Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 49, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2004

She directed him down a short hallway where Angus Haynes sat in a study laboring over some papers. Angus Haynes languished on the far side of middle age. He regarded Memphis suspiciously as his daughter whispered in his ear. A younger man who appeared as if his duties could only be physical stood nearby and tried to look intimidating as Lena left the room, closing the door behind her.

The young man patted Memphis down and nodded his confirmation that there was no weapon. Haynes still kept his hands hidden behind his desk as he scrutinized Memphis.

“Memphis Red. An unusual name,” Haynes commented. “What is it you think I can do for you?”

“The name’s Travis Redmond. Memphis is just what they call me. I believe you have a job opening.”

The old man laughed, apparently finding Memphis amusing.

“You job hunting? What makes you think I need help?”

“The help you had was piss-poor, unless Ray Mayweather was just one of your charity causes.”

Haynes’s eyes narrowed. Apparently Lena hadn’t told him who had put Ray out of commission.

“You’re a dangerous man, Mr. Redmond. I don’t like dangerous men.”

“Yeah, you do.” Memphis took the liberty of sitting down without being asked. “Besides, I’ve worked for you before, so I figured that you owed me a job among other things.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Haynes’s patience was getting short.

“Vincent Morelli.”

Haynes sat back in his chair without speaking. He stared at Memphis for several seconds while flexing his jaw before moving the pistol in his lap to the top of the desk.

“What do you know about Morelli?” he asked.

“He hired me to help him with a job up in New York.”

“You’re lying,” the old man said. “Morelli only hired niggers. I thought it was a personal failing, but he assured me that there was an advantage to working with a disposable product.”

“You’re wrong. The colored boys could only go so far. That’s what happens when you don’t do your own planning.”

“I’m what they call an enabler, Mr. Redmond. I provide the means. I leave the details to others. Why didn’t Morelli ever mention your name?”

“I guess there was no point if he thought I was dead.”

Memphis’s eyes remained fixed on the gun that lay on the desk between them. Haynes’s henchman had moved beyond his peripheral vision and probably stood behind him. He could only imagine what he was preparing to do.

“He said he had problems,” Haynes continued.

“To say the least. You and Morelli were pretty smart. He ran the game up North then brought the goods down to this little hole in the wall where nobody would ever think to look. Down here in Chitlin’ Switch, North Carolina, you can live like a king.”

The old man smiled an unplanned acknowledgement.

“So what’s your story, Mr. Redmond? What is it that you think Morelli didn’t tell me? What went wrong?”

“The numbers bank was upstairs in a small hotel. It was in Harlem right off Morningside Park. Nightclub on the first level. The thing is, the club was all white — big money, high rollers, plenty of cash. They gambled, bought numbers, dope, whatever. The only thing colored could do was to wait on them. So that was the way in. See, nobody paid any attention to colored boys going in to cook, wait tables, that sort of thing. So we sneaked in with the help that morning. Morelli and me were supposed to be supervisors. We worked our way upstairs where they kept the money, cracked a few heads, and walked away with two hundred fifty grand.”

“Why didn’t you come down with Morelli?”

“Because somebody shot me.”

Memphis watched the old man closely. He had no reaction. He couldn’t tell if it was because he already knew the story or whether he had lived long enough to not be surprised by much of anything anymore.

“I woke up in an alley. The three colored boys were dead, and I should have been. It took a year for me to get back on my feet, Mr. Haynes. Morelli was gone, and it took six months more for me to find out about you.”

“So I’ll bet you’re here for your share of the loot, aren’t you. Of course, I should just hand some money over to you because I have your word that you were in on it.” The sarcasm dripped from Haynes’s lips like a bitter poison.

“You could always ask Morelli,” Memphis suggested.

“Morelli’s dead,” Haynes replied unemotionally.

This time it was Memphis’s turn to appear nonplussed.

“Heard it was a car accident up in New Jersey,” Haynes continued.

“Interesting,” Memphis muttered.

“I think we’re done here, Mr. Redmond. I don’t expect to see you again. Carl can escort you to the door.”

Haynes’s bodyguard took a step in Memphis’s direction.

“Just in case you think we’re a bunch of dumb hicks down here, Mr. Redmond, I think you ought to know that we’re right on the edge of the Dismal Swamp. People get lost in there all the time, you know what I mean.”

Memphis nodded silently as Carl guided him away. He knew exactly what Haynes meant, and he knew a lot more than that.