Black Orchid Blues

by Persia Walker

  He paused. “Stax Murphy.”

  The name fell from his lips like a brick. Stax was one of Harlem’s most notorious policy bankers. He was also a loan shark of the worst ilk. The New York Police Department had at least three warrants out for him: murder, extortion, and blackmail. Blackie and his men had been searching for Stax for years, but they hadn’t gotten close, not once. “He’s like a ghost,” Blackie had once told me. “This is a man who can practically disappear in front of your eyes. He knows every trick in the book and probably wrote a few.”

  “And Queenie owes him?”

  “Big time. He’s been losing at craps and running to Stax for help.”

  This was bad news, very bad news. I heard this with a sinking heart. If Queenie was in debt to Stax, then the singer’s chances of survival were sinking by the second. Men like Stax tried to get their money by intimidation first. By the time they resorted to kidnapping, it meant they had given up hope of getting their money back, so they were out for a pound of flesh instead. I had seen the results of their henchmen’s handiwork. It was never a pretty sight. I flashed on the memory of putting those handcuffs around Queenie’s wrists and felt sick.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  “Go away!” Jack-a-Lee yelled.

  “But I got to go bad!”

  “Then get the hell outta my house and take it outside!”

  There was plaintive grumbling and the sound of feet scurrying away. Jack-a-Lee turned back to me. His eyes were dead serious and he suddenly looked old. “If you’re thinking about going up against Stax, don’t. He’d kill you without blinking an eyelash.”

  I raised my chin and tightened my lips.

  “Listen,” Jack-a-Lee said. “I knew a man Stax killed just for stealing a loaf of bread. Name was Stone, Ralph Stone. He didn’t even steal the bread, not really. He was a guest in the house and ate more than half of it. One of the other guests complained. Stax said he’d ‘handle it.’ A couple of days later, he did.

  “He and Ralph were sitting in a car, down on 125th Street. They’re drinking, doing a little reefer. Stax takes out his gun. Looks like he’s just showing it off. And Ralph—now, he’s easy to impress and wants to please—he asks if he could touch it. Stax gives him the gun, watches him admire it. Then Stax takes it back, says, ‘You wanna see how it works?’ Ralph nods. And that was that. Stax pumped two bullets in him. Shot him right in the face, up close and personal.” Jack-a-Lee paused. “You go after him, you’ll be dead before I ever get my face in the papers, much less that dough. Now, you know I can’t have that.”

  “I get it, but …”

  “You’re still going after him.”

  “No, I’m going after the story and wherever it leads. Right now, it’s leading to him.”

  “But baby, you’ve got no backup, no protection.”

  “You’re beginning to sound like Sam.”

  At the mention of Delaney, Jack-a-Lee beamed. Some of his normal mischief returned to his eyes. “Honey, you got yourself a fine sheik there. Um-hmm. Hope you’re giving it to him, nice and regular.”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Of course it is. Cause if you don’t, then I will.”

  “He doesn’t swing that way.”

  Jack-a-Lee cocked his head. “Oh, you’d be surprised.” He examined a fingernail, buffed it against his breast. “Trust me, if I gave him a taste of my sweetness, he’d never look back.”

  “Thank you for your advice.” I leaned forward. “Now tell me: where do I find Stax Murphy?”

  If Stax was behind Queenie’s disappearance, then I wanted to talk to him—and do it fast, before the cops started a shootout and got everybody killed. The chances of convincing Stax to let Queenie go were probably next to nothing. I knew that, but I had to try. I owed it to Queenie. I owed it to myself.

  Sam would’ve disagreed, and he’d be horrified at the thought of me hunting down Stax, so I wouldn’t tell him. He’d find out soon enough.

  My main worry was what I’d say to Stax. I didn’t quite know what I’d say, but I was sure I’d think of something. Because I had to. Meanwhile, I was enjoying what my question had done to Jack-a-Lee’s expression.

  His heavily kohled eyes widened, his jaw dropped, and his voice went up half an octave. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “Come on,” I said.

  “Lanie—”

  “Tell Stax that he needs to talk to me—”

  “Needs? Wha—”

  “Yes, needs. Tell him that despite all the killing, I wasn’t the only one to survive that massacre. I was down at that station house last night, Jack-a-Lee, and I can tell you—there were a ton of witnesses. That sketch artist was busy. Now, if I can connect him up to this, then the cops can too—”

  “You’re not going to say anything, are you? Or tell them I told you?”

  “Of course not. But I don’t have to. They’ve got those drawings. They’re showing them around right now. Sooner or later somebody’s going to slip or make a deal and say something. That’s it. Stax is Olmo’s boss, and he’s already on the most wanted list, so they’ll be hungry for him. I’d say another twenty-four hours, tops. If he wants to be smart about it, he’ll talk to me and get his story out there, before the cops do it for him.”

  Jack-a-Lee thought about it, then shook his head. “Lanie, he’d kill me.”

  “Okay,” I shrugged. “No help, no picture, no moolah.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You’re being cruel.”

  I tilted my head.

  “Look,” he said. “If I even tried to get that information for you, we’d both be dead in a minute. Stax doesn’t want anybody knowing—”

  There was another pounding on the door, which jumped in its frame.

  “Hey!” a male voice yelled. “Is there anybody in there? Whoever you are, you’d better get the hell outta there! You don’t and I’ll get Jack-a-Lee. You know what he said about fucking in the—”

  Jack-a-Lee yanked the door open. “Are you crazy! Banging and yelling like that?”

  The man who’d knocked stumbled backward, tripping on his fake satin cloak. He would’ve fallen into the stairwell if the banister hadn’t caught him.

  “Oh, Jack-a-Lee, it’s you! I didn’t know.

  How was I supposed to know?” Jack-a-Lee growled at him, glanced at me, and then turned back to his guest. “The lady and I are conducting business, very important business. Do you hear? You’re just lucky that I’m in a good frame of mind. Or else I’d—”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “We’re finished.”

  Jack-a-Lee jerked around with a frown and a look of surprise. “Are you sure?”

  “Are you going to give me what I asked for?”

  “No.”

  “Then, yes, we’re done.”

  I walked out and he followed. Downstairs, the crowd was applauding. A man stood next to the piano. On his head was a top hat; around his neck, a wing-tip collar and black bow tie. He was otherwise naked. As I watched, he lit a cigarette. But instead of smoking it, he balanced it end-up on the piano bench.

  “What’s he going to do?” I whispered to Jack-a-Lee.

  “Just wait.”

  The man squatted over the bench and lowered himself onto the cigarette. The crowd hushed. Everyone was waiting for a cry of pain or the moment when the guy would chicken out. Neither came. The performer lowered himself until that cigarette disappeared into his rear end, bit by bit.

  “Isn’t he marvelous?” Jack-a-Lee gushed.

  “He’s something all right.”

  “One day I demanded he show me how he did it. I got down on my knees for a good, close look. He actually has such fine control that he can work that ciggy right up there and squeeze it out before it burns him. It was one of the most remarkable things I’ve ever seen.”

  I had nothing to say. Actually, I had plenty to say. I was just too polite to say it.

  Jack-a-Lee, of course, knew this. He gave me a mischievous look. �
��Shall I ask him to give you a personal performance?”

  I looked askance. “Thank you, but no. That’s one repeat performance I can do without.”

  CHAPTER 11

  I headed out of Jack-a-Lee’s around one in the morning. It was a shock to leave the crowded warmth of his town house and step into the cold empty streets. I hurried to my car, careful not to slip on the ice. I got in, shut the door, and exhaled, watching my breath hang in the chilled air. Then I started the engine.

  It was only fourteen blocks uptown to my house—a short distance to drive, but long enough to do some serious cogitating. The Black Orchid was into Stax Murphy for sums unknown. Stax sent the Velvet Swede to collect. Perhaps it became clear that Queenie didn’t have the dough and never would, or maybe Stax got impatient, or even just plain greedy. Whatever. He decided to nab Queenie and squeeze Lucien Fawkes for the cash.

  That scenario made sense. There was only one thing wrong with it. The ransom demand: it hadn’t been made. Twenty-four hours had come and gone, with nary a peep from the kidnappers.

  Now that was something to chew on.

  Maybe, like Lucien said, the request was simply delayed for some reason. Or maybe Stax had something totally different in mind.

  But what could that be?

  I thought about it while sitting at a traffic stop and decided that the only thing I knew for certain was that Queenie had secrets. Maybe one of them had gotten him kidnapped, possibly killed.

  There was also the Cotton Club angle, but Lucien himself didn’t seem to put much faith in it and neither did I. I just couldn’t see Frenchy needing to kidnap any songbird to put him in that golden cage.

  The traffic light changed. Instead of going straight, which would’ve taken me home, I pulled a hard left and drove west. I was thinking of the police station, but something else must’ve been on my mind, because I found myself slowing down in front of Sam’s place. His second-floor apartment was opposite the police station and one block from the newsroom. He was always on hand in case a major story broke, always there for an emergency.

  Always there, period. He was my rock, stable and true and firmly in my corner. I wanted to talk to him, tell him what I’d found out from Lucien Fawkes, Morgana, and Jack-a-Lee. But that wasn’t the only reason I went there.

  Over the past months, Sam had worked hard to show me that love was still possible, that it was worth giving a chance. And what had I done but push him away?

  For the first time since my man died, I wondered if Hamp would have been happy with the choices I was making. I was sure he would’ve been proud of the way I did my job. I could even imagine him smiling down at me.

  But since Sam had made his interest known to me, I’d had a different image of Hamp, one of him frowning—not at Sam, but at me, with concern wrinkling his handsome brow. Life was giving me a second chance at love but I couldn’t bring myself to grab it and I didn’t quite understand why.

  Hamp. God, I missed that man so much, I missed him in every part of my being. For the longest time, I didn’t even think about somebody else touching me. The desire was just gone.

  But that was changing because of Sam, who was patient, kind—and good-looking. There was no denying it. He was single. He was fine. And he wanted me.

  Still I hesitated.

  I glanced up the street. Beyond the next light, on the other side of the road, was the newsroom where we spent most of our days working together.

  Amend that.

  As the paper’s society reporter, I was out and about, running from one function to the next. As its city room editor, he was a fairly permanent fixture in the fishbowl of his office. So we couldn’t actually spend that much time together. Our roles precluded it. But like most in the newsroom, I thought of him as the paper’s anchor. His was the first face I sought whenever I walked in the door, and I often sensed him seeking me out too.

  Why was I hesitating?

  Sam was waiting. But how long would he wait?

  Selena Troy, our very pretty obit writer, wasn’t waiting. She wasn’t just the youngest member of our reporting staff, she was also by far the most ambitious. She’d made more than one play for Sam and no doubt would make plenty more. She would persevere until one day she got him, until she brought him down, like a lioness taking down her prey. Then she would make sure that everyone knew about her conquest. Subtlety and discretion were not among her concerns. Selena was one of those women who enjoy the hunt as much as many men do. Sam knew that. Maybe that’s why he’d apparently found it so easy to resist her charms—so far.

  I glanced up to see if his lights were on. They weren’t, but instinct told me that he would be awake. Instinct and the dark circles he often had under his eyes said Sam went late to bed and maybe sometimes not at all. Without giving myself time to think about why I was there or what I wanted, I got out of the car, ran up to his front door, and rang the bell.

  And waited.

  There was no answer.

  I raised my hand to ring again, then lowered it. Disappointed in a way I wasn’t ready to admit, I ran to the car, hopped back in, and drove on.

  CHAPTER 12

  Ever since his divorce, Blackie had pretty much lived at the station house. He couldn’t stand the thought of being alone. Once, when he’d been especially exhausted and sad, he’d been blunt: “The house is so empty without her. I don’t know how you do it, Lanie, living in that big house all on your own. I only have two rooms and it’s too much for me. Way too much.”

  So I thought it was likely he’d be at the station now, working the case, glad to have something to take his mind off his troubles.

  He was in all right, sitting at his desk with a thick file open before him and stacks of papers on either side. His shirt was rumpled, his tie askew. The harsh light of the station house threw shadows that revealed worry lines I hadn’t seen before and new streaks of gray in his black hair.

  He was hanging up the phone as I walked in.

  “So, you are here,” I said.

  “I belong here. What are you doing at this time of night?” His Irish brogue was heavy, thick with fatigue.

  I shrugged, gave a half smile, and plunked down in the chair next to his desk. “You know how it is. Reporters … we don’t keep regular hours either. We follow the story, like you guys follow the case.”

  “Actually, I think it’s the other way around. We don’t follow the case; it follows us.”

  “And when it catches you?”

  “We’re goners.”

  I chuckled at that and so did he.

  “A bit of melodrama always helps, me ould da used to say,” he added with a crooked smile.

  “As if this case doesn’t have enough.”

  His smile faded. He looked at the file before him, already two inches thick with notes and reports and photographs. “That Harvard boy’s family, they’re breathing down the mayor’s neck. The mayor’s breathing down the commissioner’s neck …”

  “And the commissioner’s breathing down the captain’s—”

  “And the captain down mine. I feel like I’ve got a herd of bloody elephants on my back.”

  Despite his complaining, I knew that the Cinnamon Club massacre was the kind of case that Blackie lived for. It had clear, straight lines, just bad guys and good guys and no in-between. But the expectations that went with cases like this were crushing, from the public to City Hall, the brass, and on down. If you weren’t careful, you could end up spending more time managing other people’s expectations than actually working the case.

  “So, you don’t have anything?”

  “Oh, I didn’t say that. But it’s nothing I can share.”

  “You working it alone?”

  He shook his head. “We’re putting together a task force. We’ll announce it tomorrow.”

  “How many on the team?”

  “Three. With me, it’ll be four.”

  “Smart guys?”

  He lowered his head. “You promise not to quote me?”r />
  “I promise.”

  “Nice guys, but they’re rubes. I wouldn’t have picked them.”

  “You mean it’s for show?”

  “You promised not to quote me.”

  “I won’t.”

  “It’s a bunch of malarkey.”

  “When’s the news conference?”

  “At noon.”

  I made a mental note of it, then pointed to the open file before him. “Sure there’s nothing in there for me right now?”

  “What for? Your paper won’t come out for another week. You don’t work for a daily, remember?”

  “Even so. I like to stay in the know.”

  He paused, studying me. “You ever regret leaving the Harlem Age?”

  “No. Why? It’s not a daily either.”

  “But it seemed closer to what you like to do.”

  I shook my head. “I’m fine where I am.” I glanced at the stack in front of him. “So, what’s up with the file?”

  “Let’s see. What’ve we got here? Well, for one thing, we’ve got a confession.”

  I straightened up, all ears. “You have a confession and you weren’t going to tell me?”

  “Hold on.” He raised a hand. “I admit that no, I wasn’t. But since you’re so insistent, I might share a few details.”

  “Please.”

  “One question.”

  “Yes?”

  “Which confession would you like to hear about?” He flipped through the pages. “We have a least a dozen. It’s your choice. I’ll give you everything but the names.”

  I sat back. “Very funny.”

  “Some of it, yeah. In short, what we’ve got here is a whole lotta nothing: crazies who want a minute of fame. At least fifty people claim to have seen the Black Orchid since the kidnapping. As far north as Poughkeepsie, as far south as Dixie. I don’t know how they heard about it down there, but evidently they did. Most of it don’t mean a thing, but we’ve got to follow it up, all of it. And no doubt more will come in. Ever since that boy’s family announced the reward, the phones have been ringing off the hook.”

  I listened to the silence of the station. “It’s quiet now.”