1 Here it was the twenty-eighth of December and he still wasn''t sober. In fact, he was drunker than ever. An ice-cold, razor-edged wind whistled down Fifth Avenue, billowing his trench coat open and shaving his ribs. But it didn''t occur to him to button his coat. He was too drunk to give a damn. He staggered north toward 37th Street, in the teeth of the wind, cursing a blue streak. His lean hawk-shaped face had turned blood-red in the icy wind. His pale blue eyes looked buck wild.
He made a terrifying picture, cursing the empty air. When he came to 37th Street he sensed that something had changed since he''d passed before. How long before he couldn''t remember. He glanced at his watch to see if the time would give him a clue. The time was 4:38 a.m. No wonder the street was deserted, he thought. Every one with any sense was home in bed, snuggled up to some fine hot woman.
He realized the lights had been turned off in the Schmidt and Schindler luncheonette on the corner where the porters had been working when he had passed before, whenever that was. He distinctly remembered the ceiling lights being on for the porters to work. And now they were off. He was instantly suspicious. He tried the plate-glass doors set diagonally in the corner. But they were locked. He pressed his face against the plate-glass window at front. Light from the Lord & Taylor Christmas tree was reflected by the stainless-steel equipment and plastic counters.
His searching gaze probed among the shining coffee urns, steam soup urns, grills, toasters, milk and fruit juice cisterns, refrigerated storage cabinets, and along the linoleum floor on both sides of the counter. But there was no sign of life. He hammered on the door and shook the knob. "Open this goddamned door!" he shouted. No one appeared. He lurched around the corner toward the service entrance on 37th Street. He saw the Negro at the same time the Negro saw him. The Negro was wearing a tan cotton canvas duster overtop a blue cotton uniform, white work gloves, and a dark felt hat.
He held something in his hand. He knew immediately that the Negro was a porter. But sight of a Negro made him think that his car had been stolen instead of lost. He couldn''t have said why, but he was suddenly sure of it. He stuck his right hand inside of his trench coat and staggered forward. The Negro''s reaction was just as sudden but different. Upon seeing the drunken white man staggering in his direction, he thought automatically, Here comes trouble. Every time I get ready to put out the garbage, some white mother-raper comes by here drunk and looking for trouble.
He was alone. The other porter, Jimmy, who was helping him with the garbage, was down in the basement stacking the cans onto the lift. And the third porter, Fat Sam, would be in the refrigerator in the pantry getting some chickens to fry for their breakfast. From there, even with the blower turned off, he wouldn''t be able to hear a call for help. And he doubted if Jimmy could hear him down in the basement. And here was this white mother-raper already making gun motions, like an Alabama sheriff. By the time he could get any help he could be stone cold dead. He looped the heavy wire cable attached to the metal switch box once around his wrist, fashioning a weapon to defend himself.
If this mother-raper draws a gun on me, I''m gonna whip his head ''till it ropes like okra, he thought. But another look at the white man changed his thoughts. This makes the third time a white mother-raper has drawed a gun on me down here, his second thoughts ran. I''m gonna quit this job, if I live and nothin'' don''t happen, and get me a job in a store where there''s lots of other people working, as sure as my name is Luke Williams. Because this white man looked dangerous. Not like those other white drunks who were just chicken-shit meddlers. This white man looked mean. He looked like he''d shoot a colored man just for the fun.
A snap-brim hat hung precariously on the back of his head and his yellow hair flagged low over his forehead. Even from a distance Luke could see that this face was flushed and his eyes had an unfocused maniacal look. The white man staggered to a stop at point-blank range and stood weaving back and forth on widespread legs. He kept his hand inside of his coat. He didn''t speak. He just stared at Luke through unfocused eyes. Whiskey fumes spewed from his half-open mouth. Luke began to sweat, despite the fact he wore only a cotton duster.
Working twenty years on the night shift had taught him anything could happen to a colored man downtown at night. "Look man, I don''t want no trouble," he said in a placating voice. "Don''t move!" the white man blurted thickly. "If you move you''re dead." "I ain''t gonna move," Luke said. "What''s that you''re holding in your hand?" "It''s just a switch for the elevator," Luke said nervously. The white man drew a revolver slowly from beneath his coat and aimed it at Luke''s stomach. It was a regulation .
38-caliber police special. Luke''s voice went desperate. "I just came out here to bring the elevator up with the garbage. This is just the safety switch." The white man glanced briefly at the folded iron doors on which he was standing. Luke made a slight motion, pointing to the female plug in the wall. The white man looked up in time to catch the motion. "Don''t move!" he repeated dangerously.
Luke froze, afraid to bat an eye. "Drop it!" the white man ordered. Gooseflesh rippled down Luke''s spine. With infinite caution he detached the cable from his wrist and dropped the switch to the iron doors. The metallic clang shattered his nerves. "I ought to gut-shoot you, you thieving son of a bitch," the white man said in a threatening voice. Luke had seen a night porter shot by a stickup man. He had been shot three times in the stomach.
He recalled how the porter had grabbed his guts with both hands and doubled over as though attacked by sudden cramps. Sweat leaked into the corner of his eyes. He felt his own knees buckle and his legs begin to tremble, as though he had already been shot. "I ain''t got no money, I swear, mister." His voice began to whine with pleading. "There ain''t none in the store neither. When they close this place at nine they take--" "Shut up, you son of a bitch," the white man cut him off. "You know what I''m talking about.
You came out here an hour ago, using that switch as a blind, and watched out while your buddy stole my car." "Stole your car!" Luke exclaimed in amazement. "Nawsuh, mister, you got me wrong." "Where is the garbage then?" Luke realized suddenly the man was serious. He became extremely careful with his words. "My buddy is down in the basement stacking the cans on the elevator. When he''s got it loaded he''ll rap for me to bring it up. I plugs in the cable and pushes the switch.
That way can''t nobody get hurt." "You''re lying, you were out here before." "Nawsuh, mister, I swear ''fore God. This is the first time I''ve been outside all night. I ain''t even seen your car." "I know all about you night porters," the white man said nastily. "You''re nothing but a bunch of finger men and lookouts for those uptown Harlem thieves." "Look, mister, please, why don''t you call the police and report your car stolen," Luke pleaded.
"They''ll tell you that we porters here are all honest." The white man dug into his left pants pocket and brought out the velvet-lined leather folder containing his detective badge. "Take a good look," he said. "I''m the police." "Oh no," Luke moaned hopelessly. "Look, boss, maybe you parked your car on 35th or 39th Street. They both run the same way as this street. It''s easy to make a mistake.
" "I know where I parked my car--right across from here. And you know what happened to it," the detective charged. "Boss, listen, maybe Fat Sam knows something about it," Luke said desperately. "Fat Sam is the mopping porter." He figured Fat Sam could handle a drunk cop better than himself. Fat Sam had a soft line of Uncle Tom jive and white folks who were distrustful of a lean Negro like himself were always convinced of Fat Sam''s honesty. "He was mopping the floor on the side and he might have seen something." Anyway, once the cop got inside and Fat Sam got some hot coffee into him, maybe he''d come to his senses.
"Where''s this Fat Sam?" the detective asked suspiciously. "He''s in the icebox," Luke said. "You go in through the door here and it''s on the other side of the pantry. The door might be closed--the icebox door that is--but he''ll be inside." The detective gave him a hard look. He knew the Harlem expression. "By way of Fat Sam," meant by way of the undertaker, but the Negro looked too scared to pull a gag. So all he said was, "He''d better know something.
" 2 The pantry had white enamel walls and a red brick floor. All available space was occupied by the latest of equipment needed for a big fast turnover in short orders, but it was so expertly arranged there we.