Goodfellowe House Page 32

  “Honey, I ain’t nothing if not that.” He leaned in toward me. “People say you’re the one to know. That you are the one to get close to if some- body’s interested in breaking out, climbing up. Because of that column of yours. What’s it called?”

  “‘Lanie’s World.’”

  “That’s right. ‘Lanie’s World.’” He savored the words. “And you write for the Harlem Chronicle?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “You think you can write a nice piece on me?”

  “Well,” I hesitated. “There is some small amount of interest in you, but—”

  “Small? People are crazy about me. The letters I get, the questions. They want to know all about me. Where I come from, what I like, what I don’t, what I eat before going to bed.”

  I shrugged. “But they’ve heard so many different stories that—”

  “I promise to tell you the whole truth and nothing but.”

  “Well, thanks.”

  I’d been in the journalism game for more than ten years. I’d worked as a crime reporter, interviewing victims and thugs, cops and dirty judges. Then I’d moved to society reporting, where I wrote about cotillions and teas, parties and premieres. It seemed like a different crowd, but the one constant was the mendacity. People lied. Sometimes for no apparent reason, they obfuscated, omitted, or outright obliterated the truth. And often the first sign of an intention to lie was an unsolicited promise to tell the truth, “the whole truth and nothing but.”

  In some areas, of course, I was sure Queenie would be factual, but in others . . . it didn’t matter. I’d decided to interview him. I was sure to get a good column out of him. I just wasn’t sure this was the place to do it.

  People kept stopping by. They shook his hand and praised him and begged him to join them. Men sent drinks. They sent flowers and suggestive notes. But they were out of luck that night. After every set, he’d rejoin me, tell me a little bit here, a little bit there.

  “I like action,” he said, “lots of action, diamond studs and rhinestone heels. I love caviar and chocolate, sequins and velvet. Most times, I’m a lady. But I can smoke like an engine and cuss like a sailor. The men love me cause I treat them all the same. I call them all Bill. By the way, you got a ciggy?”

  I shook my head. “Never took to ’em.”

  He turned and tapped a man sitting at the next table. “Butt me, baby.”

  “Sure,” the guy said, grinning. He produced a cigarette and lit it.

  Queenie flashed a dazzling smile, said in a husky voice, “Thanks, Bill,” then turned his back before the fellow could make a play.

  “Bill” shot me a rueful look. All I could do was give him a sympathetic smile.

  During one of the longer set breaks, Queenie invited me back to his dressing room, “so we can talk without them fools interrupting.” He described how at age fourteen he’d fallen in love with a sailor who smuggled him to Ankara.

  “He was the greatest love of my life, but that bastard sold me.”

  “Sold you?”

  “Yeah. To a guy in a bar.” He saw my expression and added, “But seriously, I’m not lying. And that guy turned around and sold me again—to a sultan for his harem.”

  Believable or not, Queenie’s tales were certainly fascinating.

  He described corrupting wealth and murderous intrigues. Sultan’s wives were poisoning each other and one another’s children in a never-ending struggle for power.

  “For a while there, it was touch and go. I didn’t eat or drink nothing without my taster.”

  “How terrible,” I said, with appropriate horror and sympathy.

  At the next break, he talked about his further adventures in Europe. When he was nineteen, he said, the sultan sent him off to an elite finishing school near Lake Geneva, in Switzerland.

  “Honey, I couldn’t take that place. I made tracks the minute they weren’t looking. Went to Paris. Got me a nice hookup. Performed at the Moulin Rouge. Would’ve stayed there too, but a rich uncle came and found me.”

  “A rich uncle?”

  “Mm-hmm,” he said, with a perfectly straight face. “He’s dead now. But that’s okay, cause now I’ve got lots of rich uncles.” He gave a wicked wink. “A girl can’t have too many, you know.”

  I just had to shake my head. At my expression, Queenie threw his head back and laughed. His shoulders rocked with deep, raunchy amusement. He laughed so hard, tears rolled down his cheeks.

  “Oh shit,” he said, trying to regain control of himself, “I’m ruining my makeup.”

  I’ve seen and heard enough to be fairly immune to what shocks most people. So it wasn’t Queenie’s stories that got me. It was the obvious pride and conviction with which he told them. People talk about being larger than life, but it usually doesn’t mean a thing. When applied to Queenie, it did. And his tales were as tall as tales can get. Sure, they were hokum. That was obvious, but it was okay. It was more than okay because it would make rip-roaringly good copy.

  Back in the clubroom, watching him onstage, I mused about his real history. No doubt it was like hundreds of others. He’d been a touring vaudevillian, or had grown up singing gospel in some church down South, then either ran away from home or was kicked out. He was a young boy with a pretty face, the kind that would attract certain types of men. Boys like that, out on their own, they lose their innocence fast. Queenie was no exception.

  No doubt he’d spent years on the circuit, in smaller clubs, dark and dirty. Underworld characters had smoothed his path and a wealthy man or two had taught him to love the finer things in life—men who lived double lives, with women during the day and men at night. Now Queenie was here in New York, the big time. It was his chance, and he was going to run with it, milk it for all it was worth. I certainly couldn’t blame him.

  Queenie liked to flash a big diamond ring. When he sang, the ring caught the light. It was a lovely yellow diamond, set in yellow gold, surrounded by small white diamonds. I had a good eye for jewelry, but at that distance I couldn’t say whether it was fake. If it was real, then it was worth ten times a poor man’s salary. If it wasn’t, then it was a darn good imitation—and even imitations like that cost a pretty penny.

  “That got a history?” I asked when he rejoined me.

  He glanced at the ring, smiled. “Honey, everything about me has a history.” “Care to tell me this one?”

  He fluttered his large hand and held up the ring for a long, loving look. Then he smiled. His golden eyes were feline. His husky voice just about purred. “Not this time, sugar. But I will, if you do a good piece on me. If you do it right, then I’ll give you exclusive access to Queenie Lovetree. You’ll be my one and only and I won’t share my shit with anyone but y—”

  Gunfire exploded behind us. I jumped and Queenie’s eyes widened. Heads swiveled and the music shredded to a discordant halt. Then someone gasped, another screamed, and people nearby started diving under tables.

  At first, I wondered why.

  But as people scrambled to get out of the way, I could see the club’s bouncer, a man named Charlie Spooner, and the coatcheck girl, Sissy Ralston, emerging unsteadily from the area of the entrance. They wound their way past the tables, coming toward us, hands held high. Directly be- hind them, a man emerged from the shadows. He wore a Stetson, a big black one, pulled down low to cover his eyes, and a long, black trench coat with a turned-up collar.

  It was a very sexy look, but the true eye-catcher was the tommy gun he held on his hip, his black-gloved hands firmly grasping the two pistol grips. It looked real, it looked deadly, and he had the business end of it pressed against Spooner’s spine.

  The bouncer was a good guy, a decorated veteran of the 19th Infantry. He was married, with a kid on the way. He’d been on the job six months, had taken it, he told me, because he could find nothing else. Now his olive- toned skin had turned ashen gray; his usually jovial face was tight with fear. He had survived bombs and missiles and landmines overseas. Had he gone through al
l that simply to die in a stupid nightclub robbery at home?

  I knew the Ralston girl too. That child couldn’t have been more than sixteen. She was just a kid trying to earn money for her family. Her father had died the year before and her mother was a drinker. Sissy was the sole support for her seven-year-old brother and six-year-old sister.

  There they were, the bouncer and the coat-check girl, so terrified they could barely put one foot in front of the other.

  Death march. I flashed on stories my late husband had told me about the war, stories of soldiers and civilians marched to their execution, of whole villages lined up against a wall and shot. A chill went through me. I tried to think, tried to restrain the fear and think.

  A million questions raced through my mind.

  Was this the result of some bootleggers’ war? Or was it supposed to be a robbery? If so, would he take the money and run? Or was he the type to kill us all just for the hell of it?

  He was covered. That meant he wanted to make sure no one could identify him. Did that mean that if no one did anything stupid, just gave up the jewels and wallets and fancy timepieces, he’d let us all live to tell the story?

  I glanced across the crowded room, at the white faces peering out of the smoky gloom, and didn’t see a hero among them, thank God.

  The gunman shoved Spooner and Ralston to the small open space just before the stage and had them stand side-by-side.

  “Everybody, wake up!” he yelled. “Take your seats and show your hands.” But we were all too scared to move. “I will count to three and then start shooting—for real. One . . . two . . .”

  My heartbeat was pounding a hot ninety miles a minute, but my hands and feet felt cold. From the corner of my eye, I glimpsed Queenie slipping his right hand under the table. The gunman saw it too. He swung around and leveled his weapon on us.

  “Bring it out,” he said. “Nice and slow.”

  Queenie gave him an insolent look and mouthed the word No.

  I was stunned. I’d talked to Queenie long enough to know he thought he could handle anyone and anything, but what the hell was he thinking? Okay, so he had pride. He didn’t want people to see that he was scared. But this was not the time to act all biggety and try to impress people. He could get us killed.

  “Queenie,” I hissed, “do as he says.”

  “No.”

  The gunman’s lips twitched, but he said nothing. He looked Queenie in the eyes, made a slight adjustment in his aim, and squeezed the trigger.

  Copper-jacketed pistol rounds erupted from the muzzle in a sheet of flame; a shower of shiny brass cases rained down from the breech. The bullets found Spooner and ripped a trench in his chest. Blood splattered everywhere. The Ralston kid crumpled in a dead faint. People shrieked. Some ducked down again, but others raced for the door. They were screaming, tearing at each other.

  “Shut up and get back here!” the gunman swung around and yelled. “Shut up or I’ll mow you down!”

  The bouncer pawed at his ravaged chest. He plastered his big hands over his gaping wounds, as if he could hold in the blood. Then he looked up at me, in mute sadness. He stumbled forward a step and his heart gave out. He sagged to his knees and fell, facedown.

  The gunman stared at the dead man before pointing an accusing finger at Queenie. “You!” he said. “You made me do that!”

  Queenie had gone gray under his elaborate makeup, ashen and speech- less. He finally understood. This was not one of his tall tales, where he could play the star. This was real.

  “Back to your seats everybody!” the gunman yelled. “Get back in your seats and show your hands. Do it, or I’ll start shooting. And I won’t stop till the job’s done.”

  This time, folks moved. They scrambled to get back in place.

  The killer turned to Queenie and me. “Come over here, the both of you, where I can see you.”

  We stood up and edged around the table, keeping our distance from him.

  The gunman was taller than me, but not by much, which made him short for a man. The coat seemed to have padded shoulders, but I had the feeling that he would’ve appeared broad even without them, that he was built like a quarterback, muscular and stocky.

  For the most part, he’d successfully concealed his face, but some of it showed above the mask. His eyes had a distinctive almond shape and they were light-colored: blue or gray, I couldn’t be sure. And the band of skin showing over the bridge of his nose, it was light too. In other words, this was a white guy. Last, but not least, I detected an accent. European, northern European, perhaps. So, not just any white guy, but a European white guy. He’d sure traveled a long way to cause trouble.

  “Now, you,” he told Queenie, “take the heater out or she’s next.” He pointed the gun at me.

  I half-turned to Queenie to see what he’d do. Please, don’t do anything stupid.

  Queenie slipped his hand through the slit of his dress. And lingered there. He was going to try something dumb, like shoot from down there. I could see it in his eyes.

  Don’t do it. Don’t do it.

  Queenie looked at me and I looked at him. If he pulled a stunt like that and I managed to survive, then I was going to kill him myself. That’s what I was thinking and that’s what I put in my eyes.

  I guess he got the message.

  He eased out a small black handgun and aimed it downward. My lungs expanded and I inhaled big gobs of sweet relief.

  “Put it on the floor and kick it over here,” the gunman said.

  Queenie did as told. He kept his eyes on the submachine gun the whole time. I still didn’t trust Queenie not to try something and I guess Mr. Tommy Gun didn’t either, so I understood why he was keeping his weapon trained, but I wondered why it was trained on me.

  “Get over here.” The gunman indicated the space right in front of him.

  Queenie glanced at me. His eyes held doubt, fear, and resentment.

  “Do what he says,” I whispered. “Please. Just do it.”

  “Come on,” the gunman growled.

  Queenie’s gaze returned to the gunman. Stone-faced, he held up his gown, then stepped delicately and ladylike over Spooner’s body. He stood before the gunman, chest heaving, eyes narrowed, and said with tremulous bravado, “Well?”

  The gunman slapped him. He was a full head shorter than Queenie, but wide and solid. Queenie swayed under the blow but didn’t stumble. He seemed more stunned than anything. His hand went to his lip and came back bloodied. His jaw dropped in alarm.

  “My face! You piece of shit! You hurt my face!”

  The gunman slapped him again. This time Queenie went down. He tripped backward over Spooner and landed on the floor in a pool of blood. He scrambled away from the body with a horrified cry, and got to his feet. His hands and dress were smeared red. From the expression on his face, all resistance had finally been knocked out of him.

  The gunman gave me a nod. “You! Come here.”

  Queenie and I exchanged another glance. Then I took a step forward. The gunman produced handcuffs from his pocket and tossed them at me. I caught them instinctively.

  “Cuff up the songbird,” he said. “You,” he told Queenie, “hands behind your back.”

  If there was one thing I’d always told myself I would never do, it was to be an accomplice to a crime. I had read, and written, so many stories in which victims had cooperated with their killers. They had done so in the minute hope of surviving, but all they had really done was make it easier for their killer to get them alone, isolate them and do what he felt needed doing.

  I’d always said I would resist. I wouldn’t make it easy. Oh no. Not me.

  But now here I was and things appeared differently. They weren’t so cut and dry. Someone else’s life was at stake, not just mine.

  I could refuse or cooperate. If I refused, then he’d probably shoot me and cuff Queenie himself—or worse, shoot someone else. If I went along and bided my time, there was some hope I’d survive and that everyone else would too
.

  Everyone, but maybe not Queenie.

  “Well,” the gunman said, “who should I shoot next?” He glanced down at the Ralston girl, still unconscious on the floor. “How about her?” He turned his gun, took aim.

  “No!” I pulled Queenie’s hands behind his back and slipped on the handcuffs.

  He flinched at the touch of cold metal. “Please, no, Slim. You—”

  “It’ll be all right,” I said, trying hard to sound calm.

  I snapped the cuffs shut, and when the gunman ordered me to step back, I did.

  He made Queenie stand next to him and checked the cuffs. “Good.”

  Then he grabbed Queenie and started backing out. He slinked to the rear exit, backstage left, and kept the singer in front as a shield.

  Queenie panicked. “Oh come on now, people! Y’all ain’t gonna let him take me like this, are you? Somebody do something. Please!”

  People stayed frozen to their seats. No one was willing to play the hero. Not in the face of that weapon.

  Queenie’s eyes met mine. “You! Slim, you—!”

  The whine of police sirens rang through the air. The cops were probably headed to another emergency, but the killer assumed the worst. He pushed Queenie aside and sprayed the room with gunfire. All hell broke loose. People stampeded toward the door. Wall sconces exploded. The room fell dark. Plaster and dust showered down.

  I heard screams. I heard cries. I dove under a table and covered my head. Bullets ripped up the floor two inches from my face. I couldn’t believe they didn’t touch me.

  “Motherfucker! Get your hands off me!” Queenie cried.

  I heard the back door bang open. I heard a scuffle and a scream. Then the door slammed shut and all I heard was the heavy thumping of my terrified heart.

  About the Author

  “Just the facts, ma'am. Just the facts.”

  Persia Walker writes critically-acclaimed 1920s crime novels. A native New Yorker, she has lived in Germany, Brazil and Poland. She loves Indian food and lives with her extraordinary pet cat, Sunday. Her online home is persiawalker.com. You can connect with her there or via Messenger on Facebook.com: