"Himes, Chester - A Rage In Harlem" - читать интересную книгу автора (Himes Chester)

"Now I make you a rich man, Jackson."
"Thank the Lord. Amen," Jackson said, crossing himself.
He wasn't a Catholic. He was a Baptist, a member of the First Baptist Church of Harlem. But he was a very religious young man. Whenever he was troubled he crossed himself just to be on the safe side.
"Set down, Daddy," Imabelle said. "Your knees are shakin'."
Jackson sat down at the table and stared at the stove. Imabelle stood beside him, drew his head tight against her bosom. Hank consulted his watch. Jodie stood to one side, his mouth wide open.
"Ain't it done yet?" Jackson asked.
"Just one more minute," Hank said.
He moved to the sink to get a drink of water.
"Ain't the minute up yet?" Jackson asked.
At that instant the stove exploded with such force it blew the door off.
"Great balls of fire!" Jackson yelled. He came up from his chair as if the seat of his pants had blown up.
"Look out, Daddy!" Imabelle screamed and hugged Jackson so hard she threw him flat on his back.
"Hold it, in the name of the law!" a new voice shouted.
A tall, slim colored man with a cop's scowl rushed into the kitchen. He had a pistol in his right hand and a gold-plated badge in his left.
"I'm a United States marshal. I'm shooting the first one who moves."
He looked as if he meant it.
The kitchen had filled with smoke and stunk like black gunpowder. Gas was pouring from the stove. The scorched cardboard tubes that had been cooking in the oven were scattered over the floor.
"It's the law!" Imabelle screamed.
"I heard him!" Jackson yelled.
"Let's beat it!" Jodie shouted.
He tripped the marshal into the table and made for the door. Hank got there before him and Jodie went out on Hank's back. The marshal sprawled across the table top.
"Run, Daddy!" Imabelle said.
"Don't wait for me," Jackson replied.
He was on his hands and knees, trying as hard as he could to get to his feet. But Imabelle was running so hard she stumbled over him and knocked him down again as she made for the door.
Before the marshal could straighten up all three of them had escaped.
"Don't you move!" he shouted at Jackson.
"I ain't moving, Marshal."
When the marshal finally got his feet underneath him he yanked Jackson erect and snapped a pair of handcuffs about his wrists.
"Trying to make a fool out of me! You'll get ten years for this."
Jackson turned a battleship gray.
"I ain't done nothing, Marshal. I swear to God."
Jackson had attended a Negro college in the South, but whenever he was excited or scared he began talking in his native dialect.
"Sit down and shut up," the marshal ordered.
He shut off the gas and began picking up the cardboard tubes for evidence. He opened one, took out a brand-new hundreddollar bill and held it up toward the light.
"Raised from a ten. The markings are still on it."
Jackson had started to sit down but he stopped suddenly and began to plead.
"It wasn't me what done that, Marshal. I swear to God, It was them two fellows who got away. All 1 done was come into the kitchen to get a drink of water."
"Don't lie to me, Jackson. I know you. I've got the goods on you, man. I've been watching you three counterfeiters for days."
Tears welled up in Jackson's eyes, he was so scared.
"Listen, Marshal, I swear to God I didn't have nothing to do with that. I don't even know how to do it. The little man called Hank who got away is the counterfeiter. He's the only one who's got the paper."
"Don't worry about them, Jackson. I'll get them too. But I've already got you, and I'm taking you down to the Federal Building. So I'm warning you, anything you say to me will be used against you in court."
Jackson slid from the chair and got down on his knees.
"Leave me go just this once, Marshal." The tears began streaming down his face. "Just this once, Marshal. I've never been arrested before. I'm a church man, I ain't dishonest. I confess, I put up the money for Hank to raise, but it was him who was breaking the law, not me. I ain't done nothing wouldn't nobody do if they had a chance to make a pile of money."
"Get up, Jackson, and take your punishment like a man," the marshal said. "You're just as guilty as the others. If you hadn't put up the tens, Hank couldn't have changed them into hundreds."
Jackson saw himself serving ten years in prison. Ten years away from Imabelle. Jackson had only had Imabelle for eleven months, but he couldn't live without her. He was going to marry her as soon as she got her divorce from that man down South she was still married to. If he went to prison for ten years, by then she'd have another man and would have forgotten all about him. He'd come out of prison an old man, thirty-eight years old, dried up. No one would give him a job. No woman would want him. He'd be a bum, hungry, skinny, begging on the streets of Harlem, sleeping in doorways, drinking canned heat to keep warm. Mama Jackson hadn't raised a son for that, struggled to send him through the college for Negroes, just to have him become a convict. He just couldn't let the marshal take him in.
He clutched the marshal about the legs.
"Have mercy on a poor sinner, man. I know I did wrong, but I'm not a criminal. I just got talked into it. My woman wanted a new winter coat, we want to get a place of our own, maybe buy a car. I just yielded to temptation. You're a coloured man like me, you ought to understand that. Where are we poor colored people goin' to get any money from?"
The marshal yanked Jackson to his feet.
"God damn it, get yourself together, man. Go take a drink of water. You act as if you think I'm Jesus Christ."
Jackson went to the sink and drank a glass of water. He was crying like a baby.