It was a classic hustler-code impasse. The money wasn't the problem. I still had about two
hundred dollars of it. Had money been the issue, Sammy could have made up the difference; if it
wasn't in his pocket, his women could quickly have raised it. West Indian Archie himself, for that
matter, would have loaned me three hundred dollars if I'd ever asked him, as many thousands of
dollars of mine as he'd gotten ten percent of. Once, in fact, when he'd heard I was broke, he had
looked me up and handed me some money and grunted, "Stick this in your pocket."
The issue was the position which his action had put us both into. For a hustler in our sidewalk
jungle world, "face" and "honor" were important. No hustler could have it known that he'd been
"hyped," meaning outsmarted or made a fool of. And worse, a hustler could never afford to have it
demonstrated that he could be bluffed, that he could be frightened by a threat, that he lacked
nerve.
West Indian Archie knew that some young hustlers rose in stature in our world when they
somehow hoodwinked older hustlers, then put it on the wire for everyone to hear. He believed I
was trying that.
In turn, I knew he would be protecting his stature by broadcasting all over the wire his threat to
me.
Because of this code, in my time in Harlem I'd personally known a dozen hustlers who,
threatened, left town, disgraced.
Once the wire had it, any retreat by either of us was unthinkable. The wire would be awaiting the
report of the showdown.
I'd also known of at least another dozen showdowns in which one took the Dead On Arrival ride to
the morgue, and the other went to prison for manslaughter or the electric chair for murder.
Sammy let me hold his .32. My guns were at my apartment. I put the .32 in my pocket, with my
hand on it, and walked out.
I couldn't stay out of sight. I had to show up at all of my usual haunts. I was glad that Reginald
was out of town. He might have tried protecting me, and I didn't want him shot in the head by
West Indian Archie.
I stood awhile on the corner, with my mind confused-the muddled thinking that's characteristic of
the addict. Was West Indian Archie, I began to wonder, bluffing a hype on me? To make fun of
me? Some old hustlers did love to hype younger ones. I knew he wouldn't do it as some would,
just to pick up three hundred dollars. But everyone was so slick. In this Harlem jungle people
would hype their brothers. Numbers runners often had hyped addicts who had hit, who were so
drugged that, when challenged, they really couldn't be sure if they had played a certain number.
I began to wonder whether West Indian Archie might not be right. Had I really gotten my
combination confused? I certainly knew the two numbers I'd played; I knew I'd told him to com-
binate only one of them. Had I gotten mixed up about which number?
Have you ever been so sure you did something that you never would have thought of it again-
unless it was brought up again? Then you start trying tomentally confirm-and you're only about
half-sure?
It was just about tune for me to go and pick up Jean Parks, to go downtown to see Billie at the
Onyx Club. So much was swirling in my head. I thought about telephoning her and calling it off,
making some excuse. But I knew that running now was the worst thing I could do. So I went on
and picked up Jean at her place. We took a taxi on down to 52nd Street. "Billie Holiday" and
those big photo blow-ups of her were under the lights outside. Inside, the tables were jammed