Black Orchid Blues (17 page)

“What about the ransom?” I asked.

“I’ll get it. Just be there, tonight, alone.”

“I will.”

There was soft click and she was gone.

“Who was that?”

I straightened up to find Selena standing behind me.

Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Did that have to do with the Black Orchid kidnapping? I bet it did, didn’t it?” She took a step toward me and wagged a finger under my nose. “Sam told me you’d try to sneak something past me.”

“He did no such thing.” Pointedly ignoring her, I pulled open a drawer, fetched a fresh steno pad, and slipped it into my purse. “Just because Sam gave you the Black Orchid story doesn’t mean you have the right to watch everything I do.” I shrugged into my coat. “Now, I suggest you go do your job and let me do mine.”

Before she could answer, I grabbed my purse and walked out. I had a bag to pack. I was a block from my home when it hit me: I had forgotten to leave a message for Sam.

C
HAPTER
25

T
he Mercer was one step away from being a flophouse—one very short step. The place was a magnet for every hoodlum, hooker, dealer, and otherwise shady character within a one-mile radius. There had been a couple of murders at the Mercer, but I hadn’t caught the stories when I was covering crime. A converted three-story brownstone, it sat on the northwest corner of Lenox Avenue and 147th Street. That was just two blocks north of the gracious Hotel Theresa and less than ten blocks north of genteel Strivers’ Row. Not far in physical distance, but worlds away in atmosphere.

In short, it was the perfect setting for a shakedown.

I drove my car and met Sheila in front of the hotel promptly at six. She was outwardly calm, but her troubled eyes revealed the same scared kid I’d seen before.

“It’s going to be all right,” I said.

She took in the Mercer’s shabby, downright evil appearance, grabbed a deep breath, and set her thin shoulders. I put a gentle hand on her elbow and we walked in together.

Given what we’d seen outside, the lobby was no surprise: uneven walls covered in grimy green wallpaper, a tattered red carpet underneath, a battered wooden elevator to one side, and a scarred wooden reception desk set straight ahead, with a mean-looking sister behind it. I knew her by reputation.

Ida Mercer, the widowed wife of a saxophone player, ran the show. She’d had very little experience with the finer things in life, but she knew how to manage a flophouse. She was a large woman with narrow black eyes in a wide, fleshy face. She wore her thick hair parted down the center and braided into two pigtails. It was a child’s hairdo, but there was nothing childish about Mercer. She was in her mid-to-late fifties and, from the weariness in her eyes, her soul must’ve been a hundred.

Mercer smirked knowingly when we asked to register. “One room or two?” She had a low, husky voice.

“One,” Sheila said.

“Two,” I said.

We’d spoken together.

Mercer talked to me, but glanced sideways at Sheila. “Sounds like girl-friend here is the type to get cold at night.”

Sheila gave me a panicked look. “Please, I don’t want to stay alone here.”

Mercer smiled as though Sheila had just proved her point.

“All right,” I said.

“How many nights?” Mercer asked.

“Just one.”

If we were lucky, we would make the drop and be out by midnight. We wouldn’t even have to sleep here. We might even be on our way to pick up Queenie if everything went smoothly. Realistically, I didn’t think so, but a girl can dream, can’t she?

We signed in and paid up-front, using the names Anne and Alice Martin, just as we’d been instructed.

“Here’s the house rules,” Mercer said. “This is a righteous, God-fearing Christian establishment. I don’t put up with no drinking or whoring. You two look like nice ladies, but you can never tell. So I repeat: No drinking or men in the room. And no stealing neither. Iffin’ you steal something, I’ll find you and make you pay for it. Iffin’ you break something, I’ll do the same. Got it?”

I nodded to make her happy and put out my hand for the key.

The stairs were creaky and uneven. I had one small bag and Sheila had two, which we carried ourselves. Our room was on the top floor, which had six small rooms set along a narrow corridor with a stairway to one side and a communal bathroom to the rear. The accomodations were unexceptional: minimal cleanliness, a queen-sized cot with a thin, sagging mattress, a splotchy blue blanket and gray sheets, a single overhead light, a battered table and chair.

Worse than I would’ve liked, but much better than I’d feared.

The room was on the corner, so it had windows on two walls and you could see the lights from Lenox Avenue stretching far south. It was a nice sight; it was enough to give you hope. Going to sleep or waking up to a view like that, a person could think that maybe this wasn’t the end of the road.

Then again, not everyone might react that way.

Sheila walked to the middle of the room and just stood there, taking a long, hard look at her surroundings. Then she sagged down on the edge of the bed, bent her head, and wept.

I gave her a moment, then sat next to her. I put an arm around her shoulders and let her have a good, long cry. When she was all sobbed out, I passed her a handkerchief. She dabbed her eyes, sniffed, and thanked me. But she refused to meet my gaze.

After a pause, I whispered in her ear: “Now that we’ve come this far, don’t you think it’s time you told me the truth?”

She froze. “The truth?”

I could just about see the shiver that rippled down her spine. “It’s time to stop the lying.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said in a low voice.

“Yes, you do. And now’s the time to talk.”

“I have no idea what—”

“The kidnapping, Sheila. It’s a fake, isn’t it?”

Her head snapped up. “No! Of course not! What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that the kidnapper contacted the Bernards instead of Queenie’s boss.”

“So?”

“It was a tell. An insider pulled this job, someone who knew Queenie’s true identity.”

“No. They tortured Billy. They—”

“Stop it!” I snapped, almost savagely. “The kidnapping was an act. At least, it started out that way.”

“How can you say that?” she said in a horrified whisper. “They cut off his finger. They—”

“That’s what happens when you partner with gangsters.”

She shrank back. “You’re wrong, just so wrong.”

“I wish I were, but you know I’m not. There have been too many coincidences: first, the kidnapping. It wasn’t luck that it happened when I was there. I was meant to see a performance, one that had nothing to do with singing.”

Sheila swallowed but said nothing.

“Then there was the cigar box,” I continued. “It was hand-delivered to my doorstep. Another coincidence? I don’t think so.”

“But that doesn’t—I mean, maybe the kidnapper felt he had a tie to you somehow, because you were there that night.”

“Yeah, and that tie is Queenie. If you’re a publicity-hungry performer, like Queenie, what better way to keep a reporter in the loop than by leaving that box on her doorstep?”

She rubbed her brow. “No … Maybe Billy gave the kidnappers the wrong address on purpose, as a cry for help.”

“It’s possible, but I doubt it. Queenie was behind that box coming to my house, but he didn’t send it as a cry for help.”

Sheila’s eyes widened. “Why then?”

“Whoever put that box on my doorstep wanted me to know about the connection between the Bernards and Queenie. Whoever did it knew that the minute I saw it, I’d start asking questions. Not just why me, but why you? Why your family? What was the tie between Queenie, or Billy as you call him, and the nice family across the street?”

Sheila opened her mouth again, but no words came out.

I went on: “You say you didn’t know about the finger? I’ll buy it. I can believe that it wasn’t part of the plan. I can even see things from your point of view. All of a sudden, there I was at your doorstep. Carrying that box. Asking questions. You had to think on your toes, and you did. I have to give it to you: you can lie without batting an eyelash.”

I said it hard, said it fast. I wanted her to feel as though I’d slapped her. She winced as though I had. But she remained silent. Despite my harsh words, I thought she was a good kid, a decent kid, inexperienced with lies. Maybe she had a natural talent for faking it, but I didn’t think so. I could see it in her eyes. She was trying to come up with another fat one, but I wouldn’t give her the space.

“You people did tell the truth about one thing, didn’t you? That the family wants nothing to do with this kidnap victim. Nothing at all. And maybe that’s the key to this whole thing.”

She seemed to shrink inside her skin. She offered no defense, just cowered under the onslaught. Her face was growing paler by the second. I felt bad for her, but I had to get through. Now was the time to do it. Later would be too late. And so I went on, relentless and showing no mercy.

“There is no Billy, is there? There’s only Junior. Junior
Bernard
. He’s Queenie. He’s your husband. And
he’s
their kid, not you.”

Sheila went very still. For a moment, she even stopped breathing. Then she closed her tear-filled eyes. “Oh God, I’m so sorry. How long have you known?”

“Since I brought the cigar box.”

She raised her head, stunned. “But how?”

“Let’s just say you’re a little too brown.”

“What?”

“A source told me the Bernards’ little girl was pretty light. Plus, you said that nobody ever called you Janie.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The day I brought the cigar box, I asked you if anybody had ever called you Janie. You didn’t know what I was talking about.”

“But who is Janie?”

“It’s the name Junior went by when he was a child.”

“But … that’s a girl’s name.”

I nodded. “Exactly.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “So you already knew when you left the house.”

“I had a suspicion, but it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that your husband’s life is on the line. If we’re going to save him, then you have to tell me the truth.”

“I didn’t want to do this pretend kidnapping. But Junior said I had to. He said it was the only way.” She swallowed, bit down on her lower lip. “He promised me he’d be safe, that nothing bad could happen, cause he knew somebody.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Somebody he met at the club. All he said was that this guy would know what to do.” She clutched her shoulders. “I don’t believe this. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

“How was it supposed to be?”

“Simple. Real simple. Junior made it sound so easy.” Kids playing with fire. “What was he thinking?”

“He said it was the only way to be free.”

“Of what?”

“Of
them
.” Her tone turned vehement. “His parents?”

She nodded. Straightening up, she wiped her face and sniffled. Her expression had turned bitter. “You want to know why we did it? I’ll tell you why. There’s no reason to hide anything anymore—and that includes the truth about those vipers, my in-laws.” She balled her hand into a fist. “They control us. They control
him.
He couldn’t make a move without getting their approval. Neither one of us could.”

“But then how could he be singing at the Cinnamon Club?”

“They didn’t know. They didn’t want to know.” She took a deep breath. “But I guess I should start at the beginning.”

C
HAPTER
26

I
got her some water. There was a glass, relatively clean. The sink was dingy but the water ran clear. She accepted it gratefully, and drank like a woman coming in from the desert. Then she set the empty glass on the floor and launched into her story: “Y’see, I didn’t know anything about all this—this kind of living—when I met Junior. This thing about men dressing up like women and even loving each other? I hate it.” She shuddered slightly. “It sickens me and I don’t believe it’s right before God. But there’s a whole lotta worse goings-on in this world, and I’m no one to judge anybody. Furthermore, I love Junior. I really do, and nothing’s ever gonna change that.”

She paused, reflecting.

“I guess I should be ashamed to say that. Maybe I am. Maybe I’m a fool of a woman for loving a man like this, but that’s me. That’s how I feel.”

She glanced at me with a sad, bleary smile. I gave her an encouraging nod.

“We met at Howard,” she continued. “We were in the same class, both first-semester seniors. I’d just transferred in and was lonely. He was the hand-somest, gentlest man I’d ever met. I sensed a sorrow in him and that drew me to him too. I liked the fact that he wasn’t a lumberjack kind of guy. I’d been out with those types before and I didn’t want to ever again. Junior made me feel loved and cherished. I fell head over heels for him. My parents took to him immediately. It was great.

“I guess you could say I was sheltered,” she explained softly. “Daddy was a preacher, and Mama … well, she was a farm girl. I had two older brothers, Lynn and Wallace. But a woman shot one and the other died in a train accident. After that, my parents got real protective. Nothing bad was going to happen to their baby girl. And when they met Junior, they just knew everything was going to be all right.” Her expression turned grim. “Like I said, Daddy was a preacher and Mama sewed clothes. Neither one of them finished high school, but they believed in education. They were so happy when I got that scholarship to Howard. And when I came home and told them about Junior … well, you can imagine. They were thrilled. Baby girl had done good, real good.”

They got married in secret (“Junior insisted”) and spent the next month on campus, then moved up north. She’d so anticipated graduating and moving to New York. That dream included them having a place of their own.

“But Junior said it would make more sense to move in with his mom and dad at first. We’d have a nice place to stay and could save money.”

They’d been married for nearly seven months now, and six of those seven had been spent at his parents’ house.