggage if you want, why do you still say you want to go to Chicago?" He fetched a wheelbarrow, and he looked like he was going to use it to knock Jackson's brains out. "where is it?" "Outside."

The porter pushed the cart onto the sidewalk and looked up and down the street as he went. "I don't see any boxes." "It's in the hearse." Through the window, the porter saw the boxes on the bier. "What are you doing with the box in a hearse?" he asked suspiciously. "We often use it to carry things, it is convenient, fast and safe." Jackson waved his hand with a smile. "Well, take it out." The porter has not dispelled his doubts, "I have never saved anything in the hearse." "Hey, man, God bless you, don't speak so viciously." Jackson waved his hand, making a bitter face, "The box is too heavy, can't you help me lift it?"

"It's not a good job to move things from the hearse. You move to the ground and let me check." "I'll help you." An idle black man appeared. Jackson and the idler walked to the rear of the hearse, followed by the porter.Two resting white taxi drivers were looking at them curiously, and there was a white policeman on the side of the road, watching absently. Just as Jackson opened the double sliding doors, the big man squeezed back to the side of the street. "Be careful!..." he yelled, "Don't trust the fat man too much!..." Jackson, the porter, and the black man who volunteered to help backed out from behind the hearse, as if they suddenly saw the face of the devil.

The big man got closer and closer, looking over Jackson's shoulder.The motorcycle parked in the driveway suddenly fell silent. All four faces turned gray. "Great God! . . . " cried the big man, "look there! . . . " Underneath the box was a thick pile of black cotton, with gorgeous artificial flowers scattered chaotically.A faux calla lily wreath had slid to the back, arching a black face among the white lilies.The face seemed to be resting on a skull, a white hat draped over a askew gray wig.This face has a devilish expression of terror.The eyes with dilated pupils stared at the four people without blinking.There was a huge purple gash in the throat. Jackson recognized it as his brother Goldie, his scalp tingling, his mouth half-open, gasping with excitement.The eyes were so wide that the eyeballs were about to fall out of their sockets.His throat also hurt, and a moist warm current suddenly flowed to his thigh. "Is it a dead body?" asked the porter in a hoarse voice, as if his suspicions had been confirmed.His eyes became as hollow as a white wall, his gaze as motionless as a corpse. "Where?..." Jackson asked.His mind was numb with panic and fear.The obese body suddenly trembled as if infected with malaria. "Where? . . . " the porter grumbled in a high-pitched voice that sounded like a file sharpening a saw. "There, there!" The black man who came to help was still retreating to the street. "It's all cut to the bone." The voice of the big man was strange and timid. Two taxi drivers walked over slowly, lowered their heads, and looked at the black head covered in blood. "Jesus Christ! . . . " cried one. "That's a wig!..." said another guy. "What?..." The black man in front raised his head. "Hey, there's hair down there. My God, it's a man." A policeman in uniform walked over slowly, like a fearless revolutionary pioneer, turning the white baton in his hand disapprovingly, and casually looked at the hearse with a familiar expression.However, he immediately took a deep breath, and was scared back a few steps by the silent shocking scene.This is a scene he has never seen before. "Where did it come from? Who did it? . . . whose hearse is this?" He asked a few silly questions smartly, then looked around for help.He noticed the entrance to the waiting room, a black plainclothes detective, and nodded to him. The black man who came to help kept on retreating towards the dark Park Avenue. After retreating to a place he thought was safe, he turned around suddenly and ran desperately on the dark street. The big man gradually became sober, and he also wanted to escape, but the policeman suddenly said harshly: "No one is allowed to leave." "I don't want to leave." The big man denied, "I just want to stretch my legs." Two white taxi drivers had retreated to the side of the luggage room out of fear, standing shoulder to shoulder. The black plainclothes detective pushed the porter aside and asked, "What is this?" He looked at the hearse, his face paled, and asked again, "What on earth is this?" "A corpse," replied the uniformed policeman. "Who is the driver of this car?" "I, sir." Jackson's voice trembled. The uniformed policeman breathed a sigh of relief, and he was happy to let the black plainclothes detective take over the job.People flocked to him, he had something to do. "Stand back!..." The white policeman ordered, "Stand back!..." The black plainclothes detective took out a notepad and pencil and asked, "What's your name?" "Jackson." "Who is your boss?" "Mr. Exedus H. Clay, 134th Street." "Where did the body come from?" "I don't know, boss. It's in there when I drive. I swear to God." The policeman stopped writing suddenly and looked at Jackson curiously, not believing his words at all.Everyone is watching him. "He said he found a body and didn't know where it came from," someone in the crowd yelled. Jackson was shaking, his teeth chattering like ratchets.He was not at all afraid now of losing his woman or her gold ore, he hadn't thought of them at all.All he could think about was his brother who had slit his throat, a natural fear of sudden death. Before Jackson had time to think about what might happen next, the policeman's next question woke him up. "You mean, the body was in the hearse when you set off, but you didn't know it?" "Yes, sir. I swear to God." At this time, the black detective came over, and he asked casually, "Where did you get so much strength?" A patrol car was coming in from 125th Street, driving in the wrong direction, weaving its way through the crowded street. "He found a body and didn't know how it got there," explained the white policeman. "Anyway, I definitely didn't come here by myself." The black detective said, pushing away Jackson and the porter, and went to see the corpse by himself. "Son of a son of a bitch!..." He screamed, almost suffocating, the horror of this brutally cut throat far outweighed his shock. He took a closer look: "It's Sister Gabriel, the damn grandson is actually a man!..." White policemen continued to question Jackson, who seemed uninterested in the gender of the body. "How could you not know there was a body in your hearse?" "The boss asked me to take this suitcase to the station for storage," Jackson's voice was weak, and he was too scared to breathe, "God, I swear to God, I just did what he told me, with Box, put on the bier, drive to the station. God be my witness!" "Why are you depositing this box?" The patrolmen behind them were still trying to push the crowd away: "Go back, let me go back." The gray had faded from Jackson's face, and he was sweating again.He took out a dirty handkerchief, wiped the sweat from his face, and gently wiped his bloodshot eyes. "I did not understand your question, sir." Vagrants, whores, day laborers, loafers, burglars, drunks, blind beggars, and tramps, all crowd the sides of the station like scum jostling each other in a swamp.The corpse with its throat cut firmly occupied their sight. They stretched their necks, watching curiously, for fear of missing something. "Let me ask you, why does your boss want to store this box?" "He's going to Chicago. He's going to Chicago tonight," panted Jackson. "He wants to store his luggage until he gets his ticket. He doesn't want to keep it with him." The white policeman suddenly closed his notepad and said sternly, "I don't believe this goddamn nonsense." "It could be true," said the Negro detective. "Maybe someone put the body in the hearse and went away, and the driver..." "But, damn it, at this time of night, is there still someone depositing boxes?" The Negro detective laughed and said, "Look, this is Harlem. His boss may have had people in the box stuffed with bills for hundreds of dollars." "Okay, I will find out as soon as possible. You escort him back. If he really did not break the law, the homicide squad will let him go." The white policeman glanced at the dense crowd, "Where is the patrol car? I Contact the local branch." Suddenly, in front of Jackson's eyes, an electric chair appeared, and he was sitting on it. If they took Jackson to the precinct, they would know about Slender Man and his gang.In the meantime, they'll discover that Ed "Coffin Bucket" is blind and that "Gravedigger" Johns is wounded—or possibly killed.They'd find the gold ore, and the five hundred dollars and the hearse they had stolen.They'll find out that Goldie is his brother, and that he's trying to steal his woman's gold ore.They must have deduced from this that Jackson had slit Goldie's throat.They'll burn his black skin to ashes. "We have received a consignment order." Jackson walked slowly towards the sidewalk and said, "It's on the front seat, but I don't know who commissioned it." "Consignment order?" The white detective interrupted him, "Consignment for what?" "Commissioned to move the body. We got an order from the police to transport the body, and I saw it sitting in the front seat." "Well, damn it, why didn't you say so sooner? Show me." Jackson opened the front door of the hearse and looked at the empty seat. "Right here." He pretended to say so. Propping himself on his hands and knees, he quickly climbed into the car, looked at the floor, and reached behind the seat. He heard the old Cadillac's engine cranking softly.He moved half of his thigh to the seat, bent down, and looked into the cubicle.His elbow touched the shifter, he touched drive, but the car didn't move, just the slight rumble of the engine. "Here a minute ago," Jackson repeated. At this point, both detectives were standing on the sidewalk next to the car door, watching him suspiciously. "Contact the local police department to investigate a recent murder," the white policeman ordered to a patrolman. "Negro dressed as a nun had his throat cut. Look at his body, if it's registered, call out the name of the undertaker. .” "According to orders!..." After the patrolman said, he hurried to fetch his wireless telephone. With his entire thighs curled up on the chair, Jackson began to search the top of the hood, where there was a large pile of documents. "It's here, I see it." In order to stabilize the center of gravity and allow himself to see more clearly, he put his right hand on the steering wheel and closed the car door with his left hand "bang!", pressing the weight of his entire body on the accelerator pedal. This old Cadillac, with the latest Model Four-Seven engine, was powerful enough to pull a fully loaded freight train. When it started, the roar of high-power cylinders sounded like a four-engine giant transport plane flying high in the sky. This is an absurd escape technique.Pedestrians scattered one after another, and a blind man even jumped over a bicycle to avoid the car. A large truck trailer was heading east, within nine feet of a taxi heading west on 125th Street.Jackson's hearse went straight on the road, sped through the nine-foot gap without hitting anything, and drove directly into the narrow lane next to Park Avenue, clinging to the iron pillars of the viaduct.The transmission on the car is geared up step by step-second gear, third gear, and finally reaches the highest speed. ①The distance is less than three meters. Gunshots rang out around the station, like firecrackers during Chinese New Year celebrations.A patrol car jerked into gear, chasing the escaping wreck; the siren changed from a muffled whimper to a furious scream. The driving police estimated the speed and rushed directly towards the large truck trailer.However, he blundered and tried to stop the car in the turn, only to find that the patrol car had already rolled into the tall corrugated steel sideboard of the trailer, managed to pass under the car, bounced back to the curb, and finally, due to the spinning front wheel , suddenly failed, and then stopped circling. Two other patrol cars also began to sound their horns.Aside from the cacophony of noise, the cheers of the big man can be heard. "What did I tell you? Don't trust the fat man too much!... That little fat son of a bitch, even dared to slit his mother's throat!"