I've got him spotted, but damn' if I know jess how to switch
'em on to him.”
“Get him a job around a store somewhere. Make out you're befriendin' him. Get his confidence.”
“Sounds good. Ought to be easy. He's from my state. Maybe I know him or some of his people.”
“Make out you do, anyhow. Then tell him some fairy tale that'll switch your trade to him. The cops'll follow the trade. We could even let Froggy flop into some dumb white cop's hands and 'confess' where he got it. See?”
“Chief, you got a head, no lie.”
“Don't lose no time. And remember, hereafter, it's better to sacrifice a little than to get squealed on. Never refuse a customer. Give him a little credit. Humor him along till you can get rid of him safe. You don't know what that guy that died may have said; you don't know who's on to you now. And if they get you—I don't know you."
“They won't get me," said Uggam.
King Solomon Gillis sat meditating in a room half the size of his hencoop back home, with a single window opening into an airshaft.
An airshaft: cabbage and chitterlings cooking; liver and onions sizzling, sputtering; three player-pianos out-plunking each other; a man and woman calling each other vile things; a sick, neglected baby wailing; a phonograph broadcasting blues; dishes clacking; a girl crying heartbrokenly; waste noises, waste odors of a score of families, seeking issue through a common channel; pollution from bottom to top—a sewer of sounds and smells.
Contemplating this, King Solomon grinned and breathed, "Dog-gone!” A little later, still gazing into the sewer, he grinned again. "Green stockin's," he said; "loud green!” The sewer gradually grew darker. A window lighted up opposite, revealing a woman in camisole and petticoat, arranging her hair. King Solomon, staring vacantly, shook his head and grinned yet again. “Even got cullud policemans!” he mumbled softly.
