“What is?”
“A different kind of America.”
“I don’t understand.”
Instead of explaining further, Aurelia opened her handbag and pulled out a bill.
Eddie’s eyes narrowed. Insult to injury. “You don’t actually think—”
“My girlfriend is watching from the window. If she sees me pay you, she’ll never even remember what kind of car I came in.” A thought struck her, and she held the dollar just beyond his reach. “Eddie, listen. This ride. It isn’t just a lark. I have something to tell you.”
“Tell away.”
“We’re leaving Harlem, Eddie. Kevin and I and the children. I wanted to tell you in person is all. We bought a house in the suburbs. The children deserve the space, don’t they?” She seemed to be having an argument with herself. “It’s what I always wanted. A family. Stability. I never had that. I want it for my kids.”
“I thought you had all that in Cleveland, growing up.”
Aurelia seemed not to hear. “Sometimes in life you do what you have to, not what you want to. I’m a wife now. A mother. I have to hold tight to that which is good, and, well, once I move, we probably won’t see much of each other—”
And then the dollar was in his hand and Aurie was marching up the front walk, strong and confident and very fast, the way a woman of quality walks alone at night. Eddie drove back to Manhattan in a fog. He nearly had two accidents on the way. This could not be happening. Not so suddenly. Even though Aurelia was right. He parked the car where Lenny had instructed, on a side street not far from the Columbia campus, and slid the key into the tailpipe. One of Lenny’s people would pick it up later. So dizzied was he by the swift turn of the evening’s events that he did not notice the black sedan shadowing his stride until it pulled up next to him, dispensing two men of his nation who obviously meant business, and whose invitation to climb in did not admit of refusal.
CHAPTER 24
Again the Carpenter
(I)
THEY SAT HIM in the back, then boxed him in. No one spoke. The driver headed north along Amsterdam Avenue into the Valley. Eddie struggled not to tremble; and, therefore, trembled worse. On West 123rd Street, dead quiet at this hour, the car pulled into an alley beside a nightclub where the last guests were filing out and the neon marquee was going dark.
“Closing early tonight,” said Eddie, heart sinking, for he knew whose den this was.
“Yeah,” said one of the toughs.
“On my account?”
“Yeah,” the man repeated, ending the conversation.
They hustled Eddie in by the stage door. Lenny Rouse stood near the curtain, eyes cold as the grave. You would never know that a few hours ago they had been laughing and joking together, when Lenny handed over the keys to the cab. Now the gangster took his friend by the upper arm and leaned in close. “Keep your mouth shut,” he warned, not unkindly. “Just listen unless he asks you a question. Tell him the truth. He’ll know if you don’t.” Lenny marched him down a narrow hallway and out onto the main floor, where he pointed to the booth where Scarlett waited, then stood aside to let Eddie make the final trek alone. Even in the days when he had carried little packages for the organization, Eddie had met the boss only once, and not enjoyed the experience. Scarlett was a bluff barrel of a man who favored fancy wide-brimmed hats and zoot suits, even as they slipped out of style. His temper was a Harlem legend. His yellow eyes were not able to focus on the same spot, so that he always looked at you with one of them as the other jittered and juked. If you reacted, you were in trouble. If you looked away, you were in trouble. If you were smart, you stared at his nose. The two of them sat alone in the booth while the waiters cleaned and the band packed up, the stale air blue with tobacco and beer and sweat, the bad eye jumping all over the place.
“You gettin out of line, boy,” Scarlett said by way of introduction.
“Ah, Mr. Scarlett—”
“My man Lenny tells me you’re a good listener. So listen. You went to South Carolina.”
Eddie, not sure whether the gangster’s remark counted as a question, remembered Lenny’s caution, and said nothing.
“You hearin me, boy?”
“Yes, Mr. Scarlett. I hear you.”
“Then answer the damn question.”
Eddie fought down the urge to reply that he had not been asked a question. “Yes,” he said, unsure of the scope of either the gangster’s knowledge or the present inquiry. “I went to South Carolina.”
“Went to that church.”
“What church?”
“Don’t mess with me, boy. Castle’s sweet little wife. That white lady gave you something.”
Eddie shook his head. “I asked her to, but she refused.” He began to see the wisdom of the pastor. “If you had a source there, the source must have told you, she walked out on me.”
Scarlett, until now airy and dismissive, was interested. The band and waiters were gone, Eddie noticed. It was just the two of them, and whoever else was out in the shadows. “Maybe she walked out on you, and maybe she more like pretended to walk out on you. Now, tell me what she gave you, and you can go on home.”
“She didn’t give me the time of day.” Emboldened, Eddie embroidered. “I don’t think she liked me very much.”
“I don’t like you, either, but you’re gonna tell me.”
“I already said—”
That was as far as he got. Eddie never noticed a signal. Nevertheless, out of the shadows came Lenny Rouse and one of the toughs from the car. Lenny had him around the neck, and twisted his left arm high at his back, making it impossible for him to rise. The other man had Eddie’s right arm in a granite grip, pressing it to the table.
“You’re gonna tell me,” said the gangster again.
“What are you doing?” Eddie demanded, hot liquid fear dancing afresh through his loins. He tugged at the hands holding his. “Let me go.”
“Hold him tight,” said Scarlett, shucking his suit jacket, and Eddie remembered his nickname.
The Carpenter.
It was not possible that they meant to—
Except that it was.
From beneath the table, the Carpenter pulled a heavy toolbox, painted bright red, so shiny it was probably polished twice a day. He flipped the twin catches and opened the lid.
“You can’t do this,” Eddie breathed.
“They say you’re a big man,” said Scarlett. “They tell me you’re famous. I guess you prob’ly think you’re brave, too. But brave don’t got nothin to do with it. You’re gonna tell me what she gave you.”
“She didn’t give me anything!”
The Carpenter reached into the box. He came up with a carton of heavy common nails. He shook three into his palm, then held them in his mouth by their heads. Eddie followed every move. Never had nails seemed so scary. The hand went into the box again. This time the Carpenter pulled out a hammer.
“You’re gonna tell me,” he said. The second man from the car approached. Eddie made a fist. The man squeezed Eddie’s hand right on the ball of the thumb. Pain slowly forced the fingers open. The pressure would not let him close them again. The palm was facedown on the table. The fingers were splayed. The Carpenter patted Eddie’s middle finger, found the spot he wanted, just past the knuckle. “The meat is really tender here,” he said, and tapped it with the head of a nail. Eddie flinched. Meat, he registered. Scarlett lifted the hammer. “You got something to tell me?”
At that moment Eddie would happily have told the gangster anything to stop that nail from going in—anything except the secret that might lead to his sister.
His wife has it.
Eddie glared at Scarlett. “She didn’t tell me anything,” he said.
Scarlett stopped. At first Eddie thought his tough words had gotten through. Then he realized that the gangster was looking past him, into the shadows. Eddie wanted to turn his head but was afraid to show any weakness.
Without warning the hammer came dow
n.
It missed the nail and struck the very tip of Eddie’s finger.
Eddie gasped but held in the howl.
“That ain’t gonna give you nothin but a blood blister,” said Scarlett. “The next one is gonna be the knuckle. I hit it a good whack, you won’t ever write with that hand again. Then the nail goes in after that. Understand?”
“You can’t do this,” said Eddie.
“Tell me what she gave you.”
Eddie fought to swallow the bile rising in his throat. “She didn’t give me anything,” he said.
“Tell me, boy.”
“There’s nothing to tell!”
The hammer went up.
Eddie shut his eyes. He waited. Waited for Agent Stilwell to burst in and rescue him. Waited for Lenny to shoot his boss and take over the business. Waited for the hammer to smash his hand to bits.
(II)
“I’M GONNA LET THIS ONE GO,” said Scarlett, close to his ear. Eddie opened his eyes. His hand was whole. Turning to look at the gangster, he saw movement elsewhere in the room. Maybe the man who was signaling the Carpenter, giving him instructions. Lenny and the other tough were still holding on to Eddie now, but more loosely. Scarlett patted his own palm with the hammer. The bad eye kept jumping. “My boys gonna take you out in the alley and give you a little somethin to remember me by. Gonna trim you up, boy. But what they’re gonna do won’t be anything like as bad as what’s gonna happen, I find out you were lyin to me. You hearin me, boy?”
“Yes,” said Eddie, through chattering teeth.
“You lyin to me, I’m gonna take off some pieces. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“You know what pieces I’m talkin about, right, boy?”
Eddie tried and failed to swallow. “Yes.”
The Carpenter nodded. Lenny courteously held the door. The toughs from the car dragged Eddie into the alley and beat him so soundly he missed most of the action. At first he tried to fight back, but fighting was not his thing, and after two minutes he just covered up and let them do what they wanted. Lenny supervised, finally calling time. He shoved Eddie into a gypsy cab, drove him to Harlem Hospital, explained things to the doctors, who nodded. They gave him a shot. He woke up in the dreary, dripping ward and lay there, thinking, for the next four days. There was some internal problem he never quite got straight, and the doctors kept prodding him to see if it was better.
He had visitors. He had a teasing telegram from Langston Hughes, who said he had promised to stay out of trouble. He was kissed on the forehead by Aurelia, who came every day and turned every head, and frowned upon by the doctors, who waited vainly for him to take an exciting turn for the worse. Gary Fatek brought the largest spray of flowers the hospital had ever seen and offered to move him someplace better, but Eddie would not turn his back on Harlem. His sister Marcella came down from Springfield—Gary had called her—and sat at his bedside for a day and a half, mostly reading the Bible aloud, and warning him that it was time to stop carousing and settle down. Eddie smiled at everyone who dropped in and said all the right things, but his mind was occupied with the memory of Scarlett’s club. Not the memory of the beating, or of the fear. The memory was of a face.
The face in the shadows, glimpsed only for a moment, the man with the power to tell the Carpenter to stop.
The man had smooth blond hair. His face was white.
(III)
WHEN EDDIE WAS RELEASED, Gary and Marcella drove him back to 435 Convent Avenue. Marcie had been staying at the apartment, and stayed on to make sure her brother got all the lecturing he deserved. A couple of girls had called to check on him, but Marcie had not taken their names or messages, because they were obviously fast little hussies, calling up a man that way. Marcella stayed another week and nearly killed him. Eddie took his sister to Shirley Elden’s salon, but she sat unspeaking in the corner, gazing out on the cream of Harlem society with elaborate disapproval. She joined him at lunch with Kasten, his literary agent, but Marcie kept insisting that Eddie’s novels would sell better if there was a little less sex in them. For all of that, Marcella was attentive and patient, prepared to serve his smallest whim.
She simply served a side order of lecture every time.
On the afternoon of the seventh day, his sister left. That night, Eddie went to dinner at Amaretta Veazie’s. They asked him to talk about his third novel, due out early next year, which everyone knew was some sort of wry comment on Sugar Hill. He told them they would have to wait and see. More cautious now, he took a taxi back to Convent Avenue instead of walking, and found a sleekly officious white man waiting for him in the lobby, despite the hour.
“Are you Edward Trotter Wesley Junior?”
“Yes,” he said, warily, wondering if he was about to be served with a subpoena, or perhaps even arrested.
“Do you have any identification?”
Eddie showed him the scrap of poorly printed paper that New York issued as a driver’s license.
“I have a package for you.”
“At this time of night?”
The man nodded, brandishing a manila envelope. He held out a form. “Sign here.”
Eddie signed, turned away, stormed up to his apartment, put Billie Holiday on the record player, opened a notebook, and began writing for the first time since his beating. It felt good to have pen in hand again. Only when he had written for three straight hours and poured himself a one-thirty nightcap did he remember the delivery. He actually had to hunt around to find the envelope. He had left it in the kitchen. He opened the flap and slid out two glossy black-and-white photographs. There was an unsigned note. Eddie did not recognize the clumsy handwriting. Thanks for all your good work for your country. Thought you’d like to have this. The first photo was a crowd scene, and Eddie needed a moment to place it.
Then he remembered.
It was the battle at Maxton, North Carolina, the Klan facing off against the Lumbee Indians. One of the Indians was circled in red ink. The second photo was a grainy blowup of the same person.
Except, seen close, it was no Indian.
David Yee had said that the Negroes were not involved in the battle, but Eddie was holding in his hand evidence to the contrary. The figure was a black woman, toting a rifle like she knew how to use it.
The woman in the picture was Junie.
CHAPTER 25
A New Deal
“I THOUGHT YOU WANTED NOTHING ELSE to do with us,” said Bernard Stilwell, grinning like a ghostly skull in the midnight fog. “We’re the big bad racists of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and you’re the sole possessor of righteousness and truth. You can’t allow your purity to be polluted by hanging around with the likes of us. Or did I miss the conciliatory part of your teary farewell?”
“Previously you were blackmailing me on the basis of your own false reports. Now I am coming to you, my government, for assistance. I fail to see the analogy.”
Stilwell laughed, the same wicked tormentor’s chuckle that had so chilled Eddie on the occasion of their first meeting. They were strolling east along the Reflecting Pool between the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument, the water flat and cold and black in the still night. Gray mist drifted over the surface like fading memory. The Mall was deserted, for this was the season of neither busloads of protesting children nor hordes of chattering tourists. “As a citizen of this fine republic, you naturally have the right to petition your government for redress of grievances whenever it strikes your fancy. The thing is, Dorothy had the right to petition the Wizard, too. And, just like Dorothy, if you have nothing to trade, the Wizard will tell you to come back tomorrow.”
“I don’t think that’s the way the story went,” Eddie said after a moment. For the tiniest instant the April fog parted. The sky was a crisp, endless purple, the stars were bright and solid, as eternal as hope, and as untouchable. Then the moment passed. “The Wizard tried to cheat her. She kept her end of the deal. He broke it.”
“Glad to hea
r it. Now, let me tell you the facts of life.” The mist curled around their legs. They had veered off into the thin screen of trees. “Two years ago, the Director gave you the opportunity to be of service to your country, to file a report now and then, help us make sure that the leadership of your people is not being infiltrated by agitators and Communists. You never filed a single report. You hired yourself a fancy lawyer and got out of the deal. You didn’t want to help. Fine. Now you come and you want to ask me a whole bunch of questions about your sister.” Stilwell was much the larger man, and carried his bulk with the sure authority of the licensed bully. A growing tension in his posture suggested that he was working himself into a froth, but his voice remained as low-key and casual as ever: the tone Eddie remembered from the morning the FBI man had choked him half to death on a Harlem side street. “You want to know if we’re looking into her disappearance. You want to know if this photograph”—shaking the envelope—“is real or doctored. You want to know where she is.” He shook his head. “Come on, Eddie. Can you give me a single reason we should help you? When you won’t help us?”
“All I want to know is whether my sister is alive.”
“That’s very noble,” said Stilwell. They were through the trees and off in the broad parkland north of the Monument, heading toward the White House, where lights glistened smearily beyond the haze. “But, Eddie, we’re grown-ups here. You understand the way this kind of thing—”
He stopped.
“The reason I’m asking might actually be relevant to the Director’s concern, and, in that sense, I might be able to help after all,” Eddie began, having rehearsed this part already, but the agent waved him silent. He was looking back toward the shrouded trees.
“Did you bring a friend, Eddie?”
“A friend?” Eddie wheeled around, too, but could see nothing in the fog.
“To keep an eye on you just in case those wacky feds decided to get up to their usual mean old tricks. What we call a minder.” He had smoothly insinuated himself between Eddie and the tree line. His left hand was unbuttoning his overcoat. “Did you bring a minder, Eddie? Because somebody’s been following us since the Memorial.”
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