The Real Cool Killers Part 14

"You talking to me, boss?" His black face shone with sweat.

"Yeah, I'm talking to you, Sonny."

"They don't calls me, Sonny, boss; they calls me Cal."

"You look like a boy called Sonny."

"Lots of folks is called Sonny, boss.".

"What did you jump for if your name isn't Sonny? You jumped halfway out of your skin."

"Most anybody'd jump with you hollerin' at 'em like that, boss."

The sergeant wiped off another smile. "You told your grandma you were going downtown to work."

"She don't want me messin' 'round these pigeons at night. She thinks I might fall off'n the roof."

"Where have you been since supper?"

"Right up here, boss."

"He's just been up here about a half an hour," one of the cops volunteered.

"Naw suh, I been here all the time," Sonny contradicted. "I been inside the coop."

"Ain't n.o.body in heah but us pigeons, boss," the professor cracked.

"Did you look in the coop?" the sergeant asked the cop.

The cop reddened. "No, I didn't; I wasn't looking for a screwball."

The sergeant glanced at the coop. "By G.o.d, boy, your pigeons lead a hard life," he said. Then turning suddenly to the other cops, he asked, "Have these punks been frisked?"

"We were waiting for you," another cop replied.

The sergeant sighed theatrically. "Well, who are you waiting for now?"

Two cops converged on Inky with alacrity; the professor and a third cop took on Sonny.

"Put that d.a.m.n pole down!" the sergeant shouted at Sonny.

"No, let him hold it," the professor said. "It keeps his hands up."

"What the h.e.l.l are you wearing that heavy overcoat for?" The sergeant kept on picking at Sonny. He was frustrated.

"I'se cold," Sonny said. Sweat was running down his face in rivers.

"You look it," the sergeant said.

"Jesus Christ, this coat stinks," the professor complained, working Sonny over fast to get away from it.

"Nothing?" the sergeant asked when he'd finished.

"Nothing," the professor said. In his haste he hadn't thought to make Sonny put down the pole and take off his gauntlets.

The sergeant looked at the cops frisking Inky. They shook their heads.

"What's Harlem coming to?" the sergeant complained. "All right, you punks, get downstairs," the sergeant ordered.

"I got to get my pigeons in," Sonny said.

The sergeant looked at him.

Sonny leaned the pole against the coop and began moving. Inky opened the door of the coop and began moving too. The pigeons took one look at the open door and began rus.h.i.+ng to get inside.

"IRT subway at Times Square," the professor remarked.

The cops laughed and moved on to the next roof.

The sergeant and the professor followed Inky and Sonny through the window and into the room below.

Sissie and Sugart.i.t sat side by side on the bed again. Choo-Choo sat in the straight-backed chair. Sheik stood in the center of the floor with his feet wide apart, looking defiant. The two cops stood with their b.u.t.tocks propped against the edge of the table, looking bored.

With the addition of the four others, the room was crowded.

Everybody looked at the sergeant, waiting his next move.

"Get Grandma in here," he said.

The professor went after her.

They heard him saying, "Grandma, you're needed."

There was no reply.

"Grandma!" they heard him shout.

"She's asleep," Sissie called to him. "She's hard to wake once she gets to sleep."

"She's not asleep," the professor called back in an angry tone of voice.

"All right, let her alone," the sergeant said.

The professor returned, red-faced with vexation. "She sat there looking at me without saying a word," he said.

"She gets like that," Sissie said. "She just sort of shuts out the world and quits seeing and hearing anything."

"No wonder her grandson's a halfwit," the professor said, giving Sonny a malicious look.

"Well, what the h.e.l.l are we going to do with them?" the sergeant said in a frustrated tone of voice.

The cops had no suggestions.

"Let's run them all in," the professor said.

The sergeant looked at him reflectively. "If we take in all the punks who look like them in this block, we'll have a thousand prisoners," he said.

"So what," the professor said. "We can't afford to risk losing Pickens because of a few hundred s.h.i.+nes."

"Well, maybe we'd better," the sergeant said.

"Are you going to take her in too?" Sheik said, nodding toward Sugart.i.t on the bed. "She's Coffin Ed's daughter."

The sergeant wheeled on him. "What! What's that about Coffin Ed?"

"Evelyn Johnson there is his daughter," Sheik said evenly.

The cops turned as though their heads were synchronized and stared at her. No one spoke.

"Ask her," Sheik said.

The sergeant's face turned bright red.

It was the professor who spoke. "Well, girl? Are you Detective Johnson's daughter?"

Sugart.i.t hesitated.

"Go on and tell 'em," Sheik said.

The red started crawling up the back of the sergeant's neck and engulfed his ears. "I don't like you," he said to Sheik, his voice constricted.

Sheik threw him a careless look, started to say something, then bit it off.

"Yes, I am," Sugart.i.t said finally.

"We can soon check on that," the professor said, moving toward the window. "He and his partner must be in the vicinity."

"No, Jones might be, but Johnson was sent home," the sergeant said.

"What! Suspended?" the professor asked in surprise.

Sugart.i.t looked startled; Sheik grinned smugly; the others remained impa.s.sive.

"Yeah, for killing the Moslem punk."

"For that?" the professor exclaimed indignantly. "Since when did they start penalizing policemen for shooting in self-defense?"

"I don't blame the chief," the sergeant said. "He's protecting himself. The punk was under-age and the newpapers are sure to put up a squawk."

"Anyway, Jones ought to know her," the professor said, going out on the fire escape and shouting to the cops below.

He couldn't make himself understood so he started down.

The sergeant asked Sugart.i.t, "Have you got any identification?"

She drew a red leather card case from her skirt pocket and handed itto him without speaking.

It held a black, white-lettered identification card with her photograph and thumbprint, similar to the one issued to policemen. It had been given to her as a souvenir for her sixteenth birthday and was signed by the chief of police.

The sergeant studied it for a moment and handed it back. He had seen others like it, his own daughter had one.

"Does your father know you're here visiting these hoodlums?" he asked.

"Certainly," Sugart.i.t said. "They're friends of mine."

"You're lying," the sergeant said wearily.

"He doesn't know she's over here," Sissie put in.

"I know d.a.m.n well he doesn't," the sergeant said.

"She's supposed to be visiting me."

"Well, do your folks know you're here?"

She dropped her gaze. "No."

"Eve and I are engaged," Sheik said with a smirk.

The sergeant wheeled toward him with his right c.o.c.ked high. Sheik ducked automatically, his guard coming up. The sergeant hooked a left to his stomach underneath his guard, and when Sheik's guard dropped, he crossed his right to the side of Sheik's head, knocking him into a spinning stagger. Then he kicked him in the side of the stomach as he spun and, when he doubled over, the sergeant chopped him across the back of the neck with the meaty edge of his right hand. Sheik shuddered as though poleaxed and crashed to the floor. The sergeant took dead aim and kicked him in the valley of the b.u.t.tocks with all his force.

The professor returned just in time to see the sergeant spit on him.

"Hey, what's happened to him?" he asked, climbing hastily through the window.

The sergeant took off his hat and wiped his perspiring forehead with a soiled white handkerchief. "His mouth did it," he said.

Sheik was groaning feebly, although unconscious.

The professor chuckled. "He's still trying to talk." Then he said, "They couldn't find Jones. Lieutenant Anderson says he's working on another angle."

"It's okay, she's got an ID card," the sergeant said. Then asked, "Is the chief still there?"

"Yeah, he's still hanging around."

"Well, that's his job."

The professor looked about at the silent group. "What's the verdict?"