“Two of ’em was. One was a white man.”

Heistmen impersonating cops. He was trying to remember when was the last time that was worked in Harlem. Generally that was a big-time deal.

“What did he look like?”

“Look like? Who look like?”

He had been concentrating so hard on trying to put the puzzle together that he had forgotten the joker. His gaze came back in hard focus.

“The white man. Don’t start getting cute.”

“It was just like I say, boss, he looked like a cop. You know how it is, boss,” he added slyly, giving Coffin Ed a confidential wink. “All these white cops look just alike.”

Under ordinary circumstances Coffin Ed would have passed that one by; the color angle worked just about the same on the force as it did in private life. He had played the “all us is black folks together” line himself on entering. But he wasn’t in the mood for comic patter.

“Listen, punk, this ain’t funny, this is murder,” he said.

“Don’t look at me, boss, I ain’t done it,” the joker said, throwing up his hands in comic pantomime as though to ward off a blow.

He didn’t really expect a blow, but he got one. Coffin Ed’s fists parted his hands and popped him in the left eye, and he sailed off the stool to join the other joker on the floor.

The customers began to mutter. He was getting their full attention now, and they were squirming into life.

The next joker in line was standing up. He was a big, rough-looking black man in a leather jacket and a cowskin fez. But suddenly he felt too big for the situation and was trying unsuccessfully to make himself smaller.

Coffin Ed measured him with bloodshot eyes. “Do you belong to the league, too?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“League? Nawsuh, boss. I mean if it’s the wrong league I sure don’t belong to it.”

“The know-nothing league.”