Black Orchid Blues Page 18
He’d be dead no matter what.
But the manner of his death, yes, it did matter.
I started toward the newspaper building. Queenie had a right to tell his side of the story and instinct said there was more to that story than just greed. Why was it so important to him that I know about his ties to the Bernards? And why had he chosen this oblique way of telling me? He could’ve just said something when we were sitting in the Cinnamon Club. Why hadn’t he? Was it because the place was too loud, too chaotic?
I paused at the building’s entrance. How was I going to present all this to Sam? By now, Blackie must have told him about Dr. Bernard accusing me of being in cahoots with the kidnppers. Then I’d gone and probably made the situation worse by disappearing. Some people might’ve thought I was running away. For all I knew, someone might’ve even seen me get into Stax’s car.
Now I was back with a wild story about the main kidnapper being dead and Queenie being the one who killed him—full of details about him having slit the man’s throat not in self-defense, but as part of some cold-blooded plan that I still didn’t fully understand.
I could just hear Sam now. You know I’m in your corner, but do you realize how this looks? I want to work with you, baby, but where’s the body? Where’s the proof? I had no proof, only suspicions. And there would be no body. I was fairly certain that Stax’s men had started removing Olmo’s remains the moment we left the building. They would make sure it was gone, for good.
A car honked in the distance. I glanced up at the sound of it and saw Sam. He’d already left work; he was down the block, standing there at the corner.
The light changed and he stepped off the curb.
I hurried after him, calling out his name. “Sam!”
He didn’t hear me.
“Sam! Wait!” I ran down the street after him.
He was three-quarters of the way across, really only a few steps from his front door, when the laundry truck came out of nowhere. One minute the wide vista of 135th was clear. The next, there was this black truck with the words Tic-Tac-Toe Laundry painted in bright orange letters on its side. It came barreling down the street, jerking right and left as though the driver had lost control.
And there was Sam, directly in its path.
He walked with his head bent, his hands stuffed into his pants pockets, his shoulders hunched against the cold. He was deep in thought, but some instinct must have made him look up. Perhaps it was a slight shift in the shadows, or the merest vibrations under his feet. It could’ve even been my voice; although it seemed to me that it had frozen in my throat.
Whatever alarm went off, he did peer up. For the rest of my life, I will remember his expression. He had maybe half a second to react, just enough time to register that he might be about to die. He could’ve taken a step forward, toward the sidewalk, in an attempt to save his life. In all probability, it would’ve been futile, but he could’ve tried. Instead, he turned back—to look at me.
Our eyes met. In that moment, I saw his love for me and recognized my misgivings for what they truly were: the simple fear of loving him and losing him the way I’d lost Hamp.
For a moment, my heart stopped beating.
In that same instant, the truck struck him down.
CHAPTER 35
The doors to Harlem Hospital’s emergency room banged open. A doctor and two nurses ran alongside Sam and shoved the gurney carrying him into an examining room.
They let me hover on the periphery while a team worked on Sam. Then a nurse drew me aside to get his information. When I looked back, I saw them rushing him out of the room. I tried to follow after them, but the nurse held me back.
“Where are they taking him?” I pleaded.
“To surgery.”
“But—”
“The best thing you can do to help is to tell us what you know about him. His medical history.”
I fell silent. It hit me once again just how little I knew about Sam. They’d evidently mistaken me for his wife. I was being given a chance to help him in a way I couldn’t help my husband—but I was at a loss. The irony of it all struck me.
The next three hours were a nightmare.
The impact had thrown Sam into the air and over the truck. He landed on the sidewalk, inches from the jutting points of an iron fence. If he’d struck that, he would’ve been impaled and surely died. Instead, he hit the ground hard, on his right side.
I reached him within seconds. He was conscious but dazed, his face covered in blood. “Sam! Oh God, Sam!”
He was barely responsive. His breathing was shallow, his body contorted.
“Sam, please … please, hold on.”
I could feel him slipping away. I looked up, screamed, “Somebody, please! Get help! Please!” I grabbed his hand. “Sam, stay with me. It’s Lanie. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” I caressed his face and leaned down to whisper in his ear. “I love you. I love you so very much. Don’t leave me. Please!”
Don Hollyer, the owner and driver of the truck, would later tell police that he’d been distracted because he had been wrestling with his German shepherd, King, over the remains of a ham sandwich. Hollyer was trying to shove the dog away from the sandwich when he struck Sam.
“It was really a very good sandwich,” Hollyer would say, “made of Black Forest ham.” He told police that he thought he’d hit a large dog until he saw me running toward the twisted body.
The nurse urged me to use the bathroom to clean up. Standing over the sink, I held my trembling hands under the running faucet and watched Sam’s blood swirl down the drain. My reflection in the mirror revealed blood smears on my cheeks, and I felt sick with fear and guilt.
I returned to the waiting room, stomach knotted, mind churning. You distracted him when he was crossing the street. If you hadn’t called out to him, if—
“Lanie!”
I looked up to see Blackie hurrying toward me; George Ramsey was right behind him. I stood up to receive them.
“I came as soon as I heard.”
“I don’t believe this. Are you all right?”
I assured them that I was. Then Selena Troy and George Greene showed up too, as did other staffers from the newsroom. All had heard different versions of what happened. I told them what I’d seen.
“I distracted him,” I said, “calling out to him when he was crossing the street.”
“My God, Lanie, you don’t think this is your fault?” Blackie shook his head. “Don’t do that to yourself.”
Ramsey weighed in, his voice gruff: “Where’s Sam? What’s going on with him?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know. I’ve been waiting and nobody’s come out to say anything.”
A moment later, the door behind us opened and an exhausted-looking doctor walked in. He made straight for me.
“Are you here about Sam Delaney?”
“Yes, how is he? Please tell us something.”
He introduced himself as Dr. Maynard. He was in his mid-thirties, had soft brown eyes and a five o’clock shadow.
“He was very lucky,” the doctor explained. “He must’ve turned slightly at the last moment. If he hadn’t, we would’ve lost him.”
He turned to see me. And that might’ve actually saved his life?
Maynard told us that Sam’s right leg, below the knee, had been broken in three places. “We had to operate to relieve the pressure caused by the shattered bone, so blood could flow into his lower leg. Otherwise, there was a risk of amputation. His right knee cracked down the middle. We’re also working with fractures of his right hip.” It sounded horrible.
He’s alive, I told myself. Just be grateful that he’s alive.
“Is he awake?” I asked. “Can I speak with him?”
“No,” Maynard’s face changed. The change was subtle, but it was there. “Not yet.”
“What are you not telling me?”
He didn’t answer, but I recognized his expression. I’d been a doctor’s wife too long not to.
So he did.
When he was done, I had only one question: “Where is he?”
CHAPTER 36
Dr. Maynard said that only one of us could go in to see Sam, and then for no more than five minutes. The others agreed to let me visit. Sam was in intensive care and in a small room by himself. The skin around his large frame seemed to have shrunken. His head was thickly bandaged, as was his pelvic area, and his right leg was in traction. His complexion was grayed and waxen. His lips seemed bloodless and his bones jutted out sharply.
Tears slipped unheeded from my eyes. I wanted to say something, anything, but my throat had closed. I took his hand, which was cool and so very limp. Where was the warmth, the strength that was so much a part of him? All thoughts of Junior and Sheila, of the Bernards and their horrible accusations—they all went away. All my emotions were for Sam.
All too soon a nurse appeared to shoo me from the room.
“Wait a minute,” I said.
I held Sam’s hand against my cheek, kissed it, and laid it gently back at his side. Then I bent to kiss his unresponsive lips before returning to the waiting room. Blackie, Ramsey, and the others were still there. All eyes turned toward me with expectation.
“He’s very weak,” I told them.
They looked stricken. Selena’s makeup was tear-streaked. George Greene’s eyes were wide behind his glasses. As for Ramsey and Blackie, they wore expressions I had never seen on them before. It took me a moment to realize that these were expressions of not only pain, but helplessness. They were men of action and decision, and here they were confronted with a situation in which they could do nothing.
Observing their faces, I suddenly remembered. “Blackie, Mr. Ramsey, I have to speak with you … alone.”
A new edge to the worry appeared in their eyes.
I turned to the others. “It’s good that you came. Sam would appreciate it, but he’d also say there’s nothing you can do. George,” I said, “your baby could arrive any minute. Sam would want you at home with your wife.”
He hesitated. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, of course. It’s okay.”
He gave me an awkward hug, then a nod of acknowledgment to the small gathering, before walking quickly away.
“Lanie,” Selena chimed in, “I’m sorry.” She appeared genuinely distraught. “I mean it, I apologize for all of it.” She glanced at Ramsey, then Blackie, then back at me. “You’ll tell Sam I was here?”
I said I would, then she too departed. One by one, the others left.
I sat on one of the benches and gestured for Ramsey and Blackie to join me. I began by describing what happened when I left Blackie at 125th Street, recounting how Stax Murphy picked me up. Both men listened, stone-faced, as I explained how Stax had taken me to Olmo’s body. I described how one of Olmo’s fingers was cut off and what it meant.
To my surprise, when I finished, Ramsey took my hand and said, “You’ve done a fine job.”
Blackie looked as though he had a lot to add, none of it as complimentary, but didn’t know where to begin. I sensed that he was holding his tongue only because of the circumstances involving Sam. When he did speak, it was to advise me to go home and get some rest. “There’s nothing you can do here.”
Ramsey agreed. Blackie said he would stop by the Bernards and tell them about Olmo.
“It’s not really the kind of news that’ll bring them comfort,” I said.
“No, it won’t, but it’s a step in the right direction.”
“They might not even want Junior found.”
“True, but that’s not up to them. Their son’s a killer, and it’s my job to bring him in.”
“No matter what he’s done, they won’t help you.”
“Probably not. But I’m going to talk to them anyway.”
CHAPTER 37
I did go home, briefly, to change clothes. The temperature had dropped with the setting sun and snow was falling. Not the fluffy flakes of a winter’s dreamtime, but the small pelting kind akin to hail. By morning, there would be ice on the ground.
Standing on my front steps, I glanced over at the Bernard house. Low lights burned in their living room. Blackie had dropped me off and then headed over there.
I let myself in and took a deep breath. What a day. It had begun with Sheila’s disappearance and ended with Sam being struck by a truck.
And it wasn’t over yet.
I didn’t even bother turning on the lights in the frigid house. For the second time in a week, I was covered in blood.
The telephone rang as I reached the stairs. It couldn’t be the hospital, could it? Surely nothing could’ve happened to Sam in the few minutes since I left. I ran into the parlor and grabbed up the phone.
“Ye-es?” Just that short run had left me breathless.
“How’s it going, Slim?”
A chill of recognition ran down my spine. “Queenie!” I swallowed. “You—you’re—”
“Yes, I’m safe. But you knew that already, didn’t you? I’m sorry about your boss,” he said smoothly. “I heard about it on the radio. My sympathies.”
I said nothing.
He gave a nasty chuckle. “Forget it, Slim. Don’t pretend. I know Stax found Olmo, and I know he took you there. So don’t fucking pretend you don’t—”
“All right, I won’t. You’re behind this whole thing.”
“You got it.”
“You killed Olmo.”
“Damn straight.”
“Why?”
“His part was done. It was a graceful exit.”
I felt a surge of anger. “And what about Sheila? A blast to the face. You call that a graceful exit?”
“It was more than the bitch deserved.”
“But why? She was helping you—”
“Not me. She was helping him.” What? “Him who?”
“Junior.”
“Don’t play that with me. You’re Junior.”
“The hell I am! I am me, Queenie Lovetree, the Black fuckin’ Orchid. And I killed that bitch cause she was telling him to get rid of me.”
“Telling who?”
“Are you stupid or something? She told Junior it was time to unload me. Can you believe that shit? Unload me? How dare she!”
That’s when I understood. Lord help me, I understood. Suddenly dizzy, I felt for the chair and sat down. What had Sheila said?
“He denied everything, said he’d been sleeping in his room the whole night.”
“Was he playacting?”
“I thought he was lying. But then I could see he really didn’t remember.”
He didn’t remember. No, of course he didn’t.
“Queenie …?”
“Yes?”
He sounded as though he was enjoying this. No doubt, he was. But I didn’t know where to begin. All I knew was that I had stepped into someone else’s nightmare.
“I don’t think he cared about me following him. I think he cared about what I saw.”
Was this really the answer? My thoughts were utterly disconnected.
I flashed on my bookshelf: Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I had read it a year ago. Like most people, I’d assumed it was totally fiction, but now …
I found my voice, tried to sound normal. “And he—Junior, I mean—he was listening to her?”
“Yeah. What a stupid motherfucker. He couldn’t tie his shoelaces if I didn’t tell him, but then he went and got himself another bitch. Thought she was all fine and mighty cause she had a real pussy. She said to get rid of me, and the fool was listening to her. That was the last straw.”
I thought fast, trying to remember the details in the book, that fantasti-cal story of split personalities. “So Junior knows about you?”
A hesitation. “Yes and no. He thinks he’s being haunted. He’s such a superstitious fool.”
“He’s scared of you.” It wasn’t a question, but an observa
tion based on a hunch. I could almost feel Queenie’s malevolent smile.
“He’d be stupid not to be. Aren’t you scared of me?”
“No.”
He laughed. “Aw, Lanie. You know something? I like you.”
“Is that why you tried to use me?”
“Tried?” Another dark chuckle. “Sweetheart, I didn’t fucking try. I did use you and I’m still using you—and whether you’re willing to admit it or not, you like being used.”
I felt another rush of cold anger. “Why would you think that?”
“Because I’m giving you the biggest story of your career.”
“Biggest? I don’t know about that. The strangest, maybe.”
“Damn! You don’t give an inch, do you? Well, neither do I.” The false gaiety left his voice. “You got my money, Slim?”
“You know I don’t.”
“But you’re going to get it, right?”
I paused. “I don’t work for you, Queenie, and I don’t trust you.”
“It’s mutual.”
“Soon everyone will know that you kidnapped yourself. Sheila might’ve provided you with some leverage, but you killed her. You’ve got nothing to hold over us—”
“The hell I don’t. You’re going to help me here, cause if you don’t, you’ll be counting bodies for the next six months.”
I tensed. “What are you planning?”
“The Faggots’ Ball. I’ll make sure it’s a real blast.”
“You wouldn’t—”
“Oh, but I would. If you don’t get me my dough, I’ll blow the place up. I will bring it down, with everybody and their uncles in it.”
There would be thousands of people around. Hundreds might die. But Blackie could salt the crowd with disguised police and—
“You know, Slim, it’s like I can hear you thinking. Well, I’m telling you right now: don’t even try putting uniforms in there. Just because there’s room for cops to hide don’t mean there won’t be plenty of room for me to hide as well. Don’t take that chance. I’m warning you: if I see one friggin’ cop, I’ll let her rip.”
“You’re willing to die too?”
He laughed. “You call what I’m doing living? I don’t. I’m gonna take that dough and go somewhere where no one’s ever heard of Junior Bernard or Queenie Lovetree. I’m gonna start over.”