The guard was trying to get the muzzle of his rifle through a gun slot in the windshield when another burst of machine-gun fire came from the delivery truck and its back doors were slammed shut. No one noticed the detective on the running-board of the armored truck suddenly disappear. One moment he was there, the next he was gone.

The colored people on the tenement stoops, seeking relief from the hot night, began running over one another to get indoors. Some dove into the basement entrances beneath the stairs.

One loudmouthed comic shouted from the safety below the level of the sidewalk, "Harlem Hospital straight ahead."

From across the street another loudmouth shouted back, "Morgue comes first."

The meat delivery truck was gaining on the armored truck. It must have been powered to keep meat fresh from Texas.

From far behind came the faint sound of the scream of the siren from the police cruiser, seeming to cry, "Wait for me!"

Lightning flashed. Before the sound of thunder was heard, rain came down in torrents.

2

"Well, kiss my foot if it isn't Jones," Lieutenant Anderson exclaimed, rising from behind the captain's desk to extend his hand to his ace detectives. Slang sounded as phony as a copper's smile coming from his lips, but the warm smile lighting his thin pale face and the twinkle in his deep-set blue eyes squared it. "Welcome home."

Grave Digger Jones squeezed the small white hand in his own big, calloused paw and grinned. "You need to get out in the sun, Lieutenant, 'fore someone takes you for a ghost," he said as though continuing a conversation from the night before instead of a six months' interim.