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  “But what about Esther? How could you have done that to her?”

  Her expression changed. For a fraction of second, it softened. Then, just as quickly, it hardened again. She shrugged. “I gave Esther a place in history. Something she wouldn’t have achieved on her own.”

  My fingers itched to get around her scrawny neck. But I resisted. I don’t know how, but I did.

  Her lips sloped in that lopsided curve that passed for a smile. “You’re shocked?”

  “By your hypocrisy? God no, I wish I were.”

  She reddened as though I’d slapped her. But she recovered quickly. She raised her chin.

  I had everything I needed, so I turned to leave. Her needling voice followed me.

  “I hope you don’t think you can peddle your little story to the police. With everyone dead, they’ll never believe you.”

  “Everyone dead? Where did you get that idea? Beth isn’t. You aren’t.”

  She blanched. “But you—you said Beth was sh—”

  “Exactly. I said ‘shot.’ I never said ‘dead.’ That, I’m afraid, was you expressing an expectation.”

  The parlor doors opened and Roland came in. Sam, Blackie and Reed were right behind him. Clearly, they had heard everything she’d said. Her gaze swung back to me.

  “I should’ve had you killed,” she hissed. “I should’ve let Bellamy and Sutton move against you sooner.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You should have.”

  Chapter 57

  I made time to phone Katie Jones and tell her the truth. She argued, called me a liar and every other name in the book, then slammed the phone down — but not fast enough to keep me from hearing the sobs break through.

  Sophie Carter received a phone call, too.

  Esther’s funeral was held December 23rd. She had indeed been brought home in time for Christmas. Her fans filled the small Baptist church of Christ, the Redeemer. They spilled onto the church steps on 123rd and Third Avenue. I gave the eulogy. Dianne Todd gathered enough strength to attend. She would live long enough to mark Christmas with Ruth and Job, and then pass away in her sleep on Christmas night. By New Year’s Day, she would be resting in the ground alongside her long lost child.

  Sam and I attended Esther’s funeral in the morning and the Agamemnon Awards dinner that evening. Byron Canfield, of all people, presented Esther with a posthumous award, naming her the Best Young Talent of 1923. His eyes met mine across the room as he announced the award and explained why she was chosen. It was a deeply satisfying moment. Job, dignified and grave, received the honor in his mother’s name. His acceptance speech was brief and poignant.

  “My mama was a great pianist,” he said, “but she was an even greater mama. And I miss her. I miss hearing her voice but I still got her songs. I got them on paper, all written down for me. And one day I’m going to sing them for you. Then you’ll know just how great my mama was. In the meantime, thank you. On behalf of my mama, my Aunt Ruth and Grandma Dee, I thank you for this award. But most of all, I want to thank Miss Lanie there. She had faith. And she kept her promise.”

  His eyes met mine and I wanted to thank him, to bless him and his family for giving me a chance to feel relevant again. In helping them, I’d helped myself.

  * * *

  My Christmas column, detailing Esther’s fate, turned out to be the best piece I wrote that year.

  Sam and I had a long talk. I would keep my job—but with a twist. I would report on crime among the smart set. After all, they had their troubles, too. And it was a subject that nobody was covering—at least, not regularly.

  Christmas Eve found Sam in my kitchen. He had taken his shirt off, revealing a lean, muscled torso. He was down on one knee, covered with a fine layer of dust. I paused in the kitchen doorway to watch as he hammered two planks of wood together to make another cabinet. He’d already made one and done a good job of it. His work was so skilled I wondered if he hadn’t at some point done carpentry for a living. I’d asked him, but all he’d said was “Baby, I’ve done a lot of things. This isn’t the least of them.”

  It was hard to recognize my boss in the half-naked man standing in my kitchen. Covered in sweat and dust, he bore no resemblance to the straight-laced, buttoned up persona he presented at work.

  Which was as it should be.

  His hands were not large, but capable and square. They gripped the wood with a familiarity born of practice. The muscles in his back rippled as he swung the hammer and drove in the nails.

  He looked up, saw me and gave a smile that made my heart flip. I wasn’t quite ready to let go of my sadness over Hamp, but I wasn’t holding on to it as tightly either. It was no longer a shield between the world and me.

  “Lunch is ready,” I said. “All spread out upstairs, on the dining room table.”

  He raised an eyebrow and I realized how my words could be interpreted.

  “Don’t,” I said, “don’t even go there.”

  “But you make it so hard not to.”

  He gave a mischievous smile and then returned his attention to the wood. “Just let me get the back of this one together and I’ll be right with you.”

  “You’ve been working down here for hours. You need a break.”

  “In a minute.”

  He placed a nail and hit it with his hammer. The hammerhead popped loose and flew up. It would’ve hit him in the eye, if he hadn’t ducked in time. The hammerhead landed on the floor with a clunk.

  “Shit,” he said through clenched teeth. He grabbed up the hammerhead and stuck it back on, but the piece wouldn’t stay. He was disgusted. “This is a piece of junk. My neighbor borrowed my hammer last week, said he’d return it. Now he won’t answer the door.”

  “Why don’t you stop for now?”

  He looked over at me. “‘Cause I told you I’d do this for you and I keep my word.”

  “But you don’t have to do it all at once. Take a break. Lunch is getting cold.”

  I so wanted him to eat and enjoy himself. I’d even gone out of my way to make ‘normal’ lunch for once. No funny breakfast food, this time. What I was serving was warm and healthy. Furthermore, our Christmas tree was waiting for us to decorate. It was a fine thick pine. Sam had bought it.

  “All right, all right.” He arched his back and worked his shoulders to loosen his muscles.

  I had a sudden image of my hands on his back, massaging his shoulders—and maybe even going lower to massage something else, too. I saw myself working hard, doing all I could to ease his tension.

  Then it hit me what I was thinking. It hit me so hard I blinked and averted my gaze.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “You sure?”

  “Hm-hmm.”

  I swallowed and forced myself to smile at him, hoping that he wouldn’t see my embarrassment.

  Apparently, he didn’t.

  “Just let me clean up,” he said, yanking a plaid red kerchief from his back pocket.

  Blissfully unaware of how he was affecting me, he mopped his brow and all around his throat, the muscles in his arms and chest rippling with every move. I found myself staring, and my thoughts running away again, conjuring up images no decent woman would ever entertain.

  “Mind if I use the bathroom?” he asked.

  “Of course not.”

  He put down the broken tool, grabbed his shirt off the back of the chair, and set off toward the back. There was a bathroom just before the backyard door. Soon, I heard water running. I picked up the broken hammer. It looked irreparable. Worse, it looked dangerous. If the hammer’s head had hit him, it could’ve done serious damage.

  Fifteen minutes later, Sam came back, buttoning his cuffs. “Hope I wasn’t too long.”

  “Not at all. Here.”

  In my hand was Hamp’s leather tool kit. Surprised, Sam made no move to take it.

  “Please,” I said, offering it to him.

  Still hesitant, he accepted it. “You’re letting me use the
se?”

  “No, I’m letting you have them.”

  His eyes widened. “Are you sure?”

  “Hamp wouldn’t have wanted them to go to waste.” After a moment, I added. “I know I’ll never use them.”

  He nodded. “Thank you.”

  He went to the kitchen table and unrolled the kit. I stood next to them, feeling the pain but knowing it was bearable. Believing too that I’d made the right decision.

  Sam’s hands moved over the tools with the sureness of an expert. He picked up each implement and studied it, murmuring words of admiration.

  Finally, he looked up at me. “Beautiful,” he said.

  “Yeah, I know. They were—”

  “Not them. You.” He took me in his arms.

  That last kiss had been gentle and polite and shy. This one was deep and hungry. The grip on my lower back was sturdy and firm.

  I leaned into him, closed my eyes and gladly felt the earth slip away.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2008-2017 by Persia Walker

  ISBN: 978-0979253829

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on a subsequent purchaser. Previously published as Darkness and the Devil Behind Me by Blood Vintage Press.

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  Black Orchid Blues

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  An Excerpt

  | 1 |

  Queenie Lovetree. What a name! What a performer! When she opened her mouth to sing, you closed yours to listen. You couldn’t help yourself. You knew you were going to end up with tears in your eyes. Whether they were tears of joy or tears of laughter, it didn’t matter. You just knew you were in for one hell of a ride.

  Folks used to talk about her gravely voice, her bawdy banter and how she could make up new, sexy lyrics on the spot. Queenie captured you. She got inside your mind, claimed her spot and refused to give it up. Once you heard her sing a song, you’d always think of her when you heard it. No matter who was singing it, her voice came to mind.

  Sure, she was moody and volatile. And yes, whatever she was feeling, she made sure you were feeling it, too. But that was good. That’s what could’ve made her great — could’ve being the operative word.

  I first met Queenie at a movie premiere at the Renaissance Ballroom, over on West 138th Street. The movie I’d soon forget – it was some ill-conceived melodrama – but Queenie I would always remember.

  It was a cold day in early February, with patches of dirty ice on the ground and leaden skies overhead. It was late afternoon, an odd time for a premiere, so the event drew few fans and, except for Queenie, mostly B-level talent.

  It was a party of gray pigeons and Queenie stood out like a peacock. For a moment, I wondered why she was even there. She was vivid. She was vibrant. And when she found out that I was Lanie Price, the Lanie Price, the society columnist, she went from frosty to friendly and started pestering me to see her perform.

  “I’m at the Cinnamon Club. You must’ve heard of me.”

  Well, I had, actually. Queenie’s name was on a lot of lips and I’d heard some interesting things about her. I could see for myself that she was bold and bodacious. I decided on the spot that I liked her, but I couldn’t resist having a little fun with her, so I shrugged and agreed that, yeah, I’d heard of … the Cinnamon Club.

  Queenie caught the shift in emphasis and was none too pleased. She raised her chin like miffed royalty, pointed one coral-tipped fingernail at my nose and, in her most regal voice, said, “You will appear.”

  I smiled and said I’d think about it.

  The fact was I had a full schedule. A lot of parties were going on those days, and it as my job to cover the best of them. However, I finally did find time to stop and see Queenie one night two weeks later. I called in advance and Queenie said she’d make sure I had a good table, which she did. It was excellent, in fact, right up front.

  To the cynic, the Cinnamon Club was little more than a speakeasy dressed up as a supper club, but it was one of Harlem’s most popular nightspots. It was on West 133rd Street, between Seventh and Lenox Avenues, what the white folks called “Jungle Alley.” That stretch was packed with clubs and given to violence. Why, only a few weeks earlier, two cops had gotten into a drunken brawl right outside the Cinnamon Club. One black, one white––they’d pulled out their pistols and shot each other.

  That was the neighborhood.

  As for the club itself, it was small, but plush. The lighting was dim, the chairs cushioned and the tables round and tiny and set for two. All in all, the Cinnamon Club seemed luxurious as well as intimate.

  It was packed every night and most of the comers were high hats, folks from downtown who came uptown to shake it out. They liked the place because it was classy, smoky and dark. For once, they could misbehave in the shadows and let someone else posture in the light. That someone else was Queenie. The place had only one spotlight and it always shone on her.

  Rumor had it that she was out of Chicago. But back at that movie premiere, she’d mentioned St. Louis. All anybody really knew was that she’d appeared out of nowhere. That was late last summer. It was mid-winter now and she had developed a following.

  You had to give it to her: Queenie Lovetree commanded that stage the moment she stepped foot on it. Every soul in the place turned toward her and stayed that way, flat out mesmerized and a bit intimidated, too. Only a fool would risk Queenie’s ire by talking when she had the mike.

  A six-piece orchestra, one that included jazz violinist Max Bearden and cornetist Joe Mascarpone, backed her up. Her musicians were good — you had to be to play with Queenie — but not too good. She shared center stage with no one.

  At six-foot-three, Queenie Lovetree was the tallest badass chanteuse most folks had ever seen. She had a toughness about her, a ferocity that kept fools in check. And yes, she was beautiful. She billed herself as the “Black Orchid.” The name fit. She was powerful, mythic, and rare.

  Men were going crazy over her. They showered her with jewels and furs and offered to buy her cars or take her on cruises. In all the madness, many seemed to forget or stubbornly chose to ignore a most salient fact, the one secret that her beauty, no matter how artful, failed to hide: that Queenie Lovetree wasn’t a woman at all, but a man in drag.

  When Queenie appeared on stage, sheathed in one of his tight, glittering gowns, he presented a near-perfect illusion of femininity. He could swish better than Mae West. His smile was dirtier, his curves firmer, and his repartee deadlier than a switchblade. From head to toe, he was a vision of feminine pulchritude that gave many a man an itch he ached to scratch.

  That night, Queenie wore a dress with a slit that went high on his right thigh. Folks said he packed a pistol between his legs, the .22-caliber kind. If so, you couldn’t see it. You couldn’t see a thing. Queenie kept his weapons tucked away tight.

  Gun or no gun, h
e smoked. When he took that mic, the folks hushed up and Queenie launched into some of the most down and dirty blues I’d ever heard. He preached all right, signifying for everything he was worth, and that crowd of mostly rich white folk, they ate it up.

  During the set, Lucien Fawkes, the club’s owner, stopped by my table. He was a short, wiry Parisian, with hound-dog eyes, thin lips, and deep creases that lined his cheeks.

  “Always good to see you, Lanie. You enjoying the show?”

  “I’m enjoying it just fine.”

  “I’ll tell the boys: anything you want, you get.”

  After Queenie finished his set, the offers and invitations to join tables poured in. He took exuberant pleasure in accepting them, going from table to table. But that night, they weren’t his priority. He air-kissed a few cheeks, exchanged a few greetings, and then slunk over to join me.

  “The suckers love me,” he said. “What about you?”

  “I’m not a sucker.”

  “Well, I know that, Slim. That’s why you’re having drinks on the house and they’re not.”

  He sat down and turned to the serious business of wooing a reporter. “So, what do you think? Am I fantastic or am I fantastic?”

  “I’d say you’ve got a good thing going.”

  “You make it sound like I’m running a scam.”

  I hadn’t meant it that way, but given his fake hair, fake eyelashes, and fake bosom, I could see why he thought I had. “I’m just saying you’re perfect for this place and it’s perfect for you. Everybody’s happy.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “For now.”

  “You have plans for bigger and better things?”

  “What if I do? There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Not a thing. I’ve always admired ambitious, hard-working people.”