Sister Heavenly's bedroom and the kitchen composed one half of the house. The other half was composed of a large front parlor that was kept shuttered and closed and a small back bedroom which Sister Heavenly had converted into a bathroom.

The stairway to the attic led up from the kitchen and took up part of the short front hall, which, like the parlor, was never used. The bottom of the stairway which extended into the kitchen was detachable.

When Sister Heavenly returned to the kitchen she spoke apparently to no one: "You can come out now, he's gone."

The bottom of the stairs moved slowly out into the kitchen, revealing an access to a dugout beneath the house.

Pinky's head appeared first. His kinky white hair was covered with cobwebs. On his battered face, ranging in colors from violent purple to bilious yellow, was a look of indescribable stupidity. His shoulders were too large for the opening and he had to put one arm through first and perform a series of contortions. He looked like some unknown monster coming out of hibernation.

The next thing that appeared was Uncle Saint's shotgun, which seemed to drag Uncle Saint behind it.

Pinky shoved the staircase back into place and then stood close to Uncle Saint as though for spiritual comfort.

Neither of them met Sister Heavenly's scornful gaze.

She couldn't restrain from taunting: "You two innocents are acting mighty strange for people with clear consciences."

"Ain't no need of going looking for trouble," Uncle Saint said sheepishly.

Sister Heavenly consulted her old-fashioned locket-watch. "It's quarter to ten. How about all us going down to the dock and seeing Gus and Ginny off?"

If she had exploded a bomb filled with ghosts, she couldn't have gotten stranger reactions.

Uncle Saint had a sudden heart attack. His eyes rolled back in his head and three inches of tongue fell suddenly from the corner of his dirty-looking mouth. He clutched his heart with his left hand and reeled toward his bunk, taking good care to hold on to the shotgun with his right hand.

Simultaneously Pithy had an epileptic fit. He fell to the floor and had convulsions, contortions and convolutions. His muscles jumped and jerked and quivered as he thrashed about on the floor. Foam sprayed from his mouth.

Sister Heavenly backed quickly from the danger zone of flying legs and arms and took up a position behind the stove.

Pinky's eyes were set in a fixed stare; his spine stiffened, his legs jerked spasmodically, his arms flailed the air like runaway windmills.

Sister Heavenly stared at him in admiration. "If I had known you could throw wingdings like that I could have been using you all along as a sideline to faith healing," she said.

Seeing that Pithy was stealing the show, Uncle Saint sat up. His eyes were popping and his jaw was working in awe.

"I'd have never thunk it," he muttered to himself.

Sister Heavenly looked at him. "How's your heart attack?"

He avoided her gaze. "It was just a twinge," he said sheepishly. "It's already let up."

He thought it was a good time to get out and let Pithy carry on. "I'll go start the car," he said. "We might have to take him to the doctor."

"Go ahead," Sister Heavenly said. "I'll nurse him."

Uncle Saint hastened off toward the garage, still carrying his loaded shotgun. He raised the hood and detached the distributor head, then began to work the starter.

Sister Heavenly could hear the starter above the gritting sounds of Pinky's teeth and realized immediately that Uncle Saint had disabled the car.

She waited patiently.

Pinky's convulsions eased and his body turned slowly rigid. Sister Heavenly stepped over and looked into his staring eyes. The pupils were so distended his eyes looked like red-hot metal b.a.l.l.s.

Uncle Saint came in and said the car wouldn't start.

"You stay here and look after Pithy, I'll take a taxi to the docks," Sister Heavenly decided.

"I'll put some ice on his head," Uncle Saint said and began fiddling about in the refrigerator.

Sister Heavenly didn't answer. She picked up her black beaded bag and black-and-white striped parasol and went out of the back door.

She didn't have a telephone. She paid for police protection and protected herself from other hazards and her business was strictly cash and carry. So she had to walk to the nearest taxi stand.

Outside she opened the parasol, went around the house by the path through the weeds, and set out walking down the middle of the hot dusty road.

Crouching like an ancient Iroquois, still carrying the loaded shotgun in his right hand, Uncle Saint skulked from corner to corner of the house, watching her. She kept straight on down the street in the direction of White Plains Road without looking back.

Satisfied that she was not coming back, he returned to the kitchen and said to the rigid epileptic on the floor, "She's gone."

Pinky jumped to his feet. "I got to get out of here," he whined.

"Go ahead. What's stopping you?"

"Looking like I am. The first cop sees me gonna stop me, and I is wanted anyway."

"Git your clothes off," Uncle Saint said. "I'll fix that."

He seemed possessed with an urgency to be alone.

Sister Heavenly kept to the road until she knew she couldn't be seen from the house, then she turned over to the next street and doubled back.

The house nearest to hers on the same side of the street was in the next block. It was owned by an old Italian couple who lived alone. They were good friends of Sister Heavenly. The man ran a provision house and was away from home during the day.

When Sister Heavenly called, his wife was in the kitchen, straining and bottling wine.

Sister Heavenly asked permission to sit in the attic. She often did this. There was a side window in the attic which offered a clear view of her own house, and whenever she found it necessary to check up on Uncle Saint she sat there watching for an hour or two. The old couple had even provided her with a rocking-chair.

Sister Heavenly climbed the stairs to the attic and, after opening the shutters, settled into her chair.

It was hot enough in the attic to roast a goose, but that didn't bother Sister Heavenly. She liked heat and she never perspired. She sat rocking gently back and forth, watching the front and back of her own house at the end of the adjoining block.

An hour later Uncle Saint said to Pithy, "You is dry enough, put on some clothes and git."

Pinky didn't have a change of clothes in the house and he was more than twice the size of Uncle Saint. The black pants and T-shirt he had taken off were bloodstained and filthy.

"Where am I gonna git some clothes?" he asked.

"Look in the souvenir trunk," Uncle Saint said.

The souvenir trunk sat beneath a small dormer window in the attic.

"Take a chisel, it's locked," Uncle Saint added as Pinky started ascending the stairs.

There wasn't any chisel in the kitchen and Uncle Saint wouldn't go to the garage to get one. Pithy couldn't go because he was buck naked, so he took the poker for the stove.

It was an old-fashioned steamer truth with a domed lid and was bound with wooden hoops. Sunshine slanted on the dustcovered top and when Pinky began prying at the old rusty lock, dust motes filled the air like glittering confetti. All of the windows had been closed after the night's performance to keep out the heat and now the sweaty odor of the dancers lingered in the blazing heat. Pinky began to sweat. Sweat drops splattered in the dust like drops of ink.

"Hey, this stuff is coming off," he called down to Uncle Saint in a panic.

"That's just the excess," Uncle Saint rea.s.sured him. "The main part ain't coming off."

With sudden haste, Pinky levered the poker and the lock flew apart. He raised the lid and looked into the trunk.

The souvenir trunk was where Sister Heavenly kept various garments left by her former lovers when they had lammed. Pinky rummaged about, holding up pants and shirts and cotton drawers with back flaps. Everything was too small. Evidently Sister Heavenly hadn't counted any giants amongst her lovers. But finally Pinky came across a pair of peg-top Palm Beach pants which must have belonged to a very tall man at least. He squeezed into a pair of knee-length cotton drawers and pulled the peg-top trousers over them. They fitted like women's jodhpurs. He looked about until he found a red jersey silk shirt worn by some sharp cat in the early 193 Os. It stretched enough for him to get it on. None of the shoes were possible, so he closed the trunk and went down to the kitchen and put on his same old blue canvas sneakers.

"Why didn't yer git a hat?" Uncle Saint said.

Pink turned around and went back up the stairs and rummaged in the trunk for a hat. The only hat which fitted was a white straw hat with a wide floppy brim and a peaked crown like the hats worn by Mexican peons. It had a black chin strap to keep it on.

"Look around asee if there's some sungla.s.ses," Uncle Saint called.

There was a shoe box of nothing but sungla.s.ses but the only pair that fitted Pinky had white celluloid frames and plain blue gla.s.s lenses. He put them on.

Uncle Saint surveyed his handiwork when Pithy stood before him.

"Not even you own mother would recognize you," he said proudly, but he called a warning as Pithy started off. "Keep out the sun or that stuff'll turn purple."

Sister Heavenly's eyes popped. She stopped rocking and leaned forward.

From out of her own front yard came the blackest man she had ever seen, and Sister Heavenly had specialized in black men. This man was so black he had blue-and-purple tints to his skin like wet bituminous coal glinting in the sunshine. Not only was he the blackest, but he was the sportiest man she had ever seen. She hadn't seen anyone dressed that sporty since minstrel shows went out.

He was walking fast and there was something about him, especially down around the legs, which reminded her of one of her short-time lovers called Blackberry Slim, but his legs were thicker than Slim's. And that red jersey silk shirt rising from those peg-top legs was identical with one that Dusty Canes used to wear. But that hat -- that big white flopping hat with a chin strap, and those blue-tinted sungla.s.ses with a white frame; she had never seen anyone wear a hat like that but Go-Go Gooseman.

"My G.o.d!" she exclaimed aloud as she suddenly recognized the man. "That's Pithy and he's been in my souvenir truth!"

Her mind started working lightning fast... . Pinky in disguise. She had expected him to make a move but she hadn't expected to get such a lucky break. Naturally he was headed for the cache.

She jumped up so quickly she overturned the rocking chair. The old Italian woman tried to stop her in the kitchen to share a bottle of wine but she hurried past and went around the house. She stood behind a green lattice gate and watched Pithy loping past. He didn't look in her direction.

She folded up her parasol to make herself as inconspicuous as possible, and kept well in back of him.

He went directly to the subway stop on White Plains Road and climbed the stairs to the waiting platform. Sister Heavenly was blowing and puffing by the time she reached the turnstile. She acted as though she hadn't recognized Pithy and went down to the other end of the platform.

Looking around he saw her and gave a start. There was no place for him to hide. His only chance was to brazen it out. Everyone was staring at him. Once her gaze wandered in his direction. He stared back at her from behind his blue sungla.s.ses. She looked at him for a moment curiously, then turned as though she had not recognized him and watched the train approach.

Two cars separated them. Both of them remained standing so they could peek around the doors when the train stopped and see if the other was getting off. But neither saw the other peeping.

They rode like this down to Times Square. Pithy jumped off just as the doors were closing. Before Sister Heavenly saw him, the doors were closed. She saw him stop and turn and look directly at her as her coach pa.s.sed.

She got off at 34th Street and taxied back to Times Square, but he had disappeared. Suddenly she realized that he was trying to outsmart her. He had ridden down to Times Square and had given her the slip on the chance that she might have recognized him. He figured he was throwing her off his tracks. But there was only one place he could have anything cached, and that was the apartment on Riverside Drive.

She hailed a taxi and told the driver to step on it.

The driver leaned over a little to peer at her through the rearview mirror. My G.o.d, she's still trying, he thought. But all the time she's already had, if she ain't made it yet she'll never make it now.

Sister Heavenly had him stop in front of Riverside Church. She got out and paid him. He paused for a moment to watch her, making as though he was writing in his record sheet. He was curious. She had rushed him up here as though it were a matter of life and death, and all she wanted was to go to church.

Some of these old ladies think all G.o.d has got to do is wait on them, he thought sourly and shifted into gear.

Sister Heavenly waited until he had driven out of sight. Then she walked across the street into the park and selected a bench where she could watch the entrance to the apartment un.o.bserved unless Pinky deliberately looked about for her.

Whistles began to blow as she took her seat. She pulled out her locket-watch to see if it was correct. It read twelve noon on the dot.

10.

It was twelve noon sharp when Coffin Ed turned his Plymouth sedan into the northbound stream of traffic on lower Broadway.

"What do two cops do who've been kicked off the force?" he asked.

"Try to get back on," Grave Digger said in his thick, cotton-dry voice.

He didn't say another word all the way uptown; he sat burning in a dry, speechless rage.

It was twelve-thirty when they checked into the Harlem precinct station to turn in their shields to Captain Brice.

They stood for a moment on the steps of the precinct station, watching the colored people pa.s.s up and down the street, all citizens of Harlem who stepped out of the way to let the white cops by who had business in the station.

The vertical rays of the sun beat down.

"First thing to do is find Pinky," Grave Digger said. "All we had on Jake is possession. If we get evidence he was peddling H too, that might give us a start."

"He's got to talk," Coffin Ed pointed out.

"Talk! TALK! You think he ain't going to talk! Much as you and me need a few kind words. Ain't no mother-raper who ever knew Jake going to refuse to do a little talking."

Fifteen minues later they pulled up before the apartment on Riverside Drive.