Black Orchid Blues

by Persia Walker

  “Do you honestly expect the Bernards to tell you if he contacts them?”

  “Yes, I do.” He grimaced. “All right, maybe not. I hope they do. I hope with all my black Irish heart they’ve learned their lesson. But I doubt it.” He paused. “You do know I’m going to have to call you in for another talk, don’t you?”

  “Why? You know everything now.”

  “Do I?”

  I felt a flutter of unease. “What are you after?”

  “The truth.” His eyes met mine. “I need to know everything you’ve done and said since yesterday morning.”

  “Sounds like you’re asking for an alibi.”

  “I can’t help what it sounds like.”

  “You don’t think I had anything to do with this, do you?”

  He sighed. “All I can say is that you should be prepared to make a formal statement.”

  First jail, now this. If I hadn’t known Blackie better, I would’ve said he was out to get me. But I did know him, and I knew this wasn’t his style. I stepped closer and lowered my voice. “What’s going on here? Cause this seems like more than flack from the brass.”

  “There’s been an accusation.”

  “About what?”

  “About this.” He motioned toward Sheila. “That maybe you’re in on it.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” He squinted and ruffled his hair. “You’ve got to admit, it does look suspicious.”

  “How?”

  “Think about it.”

  “Think about what?”

  He inched closer. “At every step, you were there. When the Black Orchid got nabbed, you were there. When the cigar box was delivered, you were there. And now, with this girl … you were there.”

  “They left that box on my doorstep. And she called me.”

  “That’s what you say.”

  For a moment, we held each other’s gaze.

  “Who put the poison in your coffee?” I asked.

  “Who do you think?”

  Only one name came to mind. “Bernard. He’s the one. He stepped outside when you came to the door.”

  “I want to believe you, but …”

  “You know me. Do you actually think that I’d be involved in something like this?”

  “I’ve got to ask—and you’d better come up with good answers.”

  I took a step back. “Do I need to bring a lawyer?”

  “That’s up to you.”

  All right. So we were back to playing tough. What was it about this case? It had us all at each other’s throats. First Sam giving my stories to Selena; then Blackie throwing me in jail—and now accusing me of collusion with murderers and thieves. It made me feel ugly inside. It took an effort not to be bitter.

  “You need me to come right now?”

  “No, I have to finish up here first. In the meantime, you can go back to your newsroom, write your story, and stay away from the Bernards.”

  “Lanie! You-hoo! Oh, Lanie!”

  The voice cut over the rest, a grating female voice that I knew all too well. I turned to see Selena Troy. She was standing on the southwest corner of the intersection. The cops were holding her back with the other reporters. She was jumping up and down, waving her steno pad and calling out to me.

  I turned back to Blackie. “We done here?”

  “For now. Just remember to stop by and see me later.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Today. In an hour.”

  Message received. I took one last long hard look at Sheila. I wanted to remember. I wanted to burn this image into my brain. This was the price of well-meant but misplaced compassion. It was a lesson I would never forget. Then I went over to Selena, told her, “The answer is no.”

  “What d’you mean, no? I haven’t asked you anything yet.”

  “You want me to tell them to let you through. The answer’s no.”

  “But they let you in.”

  “So?”

  She was fuming now. “If you don’t make them let me through, I’ll tell Sam.”

  She couldn’t be that stupid. I almost felt sorry for her. Almost. “Selena, this may come as a shock to you, but I can’t make a New York homicide dick do anything. As for telling Sam, go ahead. Tell him you don’t know how to work a crime scene. Tell him you don’t know how to deal with cops. You’d be doing me a favor.”

  “Why, you b—”

  I turned and walked away. I should have thanked her: she’d given me the one and only bit of levity I was to have that day.

  CHAPTER 32

  I headed west, toward the newsroom. It was only a block away, but it was a long block, almost the distance of two regular city blocks. I would need the stroll to get my thoughts together, to get my feelings in line.

  I felt sick inside, sick with fury. Sheila shouldn’t have died that way. I was angry at myself for not having kept closer tabs on her, angry at her for being so damned naïve, angry at the dirty rat who’d killed her.

  If only I’d stayed in the room with her. Or talked to Sam … or talked to Blackie. If only …

  A car honked loudly. It was Selena, driving past. She slowed down just long enough to give me an ugly grin, then hit the gas. She sure was in a rush to get back to the newsroom. Of course, it was Wednesday. Maybe she just wanted to make that evening’s deadline. But if it was all about beating me, then she needn’t have bothered.

  I mulled over my predicament. If I walked into the newsroom, then I’d have to talk to Sam, talk to the newspaper’s attorney. Getting backup from a mouthpiece, that was probably the smartest thing to do. Why didn’t I feel good about it? Because I knew these guys. They wouldn’t be out to defend me. Their first interest would be in defending the paper, and if that meant feeding me to the lions, then that’s what they’d do.

  From what Blackie told me, it would be a matter of he said, I said. Maybe not even that. To me, it was obvious that I had nothing to do with this caper, but to others … I didn’t have proof that the box was left at my doorstep. I didn’t have proof that Sheila called me. I didn’t even have the letter that prompted her call.

  Everything that had led me to suspect that the kidnapping was a fake could lead others to conclude that I was in on it. That maybe I’d even helped come up with the idea so I’d have a big story to cover.

  The more I thought about it, the less I liked it. It was the perfect frame, and I’d walked right into it. Dr. Bernard had always resented my involvement. He’d seen his chance to get rid of me and taken it.

  Across the street was the police station. I eyed it and turned up my coat collar, my decision made. I would talk to Blackie, with or without the company lawyer. In the meantime, I would keep my mind on the story. I resumed walking.

  Olmo would contact the Bernards, and when he did, they would keep quiet. Blackie was dreaming if he thought otherwise. I reached the corner and paused for a car to pass. Sheila’s murder would shake them up, but it wouldn’t send them to the police. If anything, it would make them more determined than ever to handle this on their own.

  As I stepped off the curb, a car pulled in front of me. A smoky window rolled down and a gruff voice said, “Get in.”

  I froze. Then I realized that it wasn’t a gun sticking out of the window, just a hand in a black glove. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  I leaned down and saw the face.

  “Stax?” I was stunned to see him, especially half a block away from a police station.

  He opened the passenger door for me to enter. I took a step back. I was cold and frightened. But I was angry too. So angry I couldn’t think straight. How did I know that Olmo wasn’t working for Stax? I’d simply taken his word, hadn’t I? Common sense said I should run, that I should run and call for help. Instead, I asked, “Did you kill Sheila?”

  “Get. In.”

  My rational side told me to scream. You’re only a few feet from the police station. Scream. But I couldn’t move. “If you had anything to do with … I believed you. I
kept my word—”

  “Get in!” Stax hissed between gritted teeth.

  I didn’t move.

  “I’ve found Olmo,” he finally said.

  “Olmo?”

  He nodded and that did it. I glanced over my shoulder at the police station and down the street to the news office. I imagined Blackie grilling me for something I hadn’t done, and Selena typing her version of my story. I don’t think so. I climbed into the car, slammed the door shut, and sat back as the car shot away.

  CHAPTER 33

  Up Eighth Avenue. Across 137th Street, 138th. The blocks streaked by. My heart pounded.

  Stax stared straight ahead. “We’ve found the hideout.”

  “Where is it?”

  “You’ll see soon enough.”

  “Fine. How did you know where to find me? Have you been watching me?”

  He shrugged. “Watching you, watching them.”

  “The Bernards?”

  He nodded, but his gaze stayed on the road.

  “How long have you been watching them?” I asked. “Since the kidnapping?”

  “Much longer than that.”

  “Why?”

  “I make it a point to know people—and their families—before I lend them money.” He shrugged, as though he was just conducting business as usual.

  I didn’t buy it. “So you’ve known Queenie’s real identity all along?”

  “Why should I answer that?”

  “You don’t have to. But don’t expect me to believe that you were just trying to protect your investment. You were looking for something to use as blackmail.”

  He gave me a thin smile. “If you ever think about turning to a life of crime, let me know.”

  “What did you find out?”

  He lit himself a cigarette, offered me one. I declined.

  “About the Bernards,” I said.

  He took a long drag. “All right, I can tell you this: they’re not straight shooters.”

  “I could have told you that.”

  “Well, then, you know everything.”

  “No, it means you didn’t get anything.”

  Silence prevailed. Streets zipped past. I digested nothing of the receding landscape. I was trying to puzzle out Stax’s sentences. I was thinking about Sheila and the terror of what she must’ve gone through. And I was wondering where Stax Murphy was taking me to. We reached 147th, then 148th. There the driver turned a hard right and drove two-thirds of the way down the block, past rows of brownstones.

  “What’s here?” I asked.

  “I own some property. Olmo has a key.”

  The car pulled into an empty parking space. Stax and his men got out. I made to exit as well, but Stax stopped me.

  “Stay here with my driver.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

  He closed the door, shutting me inside. He and his men went up to an attractive three-story brownstone. It appeared to be clean and well-kept, with wrought-iron fencing and several stained glass windows.

  I watched the windows of the building, hoping to see a movement that would indicate which apartment they’d entered. I watched the clock too. Six long minutes went by. Nothing.

  My gaze drifted back down to the front door. No one was going in or out. It was the middle of a cold February day. Anybody who had a job would be there. Anyone who didn’t would be staying warm inside. Nobody was doing any running around that they didn’t have to, not in that weather. And I thought of Sheila once more, lying on that stone-cold ground.

  The front door opened and one of Stax’s men emerged. He approached the car and opened the passenger door.

  “Mr. Murphy says for you to come upstairs.”

  The building was as impressive on the inside as it was on the out. But it stank, and it did so in a very particular way. It was a smell that recalled my days of covering crime for the Harlem Age.

  Stax’s henchman led me up a finely carpeted staircase. As with most Harlem town houses, this one was originally designed for a single affluent family, but it now served as a rooming house. Each door had a number, and each was firmly closed.

  As we climbed the steps, the air thickened, the stench grew richer. By the second floor, my lungs were starving for air. I realized that I was holding my breath. I closed my eyes and forced myself to inhale. The stink was incredible, but breathing normally was the only way to get past it. After a while the body adjusts.

  We hit the third-floor landing and approached a door at the back of the hallway. Stax’s man opened it. I stepped inside and the full power of the smell nearly knocked me off my feet. Stax stood gazing out the window, smoking a cigarette. He didn’t turn around at the sound of my entrance.

  The room was filthy with empty food containers and old newspapers. It stank of Chinese food and dried pizza and that certain something else. There was a dirty white sofa, two battered wooden chairs, and a small kitchen table to the left. There was a mattress on the floor to the right. It had a torn, gray sheet, and a man lay on it. He was dark-haired and darkly dressed: black pants, black shirt, and black jacket.

  He was also dead.

  “Come in,” Stax said.

  I felt the henchman’s hand against my back. I tentatively walked in toward the dead man, heard the door close behind me.

  He was on his side, back to the wall, facing the room. He was gagged, his wrists and ankles bound behind his back. His eyes were open and clouded over, his skin gray. A wide stain of dried blood darkened the mattress under his head and neck. His throat had been slit. A grimy makeshift bandage covered his left hand. His face showed bite marks; rodents had been at him.

  Even so, I recognized him. “Olmo.”

  Stax nodded. “Been dead for days.” He threw down the cigarette, ground it out. “Days,” he repeated in disgust.

  My thoughts raced. Olmo must’ve died right after the kidnapping. Who killed him? If he was dead, then who sent the notes, made the phone calls? Some third partner? And where was Queenie?

  But then I knew. With chilling certainty, the answer came and I knew.

  Stax turned to face me. “Well, come on, Miss Price. I didn’t bring you here to just stand around. I want to hear what you have to say, to know what you’re going to write.”

  “Olmo’s hand. I need to see it.”

  “His hand?”

  I nodded.

  Puzzled and suspicious, Stax looked from me to the body. He made a gesture and the henchman went to work.

  The bandage was nothing more than a long strip torn from the bed-sheet, but it was stiff with dried blood. The henchman had to pry it off. When he was done, we could all see that the ring finger of Olmo’s left hand was missing: it had been cut off at the base.

  “But who did this?” Stax gaped. “And why?”

  He didn’t know about the cigar box. Now I told him. He was furious.

  “Whoever did this, I’ll kill them.” He squatted down next to his nephew’s body, touched the injured hand with surprising gentleness. “Why?” he asked the dead man. “Why did you do it? And what conniving bastard did you listen to?”

  CHAPTER 34

  The answer was right before his eyes, but he didn’t know enough to recognize it. Sam and I had wondered whether Olmo had brought in someone to help him, someone to drive the getaway car, for example. But that hadn’t been the case at all. Olmo hadn’t needed extra help. He’d had all he needed in his main partner, his “victim.” And that partner had betrayed him—had cut off his finger, shoved that yellow ring on it, and put it in a cigar box.

  We’d all been played for suckers—and Queenie had done the playing.

  I hesitated to tell Stax the truth about the kidnapping. It worried me how he’d react, but seeing his grief, his bewilderment, I decided he had a right to know. The look in his eyes turned murderous.

  “Why, that conniving son of a bitch!”

  “Don’t go after him.”

  “Why not?”

  “You k
ill him and the cops will be convinced you were behind the kidnapping. As far as they’re concerned, Queenie’s still the victim. They know he thought up the kidnapping, but they think it was Olmo who did the double cross and made it real. They don’t know it’s still fake and that Queenie’s pulling the strings.”

  He spoke with contempt. “You think I care about the cops? I don’t give a damn about them! I’m going to find that son of a bitch and—”

  “No, don’t! Or at least …” I thought fast. “Give me a day. Just twenty-four hours. That’s all I ask.”

  “Why should I? What the hell do you think you can do in a day?”

  I worried my lower lip. I didn’t have an answer, so I stalled. “Just give it to me and you’ll see.”

  Downstairs, we climbed into the car and sat in preoccupied silence as Stax’s men drove us back to 135th Street. I thought about Queenie, about what he wanted. He’d put that cigar box in front of my door. He’d wanted me on this case, had wanted me to know about him and his family. But he’d wanted something else too—the money. It meant as much to him as the revelation about his true identity. Sooner or later, he’d come back looking for it, and I was betting on sooner rather than later. We would have to be ready for him. That’s all: we’d have to be good and ready.

  It was after five when we pulled up in front of the newspaper building. I was about to climb out when Stax laid a hand on my forearm.

  “Remember,” he said, “a day and that’s all.”

  It felt like a heavy hand had gripped my heart, squeezed it. I got out and closed the door.

  Stax leaned out of his car. “I don’t understand,” he said. “About Queenie, really, what do you care?”

  In the face of his cold anger, I couldn’t answer. He smiled grimly and tipped his hat as though I’d just proved his point, then he signaled his man, rolled up his window, and drove away.

  I stood there for a moment, blind to my surroundings and sick with dread. Why indeed?

  I didn’t see how Queenie was going to come out of this alive. Did it really matter whether he died with cement shoes in the East River, in a hail of coppers’ bullets, or in the electric chair up at Sing Sing?