Black Orchid Blues (27 page)

By the time Boddy had been caught, convicted, and electrocuted, he’d become a folk hero, a martyr to police brutality. Some thirty thousand people came to view his remains at a funeral home in Harlem. Thousands more lined the streets to watch his hearse move slowly down Seventh Avenue.

Did Queenie think that people would feel the same way about him? It was highly unlikely, but even if for some reason they did, would it matter? Folk hero status didn’t save Boddy. Some might say it even hurt him. The powers that be didn’t want people admiring a cop killer, so they put an end to him, quick.

Queenie had picked up another handgun in the house. He had me drive to a used-car lot on East 145th. No one seemed to be on duty.

“No guard?” I asked.

“Why do you think I chose this one?”

I was soon back behind the wheel, this time of a Model T Ford. The keys had been waiting in the car.

“You bribed the guard?”

“Hell no.” Queenie was insulted. “I bribed the owner.”

All right. “Where are we headed?”

“Canada.”

If he’d said Mars, I wouldn’t have been more surprised.

He gave me dull smile. “What? You don’t like Canada?”

“Honestly, I never thought about it.”

“Well, it’s about time you did, cause that’s where we’re headed. To St. Catherines, in Ontario.”

“May I ask why?”

“It’s where Harriet chose to settle down.”

I thought better of asking who Harriet was.

I headed west on 145th before turning north on Broadway. He kept the gun in his lap, invisible to the casual eye, but clearly trained on my midsection.

“I hope you have the safety on,” I said.

For some reason, he thought that was funny. “Well, I don’t want to lose you, Slim, not before my story’s told. On the other hand, I’d urge you to avoid any bumps in the road, or sudden shifts in direction, if you know what I mean.”

He sank lower in the seat and we continued in silence, sweeping up Broadway. The lights of stores on both sides flowed past. At 181st Street, I turned left to head over to the Washington Heights Bridge.

“Whoa! Slow down a minute,” Queenie said. The entrance to the bridge was a scene of flashing red lights. “Cops all over the place,” he muttered with disgust. “Cut the headlights and back up. Do it real slow.”

I retreated to Broadway, then swung the car around to face north again. The whole time, my heart was in my throat. If the cops saw us and recognized Queenie, one of them might open fire.

But none of them seemed to have noticed anything. They were too busy searching the cars that were already at the bridge. Furthermore, at this distance, under the cover of night, a black car with no headlights was virtually invisible.

“What next?” I asked.

“Let me think, just keep driving.”

I headed up Broadway. At this rate, we would soon reach the northern tip of the island. “Manhattan’s not that long,” I said, “and there aren’t too many ways to get off it.”

“Shut up.”

“They’re going to have people at every bridge, every tunnel.”

“Shut up, I said, and let me think.”

I piped down. One way or another, this whole thing would end soon. Part of me wanted it over; but another part wanted more time with the Black Orchid, quiet time, when I could get his story, when I could maybe even reach Junior, actually
meet
him. Theoretically, I could do all that once Queenie was captured. Only I didn’t feel that he would ever let himself be caged. Something told me he’d rather die than be taken prisoner, and that one way or another, this would be my last chance to learn his secrets.

Then my thoughts turned to Sam. Maybe he was awake by now. I hoped with all my heart that he was awake, that he would be okay. I wanted to talk to him, hold him, and be held by him.

But how? Did I actually believe that the Black Orchid would set me free? He wanted immortality and he thought I could give it to him; it was his reason for keeping me alive. But he was moody and paranoid. He could change his mind at the toss of a dime. Maybe, eventually, he’d fall asleep. That would be my chance. I’d outlast him. He’d fall asleep and I’d be gone.

Broadway turned into Route 9, and we eventually crossed into the Bronx.

“This is good,” Queenie said. “Real good.” He frowned and sat up suddenly. “What were you doing taking me over to that bridge, anyway? We didn’t need to go over that bridge. Just drive north and we’ll hit Canada.”

“But if you want to get to St. Catherines, you head west first.”

“Really?” He chewed that over, then shook his head. “I don’t think so. You’re trying to screw me, aren’t you, Slim? Everybody knows that Canada’s north. It’s north, damnit! So, you just take this heap up, keep on driving till we get there.”

A three-quarter moon hung in the sky. As we put more distance behind us, Queenie became festive, humming to himself and sometimes breaking out in song. At one point, he twisted round to watch Manhattan’s receding skyline, then turned back, pumped one fist in the air, and let out a shout. “Look out, Canada! Here I come!”

I threw him a curious glance. “Why Canada?”

He looked at me as though I were a simpleton. “I told you, Canada’s where Harriet went.”

“Harriet who?”

“Harriet Tubman! Who else?” He smiled and slapped his thigh. “Yeah, if it’s good enough for Harriet, then it’s good enough for me.”

Stunned, I remained silent.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “What’s that?”

“That Harriet and I don’t have a damn thing in common, other than the color of our skin.”

I cleared my throat. “The thought crossed my mind.”

“Well, you’re wrong. Harriet and I are very much alike. Harriet, you see, was born into slavery. I was also born under the whip, only my masters were black. And because they could call themselves my parents, no one cared or noticed what they did to me.”

The tone was petulant, the comparison a stretch, but it was interesting. “Go on.”

“She too fought for her freedom. She struggled to find that place where she could be herself, with no one to lord it over her. That’s what I’m doing, seeking my own way.”

How many times had he practiced that little speech?

“But Queenie,” I cut in, “Harriet Tubman risked her life to save people. She led slaves to freedom. She never killed anyone.”

“But she threatened to. That bitch was fierce. She told those runaway motherfuckers that if one of them tried to turn back, she’d kill him dead.”

“That was to guarantee everyone’s safety.”

“It doesn’t matter why she said it; it just matters that she did. Harriet was a determined woman, just like me. She was ready to do what had to be done. If that meant putting somebody down, then so be it.”

Nobody ever accused Queenie of being subtle. I took his last words as the threat they were meant to be, and went back to driving. We had a long road ahead of us. The drive to Canada meant passing through Connecticut, Massachusetts, Vermont, New Hampshire, and beyond. We’d be nowhere near St. Catherines if we got that far north. But with each passing mile, the chances of Queenie being captured decreased. He was sure of that, and so was I.

For now, we were still in New York State. A lot could happen along the way. Cops were known to flag down black people, just as a matter of principle. And I knew that Queenie would shoot first and ask questions later. Then the chase would be on. The problem was that cops chasing after him were just as likely to shoot me. For a moment, I wasn’t sure who might pose the greater danger—my kidnapper or potential rescuers.

The road, normally slow with heavy traffic, was empty that night, treacherous with ice. But I was thankful for it. Between the gun and the ice, I had enough fear to beat back exhaustion and stay focused.

Next to me, Queenie lit himself a cigarette and patted his chest where he’d hidden the bearer bonds. They would make a nice nest egg for his envisioned new start. I had to give him credit: he’d put a lot of thought into this scheme.

“Meeting me at that premiere, even that was part of the plan, right?”

He chuckled. “Sure was.”

“And the package in front of my door?”

“Slim, you made the perfect little helper. You were a neighbor, and you had a job that scared Junior’s parents to death. They hated scandal. I knew you’d keep up the pressure. They’d want to pay up and get this whole nasty little episode behind them.”

From the very beginning, he had made me his accomplice. The whole thing, including killing Charlie Spooner and the Harvard kid and the others at the Cinnamon Club, it had all been done, in part, to impress me. The wheels had gone into motion the minute I called Queenie and told him I’d be stopping by.

“How could you be so sure that I wouldn’t take that box to the police?”

“It was a gamble, but I figured you’d be a pretty safe bet. You’re a reporter
and
a bleeding heart. You’d want the story. Better still, you’d want to help. And I called it right, didn’t I? You fell right in like a good little soldier.”

“But didn’t you realize that once I started asking questions, I wouldn’t give up—I’d want answers?”

“The way I was planning it, by the time you found them, I’d be long gone.” He sounded so smug.

“And killing all those people at the club, that was your plan too? Did you tell Olmo to do that?”

“I told him to make it look real.”

“And he did.”

“Damn straight.”

The knot in my gut tightened.
Take it easy and think. You need to think and find answers.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.

“Oh, I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About how you know so much about hair and makeup and all.”

“Oh, yes. I have a very fine feeling for all that.” For a moment, he looked truly happy. Then he put his hand to his forehead, leaned on the armrest. “But people think I’m just a man in drag. They don’t realize that I
am
a woman. I just suffered some bad luck is all. I wasn’t just born into such a body. I have to share that damn body with a man—and a man who doesn’t have a clue. He really doesn’t know his ass from his elbow.” He drew a deep breath. “Then again, that’s why I’m here. Because he needed me. I guess I should be grateful.” His eyes roved over me with minute appraisal, returned to my face. “You got a man?”

I kept my eyes on the road and said nothing. I wasn’t about to talk about my relationship with Sam.

“You ain’t got no man.” He sniffed me, actually leaned over and sniffed. His face was less than two inches from mine. “You know how I can tell?”

I remained silent.

He sneered. “Cause you ain’t got no man-smell on you. You know, you can tell when a person’s been getting it, regular-like. Their whole way changes, their movements, their looks, their
aroma.
You got the aroma of a dried-up carrot.”

“Well, thanks.”

“Anytime.” He chuckled and took another draw on his cigarette.

We were quiet for a while, caught up in our own thoughts. Queenie stared out the window. There was nothing visible out there; darkness had swallowed up just about every detail. But he now seemed worried and scared. Scared killers make stupid decisions, the kind that can get both them and their hostages killed.

He was clearly preoccupied; the gun was resting in his lap. I ran through my options: I could try running the car into something and hope for the best. Or I could keep on driving, hope to see a cop car, hope to get their attention. Or I could wait for him to fall asleep, then pull over and try to make a run for it. I dismissed all three options in quick succession. They each had the same problem, an unacceptable likelihood that we’d both be killed or seriously injured.

For now, I’d drive and wait for the right opportunity. When it presented itself, I would know what to do. At least, I hoped I would. In the meantime, I would get him talking. Try to draw him out, learn more about what made the Black Orchid tick.

C
HAPTER
44

W
hat’s your earliest memory?” I asked.

He turned to me and flashed his pearl-white teeth. “You sure did miss your calling. You should’ve been a doctor. I’m gonna call you Doc Lanie from now on.” He chuckled. “My first memory? That’s easy. It’s Daddy Bernard stuffing himself down my throat. It’s his hand on my head, telling me to take it in a little more, just a little bit more, and suck it harder,
harder
,
HARDER!”

He saw my expression and laughed. “Oh, you don’t like that memory? A little too-too for you? Well, let me see what else I can come up with.”

I forced myself to take a deep breath. I was sickened but I can’t say I was surprised. I’d seen enough of human nature to know that adult killers had often been child victims. “How old were you?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Well, for me, I guess I was a newborn, wasn’t I? But as for this old body, it was the tender age of five. Maybe earlier. By the time I was five, six, at the latest, Daddy Bernard was busy teaching me the fine art of giving blowjobs.”

Despite my anger toward Queenie, I also felt an incredible sadness. What he’d gone through—if he was telling me the truth, and I found that I believed him now—no child should suffer. He’d gained knowledge that no child should have. I thought about what Mrs. Cardigan had told me, that the child seemed “knowing” and had a smart mouth, that the Bernards sometimes even seemed afraid of their offspring.
No wonder,
I thought now. They were probably terrified that little “Janie” would give them away.

“Oh yeah, I got another memory for you,” Queenie said. “Daddy Bernard … he celebrated my seventh birthday by giving me my first lesson in bum fucking. From then on, he took and I gave. Junior would lay in bed, just dreading the sound of his daddy’s footsteps. He’d count them,
One, two, three
. Knew exactly how many it took Daddy Bernard to get to his door. And by the time old Daddy turned that doorknob, Junior would be gone. It was me who took it. Never Junior. Just me.”

I thought of Dr. Bernard’s mutilated remains, and the note:
For all the years you made me suck …
Then I thought of Phyllis Bernard, of her gouged-out eyes.