Harlem Redux

HARLEM REDUX

A Novel

Persia Walker

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Blood Vintage Press

Harlem Redux, Edition 2

Copyright © Persia Walker 2000, 2002, 2011

Blood Vintage Press Electronic Edition ISBN: 978-0-9792538-7-4

Printed in the United States of America

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Publisher’s Note

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

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Praise for
Harlem Redux

“Harlem’s fabled 1920s ‘Renaissance’ provides the dynamic backdrop for Persia Walker’s entertaining debut novel. A murder mystery set among the black bourgeoisie, it is also the heady tale of a bygone era….What distinguishes this novel is Walker’s attention to the workings and characters of the times, from the club stars to the numbers runners, to prickly class issues between Strivers’ Row residents and their working-class neighbors. A Harlem native, Walker understands this community and its history, crating a compelling family intrigue and a full, vibrant portrait of that storied era when Harlem’s pulse was the rhythm of black America.”

––
The Boston Globe

“Walker vividly captures the unique rhythms of Harlem while plotting a convoluted tale of internecine feuds and deadly retribution.”

––
The Louis Post-Dispatch

“Sexy.”

––
The New York Daily News

“A notable debut. This intriguing page-turner, convincingly set in the heady era of 1920s Harlem, is atmospheric and smart and will keep readers guessing until the very end.”

––Tananarive Due, author of
The Living Blood
and
The Black Rose

“A rich, thoroughly enjoyable tale of greed and deceit, passion and betrayal. With her elegant prose, Walker does an amazing job of recreating Harlem during the Renaissance of the 1920s. I loved her characters, their complexity and depth, the struggles they faced and their all too human responses. Walker kept me guessing right to the very end. Harlem Redux is a great read and Walker an author to look for in the future.”

––April Christofferson, author of
The Protocol
and
Clinical Trial

“Walker’s highly competent murder mystery … features exotic locales, an odd supporting cast, worthy subplots, and a baffling set of clues….At the center of this carefully constructed tale of murder, deception, and betrayal is a twisty whodunit. Walker slyly turns and teases readers with her shrewdly rendered characters….It’s entertaining to watch the various pieces of Walker’s puzzle come together.”

––
Publisher’s Weekly

“Good historical fun…with some impeccable scenery.”

––
Kirkus Reviews

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Acknowledgments

This work owes a profound debt to the writers of the Harlem Renaissance … Countee Cullen, Rudolph Fisher, Langston Hughes, Zora Neale Hurston, James Weldon Johnson, Nella Larsen, Claude McKay, Vivian Morris, and Wallace Thurman, among others. Their short stories, novels, memoirs, essays, and articles fired my imagination. Their writings were windows against which I pressed my nose, eager as a child, to spend many pleasurable hours viewing their world.

Thanks also to historians David Levering Lewis, Carl T. Rowan, Michel Fabre, Tyler Stovall, Steven Watson, and Lionel C. Bascom. Their informative, perceptive, and very enjoyable works on the Harlem Renaissance provided a wealth of information––more than I, with my skills, could do justice to. For whatever insufficiencies this text might contain, debit them to me, not my sources.

A special round of applause for Julie Castiglia, my agent, for her determination and steady guidance, and for Andrea Mullins at Simon & Schuster for making the editing process a genuine pleasure. Between these two dynamos, I was well taken care of.

My heartfelt gratitude to Debbie Geiss-Haug, Sonia Ehrt, Michelle Bonnardot, Michelle Moore, Kathy Raymond, Dina Treu, Ilse Nehring, Gabriele Heblik-Hochholzer, and Swarthmore College Professor Charles James. And a special thanks to Henry Ferretti. They’ve been steadfast friends, forgiving unreturned phone calls, missed get-togethers, and general unavailability. Without their humor, patience, encouragement, and feedback, this novel might never have been completed.

Most of all, I want to thank my mom, for her love and faith, and my little troopers, Tyler and Jordan, for so generously sharing their mom with David and Annie, Gem and Lilian, Nella, Rachel, and Sweet.

Persia Walker

November 9, 2001

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HARLEM REDUX

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Prologue

Sunday, February 21, 1926-10:30 P.M.

The room was dark, except for one silvery ray of moonlight. An icy wind slipped in through the open window, swept around the room, and caressed her with chilling fingertips. She came to with a start. The darkness shocked her. The silence told her she was alone. How long had she lain there?

Her hands had been folded across her chest. She felt throbbing spurts of warm liquid spilling onto her breasts, drenching the soft cotton of her nightgown. And she sensed the approach of that final darkness. The urge to close her eyes, to give in, was overwhelming. The room seemed to revolve. Slowly. Her eyelids drooped. An inner voice asked:

Are you really going to lie there … and bleed to death?

Her eyes snapped open.

No.

At first, her hands seemed mercifully numb. But within minutes, the pain had grown more pronounced. Soon, it was agonizingly refined. The tortured nerve endings in her slashed wrists screamed with voices that echoed inside her, quickening and clarifying her thoughts.

I have to get help.

She tried to move her legs, but they were like logs, heavy and inert.

Find another way.

Pressing her elbows to her side, she twisted her upper torso and rocked back and forth. Her body rolled once, twice, then over the edge. The bed was high; the fall was hard. She landed with a heavy thump and for a moment lay stunned. Her heart pounded; her thoughts struggled for clarity.

There was no way she could use her hands. They were half-dead clumps of flesh. But her legs had been jolted back to life. Elbows still pressed to her side, she rolled over onto her chest, drew her knees up under her, then pushed herself up with her elbows. Leaning on the mattress to brace herself, she could stand.

The effort cost her. She sagged against a bedpost. Trying to hold on, she threw her forearms around the carved wooden beam. Her limp hands dangled, dripping their warm liquid. Cold sweat slipped down from her forehead and upper lips.

The darkness crept nearer.

Time had played a trick on her. She wasn’t in the house on Strivers’ Row, but elsewhere. The air didn’t smell of jasmine and tobacco, but of the sea. She was in the Hamptons, in Nella’s house. There came the sound of a life-and-death struggle, a gunshot. She again saw a pair of dead, staring eyes.

“No,” she whispered. “No. I won’t let you do this.”

She held on and the darkness receded. She knew where she was. She could make out the shapes of furniture by the moonlight—could even see her own shadow as she clung to the bedpost. But she felt seasick, as if she were clinging to the mast of a swaying boat. Her stomach heaved and she bent over, vomiting on herself and the bed. She clung to the bedpost as another wave of dizziness passed over her, then straightened up with a moan. Wiping her mouth with the back of her forearm, she smeared her face with blood.