Black Orchid Blues (7 page)

Most also knew that I’d been interviewing the Black Orchid when he was kidnapped. What was I doing here now? Just having fun? Or was there another reason?

Jack-a-Lee saw me at the same time I saw him. He raised a chubby hand and waved. His full name was Jack-a-Lee Talbot and he was, as he himself put it, the
transvestite du jour
, the flavor of the day. Jack-a-Lee was arrogant and egotistic, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew that fame is fleeting. So, while he had it, he meant to enjoy it to the hilt.

He was as broad as a barn and well past sixty, but his face was amazingly unlined and he had the verve of a man of twenty. He was wearing a bejeweled silver satin turban, a red satin robe, and gold-strapped sandals. His fingernails and toenails were painted fire-engine red. He knew everybody and everybody wanted to know him.

I cut through the crowd and, on his end, he pushed through to get to me. People were knocking into their neighbors to get out of his way. Jack-a-Lee had the bulk of an elephant and the energy to go with it.

He greeted me with two enthusiastic and
très chic
air kisses. Then he gave me the once-over with heavily kohled and mascaraed eyes.

“I’d love to say you look simply marvelous, dahling, but I can’t. Not that I’d expect you to. Not after last night.” He wrapped a fleshy arm around my shoulders, bringing me close and dropping his voice. Lights of greedy curiosity danced in his dark eyes. “I hope you’re here to share all the delicious details. Come. Let’s find someplace
très privé
and you can tell Jack-a-Lee everything.” We went up to the second floor. There were four doors along the corridor: three bedrooms—one in the front and two in the back—and a shared bathroom in between.

Jack-a-Lee started toward the door to the front, then hesitated. He put a finger to his pouty lips, shook his head. “No, I think Aimee’s in there doing …” The rest got lost in a mutter, but it didn’t matter. I didn’t want to know.

He headed back to the two rear bedrooms. He opened the door on the right and stuck his head in. From inside came groans and grunts. Jack-a-Lee raised an eyebrow and pulled the door shut. He went to the next door. Same story. He put his hands on his ample hips, pursed his lips, and reflected.

“We could go upstairs, but I know it’s busy up there too. Real busy, if you know what I mean. So there’s only one alternative.” He flipped a hand toward the middle door.

I sighed. Goodness knows what that bathroom would look like—and smell like—in the middle of a house party like this.

“Après-vous,”
I said.

“No, m’dear. After you.”

I took out a handkerchief and used it to turn the knob, or tried to. The door was locked.

This was too much.

Now that we were standing right outside the door, I could hear the sounds of intimate contact. I gave Jack-a-Lee a look.
What do we do now?

Jack-a-Lee was a true diva. He had a notion he could get some of the most delicious gossip in the world out of me and he was being blocked from getting it. He was frustrated and embarrassed. This was his own house and he couldn’t find a place to talk. He raised a fist and banged on the door.

“Whoever’s in there, get out! Pull out right now, do you hear? I don’t care where else you do it, but you can’t do it in there. Get out of there fast. No screwing in the bathroom. Those are the house rules. I will not have someone pee on themselves while they’re waiting for you to have your fun. You can do it downstairs in the middle of the dance floor for all I care, but not in my bathroom.”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
He made the door shake in its frame. “And I mean now!”

There were squeals of terror, the sound of hurried dressing, and the shot of a little bolt being thrown back. The door was flung open and two half-dressed men, one with his pirate pants still open, the other trying to arrange his dirndl, stepped out.

“Well, I never—” began the one with the skirt.

“Yes, you did, but you’ll never do it again, not in my place, if you take that attitude with me,” Jack-a-Lee said.

He dismissed the two men with a wave of his hand, then grabbed my wrist and dragged me into the bathroom. Inside he looked around and wrinkled his nose with distaste.

“I guess I should be grateful they were just stirring chocolate. Sometimes, people leave such a funk in here.” He looked at me and smiled. “Then again, I like it earthy, don’t you?”

His wit was contagious. My lips twitched with a smile. I repressed it. It seemed wrong, under the circumstances, to be merry. So, I rolled my eyes and gave him a look that said loud and clear,
Be serious
.

He pouted. “Come on, honey. Where’s your sense of humor?” When I didn’t respond, he said, “All right, then. Be that way. Here,” he flipped down the toilet lid. “Take a seat on my gracious commode and tell Mama all about it.”

I perched on the lid and he squeezed his bulk right next to me. It was tight, but not unpleasant. It was like sitting next to a rather large, warm marshmallow.

I told him everything he could’ve read in the papers and not an iota more, but made it sound as though I had. He was thrilled.

“And you were right there? You actually saw the whole thing?”

“Sure did.”

He put two plump fingers to a dimpled cheek and shook his head with feminine delicacy. “I’m so jealous. Nothing that exciting ever happens to me.”

“The thing is, somebody saw Queenie being roughed up by an ofay like the one who took him last night. Broad, got light eyes. Said to be an en-forcer. I need his name or who he works for.”

“And you think I can tell you?”

“I’m sure you can.”

Jack-a-Lee mulled it over. “Let’s say I could. Why should I? Lay my life on the line and for what?”

I was prepared for the question. “You’re going to the Faggots’ Ball?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

The Faggots’ Ball was the largest drag ball of the year. That wasn’t the official name for it, of course, but it’s what everybody called it. A fraternal society, the Hamilton Lodge of the Odd Fellows, hosted it every February at the Rockland Palace Casino on Eighth Avenue and 155th Street. The event was set in Harlem, but folks came from all over and they weren’t only colored. Thousands flocked to it. It was one of the largest, maybe even
the
largest, gathering of lesbians and fairies in New York City.

“I’ll be there too, with picture-snappers,” I said. “Suppose I promise to put your mug on the front page of the
Chronicle’s
society pages?”

“Moi?
” He put a hand to his chest and fluttered his long false eyelashes. “Little old me?”

“Jack-a-Lee, there is nothing little or old about you.”

His face broke out into a smile, but then his eyes got serious. “Look, sweetie, that’s a nice offer, but the ball’s not until next Friday. A lot could happen in a week. And as nice as it is, a picture’s not everything.”

“What do you want?”

“The reward money, but it can’t be seen coming to me.”

I thought about it. “Okay.”

“You can fix that?”

“If you give me the skinny and it works out.”

“No ifs, ands, or buts. I want a guarantee. If I give you the information and you screw it up, I still get my money.”

“You’ll get it.”

“All right, then. It sounds like a guy named Olmo, and he’s not white. That motherfucker’s one of us.”

I thought about the accent, the bright pale eyes. “I never would’ve—”

“America’s one-drop rule, baby. And he’s got more than a drop. Mama’s ivory, but daddy’s ebony. He grew up in Stockholm. They call him the Velvet Swede.”

“And who does he work for?”

He paused. “Stax Murphy.”

The name fell from his lips like a brick. Stax was one of Harlem’s most notorious policy bankers. He was also a loan shark of the worst ilk. The New York Police Department had at least three warrants out for him: murder, extortion, and blackmail. Blackie and his men had been searching for Stax for years, but they hadn’t gotten close, not once. “He’s like a ghost,” Blackie had once told me. “This is a man who can practically disappear in front of your eyes. He knows every trick in the book and probably wrote a few.”

“And Queenie owes him?”

“Big time. He’s been losing at craps and running to Stax for help.”

This was bad news, very bad news. I heard this with a sinking heart. If Queenie was in debt to Stax, then the singer’s chances of survival were sinking by the second. Men like Stax tried to get their money by intimidation first. By the time they resorted to kidnapping, it meant they had given up hope of getting their money back, so they were out for a pound of flesh instead. I had seen the results of their henchmen’s handiwork. It was never a pretty sight. I flashed on the memory of putting those handcuffs around Queenie’s wrists and felt sick.

Someone knocked on the door.

“Go away!” Jack-a-Lee yelled.

“But I got to go bad!”

“Then get the hell outta my house and take it outside!”

There was plaintive grumbling and the sound of feet scurrying away. Jack-a-Lee turned back to me. His eyes were dead serious and he suddenly looked old. “If you’re thinking about going up against Stax, don’t. He’d kill you without blinking an eyelash.”

I raised my chin and tightened my lips.

“Listen,” Jack-a-Lee said. “I knew a man Stax killed just for stealing a loaf of bread. Name was Stone, Ralph Stone. He didn’t even steal the bread, not really. He was a guest in the house and ate more than half of it. One of the other guests complained. Stax said he’d ‘handle it.’ A couple of days later, he did.

“He and Ralph were sitting in a car, down on 125th Street. They’re drinking, doing a little reefer. Stax takes out his gun. Looks like he’s just showing it off. And Ralph—now, he’s easy to impress and wants to please—he asks if he could touch it. Stax gives him the gun, watches him admire it. Then Stax takes it back, says, ‘You wanna see how it works?’ Ralph nods. And that was that. Stax pumped two bullets in him. Shot him right in the face, up close and personal.” Jack-a-Lee paused. “You go after him, you’ll be dead before I ever get my face in the papers, much less that dough. Now, you know I can’t have that.”

“I get it, but …”

“You’re still going after him.”

“No, I’m going after the story and wherever it leads. Right now, it’s leading to him.”

“But baby, you’ve got no backup, no protection.”

“You’re beginning to sound like Sam.”

At the mention of Delaney, Jack-a-Lee beamed. Some of his normal mischief returned to his eyes. “Honey, you got yourself a fine sheik there. Um-hmm. Hope you’re giving it to him, nice and regular.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Of course it is. Cause if you don’t, then I will.”

“He doesn’t swing that way.”

Jack-a-Lee cocked his head. “Oh, you’d be surprised.” He examined a fingernail, buffed it against his breast. “Trust me, if I gave him a taste of my sweetness, he’d never look back.”

“Thank you for your advice.” I leaned forward. “Now tell me: where do I find Stax Murphy?”

If Stax was behind Queenie’s disappearance, then I wanted to talk to him—and do it fast, before the cops started a shootout and got everybody killed. The chances of convincing Stax to let Queenie go were probably next to nothing. I knew that, but I had to try. I owed it to Queenie. I owed it to myself.

Sam would’ve disagreed, and he’d be horrified at the thought of me hunting down Stax, so I wouldn’t tell him. He’d find out soon enough.

My main worry was what I’d say to Stax. I didn’t quite know what I’d say, but I was sure I’d think of something. Because I had to. Meanwhile, I was enjoying what my question had done to Jack-a-Lee’s expression.

His heavily kohled eyes widened, his jaw dropped, and his voice went up half an octave. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Come on,” I said.

“Lanie—”

“Tell Stax that he needs to talk to me—”

“
Needs?
Wha—”

“Yes, needs
.
Tell him that despite all the killing, I wasn’t the only one to survive that massacre. I was down at that station house last night, Jack-a-Lee, and I can tell you—there were a ton of witnesses. That sketch artist was busy. Now, if I can connect him up to this, then the cops can too—”

“You’re not going to say anything, are you? Or tell them I told you?”

“Of course not. But I don’t have to. They’ve got those drawings. They’re showing them around right now. Sooner or later somebody’s going to slip or make a deal and say something. That’s it. Stax is Olmo’s boss, and he’s already on the most wanted list, so they’ll be hungry for him. I’d say another twenty-four hours, tops. If he wants to be smart about it, he’ll talk to me and get his story out there, before the cops do it for him.”

Jack-a-Lee thought about it, then shook his head. “Lanie, he’d kill me.”

“Okay,” I shrugged. “No help, no picture, no moolah.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re being cruel.”

I tilted my head.

“Look,” he said. “If I even
tried
to get that information for you, we’d both be dead in a minute. Stax doesn’t want anybody knowing—”

There was another pounding on the door, which jumped in its frame.

“Hey!” a male voice yelled. “Is there anybody in there? Whoever you are, you’d better get the hell outta there! You don’t and I’ll get Jack-a-Lee. You know what he said about fucking in the—”

Jack-a-Lee yanked the door open. “Are you crazy! Banging and yelling like that?”

The man who’d knocked stumbled backward, tripping on his fake satin cloak. He would’ve fallen into the stairwell if the banister hadn’t caught him.

“Oh, Jack-a-Lee, it’s you! I didn’t know.

How was I supposed to know?” Jack-a-Lee growled at him, glanced at me, and then turned back to his guest. “The lady and I are conducting business, very important business. Do you hear? You’re just lucky that I’m in a good frame of mind. Or else I’d—”

“It’s okay,” I said. “We’re finished.”

Jack-a-Lee jerked around with a frown and a look of surprise. “Are you sure?”

“Are you going to give me what I asked for?”

“No.”

“Then, yes, we’re done.”