I carried about fifty sticks in a small package inside my coat, under my armpit, keeping my arm flatagainst my side. Moving about, I kept my eyes open. If anybody looked suspicious, I'd quickly crossthe street, or go through a door, or turn a comer, loosening my arm enough to let the package drop. Atnight, when I usually did my selling, any suspicious person wouldn't be likely to see the trick. If Idecided I had been mistaken, I'd go back and get my sticks.However, I lost many a stick this way. Sometimes, I knew I had frustrated a detective. And I kept outof the courts.One morning, though, I came in and found signs that my room had been entered. I knew it had beendetectives. I'd heard too many times how if they couldn't find any evidence, they would plant some,where you would never find it, then they'd come back in and "find" it. I didn't even have to thinktwice what to do. I packed my few belongings and never looked back. When I went to sleep again, itwas in another room.It was then that I began carrying a little .25 automatic. I got it, for some reefers, from an addict who Iknew had stolen it somewhere. I carried it pressed under my belt right down the center of my back. Someone had told me that the cops never hit there in any routine patting-down. And unless I knewwho I was with, I never allowed myself to get caught in any crush of people. The narcotics cops hadbeen known to rush up and get their o hands on you and plant evidence while "searching." I felt thatas long as I kept on the go, and in the open, I had a good chance. I don't know now what my realthoughts were about carrying the pistol. But I imagine I felt that I wasn't going to get put away ifsomebody tried framing me in any situation that I could help.　I sold less than before because having to be so careful consumed so much time. Every now and then,on a hunch, I'd move to another room. I told nobody but Sammy where I slept.Finally, it was on the wire that the Harlem narcotics squad had me on its special list.　Now, every other day or so, usually in some public place, they would flash the badge to search me.But I'd tell them at once, loud enough for others standing about to hear me, that I had nothing on me,and I didn't want to get anything planted on me. Then they wouldn't, because Harlem already thoughtlittle enough of the law, and they did have to be careful that some crowd of Negroes would notintervene roughly. Negroes were starting to get very tense in Harlem. One could almost smell troubleready to break out-as it did very soon.But it was really tough on me then. I was having to hide my sticks in various places near where I wasselling. I'd put five sticks in an empty cigarette pack, and drop the empty-looking pack by a lamppost,or behind a garbage can, or a box. And I'd first tell customers to pay me, and then where to pick up.

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I kept turning over my profit, increasing my supplies, and I sold reefers like a wild man. I scarcelyslept; I was wherever musicians congregated. A roll of money was in my pocket. Every day, I clearedat least fifty or sixty dollars. In those days (or for that matter these days), this was a fortune to aseventeen-year-old Negro. I felt, for the first time in my life, that great feeling of _free_! Suddenly,now, I was the peer of the other young hustlers I had admired.It was at this time that I discovered the movies. Sometimes I made as many as five in one day, bothdowntown and in Harlem. I loved the tough guys, the action, Humphrey Bogart in "Casablanca," and Iloved all of that dancing and carrying on in such films as "Stormy Weather" and "Cabin in the Sky."After leaving the movies, I'd make my connections for supplies, then roll my sticks, and, about dark,I'd start my rounds. I'd give a couple of extra sticks when someone bought ten, which was five dollars'.worth. And I didn't sell and run, because my customers were my friends. Often I'd smoke along withthem. None of them stayed any more high than I did.Free now to do what I pleased, upon an impulse I went to Boston. Of course, I saw Ella. I gave hersome money: it was just a token of appreciation, I told her, for helping me when I had come fromLansing. She wasn't the same old Ella; she still hadn't forgiven me for Laura. She never mentioned her,nor did I. But, even so, Ella acted better than she had when I had left for New York. We reviewed thefamily changes. Wilfred had proved so good at his trade they had asked him to stay on at Wilberforceas an instructor. And Ella had gotten a card from Reginald who had managed to get into the merchantmarine.From Shorty's apartment, I called Sophia. She met me at the apartment just about as Shorty went off to work. I would have liked to take her out to some of the Roxbury clubs, but Shorty had told us that, asin New York, the Boston cops used the war as an excuse to harass interracial couples, stopping themand grilling the Negro about his draft status. Of course Sophia's now being married made us morecautious, too.When Sophia caught a cab home, I went to hear Shorty's band. Yes, he had a band now. He hadsucceeded in getting a 4-F classification, and I was pleased for him and happy to go. His band was-well, fair. But Shorty was making out well in Boston, playing in small clubs. Back in the apartment, wetalked into the next day. "Homeboy, you're something else!" Shorty kept saying. I told him some of thewild things I'd done in Harlem, and about the friends I had. I told him the story of Sammy the Pimp.In Sammy's native Paducah, Kentucky, he had gotten a girl pregnant. Her parents made it so hot thatSammy had come to Harlem, where he got a job as a restaurant waiter. When a woman came in to eatalone, and he found she really was alone, not married, or living with somebody, it generally was nothard for smooth Sammy to get invited to her apartment. He'd insist on going out to a nearbyrestaurant to bring back some dinner, and while he was out he would have her key duplicated. Then,when he knew she was away, Sammy would go in and clean out all her valuables. Sammy was thenable to offer some little stake, to help her back on her feet. This could be the beginning of an emotionaland financial dependency, which Sammy knew how to develop until she was his virtual slave.Around Harlem, the narcotics squad detectives didn't take long to find out I was selling reefers, andoccasionally one of them would follow me. Many a peddler was in jail because he had been caughtwith the evidence on his person; I figured a way to avoid that. The law specified that if the evidencewasn't actually in your possession, you couldn't be arrested. Hollowed-out shoe heels, fake hat-linings, these things were old stuff to the detectives.

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