by Alyssa Cole
Bertha looked at the woman, at the way none of them were meeting her eyes now.
“I see it like this,” she said. “One time, a long time ago, I met a john who talked so sweet. Looked rich. Smelled good. Came in here telling me I was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, begging me to put it on him, all that nonsense.” There was a ripple of knowing laughter among the girls. They’d heard it all before. “I thought he was swell. Classy. Let him convince me to go back to a room with him.”
The laughter stopped.
“That man threw me on the bed and started trying to get crazy. Thought because he was paying for it, he could do whatever he wanted. But I screamed and the man running the hotel bust through the door and pulled him off of me.”
Bertha looked at the girls, and knew many of them had been there before, too, and some hadn’t been so lucky. “What I’m saying is, I bet on that man. I thought he was the best choice of the pickings that night. I thought he was gonna do right by me. And I was wrong. That didn’t mean I didn’t go back to work the next night. That didn’t mean I never got fooled again. When you’re trying to survive, sometimes you’re gonna encounter liars. Politicians are the worst of them. But there are good ones too. You take your chances there like anywhere else in life because the only other option is giving up. That make sense?”
There were a few shaky head nods in the group. Bertha felt a bit shaky herself. Had Amir heard that? She wasn’t ashamed, but she still wondered how he might react.
A movement at the front of the club caught her attention.
“The club isn’t open yet,” Bertha called out. She’d told the last girl in to lock the door behind her, but of course whoever it was had forgotten.
“Well, good, because I’ve got a headache and I’m not in the mood for that ragtime noise right now.”
Bertha startled when the person came into view from behind a column. She already knew who it was from the accented voice, but when the fur coat swept into view she was certain. Miss Q. She hadn’t seen the woman since that day at the suffrage meeting, and she’d only been into the club a few times over the last couple of years. Rumor had it that she was mobbed with suitors angling for a slice of her numbers kingdom, and she wasn’t having it. She held court in her own lavish apartment, hosting the finest minds of Harlem, ranging from musicians to artists to businessmen.
A flurry of whispers erupted from the girls.
“You can all go now,” Bertha said, already stepping down from the stage. Miss Q had made herself right at home in a booth, and looked at her with a bemused expression as she approached.
Bertha slid in beside her. “Can I get you a drink?”
“No. Though I hear this Hindu chef you’ve got in the kitchen is maybe worth venturing here late night for.”
He’s not Hindu.
Several people had commented on the food in the days since Amir had taken over. Cora had been no slouch, but Amir had taken her recipes and made them into his own, incorporating spice mixtures close to those of his home country into the familiar down-home food Cora excelled at. The man knew his way around a kitchen.
“You should come try it some time,” Bertha said.
“Oh, I will. I don’t have time now, though. My driver is waiting outside. I wanted to talk to you about these classes you’ve been having.”
Bertha tried not to show her surprise. “You know about the classes?”
“Girl, I have number collectors running these streets every day. When they’re done with their routes they come back to me. They hand me the money and the numbers, and they tell me things they hear along the way. I know most everything.”
She gave a meaningful look around the club and then looked back at Bertha. “Everything.”
Bertha’s heart slowed and her palms went sweaty. Could she know? About the forged will? About what she had done to survive?
Miss Q smiled. “But I also know how to mind my business. That’s the most important thing.” She leaned back in her seat. “I like what I hear about you, and what I hear you doing with these girls, even before the classes started.”
“I just treat them like they should be treated,” Bertha said with a shrug. She was still trying to figure out Miss Q’s angle. Was she there to threaten her? To force her way into the business? She knew Arthur had borrowed money from the woman once, but that had all been paid up before he passed, or so he had told her. He had been cheap, but not a welcher that she knew of.
The thought of losing the club made her head spin. The Cashmere was her life.
“You say that like it’s normal.” Miss Q pulled out a long thin cigarette and lit it, moving idly as if Bertha weren’t on pins and needles waiting for her to get to her point.
She inhaled deeply, then exhaled. “You saw what happened at that suffragette meeting. People act like just because you ain’t in church or washing some White child’s ass that you don’t amount to nothing. But there are a lot more people who don’t count than do, if that’s the case.” She shrugged.
“Is there something you want?” The question was rude, but Bertha was on edge. If Miss Q even suspected what Bertha had done with Arthur’s will, Bertha would be under someone’s thumb, yet again. Everything in her rebelled at the idea.
Miss Q laughed. “I like you. Direct and to the point. I don’t want anything really, except to add some girls to your class. Few of the street girls who work over by me. And some of the money counters.”
Bertha waited, but Miss Q didn’t talk further.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. You have smarts to share. I have girls who need more smarts.”
Bertha’s life had been full of strange bargains lately: dance lessons with Amir, classes with her girls, and a piece of her soul with Victor. But those all had clear cut rules. Miss Q certainly must have wanted something else.
“I can take a few more,” Bertha said carefully. “I’ve been feeding my girls though, and I can’t offer that to everyone if the group gets too big.”
It was the truth; she was a businesswoman, not a saint.
Miss Q nodded. “I’ll pay for food and drink for ‘em. You’re doing work, and you should expect to get paid.”
Bertha held out her hand and Miss Q shook it. “Let’s keep things straight—I’m not going to be in debt to you for any of this,” she said. “Don’t expect that a month from now you can show up and suggest I open a craps room or give you a cut of anything.”
She held Miss Q’s gaze, preparing for the worst. Bertha respected the woman but, like most people with a lick of sense, she feared her. Miss Q regularly crushed ruthless men who tried to cut into her territory under her heel like insects; Bertha had no doubt the woman could make her life uncomfortable if she so chose.
Miss Q released her hand. “I wondered about how you got this place out from under Arthur. You don’t take shit.”
“Now I don’t,” Bertha admitted. The set of her shoulders relaxed the slightest bit. “One day I just couldn’t stand another minute of it. Of being told what to do and how to do it and that I’d better do it with a smile.”
Bertha had never admitted that to anyone—it was the kind of confession that raised questions she didn’t want to answer—but something in the way Miss Q regarded her made her think she might know a thing or two about that particular feeling.
“And then old Arthur ended up dead and you ended up with the Cashmere, huh?” She let out a low laugh.
“I didn’t kill him,” Bertha said. “God and a bum ticker took care of that.”
Miss Q exhaled, her lips pulled in a not quite smile. “We do what we have to in a world that tells us we don’t deserve even a bit of power. But if you say you didn’t, then that’s none of my business.”
“Tell your girls to be here at two on Monday,” Bertha said.
Miss Q nodded and got up to leave. She walked away, her fur coat trailing behind her, then turned. “I know I just said I was good at minding my business, but…” She glanced toward t
he kitchen door. “What do you know about this Hindu fella?”
He’s not…
Bertha’s stomach flipped. She’d thought the crisis had passed, but it seemed Miss Q had waited to hit her with a doozie.
Bertha’s back teeth gritted against each other. “You also just said you valued directness. Whatever you have to say, say it.”
“One of my guys says he saw your guy talking with one of them cops that’ve been hanging around here trying to act like they don’t stick out like a sore thumb. Same as the one who showed up in The Romper Room before they got shut down.”
No. No no no. She thought of Amir’s soft touch against her wrist, her ankle. Of the way his dimples deepened like pools of mirth when she told him stories, and his dark brows furrowed when she explained about the electoral process and the rights of citizenship.
“He wouldn’t,” she said. “There must be some misunderstanding.”
“You of all people should know a man can and would do anything,” Miss Q said with a delicate shrug. “My guy didn’t hear anything, just mentioned what he saw to me. And now I’m mentioning it to you. That’s it.”
Bertha nodded. “I’ll look into it. Two o’clock Monday then.”
The sound of Miss Q’s heels clicked in the silence of the club, followed by the sound of the door opening and closing. Bertha knew she should feel anger, but instead she felt a deep sadness that spread over her body. It weighed her down, like the kudzu that had clung to the trees in her childhood home, eventually toppling them when their weight grew too much to bear. If her life had taught her anything, it was that people always left and men weren’t to be trusted. There was no reason the thought of Amir ratting on her should have been particularly hurtful, and yet…
She got up and walked to the kitchen. From inside she heard Amir singing as he worked, his voice so low it was almost a hum.
She girded herself and walked in.
He was at the stove, as he always was now, his shoulders marking the rhythm to which he matched his song. He stirred something that smelled like heaven, and then lifted the spoon, swiped a finger across, and stuck it into his mouth. His eyes closed as he savored it, teeth scraping over his bottom lip to catch the last traces of the sauce, and Bertha felt a raw wave of want go through her, like a ripple going over water, expanding toward the horizon.
“Is it really that good?” That was easier than asking if he had betrayed her.
His eyes fluttered open and seemed to darken as they settled on her. No, Miss Q had to be wrong; men were low down snakes, but Amir was no actor. He couldn’t fake the way he looked at her, and he couldn’t look at her like that and then run to the police.
He insinuated himself into your life so easily. He’s closer to you than anyone. Bertha began to tally the time spent with Amir over the last few weeks: hours and hours. Talking, getting to know each other. Being set up?
No.
He walked over with that slightly bowlegged stride of his that should have been ridiculous but made him seem confident instead.
“Want to taste?” he asked. His voice was rough, not at all how it had been as he sang to himself.
She nodded and reached for the spoon, but he held it aloft. Bertha was slightly ashamed but a tight heat bloomed between her legs, and when he slicked his index finger over the curve of the spoon she swallowed hard.
He lowered his glistening finger toward her lips.
“Are you fooling?” she asked.
“No one touches my cooking tools but me,” he said, thick brows raised. “Do you want a taste or not?”
Dammit, he knew she wouldn’t resist a challenge; she doubted he knew that this was one he would regret.
“Okay,” she said. She leaned forward and traced her tongue over his fingertip. The sauce was delicious, but not enough to justify what she did next. She gripped his wrist with both hands, flattening her tongue to give his finger a few strong licks, then sucked it into her mouth. Amir should have known that playing with her was a losing game.
Maybe he wants to lose.
“Bertha.”
Her name was a plea for help, or for more. She glanced up at him as she sucked once, twice, three times, loving the way his lips parted and his eyes went dark and intense. She released the digit with a pop and he squeezed his eyes shut.
“You’re right. It’s quite good,” she said, dropping his hand. “I’ll put it on tonight’s menu. Be a doll and write out the name and description for me.”
He didn’t say anything; his breath was coming out ragged and his pants were tented at the groin, an intriguing hint that almost tempted her to continue. Almost. But it also meant he wouldn’t be thinking straight and now would be the best time to catch him unprepared.
“I need you to ask you something.” Her voice was cool now, bordering on harsh. “Have you spoken to anyone about what goes on here at the club?”
His forehead wrinkled, and she hoped his confusion wasn’t only at the abrupt subject change.
“Just my flatmates,” he said. “It isn’t every day one delivers a baby.”
Was he playing dumb?
“And no one else? Has anyone approached you?”
His shoulders rose and fell. “There was a man in the alley the other day. I thought he was from immigration.”
There was fear in his expression now, something Bertha hadn’t seen before. She usually ignored the fact that he was not here legally, that he could be taken away and thrown on a ship at any moment. It seemed absurd, the thought of such a thing happening, but she knew as well as anyone that people always left. That knowledge didn’t make her feel any better.
“Why didn’t you say something to me?” she asked.
“Because I was ashamed,” he said. He turned to the stove and went back to work, his gaze locked on the pan before him. “I nearly ran from that man. Why? Because I was afraid that he would put me on a ship and send me home. In that moment, I was not Amir the chef, or the sailor, or the dishwasher. I was an alien and a criminal, all because my skin is brown and I hail from Bengal.”
Bertha knew that gut churning feeling, of being forced into shame not because of anything you did, but who you were.
“Just…things are tense right now. Be careful who you speak to,” she said.
He nodded and kept stirring.
She reached out a hand toward him, rested it on his shoulder. “Amir—”
“What are you doing tomorrow during the day?” he asked abruptly.
“I have nothing planned,” she said, then realized that was a lie. “Apart from our next lesson.”
“I have something to do, so I can’t come tomorrow.”
“That’s fine.” Maybe she did need to be more careful with him. She shouldn’t have felt such a childish sense of disappointment that he was canceling their unspoken plans. It was just as well; their lessons had become more tea and talking than dancing these days.
And the talking is what you will miss tomorrow.
“Since you have no plans, I can pick you up at ten.”
“What for?” she asked.
“So you can put our lessons to the test,” he said. He moved to the cutting board and began chopping a large onion.
“I said I wasn’t dancing until women got the vote,” she replied.
He stopped chopping and glanced at her. “This is a private event, not a show. The dancing will be optional, in fact. I just thought it would be nice to do something. Together.”
“Oh.”
Bertha was nonplussed. Doing something outside of the Cashmere made whatever it was between them more real. Like he was courting her. Bertha had never been courted before, really; men had taken her out on the town, but only because they were getting their money’s worth.
“Fine,” she said. “Now you get to prepping. We’re expecting even more folks tonight, since people have been spreading the word about your cooking.”
She headed for her office to do the day’s administrative work and told herself that the
funny feeling in her stomach was from Amir’s food and not the fact that she’d just been asked on a date.
Chapter 8
Bertha perched next to her office window, staring at her pocketwatch. She had debated going outside to wait, but hadn’t wanted to stand out in the street. What was she supposed to say when neighbors asked what she was doing? That she was waiting for a man?
She had been so taken aback at being asked to go somewhere outside the comfortable confines of the Cashmere that she hadn’t realize the ramifications of it. She had been publicly off the market since she’d taken over the club; it was part of her mystique. She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about stepping out in public with a man again, and with Amir being that man.
She was good at lying, but not to herself. Not about something this dangerous. She desired Amir. When he wasn’t around, she wished he was; when he was, she wished he was closer. And it was more than desire. When she was with him, she felt the same foolish flame of hope that had flickered during her years on the road and her first months in New York, when she thought she’d become a famous dancer, before being extinguished. She wasn’t a cold woman, but she had gone a long time without that particular warmth. Then Amir had strode in, arrogant and rude, and then arrogant and sweet, and Bertha was fairly certain she was going to be burned however this shook out. That didn’t stop her from wanting to step closer, to hold out her hands toward the dancing light.
A truck pulled up in front of the Cashmere and she stuck her watch in her pocket and squinted through the window. The truck had “Cohen’s Deliveries” written across the side, but when the passenger door swung open, it was Amir who hopped out. He looked up at the window, as if sensing her presence.
“Hey!” He waved up at her and she felt a little shock go through her. The wind tousled his thick black hair, and a wide smile graced his face. Beneath his open jacket he wore a bright-hued, short-collared shirt that went down to his knees, with slim trousers poking out from beneath. He looked like a handsome prince come to rescue her from her tower. Bertha didn’t need rescuing, but it was hard to turn it down when it showed up looking like that.