The Real Cool Killers Part 10

"The professor," one of the cops said.

Granny pursed her lips. "Ah know what my missy said; G.o.ddess, she said."

"Were you in slavery?" the sergeant asked as though struck suddenly by the thought.

The others stared at her with sudden interest.

"Ah don't rightly know, suh. Ah 'spect so though."

"How old are you?"

Her lips moved soundlessly; she seemed to be trying to remember.

"She must be all of a hundred," the professor said.

She couldn't stop her body from trembling and slowly it got worse.

"What for you white 'licemen wants with me, suh?" she finally asked.

The sergeant noticed that she was trembling and said rea.s.suringly, "We ain't after you, Grandma; we're looking for an escaped prisoner and some teenage gangsters."

"Gangsters!"

Her spectacles slipped down on her nose and her hands shook as though she had the palsy.

"They belong to a neighbourhood gang that calls itself Real Cool Moslems."

She went from terrified to scandalized. "We ain't no heathen in here, suh," she said indignantly. "We be G.o.dfearing Christians."

The cops laughed.

"They're not real Moslems," the sergeant said. "They just call themselves that. One of them, named Sonny Pickens, is older than the rest. He killed a white man outside on the street."

The darning dropped unnoticed from Granny's nerveless fingers. The corncob pipe wobbled in her puckered mouth; the professor looked at it with morbid fascination.

"A white man! Merciful hebens!" she exclaimed in a quavering voice. "What's this wicked world coming to?"

"n.o.body knows," the sergeant said, then changed his manner abruptly. "Well, let's get down to business, Grandma. 'What's your name?"

"Bowee, suh, but e'body calls me Granny."

"Bowee. How do you spell that, Grandma?"

"Ah don't rightly know, suh. Hit's just short for boll weevil. My old missy name me that. They say the boll weevil was mighty bad the year Ah was born."

"What about your husband, didn't he have a name?"

"Ah neber had no regular 'usban', suh. Just whosoever was thar."

"You got any children?"

"Jesus Christ, sarge," the professor said. "Her youngest child would be sixty years old."

The two cops laughed; the sergeant reddened sheepishly.

"Who lives here with you, Granny?" the sergeant continued.

Her bony frame stiffened beneath her faded Mother Hubbard. The corncob pipe fell into her lap and rolled unnoticed to the floor.

"Just me and mah grandchile, Caleb, suh," she said in a forced voice. "And Ah rents a room to two workin' boys; but they be good boys and don't neber bother n.o.body."

The cops grew suddenly speculative.

"Now this grandchild, Caleb, Grandma --" the sergeant began cunningly.

"He might be mah great-grandchile, suh," she interrupted.

He frowned, "Great, then. Where is he now?"

"You mean right now, suh?"

"Yeah, Grandma, right this minute."

"He at work in a bowling alley downtown, suh."

"How long has he been at work?"

"He left right after supper, suh. We gennally eats supper at six o'clock."

"And he has a regular job in this bowling alley?"

"Naw suh, hit's just for t'night, suh. He goes to school -- Ah don't rightly 'member the number of his new P.S."

"Where is this bowling alley he's working at tonight?"

"Ah don't know, suh. Ah guess you all'll have to ast Samson. He is one of mah roomers."

"Samson, yeah." The sergeant stored it in his memory. "And you haven't seen Caleb since supper -- about seven o'clock, say?"

"Ah don't know what time it was but it war right after supper."

"And when he left here he went directly to work?"

"Yas suh, you find him right dar on de job. He a good boy and always mind me what Ah say."

"And your roomers, where are they?"

"They is in they room, suh. Hit's in the front. They got visitors with 'em."

"Visitors?"

"Gals."

"Oh!" Then to his a.s.sistants he said, "Come on."

They went through the middle room like hounds on a hot scent. The sergeant tried the handle to the front-room door without knocking, found it locked and hammered angrily.

"Who's that?" Sheik asked.

"The police."

Sheik unlocked the door. The cops rushed in. Sheik's eyes glittered.

"What the h.e.l.l do you keep your door locked for?" the sergeant asked.

"We didn't want to be disturbed."

Four pairs of eyes quickly scanned the room.

Two teenaged colored girls sat side by side on the bed, leafing through a colored picture magazine. Another youth stood looking out the open window at the excitement on the street.

"Who the h.e.l.l you think you're kidding with this phony stage setting?" the sergeant roared.

"Not you, ace," Sheik said flippantly.

The sergeant's hand flicked out like a whip, pa.s.sing inches in front of Sheik's eyes.

Sheik jumped back as though he'd been scalded.

"Jagged to the gills," the sergeant said, looking minutely about the room. His eyes lit on Choo-Choo's half-smoked package of Camels on the table. "Dump out those f.a.gs," he ordered a cop, watching Sheik's reaction. "Never mind," he added. "The b.a.s.t.a.r.d's got rid of them."

He closed in on Sheik like a prizefighter and shoved his red sweaty face within a few inches of Sheik's. His veined blue eyes bored into Sheik's pale yellow eyes.

"Where's that A-rab costume?" he asked in a browbeating voice.

"What Arab costume? Do I look like an A-rab to you?"

"You look like a two-bit punk to me. You got the eyes of a yellow cur."

"You ain't got no prize-winning eyes yourself."

"Don't give me none of your lip, punk; I'll knock out your teeth."

"I could knock out your teeth too if I had on a sergeant's uniform and three big flatfeet backing me up."

The cops stared at him from blank shuttered faces.

"What do they call you, Mo-hammed or Na.s.ser?" the sergeant hammered.

"They call me by my name, Samson."

"Samson what?"

"Samson Hyers."

"Don't give me that c.r.a.p; we know you're one of those Moslems."

"I ain't no Moslem; I'm a cannibal."

"Oh, so you think you're a comedian."

"You the one asking the funny questions."

"What's that other punk's name?"

"Ask him."

The sergeant slapped him with such force it sounded like a .22-caliber shot.

Sheik reeled back from the impact of the slap but kept his feet. Blood darkened his face to the color of beef liver; the imprint of the sergeant's hand glowed purple red. His pale yellow eyes looked wildcat crazy. But he kept his lip b.u.t.toned.

"When I ask you a question I want you to answer it," the sergeant said.

He didn't answer.

"You hear me?"

He still didn't answer.

The sergeant loomed in front of him with both fists c.o.c.ked like red meat axes.

"I want an answer."

"Yeah, I hear you," Sheik muttered sullenly.

"Frisk him," the sergeant ordered the professor, then to the other two cops; said, "You and Price start shaking down this room."

The professor set to work on Sheik methodically, as though searching for lice, while the other cops started dumping dresser drawers onto the table.

The sergeant left them and turned his attention to ChooChoo.

"What kind of Moslem are you?"

Choo-Choo started grinning and fawning like the original Uncle Tom.

"I ain't no Moslem, boss, I'se just a plain old unholy roller."

"I guess your name is Delilah."