Black Orchid Blues (23 page)

He turned to see me
.
And that might’ve actually saved his life?

Maynard told us that Sam’s right leg, below the knee, had been broken in three places. “We had to operate to relieve the pressure caused by the shattered bone, so blood could flow into his lower leg. Otherwise, there was a risk of amputation. His right knee cracked down the middle. We’re also working with fractures of his right hip.” It sounded horrible.

He’s alive
, I told myself.
Just be grateful that he’s alive.

“Is he awake?” I asked. “Can I speak with him?”

“No,” Maynard’s face changed. The change was subtle, but it was there. “Not yet.”

“What are you not telling me?”

He didn’t answer, but I recognized his expression. I’d been a doctor’s wife too long not to.

“Don’t treat me like a child,” I said. “Tell me exactly what’s going on.”

So he did.

When he was done, I had only one question: “Where is he?”

C
HAPTER
36

D
r. Maynard said that only one of us could go in to see Sam, and then for no more than five minutes. The others agreed to let me visit. Sam was in intensive care and in a small room by himself. The skin around his large frame seemed to have shrunken. His head was thickly bandaged, as was his pelvic area, and his right leg was in traction. His complexion was grayed and waxen. His lips seemed bloodless and his bones jutted out sharply.

Tears slipped unheeded from my eyes. I wanted to say something, anything, but my throat had closed. I took his hand, which was cool and so very limp. Where was the warmth, the strength that was so much a part of him? All thoughts of Junior and Sheila, of the Bernards and their horrible accusations—they all went away. All my emotions were for Sam.

All too soon a nurse appeared to shoo me from the room.

“Wait a minute,” I said.

I held Sam’s hand against my cheek, kissed it, and laid it gently back at his side. Then I bent to kiss his unresponsive lips before returning to the waiting room. Blackie, Ramsey, and the others were still there. All eyes turned toward me with expectation.

“He’s very weak,” I told them.

They looked stricken. Selena’s makeup was tear-streaked. George Greene’s eyes were wide behind his glasses. As for Ramsey and Blackie, they wore expressions I had never seen on them before. It took me a moment to realize that these were expressions of not only pain, but helplessness. They were men of action and decision, and here they were confronted with a situation in which they could do nothing.

Observing their faces, I suddenly remembered. “Blackie, Mr. Ramsey, I have to speak with you … alone.”

A new edge to the worry appeared in their eyes.

I turned to the others. “It’s good that you came. Sam would appreciate it, but he’d also say there’s nothing you can do. George,” I said, “your baby could arrive any minute. Sam would want you at home with your wife.”

He hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, of course. It’s okay.”

He gave me an awkward hug, then a nod of acknowledgment to the small gathering, before walking quickly away.

“Lanie,” Selena chimed in, “I’m sorry.” She appeared genuinely distraught. “I mean it, I apologize for all of it.” She glanced at Ramsey, then Blackie, then back at me. “You’ll tell Sam I was here?”

I said I would, then she too departed. One by one, the others left.

I sat on one of the benches and gestured for Ramsey and Blackie to join me. I began by describing what happened when I left Blackie at 125th Street, recounting how Stax Murphy picked me up. Both men listened, stone-faced, as I explained how Stax had taken me to Olmo’s body. I described how one of Olmo’s fingers was cut off and what it meant.

To my surprise, when I finished, Ramsey took my hand and said, “You’ve done a fine job.”

Blackie looked as though he had a lot to add, none of it as complimentary, but didn’t know where to begin. I sensed that he was holding his tongue only because of the circumstances involving Sam. When he did speak, it was to advise me to go home and get some rest. “There’s nothing you can do here.”

Ramsey agreed. Blackie said he would stop by the Bernards and tell them about Olmo.

“It’s not really the kind of news that’ll bring them comfort,” I said.

“No, it won’t, but it’s a step in the right direction.”

“They might not even want Junior found.”

“True, but that’s not up to them. Their son’s a killer, and it’s my job to bring him in.”

“No matter what he’s done, they won’t help you.”

“Probably not. But I’m going to talk to them anyway.”

C
HAPTER
37

I
did go home, briefly, to change clothes. The temperature had dropped with the setting sun and snow was falling. Not the fluffy flakes of a winter’s dreamtime, but the small pelting kind akin to hail. By morning, there would be ice on the ground.

Standing on my front steps, I glanced over at the Bernard house. Low lights burned in their living room. Blackie had dropped me off and then headed over there.

I let myself in and took a deep breath. What a day. It had begun with Sheila’s disappearance and ended with Sam being struck by a truck.

And it wasn’t over yet.

I didn’t even bother turning on the lights in the frigid house. For the second time in a week, I was covered in blood.

The telephone rang as I reached the stairs. It couldn’t be the hospital, could it? Surely nothing could’ve happened to Sam in the few minutes since I left. I ran into the parlor and grabbed up the phone.

“Ye-es?” Just that short run had left me breathless.

“How’s it going, Slim?”

A chill of recognition ran down my spine. “Queenie!” I swallowed. “You—you’re—”

“Yes, I’m safe. But you knew that already, didn’t you? I’m sorry about your boss,” he said smoothly. “I heard about it on the radio. My sympathies.”

I said nothing.

He gave a nasty chuckle. “Forget it, Slim. Don’t pretend. I know Stax found Olmo, and I know he took you there. So don’t fucking pretend you don’t—”

“All right, I won’t. You’re behind this whole thing.”

“You got it.”

“You killed Olmo.”

“Damn straight.”

“Why?”

“His part was done. It was a graceful exit.”

I felt a surge of anger. “And what about Sheila? A blast to the face. You call that a graceful exit?”

“It was more than the bitch deserved.”

“But why? She was helping you—”

“Not me. She was helping
him.
” What? “Him who?”

“Junior.”

“Don’t play that with me. You’re Junior.”

“The hell I am! I am
me
, Queenie Lovetree, the Black fuckin’ Orchid. And I killed that bitch cause she was telling him to get rid of me.”

“Telling who?”

“Are you stupid or something? She told Junior it was time to unload me. Can you believe that shit?
Unload
me? How dare she!”

That’s when I understood. Lord help me, I understood. Suddenly dizzy, I felt for the chair and sat down. What had Sheila said?

“He denied everything, said he’d been sleeping in his room the whole night.”

“Was he playacting?”

“I thought he was lying. But then I could see he really didn’t remember.”

He didn’t remember. No, of course he didn’t.

“Queenie …?”

“Yes?”

He sounded as though he was enjoying this. No doubt, he was. But I didn’t know where to begin. All I knew was that I had stepped into someone else’s nightmare.

“I don’t think he cared about me following him. I think he cared about what I saw.”

Was this really the answer? My thoughts were utterly disconnected.

I flashed on my bookshelf:
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
I had read it a year ago. Like most people, I’d assumed it was totally fiction, but now …

I found my voice, tried to sound normal. “And he—Junior, I mean—he was listening to her?”

“Yeah. What a stupid motherfucker. He couldn’t tie his shoelaces if I didn’t tell him, but then he went and got himself another bitch. Thought she was all fine and mighty cause she had a real pussy. She said to get rid of me, and the fool was listening to her. That was the last straw.”

I thought fast, trying to remember the details in the book, that fantasti-cal story of split personalities. “So Junior knows about you?”

A hesitation. “Yes and no. He thinks he’s being haunted. He’s such a superstitious fool.”

“He’s scared of you.” It wasn’t a question, but an observation based on a hunch. I could almost feel Queenie’s malevolent smile.

“He’d be stupid not to be. Aren’t you scared of me?”

“No.”

He laughed. “Aw, Lanie. You know something? I like you.”

“Is that why you tried to use me?”

“Tried?” Another dark chuckle. “Sweetheart, I didn’t fucking try. I did use you and I’m still using you—and whether you’re willing to admit it or not, you
like
being used.”

I felt another rush of cold anger. “Why would you think that?”

“Because I’m giving you the biggest story of your career.”

“Biggest? I don’t know about that. The strangest, maybe.”

“Damn! You don’t give an inch, do you? Well, neither do I.” The false gaiety left his voice. “You got my money, Slim?”

“You know I don’t.”

“But you’re going to get it, right?”

I paused. “I don’t work for you, Queenie, and I don’t trust you.”

“It’s mutual.”

“Soon everyone will know that you kidnapped yourself. Sheila might’ve provided you with some leverage, but you killed her. You’ve got nothing to hold over us—”

“The hell I don’t. You’re going to help me here, cause if you don’t, you’ll be counting bodies for the next six months.”

I tensed. “What are you planning?”

“The Faggots’ Ball. I’ll make sure it’s a real blast.”

“You wouldn’t—”

“Oh, but I would. If you don’t get me my dough, I’ll blow the place up. I will bring it down, with everybody and their uncles in it.”

There would be thousands of people around. Hundreds might die. But Blackie could salt the crowd with disguised police and—

“You know, Slim, it’s like I can hear you thinking. Well, I’m telling you right now: don’t even try putting uniforms in there. Just because there’s room for cops to hide don’t mean there won’t be plenty of room for me to hide as well. Don’t take that chance. I’m warning you: if I see one friggin’ cop, I’ll let her rip.”

“You’re willing to die too?”

He laughed. “You call what I’m doing living? I don’t. I’m gonna take that dough and go somewhere where no one’s ever heard of Junior Bernard or Queenie Lovetree. I’m gonna start over.”

“Junior will have something to say about that.”

“No, he won’t. Junior’s gonna lay down and die. I’m gonna make sure of it.”

I felt sick to my stomach.

“You know, those parents of his, they tried to cheat me.”

“That was a mistake.”

“You don’t say.”

“You don’t understand. Sheila probably grabbed the bag before—”

“Don’t lie to me or apologize for them. Tell Daddy Mojo that I want my twenty-five, except it’s thirty now. I’ll get it if I have to take it out of his hide.”

“Queenie, it won’t work.”

“Then a lot of good folks will die. You want that?”

I grit my teeth. “No.”

“Good. So we understand each other.”

“All right,” I said, and reached for a pen and paper. “Where and how?”

His tone turned businesslike. “The dough should be in municipal bonds. Nice and neat and untraceable. Are you taking notes?”

“Every single word.”

As soon as I hung up, I called the Bernards and had them put on Blackie. He swore under his breath when I told him what Queenie wanted—and when and where.

“Do you realize how hard it’s going to be to spot Queenie in a crowd like that? Everybody’s in full costume. I mean, Lanie, you’re killing me. What were you thinking, agreeing to a setup like that?”

“I was thinking I didn’t have a choice, and that at this point, a definite chance at getting close to him would be better than a hunt that could go on for days, maybe weeks.”

Blackie said he’d come up with a plan and get back to me. He also said he’d talk to the Bernards about the ransom money. He started to debate whether I should be the one to make the drop, but I cut him off.

“Nobody else can do it. Queenie would spot an impostor in a second. Now, I’ve got to get back to the hospital.”

I hung up before he could answer, then changed clothes and headed out again.

C
HAPTER
38

T
echnically, I wasn’t supposed to be in there, but the nurses were kind and overworked, so they allowed me to rest in a chair in Sam’s room. Sleep didn’t come easily. I kept reliving the accident again and again, kept hearing the sound of the impact. I finally drifted off to images of Sheila and Olmo, Queenie and Junior, and Queenie’s voice.
Aren’t you scared of me?

I woke exhausted in the pale daylight. According to my watch, it was eight o’clock. I’d slept through the shift change. The day nurses, who came on at six, had been kind enough not to disturb me.

My only clear thought was that I had to end this—and end it soon—before any more damage could be done.

Was I saving Junior or hunting Queenie? In the past several hours, it had switched from the former to the latter.

I stretched my stiff limbs and went to take a look at Sam. He seemed paler, but otherwise unchanged.

A nurse came in. She was in her twenties, bright, and full of energy. She smiled. “I hope you had a good rest.”

I responded with a nod and sank back in the chair at Sam’s bedside. Except for brief breaks to get something to eat or use the facilities, I spent the whole day there. Sometimes I spoke to him, sometimes I read. Mostly, I just sat quietly and held his hand. I was all talked out. The hours sped by. The time was fast approaching when I would have to go home and get ready for the ball—and my appointment with the Black Orchid.

That afternoon, George Greene stopped by. “The publisher’s worried. We all are.”