A Rage in Harlem by Chester Himes Page A

away from these hoodlums and thieves. I tell you, let’s walk down to the Palm Café.”
    “That’s fine,” Jackson said.

11
    They turned on 125th Street and walked toward Seventh Avenue. Neon lights from the bars and stores threw multicolored rays on the multicolored people trudging down the sloppy walk, turning their complexions into strange metallic shades. Colored men passed, bundled against the cold, some in new checked overcoats, others in GI rubber slickers, gabardines, coats that looked as though they’d been made from blankets. Colored women switched by, sporting coats of such unlikely fur as horse, bear, buffalo, cow, dog, cat and even bat. Other colored people were dressed in cashmere, melton, mink and muskrat. They drove past in big new cars, looking prosperous.
    A Sister of Mercy emerged from the shadows.
    “Give to the Lawd. Give to the poor.”
    Jackson reached for his roll, but Gus stopped him.
    “Keep you money hidden, Jackson. I have some change.”
    He dropped a half-dollar into the box.
    “ ‘Ye have found the Spirit,’ ” the Sister of Mercy misquoted. “ ‘He that hath an ear, let him hear what the Spirit sayeth.’ ”
    “Amen,” Jackson said.
    Near the intersection of Seventh Avenue they turned into the Palm Café. The bartenders wore starched white jackets, and the high-yellow waitresses plying between the tables and booths were dressed in green-and-yellow uniforms. A three-piece combo beat out hot rhythms on the raised bandstand.
    The customers were the hepped-cats who lived by their wits – smooth Harlem hustlers with shiny straightened hair, dressed in lurid elegance, along with their tightly draped queens, chorus girls and models – which meant anything – sparkling with iridescent glass jewelry, rolling dark mascaraed eyes, flashing crimson fingernails, smiling with pearl-white teeth encircled by purple-red lips, exhibiting the hot excitement that money could buy.
    Gus pushed to the bar and drew Jackson in beside him.
    “This is the kind of place I like,” he said. “I like culture. Good food. Fine wine. Prosperous men. Beautiful women. Cosmopolitan atmosphere. Only trouble is, it takes money, Jackson,money.”
    “Well, I got the money,” Jackson said, beckoning to the bartender. “What are you drinking?”
    Both ordered Scotch.
    Then Gus said, “Not your kind of money, Jackson. You haven’t got enough money to keep up this kind of life. I mean real money. You take your little money. If you’re not careful it’ll be gone inside of six months. What I mean is money that don’t have any end.”
    “I know what you mean,” Jackson said. “As soon as my woman buys herself a fur coat and I get myself some new clothes and we get ourselves a car, a Buick or something like that, we’ll be stone broke. But where’s a man going to get money that don’t have any end?”
    “Jackson, you impress me as being an honest man.”
    “I try to be, but honesty don’t always pay.”
    “Yes, it does, Jackson. You’ve just got to know how to make it pay.”
    “I sure wish I knew.”
    “Jackson, I’ve a good mind to let you in on something good. A deal that will make you some real money. The kind of money I’m talking about. The only thing is, I’ve got to be sure I can trust you to keep quiet about it.”
    “Oh, I can keep quiet. If there’s any way I can make some real money I can keep so quiet they’ll call me oyster-mouth.”
    “Come on, Jackson, let’s go back here where we can talk privately,” Gus said suddenly, taking Jackson by the arm and steering him to a table in the rear. “I’m going to buy you a dinner and as soon as this girl takes our order I’m going to show you something.”
    The waitress came over and stood beside their table, looking off in another direction.
    “Are you waiting on us or just waiting on us to get up and leave?” Gus asked.
    She gave him a scornful look. “Just state your order and we’ll fill it.”
    Gus looked her over,