Black Orchid Blues Read online

  “It’s not that I don’t love you or appreciate—”

  “Do you?”

  I blinked, puzzled. “Do I what?”

  “Love me?”

  “Well, I … Yes, of course.”

  “Of course?”

  “All right, yes, I do.”

  “Then do you want me to love you?”

  I shook my head. “No, Sam, that’s not what this is about.”

  “That’s exactly what it’s about, what it has always been about—whether you’re ready to let me love you. Whether you’re willing to let someone inside that hard shell you crawled into after your husband died.”

  “I—”

  “You keep running off, taking chances that could get you killed. You act as though you don’t matter to anyone but you. Well, you do. You matter to a whole lot of people.” Before I could answer, he held up an index finger. “That’s number one. Number two is that I am your boss, Lanie. It is my job to know your whereabouts. Your welfare—the welfare of everyone in that newsroom—is my responsibility. Do I make myself clear?”

  I could feel my temper rising. “Staying safe is not why I got into this business. Do you think I became a reporter just to cover parties?”

  “I assume it was because you wanted to help people.”

  “I wanted to tell the stories that no one else would tell. Ida B. Wells and Nellie Bly, they’re my heroes. I wanted to be like them: do important work, cover significant stories. But the fact is, I’m a coward. I don’t have Ida’s guts to fight lynching or Nellie’s courage to go inside an insane asylum.”

  “But you do.”

  “No, I don’t. Every now and then I just find a story that I do have the guts to cover. A story that could make a difference.”

  “And you think this is one of them?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t say. But there’s something awfully wrong here,” I nodded toward the window, “about that house. Please, Sam, let me have this one.”

  He was thoughtful, his brow creased with concern.

  “It’s not just what you do. It’s how you do it.”

  “Look, you’re right about me running off. I was wrong about that, and I’ll try not to—”

  He cut me off with a glare and I amended myself.

  “I promise not to do it again. But if I do that, will you promise me something in return? To give me the freedom to follow the harder stories, no matter where they take me?”

  “Lanie …”

  “Please.”

  After a moment, he drew a deep breath. “All right,” he said. “But you have to keep your half of the bargain too.”

  “I will.”

  He smiled skeptically. “Sure you will. Until the next phone call.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “Oh, I do. As far as I can throw you.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  “No, you’re not.” He put two fingertips under my chin and lifted it, so my gaze met his. I closed my eyes and felt his lips press gently against mine. Parting my lips, I squeezed my body to his, felt his embrace tighten. The kiss grew long and hard and hungry, but after a while he held me away. His eyes contained desire—and doubt. “I don’t want to, if …”

  “No, please. I feel so cold inside. Ever since the night of the shooting, I can’t get warm.” I moved closer. “Warm me, Sam. Do whatever it takes to warm me.”

  He cupped my face with his hand. “Are you sure?”

  In answer, I turned my face into his hand and kissed his palm. At that point, he swept me off my feet Valentino-style. I nuzzled my face in the curve of his throat.

  “You’re so silly,” I whispered. “I am not a damsel in distress.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  He stayed that night. He was there most of Sunday too. I sent him home right after Sunday dinner. We spent part of the time strolling around the neighborhood; otherwise, we watched the Bernard house. We sat in the bay window of my parlor room, taking turns, not really sure what we were searching for. We saw no one enter or leave it.

  Monday and Tuesday were also quiet. I did my usual running around, went over to see Grace. Checked in on Mrs. Cardigan. Attended the weekly meeting of the Women’s Auxiliary at the Young Women’s Christian Association. Dropped in on a planning meeting for the Faggots’ Ball and listened to panel members worry about the weather, how it might affect attendance.

  Nothing new vis-à-vis the Black Orchid. Blackie left me alone. My phone at work was oddly silent too. It was as if we were all waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  On Wednesday, it did.

  CHAPTER 24

  I spent that morning on the phone, double-checking the names of people at two social gatherings I’d missed. A couple of sources also phoned in with information about an affair between the married director and unmarried ingénue of a play …

  Then I took a call from the manager of the Savoy Ballroom. He wanted to give me an update on their bathing beauty ball and contest. This would be the second year in which the Savoy held the events. The previous year had been a rousing success, and this year’s looked like it would be too. They were turning the dancehall into a jungle, to bolster the atmosphere. More than two hundred woman had already entered the contest, I was told. Starting in late July, and every Saturday night in August, some forty to fifty young women in bathing suits would parade up and down before an audience. The whole thing would culminate in a ball in early September. Prizes included up to five hundred dollars in cash.

  I hung up the phone thinking that everybody was running a beauty contest these days. They were guaranteed moneymakers, almost always pulling in large crowds. More significantly, they served the social benefit of reaf-firming the beauty of colored women, something that had been ignored and disparaged for way too long.

  I finished typing up the column and handed it in. Then I set about doing what was really on my mind.

  I ran downstairs to the newsstand on the corner and bought a copy of the New York Daily News. I headed out without my coat, thinking I wouldn’t need it for a two-minute errand. But the short spell in the frigid wind was enough to chill me to the bone, and the building lobby was unheated.

  By the time I returned to my desk, my teeth were chattering so hard my jaw hurt. I flipped the paper open to the personal classifieds and ran an index finger down the columns. At the top of the third column, two ads down, I found what I was looking for: We are ready. Signed, Margie Winthrop.

  I closed the paper and thought about it. If I told Sam, he’d probably just ask me to share the news with Selena. Despite our little talk and reconciliation, I still felt the need for caution.

  Speak of the devil. I glanced up and saw her walking past, holding a coffee cup. She must’ve sensed me looking at her, because she slowed down, turned, and retraced her steps to my desk. She peeked down at the newspaper and asked, “What’ve you got there?”

  “A newspaper.”

  Her eyes went from me to the paper, and back again.

  “Is there something in there I should know about?”

  “How about everything?”

  “You saying you think I’m ignorant?”

  “Oh no, Selena. I would never say that.”

  She put a hand on her hip. “If there’s anything in that paper that’s got to do with the Black Orchid, then it’s got to do with me.”

  She had good instincts, I had to give her that.

  “I’ll tell you what,” I said. “If you think there’s something in this paper about the story, then you find it.” I handed it to her. “I’ve got better things to do.”

  I smiled politely and waited for her to go away. It took her a moment, but she left. Then I happened to glance down Sam’s way, felt his eyes on me. I smiled at him and gave a nod, as if to say, Don’t worry, I’m playing nice with her. Apparently satisfied, Sam nodded in return, then returned his attention to whatever was on his desk.

  Selena was back at her de
sk, nose deep in the newspaper. Excellent instincts. If only she’d use them to dig up her own stories instead of waiting for Sam to toss her one of mine.

  Certain that the coast was clear, I picked up the phone and put a call through to the Bernards. Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, Dr. Bernard was in no mood to talk. He said he wanted to keep the lines clear and hung up. I was disappointed, but didn’t argue.

  For several minutes, I sat there wondering how to proceed. The ring of my phone brought me back to reality.

  It was Sheila. She was excited and frightened. “Mrs. Price, another letter arrived just now. This one’s addressed to you and me.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. They want us to go to the Mercer Hotel. You know it?”

  “The one on 145th Street?”

  “Uh-huh. We’re supposed to register there at six o’clock tonight. And sign in as Anne and Alice Martin. Then we’re supposed to wait for them to contact us.” She paused. “There’s something else, a note. It’s from Billy, written by him. I’ll read it to you.”

  “Okay.”

  “It says, I am alive, but they know about me. They say they don’t like people like me. My hand hurts. They say they’ll do other things to me, then kill me, if they’re not paid. So, please do what they say.”

  “You sure it’s him?”

  “I recognize his handwriting.”

  “What does Junior say?”

  “Junior?” Sheila repeated. “Oh, yes! Well, he’s not back yet. But he called today. He’s—he had trouble with his train.”

  “What does your father say?”

  She paused before answering. “He doesn’t know.”

  I leaned on my desk and dropped my voice. “Doesn’t know?”

  “They were out when it came. I just happened to be here.”

  “And you’re not going to tell them?”

  She was silent a moment. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Please, don’t make me explain. Just trust me. You can’t say anything, not to anyone. Not to them and not to the police—especially not the police.”

  “Sheila, I have to.”

  “Please!” Her voice became a ragged cry. “I’m begging you. Don’t say a word. Just do this with me. Come and don’t say a word.”

  I thought about it. “I’ll have to tell my editor.”

  “No, you—”

  “Sheila, it would be foolish to run off and do this without letting someone know where we are or what we’re up to.”

  “But what if he—”

  “Don’t worry. He won’t.”

  There was a pause and then a long sigh. “All right.”

  “What about the ransom?” I asked.

  “I’ll get it. Just be there, tonight, alone.”

  “I will.”

  There was soft click and she was gone.

  “Who was that?”

  I straightened up to find Selena standing behind me.

  Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Did that have to do with the Black Orchid kidnapping? I bet it did, didn’t it?” She took a step toward me and wagged a finger under my nose. “Sam told me you’d try to sneak something past me.”

  “He did no such thing.” Pointedly ignoring her, I pulled open a drawer, fetched a fresh steno pad, and slipped it into my purse. “Just because Sam gave you the Black Orchid story doesn’t mean you have the right to watch everything I do.” I shrugged into my coat. “Now, I suggest you go do your job and let me do mine.”

  Before she could answer, I grabbed my purse and walked out. I had a bag to pack. I was a block from my home when it hit me: I had forgotten to leave a message for Sam.

  CHAPTER 25

  The Mercer was one step away from being a flophouse—one very short step. The place was a magnet for every hoodlum, hooker, dealer, and otherwise shady character within a one-mile radius. There had been a couple of murders at the Mercer, but I hadn’t caught the stories when I was covering crime. A converted three-story brownstone, it sat on the northwest corner of Lenox Avenue and 147th Street. That was just two blocks north of the gracious Hotel Theresa and less than ten blocks north of genteel Strivers’ Row. Not far in physical distance, but worlds away in atmosphere.

  In short, it was the perfect setting for a shakedown.

  I drove my car and met Sheila in front of the hotel promptly at six. She was outwardly calm, but her troubled eyes revealed the same scared kid I’d seen before.

  “It’s going to be all right,” I said.

  She took in the Mercer’s shabby, downright evil appearance, grabbed a deep breath, and set her thin shoulders. I put a gentle hand on her elbow and we walked in together.

  Given what we’d seen outside, the lobby was no surprise: uneven walls covered in grimy green wallpaper, a tattered red carpet underneath, a battered wooden elevator to one side, and a scarred wooden reception desk set straight ahead, with a mean-looking sister behind it. I knew her by reputation.

  Ida Mercer, the widowed wife of a saxophone player, ran the show. She’d had very little experience with the finer things in life, but she knew how to manage a flophouse. She was a large woman with narrow black eyes in a wide, fleshy face. She wore her thick hair parted down the center and braided into two pigtails. It was a child’s hairdo, but there was nothing childish about Mercer. She was in her mid-to-late fifties and, from the weariness in her eyes, her soul must’ve been a hundred.

  Mercer smirked knowingly when we asked to register. “One room or two?” She had a low, husky voice.

  “One,” Sheila said.

  “Two,” I said.

  We’d spoken together.

  Mercer talked to me, but glanced sideways at Sheila. “Sounds like girl-friend here is the type to get cold at night.”

  Sheila gave me a panicked look. “Please, I don’t want to stay alone here.”

  Mercer smiled as though Sheila had just proved her point.

  “All right,” I said.

  “How many nights?” Mercer asked.

  “Just one.”

  If we were lucky, we would make the drop and be out by midnight. We wouldn’t even have to sleep here. We might even be on our way to pick up Queenie if everything went smoothly. Realistically, I didn’t think so, but a girl can dream, can’t she?

  We signed in and paid up-front, using the names Anne and Alice Martin, just as we’d been instructed.

  “Here’s the house rules,” Mercer said. “This is a righteous, God-fearing Christian establishment. I don’t put up with no drinking or whoring. You two look like nice ladies, but you can never tell. So I repeat: No drinking or men in the room. And no stealing neither. Iffin’ you steal something, I’ll find you and make you pay for it. Iffin’ you break something, I’ll do the same. Got it?”

  I nodded to make her happy and put out my hand for the key.

  The stairs were creaky and uneven. I had one small bag and Sheila had two, which we carried ourselves. Our room was on the top floor, which had six small rooms set along a narrow corridor with a stairway to one side and a communal bathroom to the rear. The accomodations were unexceptional: minimal cleanliness, a queen-sized cot with a thin, sagging mattress, a splotchy blue blanket and gray sheets, a single overhead light, a battered table and chair.

  Worse than I would’ve liked, but much better than I’d feared.

  The room was on the corner, so it had windows on two walls and you could see the lights from Lenox Avenue stretching far south. It was a nice sight; it was enough to give you hope. Going to sleep or waking up to a view like that, a person could think that maybe this wasn’t the end of the road.

  Then again, not everyone might react that way.

  Sheila walked to the middle of the room and just stood there, taking a long, hard look at her surroundings. Then she sagged down on the edge of the bed, bent her head, and wept.

  I gave her a moment, then sat next to her. I put an arm around her shoulders and let her have a good, long cry. When she was all sobbed out, I
passed her a handkerchief. She dabbed her eyes, sniffed, and thanked me. But she refused to meet my gaze.

  After a pause, I whispered in her ear: “Now that we’ve come this far, don’t you think it’s time you told me the truth?”

  She froze. “The truth?”

  I could just about see the shiver that rippled down her spine. “It’s time to stop the lying.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said in a low voice.

  “Yes, you do. And now’s the time to talk.”

  “I have no idea what—”

  “The kidnapping, Sheila. It’s a fake, isn’t it?”

  Her head snapped up. “No! Of course not! What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the fact that the kidnapper contacted the Bernards instead of Queenie’s boss.”

  “So?”

  “It was a tell. An insider pulled this job, someone who knew Queenie’s true identity.”

  “No. They tortured Billy. They—”

  “Stop it!” I snapped, almost savagely. “The kidnapping was an act. At least, it started out that way.”

  “How can you say that?” she said in a horrified whisper. “They cut off his finger. They—”

  “That’s what happens when you partner with gangsters.”

  She shrank back. “You’re wrong, just so wrong.”

  “I wish I were, but you know I’m not. There have been too many coincidences: first, the kidnapping. It wasn’t luck that it happened when I was there. I was meant to see a performance, one that had nothing to do with singing.”

  Sheila swallowed but said nothing.

  “Then there was the cigar box,” I continued. “It was hand-delivered to my doorstep. Another coincidence? I don’t think so.”

  “But that doesn’t—I mean, maybe the kidnapper felt he had a tie to you somehow, because you were there that night.”

  “Yeah, and that tie is Queenie. If you’re a publicity-hungry performer, like Queenie, what better way to keep a reporter in the loop than by leaving that box on her doorstep?”

  She rubbed her brow. “No … Maybe Billy gave the kidnappers the wrong address on purpose, as a cry for help.”

  “It’s possible, but I doubt it. Queenie was behind that box coming to my house, but he didn’t send it as a cry for help.”