The Real Cool Killers by Chester Himes Page A

“Sonny! Drop that pole!”
    Sonny gave a violent start and speared a pigeon in the craw, but he hung on to the pole. The pigeon flew crazily into the light and kept on going. Sonny watched it until he got control of himself, then he turned slowly and looked at the sergeant with big innocent white eyes.
    “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 nobody 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 God, boy, yourpigeons 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 damn pole down!” the sergeant shouted at Sonny.
    “No, let him hold it,” the professor said. “It keeps his hands up.”
    “What the hell 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 rushing 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 Sugartit 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 buttocks 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