A Rage in Harlem

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This is a surprising and captivating story. I picked it up after it was discussed in a Great Course lecture on mystery writing. The lecturer introduced the author, Chester Himes, as an African-American writer who addressed American racism through his detective stories featuring his Harlem detectives Gravedigger Jones and Coffin Ed Johnson. Himes eventually left America and American racism for France.

The book was surprising because while Gravedigger and Coffin Ed do make an appearance, and play key roles, in fact, they are featured in probably no more than 10% of the book. The real protagonist is a “square” named Jackson who is swindled by his girlfriend in a con involving “raising” ten dollar bills to one hundred dollar bills, and then swindled by a fake detective into robbing his boss, the undertaker, Mr. H. Exodus Clay, which leads him into looking up his brother Goldie, who makes a living as a cross-dressing “Sister of Mercy,” which leads to murders, swindles, and running around Harlem. One thing leads to another and about 50% of the way in, the story rips into high-gear where it is almost impossible to take a breather.

Another thing that surprised me was how funny the book was. On the one hand, the story was slapstick and played with stereotypes of fat black men, getting out of breath, getting wedged between walls, and the like. At times, I felt that the story was moving into an uncomfortable racism as characters dropped into a kind of “Stepp'n Fetchit” dialect and demeanor when confronted by white police authority. Likewise, if an author who was not African-American had written such a square and stupid character like Jackson, there would be quick charges of racism. (Let's not get started on the sexism, which was not even a thing that drew a moment's notice when this novel was written.)

But getting past all of the political correctness drilled in during the last fifty years, I found myself laughing at parts...and cringing at the violence at other parts. (The scene where Jackson seeks absolution from Reverend Gaines was particularly funny.)

I was also stunned by Himes' writing. His descriptions are captivating and downright lyrical. Here's an example:

“At street level the hot, brightly-lit waiting room was crammed with wooden benches, news-stands, lunch counters, slot machines, ticket windows, and aimless people. At the rear a double stairway ascended to the loading platform, with toilets underneath. Behind, out of sight, difficult to locate, impossible to get to, was the baggage room.

The surrounding area was choked with bars, flea-ridden flophouses called hotels, all-night cafetarias, hop dens, whorehouses, gambling joints, catering to all the whims of nature. Black and white folks rubbed shoulders day and night, over the beer-wet bars, getting red-eyed and rambunctious from the ruckus juice and fist-fighting in the street between the passing cars.

They sat side by side in the neon glare of the food factories, eating things from the steam tables that had no resemblance to food.

Whores buzzed about the area like green flies over stewing chitterlings.”

I listened to this as an audiobook by Samuel L. Jackson, who did a superb job of reading, although his white characters all sounded a bit like Don Adams.