Once, when I called Sophia in Boston, she said she couldn't get away until the following
weekend. She had just married some well-to-do Boston white fellow. He was in the service, he
had been home on leave, and he had just goneback. She didn't mean it to change a thing
between us. I told her it made no difference. I had of course introduced Sophia to my friend
Sammy, and we had gone out together some nights. And Sammy and I had thoroughly discussed
the black man and white woman psychology. I had Sammy to thank that I was entirely prepared
for Sophia's marriage.
Sammy said that white women were very practical; he had heard so many of them express how
they felt. They knew that the black man had all the strikes against him, that the white man kept
the black man down, under his heel, unable to get anywhere, really. The white woman wanted to
be comfortable, she wanted to be looked upon with favor by her own kind, but also she wanted to
have her pleasure. So some of them just married a white man for convenience and security, and
kept right on going with a Negro. It wasn't that they were necessarily in love with the Negro, but
they were in love with lust-particularly "taboo" lust.
A white man was not too unusual if he had a ten-, twenty-, thirty-, forty-, or fifty-thousand-dollar-ayear
job. A Negro man who made even five thousand in the white man's world was unusual. The
white woman with a Negro man would be with him for one of two reasons: either extremely
insane love, or to satisfy her lust.
When I had been around Harlem long enough to show signs of permanence, inevitably I got a
nickname that would identify me beyond any confusion with two other red-conked and well-known
"Reds" who were around. I had met them both; in fact, later on I'd work with them both. One, "St.
Louis Red," was a professional armed robber. When I was sent to prison, he was serving time for
trying to stick up a dining car steward on a train between New York and Philadelphia. He was
finally freed; now, I hear, he is in prison for a New York City jewel robbery.
The other was "Chicago Red." We became good buddies in a speakeasy where later on I was a
waiter; Chicago Red was the funniest dishwasher on this earth. Now he's making his living being
funny as a nationally known stage and nightclub comedian. I don't see any reason why old
Chicago Red would mind me telling that he is Redd Foxx.
Anyway, before long, my nickname happened. Just when, I don't know-but people, knowing I was
from Michigan, would ask me what city. Since most New Yorkers had never heard of Lansing, I
would name Detroit. Gradually, I began to be called "Detroit Red"-and it stuck.
One afternoon in early 1943, before the regular six o'clock crowd had gathered, a black soldier
sat drinking by himself at one of my tables. He must have been there an hour or more. He looked
dumb and pitiful and just up from the Deep South. The fourth or fifth drink I served this soldier,
wiping the table I bent over close and asked him if he wanted a woman.
I knew better. It wasn't only Small's Paradise law, it was the law of every tavern that wanted to
stay in business-never get involved with anything that could be interpreted as "impairing the
morals" of servicemen, or any kind of hustling off them. This had caused trouble for dozens of
places: some had been put off limits by the military; some had lost their state or city licenses.
I played right into the hands of a military spy. He sure would like a woman. He acted so grateful.
He even put on an extreme Southern accent. And I gave him the phone number of one of my best
friends among the prostitutes where I lived.
But something felt wrong. I gave the fellow a half-hour to get there, and then Itelephoned. I
expected the answer I got-that no soldier had been there.
I didn't even bother to go back out to the bar. I just went straight to Charlie Small's office.
"I just did something, Charlie," I said. "I don't know why I did it-" and I told him.
Charlie looked at me. "I wish you hadn't done that, Red." We both knew what he meant.
When the West Indian plainclothes detective, Joe Baker, came in, I was waiting. I didn't even ask
him any questions. When we got to the 135th Street precinct, it was busy with police in uniform,
and MP's with soldiers in tow. I was recognized by some other detectives who, like Joe Baker,
sometimes dropped in at Small's.
Two things were in my favor. I'd never given the police any trouble, and when that black spy