All Shot Up by Chester Himes Page B

still knotted his forehead, but his gray eyes were lit, the right one focused on her and the left one ranging off in the direction of the stove. His head peered from the folds of colored cloth hanging across his leather jacket and down his back.
    He lunged for her.
    She let his hands touch her, then twisted out of his grip, spinning on her toes, and went half across the room.
    He put his big shoulders low, long arms outstretched like a grappling wrestler, and charged toward her. She got the table in between them. She was panting with laughter.
    “Butterfingers,” she taunted, kicking off her shoes.
    “I’ll get you,” he panted.
    He knocked over a chair trying to circle the table, but she kept just beyond his reach. Then, with a quick unexpected motion, he gripped the table by the edge, lifted it inches from the floor and threw it to one side.
    Now nothing stood between them.
    She shrieked and turned, but he got hold of her waist from behind and rode her face down across the bed. She was lithe, quick and strong, and she twisted from beneath him, coming face up at the foot of the bed. He jumped like a big cat and straddled her, gripping her upper arms with both hands.
    She went limp for a moment and looked up at him from burning black challenging eyes. An effluvium of hot-bodied woman and dime-store perfume came up from her in a blast. It filled his mouth with tongue floating in a hot spring of saliva. Her lips were swollen, and her throat was corded. He could feel the hardness of her nipples through his leather jacket and woolen shirt.
    “Take it and you can have it,” she said.
    Abruptly his mind began to work. His body went lax, his grip relaxed and his frown deepened.
    “All this trouble I’m in and that’s all you can think of,” he said.
    “If this won’t cure your troubles nothing will,” she murmured.
    “We ain’t got much time,” he complained.
    “If you’re scared, go home!” she hissed, and balled herself up to jump from the bed.
    He went taut again before she got away and flattened her shoulders back.
    “I’m going to cool you off,” he said.
    She put her knees against his chest and pushed. He let go her arms and grabbed her stockinged legs just above the knees and began to open them. Her legs were strong enough to break a young man’s back, and she put all of her strength into keeping them closed. But he hunched his overgrown muscles and began bearing down. They locked in a test of strength. Their breath came in gasps.
    Slowly her legs began to open. They stared into one another’s eyes. The stove had begun to smoke, and their eyes smarted.
    Suddenly she gave way. Her legs went wide so quickly he fell on top of her. He clutched at flimsy cloth, and there was a tearing sound. He flung something from his hand. Buttons sailed in all directions, like corn popping.
    “Now!” she screamed.

Chapter 11.
    Three minutes after the Buick had squeezed into the Alley, a small black sedan skidded about the corner into 112th Street from Lexington Avenue.
    Grave Digger was driving with the lights dimmed, and Coffin Ed was keeping a sharp lookout among the parked cars for the Buick.
    The heater had suddenly begun to work, and the ice was melting on the windshield. The wind had shifted to the east, and the sleet had stopped. The tires sang softly in the shifting sleet on the asphalt street as the car straightened out; but the next moment it began going off to the right, so Grave Digger had to steer slightly left to keep it on a straight course.
    “I got a feeling this is a wild-goose chase,” Coffin Ed said. “It’s hard to figure anybody being that stupid these days.”
    “Who knows?” Grave Digger said. “This boy ain’t won no prizes so far.”
    They were halfway down the block of dilapidated old houses and jerry-built tenements when they spied a motorcycle with a sidecar turn into the other end from Third Avenue.
    They became suddenly alert. They didn’t recognize the vehicle; they knew