Black Orchid Blues (15 page)

I turned over on my back, rubbed my forehead to assuage an oncoming headache. I suppose I should’ve been calling the Bernards and contacting Blackie. I would do neither.

In Blackie’s case, I needn’t do anything. The special edition wouldn’t report on the cigar box, but it would mention the Stax Murphy interview. Once Blackie saw it, he’d be on the line, calling me.

As for the Bernards … I got up, went to my parlor window, parted my curtains, and looked out. It was around dinnertime. You’d think they’d be home. But all of the lights were out. Hmm. No lights didn’t mean they weren’t home. I could imagine Sheila, for example, sitting in her gloomy room, waiting and worrying.

I closed my curtains and leaned against the window. There was nothing I could do to help them. Not right now. This was always the worst part of any case, but especially a kidnapping: the waiting.

My gaze fell on the mail. I flipped through it quickly. An invitation from A’Lelia Walker. She was having a soiree at her town house three blocks down, on West 136th Street. A’Lelia was the daughter of Madam C.J. Walker. She’d inherited her mother’s wealth but, as far as I could see, not necessarily her business acumen. Instead of making money, A’Lelia was making a name for herself as a patron of colored artists.

When A’Lelia threw a party, you could be sure it would have a mixed crowd: journalists, painters, gamblers, writers, actors, and Pullman porters. Sometimes, she even had European royalty.

I knew people who would’ve sold themselves to get one of A’Lelia’s engraved invitations. I knew others who wouldn’t have anything to do with her—including one of my best friends, Grace Nail. Grace said she would rather do the Black Bottom on Lenox Avenue than cross A’Lelia’s threshold. Grace was married to the renowned James Weldon Johnson. So folks thought she turned up her light-skinned nose at A’Lelia because A’Lelia was dark-skinned and the daughter of a washerwoman who’d made good by selling hair-care products.

But that wasn’t it at all. Grace said, and I agreed with her, that A’Lelia’s parties required a strong stomach. They had a reputation for looseness. A lot of the talk was exaggerated, but, like they say, where there’s smoke, there’s probably some fire.

“Honey, I’ve got nothing against A’Lelia,” Grace once said, “but her parties? Sometimes, they get a bit too-too.” Then Grace frowned, looked at me, and continued. “But you go to Jack-a-Lee’s parties, don’t you? If you can stand his, then I guess you can stand hers.”

“I’ll go anywhere for a story,” I replied. “A’Lelia’s parties, like ’em or not, make good copy.”

I noted the date and time on A’Lelia’s invitation, saw that it was actually for an after-party on the night of the Faggots’ Ball. I’d probably end up going then. I tapped the invitation in my hand. The ball. I still had to get together a costume for that. It was one of the biggest events of the social season, so I’d have to look good.

I hoped this thing with Queenie would be settled by then, that he would be free and fine. The ball was the kind of affair that Queenie would love. He’d shine at it. It was made for personalities like his.

At that thought, all my worrying about him rushed back. Where was he? Were the Bernards getting the money together? What would happen next? Another note? Another demand? Another bit of Queenie in a box on my doorstep?

I tried to ease my mind by sorting the rest of the mail. I put the invitations on one side and the bills on another. Then I made myself check my diary, jot down the social dates. Even if I wasn’t writing the articles on the Black Orchid kidnapping, I still had my column,
Lanie’s World
, to find fodder for. Finally, I turned to writing out checks to pay the bills. Through it all, concerns about Queenie hovered on the edge of my mind. Sam too.

Would he really take my name off the Stax Murphy interview? My feelings toward him kept changing. Sometimes, I loved him so much. Other times, I could’ve … well, shaken him. What he’d done was just plain wrong. And if this was a sign of how it was going to be, then …

No,
I told myself,
don’t go there.

He and I had both been tired and worried. He was upset about me disappearing like that, and maybe he was right to be.

But still.

My gaze went to the telephone. Sam and I didn’t often disagree, but when we did, it was bad, and the reasons were always the same: my work at the paper. Usually, after fights like this, Sam would phone to see how I was doing, maybe even to make up. But, apparently, he wasn’t going to call this night.

Well, I certainly wasn’t going to call him.

I tried to read. I picked up
The New Negro
by Alain Locke, but put it down again. It was too dry to hold my attention. I went back to my bookshelves and ran my fingertips over the titles. G. K. Chesterton’s
The Incredulity of Father Brown,
Wilkie Collins’s
The Moonstone,
Arthur Conan Doyle’s
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes,
Jessie Redmon Fauset’s
There Is Confusion,
Zora Neale Hurston’s
Their Eyes Were Watching God,
D. H. Lawrence’s
Lady Chatterley’s Lover,
Robert Louis Stevenson’s
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Cane
by Jean Toomer, Walter White’s
The Fire in the Flint.
I floated back to Zora Neale’s book; it was one of my favorites. I’d read all of these books at least once, but hers, I’d read three times already. It always distracted me and lifted my spirits.

But not that night.

That night, my worried thoughts kept returning to the Black Orchid. I tried listening to the radio. I switched channels between
The Eveready Hour, Rambling with Gambling,
and the Boston Symphony Orchestra
.
Eventually, I turned it off. Even the classical strains of the symphony were just an annoyance.

I took a bath and ended up going to bed early. Although I fell asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow, I woke in the middle of the night. My clock on the fireplace mantle was lit by the moon. Two a.m.

On impulse, I got out of bed, went to the window, and peeped out. Across the street, at the Bernard house, the lights were on in a second-floor window and a shadow paced back and forth.

I watched for several long seconds, trying to figure out who it was. Soon, however, I just returned to bed, but I couldn’t fall asleep again.

C
HAPTER
22

T
he special edition hit newsstands at five that Saturday morning. My phone rang nine minutes later. It was Blackie, and he was angry. He didn’t even say good morning, just started firing questions, one after the other.

“I want names, names and places! And I want them now! How did you find Murphy? How did you contact him? Who helped you do it? Where’d you meet him and when?”

“Blackie, you know I can’t—”

“Of course you can! And you know something? You will. I want you down here, at the station, in fifteen minutes flat.”

“I—”

“I’m not asking—I’m sending a car to get you. And you’d better be there when he arrives.”

I started to call Sam, then reconsidered. If I told him Blackie was bringing me in, he’d want to be there. If Sam was there, one of two things would happen: he’d get upset and mention the cigar box; or he wouldn’t get upset, but still mention the cigar box.

Either way, he’d make things worse. Either way, I had to do this on my own.

Twenty minutes later, Blackie had me in a back room of the precinct. He was pelting me with questions, and I was giving him just one answer.

“I can’t say … I can’t say … I can’t say.”

His brogue thickened as he became more upset. He alternated between anger and pleading. “Don’t be like this, lassie. You’re biting the hand that feeds you. Don’t do it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you understand? I got a multiple homicide and you’re sitting on information that could solve it. I can’t let you outta here. Not unless you give me something.”

I was silent.

He went on: “And you shoulda come to me. You shoulda done it before the paper hit the stand. We coulda worked together. Now you’ve made me look like a fool. Can’t you see that? I can’t help you. I can’t afford to be nice. The brass won’t let me. What were you thinking, girl? What was
Sam
thinking?”

I had nothing to say to that.

“Speaking of which, where is he? I would’ve thought he’d be here with you.” Suspicion lit his face. “You didn’t call him, did you? And why not? Because he doesn’t know what you’ve done—or not done.” Blackie squinted at me. “He told you to tell me, didn’t he? You disobeyed his orders and that’s why you’re here and he’s not. Well, well, well. It’s nice to know that somebody over at that paper of yours has some sense.”

Blackie paced back and forth. He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Lanie. You’re gonna have to be our guest for a little while. I got no choice, I got to hold you.”

“On what charge?”

“Obstruction of justice.”

He gave me a chance to call Sam. I declined. “And please, don’t you do it.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he had me booked and fingerprinted. Then he put me in a holding cell at the precinct. The cells to the immediate left and right were empty. So was the one directly opposite. It was a Saturday morning; they should’ve been full from Friday night. I wondered if he’d shuffled prisoners around for my sake. The ones who were there were a fairly quiet bunch. Hours passed. It wasn’t so bad, I knew it could get much worse.

He checked on me after lunch. “Changed your mind?”

I shook my head.

“Sorry to hear that.” He started to walk away, then turned back. “Lanie, please, you can stop this. Right now. Don’t make me take the next step.”

I didn’t answer.

He gripped the bars and stared at me. For a moment, he looked more like a prisoner than I was.

“The next stop is Harlem Jail, Lanie. Trust me, you don’t want to go there.”

I could guess what his superiors were saying. I could guess how much pressure he was under. “Do what you have to do.”

He paled. There was nothing left for him to say, so he just walked away.

I felt sick. He was right: horrible things happened at the Harlem Jail. I didn’t want to go there. I wanted to go home. But I couldn’t, not if it meant telling him what he wanted to hear. I wasn’t being brave, just stubborn. And it was easy to be stubborn. Because I felt no fear. I felt nothing. I felt numb.

Technically, it was the 5th District Prison. It stood on the corner of East 121st Street at Sylvan Place, between Third and Lexington Avenues. It was built in 1885 and resembled a castle, with a fairy-tale tower and a stone, brick, and terra cotta façade. Depending on the sunlight and time of day, the exterior shifted from red to pink.

I’d visited the place many times in my police reporting days. It housed courtrooms, offices, and jail cells. There were three gated entrances. The main courtroom had stained glass windows, a sculptured barrel-vaulted ceiling, and intricate woodwork. A gold, black, and red balustrade spiraled up to an octagonal tower. There were cells right next to the courtrooms. But the real jail area, the one they took me to, was upstairs.

The officers led me through a dimly lit corridor to a heavy metal door, which revealed a bare room. Electrical pipes snaked across the ceiling and connected to a signal box above the doorway, probably some kind of alarm bell.

There were five tiers of back-to-back cells. Forty cells in all. Walls of mesh wiring, iron bars, and pipe railing ran along the passageway. Guard posts stood at either end.

Each cell had a number over its threshold. Dirty yellow paint covered the cell’s brick walls. The cement floor was dank, the stench unbearable. A stained oval sink jutted from one corner. Two metal folding bunk beds were attached to the wall by chains. A seatless toilet stood tucked mere inches from the head of the lower bed. At first, I was appalled at the placement. Then it occurred to me that at least this way the partial cover given by the bed conveyed a modicum of privacy. I was grateful that the cells had natural daylight. And my cell and the one next to it were empty.

So far, I had felt no sense of fear or panic. I was as calm as I would’ve been if registering at a hotel. The slam of the cell door, the turn of the key closing the lock: neither bothered me more than a noisy hotel neighbor. I don’t think I was being brave. I do think I was in shock.

I closed my eyes and imagined I was back in my parlor. But instead of seeing my home, I saw the Bernards’ house. I started thinking about Sheila and Junior and William. I remembered my interview with Queenie, and I could see him laughing; I could hear his husky voice.

Then I reflected that the kidnapper must have known Queenie’s true identity; I thought about the box that had landed on my doorstep, but I didn’t reach any conclusions.

Hours passed in isolation.

I grew hungry, but the food, when it came, was terrible. I put it aside, wondering how long before hunger drove me to eat it. I was thirsty too, but I refused to drink. Not only did the water look foul, but I didn’t want to risk having to use the facilities.

Blackie came to see me. It was late afternoon by then. Actually, more like early evening. The sky through the windows across from my cell was a charcoal gray. Blackie didn’t enter my cell, just stood outside of it. He looked more miserable than I felt.

“You got anything you want to say to me?” he asked.

“No more than I did before.”

“Just thought I’d ask.” He stood there, still hoping.

“Good night,” I said.

He gave a sad half-smile, then tipped his hat. “Good night, Lanie.”

More hours alone. A deepening darkness. I curled up on the lower bunk, closed my eyes, tried to collar a nod. I heard the other inmates talking—some talking, some arguing—followed by the clang of a door. Then footsteps. Another door boomed open and a woman shrieked. The reality of my surroundings hit me. I had to get out of there.

Two days
.
That’s all. Two days. You can do that. They can’t hold you longer than that.

Where did I get that idea? Don’t know. It was wrong, and I knew it. Blackie could hold me as long as he needed to. But once the idea was there, I clung to it.