“Not any that won’t keep until tomorrow,” he said. “If I start talking to my old lady about automobile tires, as fat as she’s getting, I’m subject to losing my happy home.”

Chapter 8.

When Roman came to the castle standing in the fork, where St. Nicholas Place branches off from St. Nicholas Avenue, he stood on the brake.

Sassafras sailed headfirst into the windshield, and Mister Baron’s unconscious figure rolled off the back seat and plumped onto the floor.

“Which way did they go?” Roman asked, reaching for the .45 revolver that lay on the seat between them.

Sassafras straightened up, rubbing her forehead, and turned on him angrily. “You asking me? I ain’t seen which way they went. They might have went downtown for all I know.”

“I seen them turn uptown,” he argued, his cocked gray eyes seeming to peer down both streets at once.

“Well, make up your mind,” she said in her high, keening voice. “They didn’t go into the castle, that’s for sure. And you can’t set here in the middle of the street all night.”

“I wish I had the mother-raper who built that castle there in the middle of Harlem,” Roman said as though it were responsible for his losing sight of the Cadillac.

“Well, you ain’t got him, and you better get out the middle of the street before someone comes along and claims you has stolen this Buick.”

“We has, ain’t we?” Roman said.

The bump had revived Mister Baron, and they could hear him groaning down on the floor behind them. “Oh God... Oh Jesus Christ... Those dirty bastards...”

Roman slipped the car in gear and drove slowly down between the rows of brick-fronted apartment buildings on St. Nicholas Place.

The castle, somebody’s brainstorm at the turn of the century, stood at 149th Street; above were the better-class residences for the colored people of Harlem. Roman was unfamiliar with this part of town, and he didn’t know which way to turn.

Mister Baron gripped the back of the front seat and pulled himself to his knees. His long, wavy hair hung down over his forehead; his eyes rolled loosely in their sockets.

“Let me out,” he said, moaning. “I’m going to be sick.”

Roman stopped the car in front of a red brick building with a fluted façade. Big new cars lined the curbs.

“Shut up!” he said, “if it hadn’t been for you, I never would have run off after hitting that old lady.”

Mister Baron’s mouth ballooned, but he held it back, “I’m going to be sick in the car,” he blubbered.

“Let him out,” Sassafras said. “If you’d listened to me, none of this would have happened.”

“Get out, man,” Roman shouted. “You want me to lift you?”

Mister Baron opened the curbside door and polled to his feet. He staggered groggily toward a lamppost. Roman jumped from the other side and followed him.

Mister Baron clung to the post and heaved. Steam rose as though he were spouting boiling water. Roman backed away.