Black Orchid Blues (16 page)

You can do this. You can do it.

The footsteps grew closer. The sight of a man’s shoe came into view, then a dark gray pants leg. Then the man himself.

I followed the leg to the hands that gripped the bars, up the arms to the broad shoulders in the dark coat and the worried face that topped them.

Sam. It was Sam.

C
HAPTER
23

A
n hour later, I was home. I was curled up on the living room sofa with a cup of hot tea, shivering.

Sam was pacing back and forth. “Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you let me know?”

Because you would’ve found out. You would’ve known that I didn’t tell them about the cigar box. You would’ve known that I defied you.
I looked away, at the fireplace. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Bother me,” he repeated. “Woman, I’ve done everything I can to prove to you that I want to be there for you. Why won’t you let me?”

I didn’t know what to say. “Thank you” was all I could manage.

He sank down next to me, took my hand. “When I got that call from Blackie, when he told me what he’d done …”

“I know.” I closed my eyes and was embarrassed to realize that I was crying. “Oh, baby.” He gently wiped the tears away. He had these incredibly broad thumbs. They were large and scratchy, even calloused, like he’d done a lot of hard labor. They always reminded me of how little I knew about Sam, how full of contradictions he was. He had the intellect and bearing of a man with a lot of education. But he had the hands of a laborer.

“How’d you get me out?” I asked.

“I did what you should’ve done. I lied.”

“You
what?
”

“I said that Stax kidnapped you. That he knew you were working the story and grabbed you right off the street.”

“Blackie believed you?”

“He let you go, didn’t he?”

Obviously.

“There was only one hitch,” Sam said. “He wanted to know exactly when Stax grabbed you.”

I frowned. “Why?”

“Think about it. If you met with Stax before or during the news conference, then that means Stax knew he was under suspicion—before his name was even released.”

Understanding dawned. “So, Blackie’s also worried about leaks in the department.”

“He’s been worried about it a long time. He’d have to be. He’d have to figure someone was tipping off Stax. No other explanation for how the guy keeps getting away.”

Made sense. “So what did you say?”

“I told him that Stax knew there were survivors, and that they’d give a description. Common sense said the cops wouldn’t wait for the news conference before showing that drawing around. So Stax decided to take the initiative.”

“Good.” It was essentially the same argument I’d used on Jack-a-Lee.
Great minds think alike.

“Lanie?” he said.

“Yes?”

“You didn’t tell Blackie about the cigar box, did you?”

A moment went by. Then I shook my head. I was prepared for an explosion; it didn’t come.

“I figured as much.”

I could hear the disappointment in his voice, and it cut to the quick. Somehow, lately, I was always disappointing him. Perhaps now was the time to say what had been on my mind.

“Sam, I appreciate what you did today, getting me out of jail and all, and I want to thank you for running my story on Stax.”

“It was a good piece.”

“Yes, but … everything I write is good.”

He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue. The hand caressing mine slowed.

I hesitated, searching for the right words. “The thing is, ever since we got together, you’ve been … well, overprotective. I don’t think you would’ve reacted the same way, when you heard about Stax, if we weren’t involved. And I don’t think you would’ve taken my story away, told me to stay off this case, if we weren’t involved.”

His expression was unreadable.“Is that all?” he said finally.

“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.

C
HAPTER
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 desk, 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.”