Black Orchid Blues (5 page)

As it so often did, my gaze moved to Hamp’s photo on the night table. I couldn’t see the details of his image in the dark, just the outline of the silver frame glinting from a stray bit of moonlight. It looked cold.

Like the grave.

My beloved husband was in the grave. He was gone. Really, really gone.

I closed my eyes and the sobs erupted, harsh, hot tears. I was alive, yes, but I felt cold inside, as cold as the dead.

C
HAPTER
6

T
hursday morning, the Chronicle led with the story of the Cinnamon Club massacre. By that afternoon, the citywide dailies had picked it up. By evening, people who’d never before heard of the Black Orchid or the Cinnamon Club were talking as though they’d known about them forever. There was talk about guns and the increase in crime and how Harlem had turned wild “ever since the ofays moved out and the darkies moved in.”

Five people were in the hospital. Six had died outright, including Spooner and the maître d’, the latter having died at the door in the first burst of gunfire. One of the victims happened to be a Harvard kid. His death turned what would’ve been forgotten as a local crime into a citywide manhunt. He was the nineteen-year-old scion of a wealthy, conservative Park Avenue family. The parents were aggrieved and ashamed. Plenty of white folk hung out in Harlem, but not in places like
that.
They tried to keep the boy’s name out of the papers but by afternoon it had leaked. The only thing left for the family to do was to come out swinging, and they did. They wanted the shooter who’d killed their boy, and they wanted him like yesterday. To get folks going, they announced a nice little reward to the tune of five grand.

Sam and I met in his office to discuss the story. We focused on the two big questions: who and why? I thought the second question would lead to an answer to the first. After some consideration, Sam agreed.

Why had the Black Orchid been taken? Was it an act of revenge by a disgruntled suitor, or was it a move for money? Would a ransom note follow? If so, then who did the kidnapper expect to pony up the cash? Maybe he didn’t realize that Queenie had no family. Once he did, what would he do?

“What would you do,” Sam asked, “if you had a celebrity hostage who had no relatives? Who’d you turn to?”

“The person who stood to lose the most.”

“Queenie’s boss, Lucien Fawkes?”

“Yup.” I shivered from a sudden chill. I had pushed aside my morbid thoughts of the night before as the aftereffect of the shooting. But I still felt cold inside, like a member of the walking dead. Seeing those people lose their lives the night before … it had done something to me. Images of the carnage kept slashing through my mind. I told myself to focus.

“At least twelve hours have passed since the kidnapping,” I said. “Chances are that he’s been contacted.”

“Do you honestly think he’ll tell you if he has?”

I shrugged. “Probably not. But he might drop something.” I drew my sweater close and folded my arms across my chest.

Sam regarded me over steepled fingertips. His eyes, which missed little, reflected concern. “You all right?”

I gave a little smile. “I’m fine. Why?”

“I don’t know … you seem … You sure you don’t want to take today off? After last night—”

“That’s the last thing I want, especially after last night.”

“Sure?”

I nodded.

His expression said he disagreed, but he knew better than to argue. He continued, “What would be more interesting is if Fawkes definitely
hasn’t
been contacted. If he says he hasn’t been and you believe him …”

Our eyes met.

I nodded again. “Then I’d have to wonder why.”

C
HAPTER
7

W
e agreed that I would swing past the Cinnamon Club that evening. Chances were it was closed, not only because of the loss of Queenie, but also out of deference to Charlie Spooner.

But the club was open. It was jumping, in fact. A line of people stretched around the corner and down the block. And a new man stood at the door. His demeanor was somber and he said his name was Charlie. I didn’t hide my surprise and he gave a sad smile.

“Mr. Fawkes said to tell everyone that that’s my name, as sort of a memorial to the other guy.”

I glanced back at that crowd waiting to get in. “Sure, I understand,” I said. And I did. Lucien had his eye on the bottom line.

This “Charlie” was different from the original, tall and slim and muscular. I thought I detected a lyrical accent.

“Where are you from?”

“Morocco.”

“You worked with Lucien in Paris?”

“
Oui
.”

I extended a hand and introduced myself. “Well, it’s good to see you here—though, to tell you the truth, I’m surprised to find the place open.”

“We had men working all day to get it ready, to clean up the glass, paint the walls, put in new lights. Monsieur Fawkes, he said it would show greater respect to Charlie to keep the club going than to let it stay closed.”

Respect to Charlie? Sure, sure. I bit back the words that came to mind. “Lucien in tonight?”

Charlie nodded and stepped aside.

I stopped by the coat check to pick up my coat. They had a new girl, but she didn’t say her name. As a matter of fact, she didn’t say anything. Seems to me she looked a little scared. I gave her a tip, even though I believed it rightly belonged to the Ralston girl, and then went into the main clubroom.

They had a new maître d’ too. A very officious-looking guy with an attitude. I told him where I was going and started past, but he put up a hand to stop me.

“You’re a reporter, right? Well, Mr. Lucien said he don’t want to talk to no more reporters.”

“He’ll want to talk to me.”

“That’s what they all say.”

I admit I have a temper at times. This threatened to be one of them. “You like your job?”

“Well, yeah.” He looked surprised at the question.

“If you want to keep it, then you’ll either let me by or tell Lucien that I’m here.”

That shook him. He asked my name, then told me to wait.

It was strange being there, after what had happened the night before, surreal. Just about every trace of the crime was gone. The floors were dark, so any bloodstains would’ve been invisible in the dim light, anyway. But blood on the walls would’ve been evident, as well as any bullet holes and the shattered wall sconces. I would’ve bet the floors had been thoroughly scrubbed. The walls were certainly clean and smooth. New lights shone in place of the old, and the unmistakable aroma of fresh paint and disinfectant mixed with the acrid smell of cigarette smoke and bootlegged liquor.

The maître d’ reappeared. “Lucien will see you.”

“Thank you.”

Lucien’s office was in the rear. A crowd packed the tiny bar, waiting for tables. I shouldered my way through and headed for the archway to the right of the stage. It opened to a row of four doors. The manager’s office was the first; the rest were dressing rooms and a toilet.

I gave a quick rap on the manager’s office door and went in. Lucien was behind his desk, working on receipts. He peered up at the sound of my entrance. His woebegone eyes were even sadder than usual and he looked ragged. How late had the cops grilled him? He was still at the station house when I’d left. He welcomed me now with a gesture to take a seat.

“Business is good tonight,” I said.

He made a sound of disgust. “They are not here to drink or eat. Only to take up seats, see where it happened.”

From here, with the door open, Lucien had a bird’s-eye view of the nightclub.

“You must’ve seen it all,” I said. “Are you the one who called the cops?”

“
Oui
.” He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “I need Queenie back out there, pulling in real customers.”

“Has he contacted you?”

“Who?”

“The kidnapper.”

He gave a cynical smile. “Now, you wouldn’t really expect me to tell you if he had, would you?”

“Why not?”

“You print the wrong thing and Queenie dies.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“You’ve done it before.”

I winced. He was referring to a column I’d written that past December. It had led to a man’s death—not a nice man, but still.

“I’ve learned my lesson. I can help, if you let me.”

His eyes remained wary. A moment passed. “The answer is no. No one has contacted me.”

“Doesn’t that worry you?”

“Of course. If he doesn’t want money, then what does he want?”

“Maybe he contacted someone else?

“
Qui?
”

“I wouldn’t know. I was asking you.”

“You sound like the cops.” It wasn’t a compliment. “Queenie has no family. So who else, other than me? I have no answer.” He shook his head, his lips turned down. “Maybe something happened. Something … to delay the ransom demand.”

Or maybe the kidnapper didn’t mean to return Queenie at all.

“Could it be a fan?” I wondered out loud.

“You mean some sick man who thinks he’s in love with him?”

I nodded.

Lucien thought about it, then shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“Has Queenie been getting letters?”

“Of course. All the time.”

“Do you have any of them here?”

“Not down here, no. There could be some in his dressing room.”

“What about his apartment?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know where he lives.”

“I thought this gig came with an apartment.”

“It does, but Queenie didn’t want it.”

I frowned. “Excuse me for asking, but does he actually earn enough here to afford someplace else?”

Lucien hesitated. “Let’s just say, he has a handsome income.”

“Enough to cover housing, costumes, board?”

Another smile that drew up only the corner of his lips. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about Queenie’s other source of income?”

The men, the admirers. “Oh, of course.” I filed that away, making a mental note to find out where Queenie actually lived, then got to my feet. “So, dressing room it is. I’d like to take a look.”

He shook his head. “Impossible.”

“Why?”

“Queenie would not like it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“It won’t happen,” he said, his accent thick. “Queenie would kill me if he found out.”

If Queenie survived to come back
.
“Have the police searched his room?”

“You are not the police.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Yes, they have searched there.”

“When?”

“About an hour ago, right after the set started.”

“Did they find anything?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. They didn’t tell me.”

“Lucien, I need to get into that room.”

“Why?”

“Because. Maybe I can find out something.”

“Maybe? That isn’t good enough.” He rose and came around the desk. “Why don’t you let the police handle this? It’s their job.”

“Since when have you started trusting cops?”

It was a shot in the dark. I didn’t know if he’d had trouble with the law, but I’d never met a club owner who hadn’t.

“You do know they’ll be back,” I said. “The longer Queenie’s gone, the harder they’ll start looking at you. Sooner or later, they’re going to see something you don’t want them to see. Maybe it won’t be what they’re looking for, but it’ll be something—like that game you’ve got going on in the back room, or the liquor party down in the cellar.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“You want to be stubborn, fine. Suit yourself.” I shrugged. “But if you were smart, you’d help me do my job, and help yourself while you’re at it.”

“I do not see the connection.”

“It’s simple. I’m the main reporter on this story. If I put something in the paper, people will pay attention. If anybody is in the position to give the cops somebody to look at—somebody other than you—it’s me.”

I studied him; he studied me. After a while, he sighed. “
Bien
.” He reached down, pulled out his main desk drawer, and produced a set of keys. “Follow me.”

C
HAPTER
8

L
ucien unlocked the door to Queenie’s dressing room and froze. “
Mon Dieu!”
he whispered. He stood there mouth agape.

The room had been ransacked. A thick rack of costumes stood to one side and a vanity overflowing with makeup was on the other, but the rest was chaos. Each and every container—makeup, hatboxes, shoeboxes, and the like—had been opened, the contents spilled and examined.

“I had no idea the police did this,” he said.

“You weren’t here?”

“They told me to leave. And later, I didn’t check, just locked the door.” He put a hand to his forehead and the lines on his face deepened. “I know they have to do what they have to do, but …”

“You see anything missing?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I can’t tell.”

“Okay, let’s look. Maybe we’ll find something interesting—threatening letters or something.”

The room was small and crowded and the floor was covered in clutter. Lingering traces of Queenie’s heavy perfume, sweet and musky, touched everything. It interwove with the smell of greasepaint, dust, stale cigarette smoke, and sweat.

I searched the vanity, the mirror, even behind the mirror, the drawers. I turned out pockets and turned over papers, most of which were playbills. I searched every conceivable hiding place I could think of. I didn’t know what I was looking for. I just hoped I’d recognize it when I saw it. But thirty minutes of searching turned up nothing. Nada. Zip.

I did notice one thing, though: nothing in that room seemed to belong to Queenie himself. Yes, the room was full of the trappings of fame—the now wilted flowers, the empty jewel boxes, the signed photographs—but most of it had originated from fans. Despite all the clutter, the room was utterly devoid of anything personal. Even the costumes were too small for Queenie to have worn.

“You have seen enough?” Lucien asked.

“These dresses, they don’t belong to him.”

“He brought his own. We should go now.”

“And the rest of these things, none of them seem to have anything to do with him.”