Spanish Harlem by Larry Kent

Author:Larry Kent
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: kidnapping, detective fiction, ebook fiction, murder fiction, piccadilly publishing, crime ebook, noir crime fiction, don haring, larry kent
Publisher: Piccadilly

Home. A little before seven p.m. I’d just shaved and showered and was getting into fresh clothes when the phone jangled. I put the receiver to my ear.

“Larry Kent speaking.”

“H’lo, boy,” said a voice with a thick Negro accent. “Want you to talk to a friend.”

There was a pause, then Jefferson Jones’ voice came through the receiver, “Hang up, Kent! Pay no attention to—”

There was a heavy slap and then the first voice returned. “Your whitey-lovin’ friend is a real brave feller, Kent.”

“Who are you?”

“Name’s Dobie Wilson, Kent. I run the gambling in Black Harlem. Mebbe you’ve heard tell of me.”

“I have.”

“Figured you did.”

“What do you want?”

“Well, a friend of mine here and myself ... we been wonderin’ just how much of a friend you are to Jefferson Jones. I said you’re the kind of whitey who’d go out of his way to help a friend, even a black one like Jones. Am I wrong or right?”

“What have you done to him?”

“Oh, we just belted him around a little that’s all. No real harm done. But I can’t guarantee what’ll happen if you don’t come here and have a talk with me.”

“Where are you?”

“You don’t have to worry about that. If you go down to the street, my man will pick you up in my car. It’s a new pink Cadillac.”

“Why do you want to talk to me?”

“You’ll find out when you get here, won’t you? See you, Kent.”

There was a click in my ear. I cradled the phone, slamming it down hard. The action sent aches from the wound in my arm. The bandaged arm had made quite an impression on Tobi Dreamer. I walked to the window and looked down. There was a pink Cadillac at the curb.

I left the office, went down in the elevator and walked out to the pink Cadillac, bending to look through the window. There was a very black man in a chauffeur’s outfit behind the Wheel. He touched a button and the window went down.

“You Kent?” he said.

“That’s right.”

“Get in.”

I did. He drove off, the engine purring. Blacks just love big cars, especially Cadillacs. Maybe it’s because they’re pressed together so tightly in the ghetto that they want room when they drive away from the place.

“How long have you been working for Dobie Wilson?” I asked.

“I drive this car for a livin’,” the chauffeur said. “I don’t get paid for talkin’ to whiteys.”

Which put me in my place. We went up the West Side Highway and then cross-town near 125th Street. The chauffeur turned the big car north when we hit Lexington Avenue. We went three blocks to 128th Street and then west for a few hundred yards. The Cadillac came to a stop outside a pool hall called the Corsair Social Club.

“Where now?” I asked.

“Out.”

We got out of the car.

“I’ll go with you,” the chauffeur said, heading for the entrance of the pool hall. “If you went in there alone, they’d nail your hide to the wall.”

There were ten pool tables and all were taken.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.