In this knockout standalone crime novel from the acclaimed author of the Harlem Detectives series, a white cop’s murderous outburst leads to a pulse-pounding chase to silence a witness It’s early morning in New York, a few days after Christmas and bitter cold. A white detective named Walker accuses the black workers at a luncheonette on 37th Street and Fifth Avenue of stealing his car. He’s been drinking—a lot. By the time he corners Fat Sam in the refrigeration room, he’s raving mad, and his .32-caliber revolver goes off. But who would believe it was an accident? Two other men work in the luncheonette, and in his fuming, psychotic state, Walker is determined to take out these witnesses. One of them, Luke, he kills in cold blood. But the other, Jimmy, gets away by the skin of his teeth. As Jimmy tries to stay one step ahead and desperately pleads with the authorities that the killer is on the force, Walker closes in until the chase culminates in an explosive conclusion. Praise for Chester Himes's Run Man Run  “A fine example of the author’s skill. . . . The pace is terrific. If I had to recommend just one Himes title, this would be it.” —Robert Nye, The Guardian “A classic Himes novel. . . . Hard-hitting and tense until the very last scene.” — New York Herald Tribune “Himes is a master of the hardboiled school. . . . Taut. . . . Fast-paced.” — Detroit Free Press “[Himes has] a tremendous talent for packing a story with wild action.” — St. Louis Post-Dispatch Chester Himes began his writing career while serving in the Ohio State Penitentiary for armed robbery from 1929 to 1936. From his first novel, If He Hollers Let Him Go (1945), Himes dealt with the social and psychological repercussions of being black in a white-dominated society. Beginning in 1953, Himes moved to Europe, where he met and was strongly influenced by Richard Wright. It was in France that he began his best-known series of crime novels—including Cotton Comes to Harlem (1965)—featuring two Harlem policemen. As with Himes's earlier work, the series is characterized by violence and grisly, sardonic humor. He died in Spain in 1984. 1   Here it was the twenty-eighth of December and he still wasn’t sober. In fact, he was drunker than ever.   An ice-cold, razor-edged wind whistled down Fifth Avenue, bil­lowing his trench coat open and shaving his ribs. But it didn’t occur to him to button his coat. He was too drunk to give a damn.   He staggered north toward 37th Street, in the teeth of the wind, cursing a blue streak. His lean hawk-shaped face had turned blood-red in the icy wind. His pale blue eyes looked buck wild. He made a terrifying picture, cursing the empty air.   When he came to 37th Street he sensed that something had changed since he’d passed before. How long before he couldn’t remember. He glanced at his watch to see if the time would give him a clue. The time was 4:38 a.m. No wonder the street was deserted, he thought. Every one with any sense was home in bed, snuggled up to some fine hot woman.   He realized the lights had been turned off in the Schmidt and Schindler luncheonette on the corner where the porters had been working when he had passed before, whenever that was. He dis­tinctly remembered the ceiling lights being on for the porters to work. And now they were off.   He was instantly suspicious. He tried the plate-glass doors set diagonally in the corner. But they were locked. He pressed his face against the plate-glass window at front. Light from the Lord & Tay­lor Christmas tree was reflected by the stainless-steel equipment and plastic counters. His searching gaze probed among the shining coffee urns, steam soup urns, grills, toasters, milk and fruit juice cis­terns, refrigerated storage cabinets, and along the linoleum floor on both sides of the counter. But there was no sign of life.   He hammered on the door and shook the knob. “Open this god­damned door!” he shouted.   No one appeared.   He lurched around the corner toward the service entrance on 37th Street.   He saw the Negro at the same time the Negro saw him. The Negro was wearing a tan cotton canvas duster overtop a blue cotton uniform, white work gloves, and a dark felt hat. He held something in his hand.   He knew immediately that the Negro was a porter. But sight of a Negro made him think that his car had been stolen instead of lost. He couldn’t have said why, but he was suddenly sure of it.   He stuck his right hand inside of his trench coat and staggered forward.   The Negro’s reaction was just as sudden but different. Upon see­ing the drunken white man staggering in his direction, he thought automatically, Here comes trouble. Every time I get ready to put out the garbage, some white mother-raper comes by here drunk and looking for trouble.   He was alone. The other porter, Jimmy, who was helping him with the garbage, was down in the basement stacking the cans onto the lift. And the third porter, Fat Sam, would be