By this time, I was terrified. “Please, undo the blindfold. It’ll take forever for me to get down otherwise.”
No answer. Then came a voice that seemed to float up from the pits of hell, strong, vibrant, echoing: “Take off the cuffs.”
“But—”
“Uncuff her, I said.”
There was a pause, then my hands were yanked around. A hand gripped one wrist while another inserted a key. The cuffs fell away and I rubbed my wrists with relief.
The voice below me said, “There is a railing to your right.”
The man behind me gave a little shove and I grabbed for the railing. I made my way down, and I counted: one, two, three … When I got to twelve, my nose had gotten used to the smell, somewhat. But now I felt it on my skin, a dirty thickness in the air.
I heard two sets of footsteps going back up the stairs and then a heavy thud, the sound of the trapdoor being latched. An animal presence, watchful and potentially lethal, moved around in the dark. Was I was now alone with Stax Murphy, a man that not even the NYPD had been able to track down? I could hear the pattern of feet treading on the gravel floor in front of me.
“Mr. Murphy?”
“Yes?”
“May I remove the blindfold?”
“Yes.”
I pushed it back over my head, blinked, and rubbed my eyes. I was definitely in some kind of warehouse basement, probably over by the Hudson River. It was cavernous and mostly empty. I took it in before turning my attention to my host for the evening.
He was tall and well-dressed in a dark gray cashmere coat, his silver hair brushed straight back in a perfect conk partly concealed under a fedora. A banker in the world of organized crime, he actually resembled a banker from Wall Street. His features were chiseled, lean, and clean-shaven. He was in his fifties, had a strong, bent nose, fleshy lips, and nearly black almond-shaped eyes. Familiar eyes. The same eyes that had stared at me from behind the barrel of a gun.
“Do I measure up?” he asked.
“To what?”
“Your expectations.”
“I didn’t have any.”
“Of course you did.”
He leaned against a pillar, his arms folded across his chest, and observed me carefully. “According to the paper, you were there,” he said. “At the kidnapping. You saw everything.”
“You already know that. Your man must’ve told you.”
“Forget about him—”
“So you admit that you—”
“I admit nothing.” He straightened up, put his hands behind his back, and walked in a slow circle around me. “I want you to tell me everything, every detail you can recall, about what this kidnapper said and did.”
This wasn’t what I’d expected, not at all. “You don’t know? But you sent him.”
“I said, tell me what you saw, what he said.”
And so I did.
He listened without interrupting, then asked another question: “The police, they have a portrait: they did it with your help?”
“Yes.”
“And is it accurate?”
“Very.”
He stared hard at me. He found another chair, dragged it across the floor, turned it backward, and straddled it.
“I had nothing to do with it, any of it,” he said.
So this was the “persuade otherwise” option. I felt certain relief. Not much, but some.
“All right,” I said slowly.
“You don’t believe me?”
I smiled faintly.
He chuckled. “Of course you don’t. Why should you? I’m a man of my word, but you don’t know that.” He became thoughtful again. “You’ve been asking about a man named Olmo.”
“I’ve heard that he works for you.”
“Who gave you his name?”
“You know I can’t tell you that. Reporters, their sources and all that.”
“You’re not afraid of dying?”
I tried to muster my courage. “Should I be? Is that what this is all about?”
He paused. “Not today, no.”
Not today? I ignored that part, and simply said, “Well, then.”
My little effort at bravura earned a faint amused smile.
“I’ve also heard,” I continued, “that the Black Orchid owes you, and that he wasn’t paying the debt to your satisfaction. Did you send Olmo to teach him a lesson?”
He shook his head. “Whoever took this singer, it wasn’t me. I don’t conduct my business that way. And you must be wrong about Olmo.”
“I’m not.”
“I told you—”
“And I’m telling you: he did it. If you had nothing to do with it, then he did it without you. You’re worried and you have good reason to be.” He cursed under his breath and I decided to play a hunch. “He’s your blood, isn’t he? Your son?”
“No.” He eyed me, then shook his head. “My sister’s.” He looked bitter.
I said nothing.
“She wanted me to do something with him. He’s not very bright, but he’s ambitious.”
“Enough to want to impress you? Or steal from you?”
“Steal from me, no. But impress me, yes … He’d do something—maybe.”
His candor surprised me. It hinted at desperation. I recalled what Fawkes had said, that the kidnapper had been brash and stupid. Apparently, the kidnapper’s uncle agreed.
Stax stood up and kicked back the chair. “Damn!” His voice echoed off the walls. “I can’t believe he would go behind my back, do something like this. When I find him—and I will—I’ll kill him.”
“When was the last time you heard from him?”
He turned to me. “You’ve got to tell the cops I had nothing to do with this. I heard that you’re in good with them.”
“When was the last time you heard from Olmo?” I repeated.
“The day of the kidnapping. I’ve had my men out looking for him ever since.”
“And what have they found?” I asked, but I could see the answer in his eyes.
“Nothing.”
The worry in his voice suggested he was telling the truth. Still, I remained cynical. “If Olmo’s such a boob, then how could he outsmart you?”
He took a step toward me, his right hand tightening into a fist. “I didn’t bring you here to—”
“You brought me here to plead your case. If you want me to take it to the cops, then you have to give me something to work with.”
“Buy me time.”
“And say what? That you didn’t do it? They’ll laugh me out of the station house.”
“You can make them believe.”
“I can’t make them do anything. They’re cops. And I’m just a reporter, a colored one at that.”
“You’re telling me I’m going to have to rat out my own flesh and blood?”
“Your nephew made too big a splash, killed too many people—and the wrong kind—for all this to die down. Because of him, they’re coming after you.”
“They’ve been after me for years.”
“Not like now.”
He shook his head. “I’m not turning him in.”
“Then I can’t help you.”
He spat on the gravel floor. “You’ve got nerve.”
I didn’t answer, but I didn’t look away, either.
“All right, but you’ve got to promise me something,” he said.
“What?”
“Carry the message and print the truth.”
“That I’ll do.”
He yelled out to his boys: “Take her back!”
CHAPTER 20
When I walked into the newsroom, the first person I saw was Selena. She was at her desk, typing furiously, her face intent. She paused to check her notes, bit her lower lip, and then went back to pecking away. She was working hard; I had to admire that. And maybe she did deserve her chance at a solid story. It just shouldn’t have been this one.
Nevermind. Whatever she was writing was going to turn into a side
bar once I told Sam where I’d been.
I peered down to his office, caught him watching me. He seemed anxious and angry. Now what? I’d given her my story, just as he’d told me to. I’d even let her cover the news conference. Well, whatever he was stewing over now, it would have to wait.
He waved me over and instructed me to sit down. “It’s nearly two o’clock. Where have you been? Selena said you never showed up at the news conference.”
“No, I—”
“Blackie’s already got that picture of Olmo out and—”
“Sam, please listen! I have been cuffed and blindfolded, and—” I moved in closer, “I’ve been to see Stax Murphy.”
His jaw slackened. That was very satisfying to see. “You what?”
“I said,” I paused, “that I just interviewed Stax Murphy.”
He was speechless. Then he gathered his wits. “You just—How in the world—What did he say? How did you get him to talk? How’d you find him in the first place?”
Ah, this was more like it. This was the way it should’ve been, with Sam listening and not judging or scolding.
“I was on my way out when my phone rang. It was a source. He said he’d set up a meeting with Stax. He claimed it was to do me a favor, but now I think Stax put him up to it. Either way, I was told that the meet had to happen right then and there.”
“And so you went?”
“Yes.”
“Without informing anybody.”
“Well … yes.” I felt an increasingly familiar sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach, and prayed, Please, Sam, don’t ruin this.
“Go on.”
“Well, I don’t have to. Not if you don’t want to hear it.”
His eyes flared and he pointed a finger at me. “Lanie, don’t start. I gave you direct instructions—”
“Which I followed.”
“Barely. And then you ran out of here, telling no one where you were going.” He leaned on the desk and stared down at me. “You could’ve been killed.”
I held his gaze. “I was doing my job.”
“Part of your job is to keep in contact with me.” He swallowed hard. “Look, baby, I don’t want you taking chances like that.”
“Do you want to hear what he said or not?”
“Let me guess: he said he didn’t do it.”
I was losing patience. I was very tempted to quit—both him and the paper. “I don’t know how much longer I can work this way. Most times, you and I, we get along like greased wheels. But every time a story comes up that’s even a little bit risky, you go all …” I tried to find the right word, “protective on me.”
“I just don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“I don’t want anything to happen to me, either.”
He looked doubtful. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” I’m not sure how Sam knew it, maybe he’d sensed it, but there had been times in the wake of Hamp’s death when I hadn’t cared all that much about living or dying. But that was then; I had changed.
“Now, I knew meeting Stax might be dangerous. But it was a chance I had to take … And yes, you’re right, I should’ve told you. But I just didn’t have time.”
He looked at me and threw his hands up. “All right. It’s done.”
“Listen, I got it on the record that the main man accused of doing the Black Orchid job is denying all involvement.”
He dropped back heavily into his chair. “That’s worth something, sure. I just don’t think it was worth risking your life.”
“Sam.”
He was not happy. “Look, I’m glad you got it on the record, but you’ve got to admit, there’s nothing surprising about it. Don’t you agree?”
“Not necessarily.”
He leaned back, put his hands behind his head. “All right, you got me. What’s so special about this denial?”
“For one thing, it makes sense.”
“Come again?”
“Stax has survived as long as he has by being neat, efficient. He’s a pro, and pros only do what’s needed to get the job done. He never would’ve gone into that club and shot it up the way this guy did, like a cowboy.”
“I’m listening. Go on. There’s more, I hope.”
I explained about Olmo being Stax’s nephew, and how Stax thought Olmo might’ve done the job on his own to impress him.
“Stax is worried, Sam, worried sick. Says he’s been looking for Olmo and can’t find him.”
Sam remained silent for a moment. “You did good,” he finally said. “I’ll give you that. But you took a foolish risk. And you knew damn well that I would’ve stopped you.”
I stayed quiet.
“Give Selena what you have.”
My chest tightened. “What?”
“I’m telling you to take a step back. No more talking to gangsters and wanted men.”
This couldn’t be. I started to choke up. “So we’re not just talking about this story.”
“No.”
“You said I could cover crime.”
“I meant in the courtroom.”
“Where it’s nice and safe and all wrapped up.”
“Exactly.”
I bit back a response. The words were right there, on the tip of my tongue. This is not going to work. Ever.
He indicated the newsroom. “Go out there and talk to her. Whether you believe it or not, she’s determined to do a good job.”
“Is she?”
“Yes, she is—and she will, with your support.”
I actually felt dizzy. And I wondered why I wasn’t walking out, permanently. Was it because this job was all I had? If I gave it up, what would I do?
I’d find something else, that’s what. I could go back to the Harlem Age, for example. John Baltimore would take me back in a second. So it wasn’t fear of losing my sense of identity, of self-worth, that was keeping me here. It was something else.
It was Queenie.
His kidnappers wanted me in on this story, I was convinced of that. What I wasn’t sure of was why. Regardless, I didn’t want to mess things up by walking out. After this was over, I’d figure out my future plans.
“All right,” I said. Without another word, I got up and moved toward the door.
“And Lanie?”
I stiffened. “Yes?”
“I promise to make sure Selena does a good job. If you don’t trust her, then at least trust me.”
I didn’t look back, just nodded and went out.
I headed toward Selena’s desk, then found myself walking past it. I felt her eyes follow me and I ignored her. I sat down at my desk, slid a fresh sheet of paper into my Underwood, and went to work. I typed without pause for a good twenty minutes. The interview with Stax Murphy rolled out straight and clean. There were no embellishments, no shortcuts either. It came to six double-spaced pages.
I read it through once, twice. Made a minor adjustment. Then I got up, headed back down the aisle past Selena’s desk. Again her eyes followed me and again I ignored her. I went straight to Sam’s office without knocking and slapped the typewritten sheets on his desk, right on top of the pages he was editing.
He looked up.
“This is the Stax Murphy interview,” I said. “It’s all here. And it’s done right. You want to give it to Selena, then you do it. You want to strip my name off, then you do it. But if you do, I’m out of here.”
Queenie or no Queenie, I meant it.
Then I turned around and marched out.
CHAPTER 21
It had been a long day. I hadn’t had lunch, so I was hungry and tired. I decided to go home. On the way, I stopped at a grocery store between 142nd and 143rd Streets on Lenox Avenue, just over from the Savoy Ballroom. A big sign above the store entrance announced, Aaron’s Own, Grocery and Delicatessen. Large, alternating black-and-white diamond tiles decorated the façade. The windows were stocked with goods. Hand-painted signs advertised milk for six cents a gallon and Pepsi-Cola for five cents.
Inside, there were the usual tin ceilings and hard maple wood floors. Blue tiles on ivory spelled out the words Fish and Fruit. Toward the back was the deli counter.
I picked up corn flakes, a dozen eggs, some coffee, bread, and chicken. Prices were going up all the time, but at Aaron’s they were still relatively affordable—a dozen eggs for fifty-nine cents, a pound of chicken for thirty-nine. I loaded up, then dropped back over to the Renaissance Pharmacy on West 138th to collect some hair products. At the time, I was wearing my hair in a bob. I was loyal to Madam C.J. Walker’s hair products. Unfortunately, they were out of Glossine, so I reached for Apex’s Glossatina. For a moment, I considered Plough’s Pluko hair dressing; according to an ad I’d seen, Josephine Baker loved it. But I was skeptical—how did I know she wasn’t just paid to say that? I went with the Glossatina instead. I ignored the skin lighteners—hated them, thought they were bad for your skin and worse for your self-image—but I did pick up a bar of Walker’s complexion and toilet soap. As a matter of fact, I got two. Usually, they sold for twenty cents a large bar. They had a sale on, two for thirty, so I went for it.
Then I started home. Halfway there, I realized that I had no interest in cooking, so I stopped off and bought a chicken potpie. I tensed up when approaching my door and wondered whether I’d find another gift from Queenie’s kidnappers. When I saw the empty doorstep, I heaved a sigh of relief.
Once inside, I grabbed the letters that had been slipped inside the door slot and were lying on the vestibule floor. I hung my coat up, tossed the mail on the parlor sofa, then went downstairs to the kitchen and put my groceries away. Back upstairs, I pushed the mail aside, stretched out on the sofa, and closed my eyes.
For the last hour or so, I’d enjoyed some normalcy. My mind had been free of the Black Orchid kidnapping and my fight with Sam. But the minute my eyes closed, it all came back.
Splintered images of the couple that lay slumped over the table, of the Ralston girl’s face, of the kidnapper’s grin all flashed behind my eyelids. I saw the finger again, smelled that faint foul odor. Then, in a rush, came Sam’s face, Stax’s face, and the image of Selena pecking away at her typewriter.
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