Harlem Redux (18 page)
Authors: Persia Walker
“Well, what is it then?”
“He wants the house.”
Canfield came to a halt and stared at Sweet, then shook his head. “Actually, I’m not that surprised. Irresponsibility and greed tend to go together.” They began walking again. “But there’s more than just run-of-the-mill greed at work here. Four years ago, David McKay left on Movement business and disappeared. God only knows what he’s been up to. It would be horrible if he’s done something that would destroy the credibility and efficiency we’ve worked so hard to build.”
“I know the name of a man down in Philly. He’s done some work for the Movement. He’s good,
real
good. If there’s anything worth knowing, he’ll find it. I think we should contact him—for the sake of the Movement, of course.”
Canfield glanced at Sweet. Something in Sweet’s tone bothered him, gave rise to a slight unease. After a moment’s consideration, he dismissed the feeling. “You’re right, of course. We should do something.”
“So I have your backing?”
Again, Canfield found himself hesitating and wondered why. Was it because he disliked the idea of investigating a fellow lawyer? Or because he disliked the idea of investigating a fellow race man even more?
“Well?” Sweet said.
Canfield looked at this young lawyer he so admired, feeling that glimmer of unease, but seeing nothing in Sweet’s eyes to justify it. “All right,” he said, “Do it.”
David was relieved to see that Sweet had left the parlor. He sank into his father’s armchair, made a tepee of his fingertips, and stared into the crackling flames.
If what he suspected was true, then Lilian had been murdered. It didn’t take a leap of the imagination to land on the most likely suspect. But it would take a great deal of imagination to ferret out the full truth of the matter and find proof, legal proof, of a crime. He didn’t have much time. He’d been back in town only two days and already two people were suspicious of him: Nella and Canfield. It could be a matter of days before they found him out. He had to move fast. But where should he begin?
The doorbell rang, interrupting his thoughts. He heard Annie answer, then the soft tones of another woman. Rachel.
He straightened up.
Seconds later, Annie showed Rachel into the parlor, then left and shut the door behind her. David rose at the sight of her. He put on a smile. He wasn’t in the mood for company, but it would be wrong not to greet her. Furthermore, she did look comely, fresh and crisp in her nurse’s uniform.
“My, my. What a surprise. Your patients must love to see you coming.”
“Hush your mouth,” she said, but her eyes twinkled at the compliment. She handed him his leather gloves. “You left these at my place. I was hoping to get them here before you left.”
“Well, that was nice of you, but I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’re not?”
“Not for a while.”
She looked at him for an explanation, but he gave her none. Instead, he invited her to coffee. She agreed, saying she had an hour before her shift started.
“You told me that Gem seemed to exert a strange influence over Lilian,” he said. “How was that possible?”
“I’m not sure myself, but …”
Her voice trailed away.
“Yes?” he prompted.
“Well, I was just thinking that time we all went out together. It was me, Gem, Lilian, and Sweet. Lilian had some tickets for the Harlem Symphony. Fletcher Henderson was playing. The place was packed. We were all in a good mood. Afterward, somebody suggested we check out Happy Rhone’s place over on 143rd. Lilian didn’t want to go. But Gem pushed for it.”
He’d heard of Arthur “Happy” Rhone’s. It was closed now, but at the time it was the place to go if you wanted to see and be seen. It was known as “the millionaires’ club,” and it was posh. The interior was a sleek and sophisticated ebony-on-ivory. It was the place where Hollywood met Harlem, a namedroppers’ paradise, where Nobodies and Somebodies swung to the same smooth sax.
“It’s not the kind of place Lilian would’ve liked,” he said.
“She hated it. Said it was stuck-up and snooty. Well, it was, but it was fun.”
The four of them had lucked out and gotten a table with a good view of the floor show. But none of them watched it. They were too busy listening to Gem. She held them spellbound with risque, bawdy stories about her life in Paris. She had an endless supply of tales that she felt just had to be told.
“There was this silly man who claimed to be a Russian count. He could’ve been. Nobody, absolutely nobody gave a damn. But I thought I’d give him a turn. He had money, after all, and lots of it. For my birthday, he took me to the Chateau de Madrid. Very exclusive. Just outside Paris. But they wouldn’t let him in. I was perfectly dressed, but he—well, Russians, you know.”
Gem rolled her eyes. “You won’t believe this: He went ‘round by the kitchen and got hold of a waiter. He bribed the man to swap clothes with him. That’s how we got in. He danced the tango with me in a waiter’s dinner jacket. Not one of those hoity-toity so much as sniffed the difference.”
She chuckled, delighted at her wit. “We ate caviar—nasty, nasty stuff—and drank champagne till three in the morning. Then we went for a swim in a pond in the forest. I think it was breakfast time when we finally collapsed in bed. We were tired, but not too tired to, well ... shall we say ... enjoy one last tango.”
She softly exhaled. Her shadowy eyes slithered in Sweet’s direction, lingered a moment, then slid over to Lilian. Sweet’s eyes glittered. Lilian’s face was pale, very pale. Gem raised her glass to her lips, hiding a satisfied smile.
Then she went on recounting tale after tale of merry mischief and creative self-indulgence. She told of parties that began on Wednesdays and ran on till Sunday. She described a world of manic gaiety, one in which people threw champagne bottles out of windows, ran half-naked through the streets, and danced on car tops past dawn. Rhapsodizing over a supper party she attended, Gem said the champagne punch was made from fifty bottles of brut, and gallons of whiskey, Cointreau, and gin.
“Then there was the Four Arts Ball. It’s a huge, wild thing given every June by art students in Paris. Thousands of people in costume—if you want to call it that. People don’t really wear much more than body paint, a loincloth, and maybe some feathers on their heads. I went to one ball at the Porte d’Auteuil with a rich kid from Minnesota. Everyone was supposed to dress up like an Incan. Robby—that was his name—rubbed himself down with red ocher and strung three dead pigeons around his neck.”
Sweet leaned forward. “And what did you wear?”
“Something exquisitely fashionable and stylishly simple … bare breasts and a turquoise wig.”
Sweet smiled faintly. Lilian gagged. She grabbed her glass of water, tried to drink it, and sloshed water over her chest. She jumped up so violently that her chair toppled over. Her eyes were wet; her shoulders hunched. She hugged her purse to her chest as though it were a shield.
“I have to go,” she gasped, then fled the room. Sweet went after her.
“Lord help the person who’s got something Gem wants,” Rachel said. “That woman would scare the Devil himself if he got in her way.”
Indeed. Gem had been mercilessly clever. She had chosen a public place, with a private audience, to reveal her own rebellious morality, to tantalize Sweet and embarrass Lilian with suggestive tales. Had Sweet really remained immune to Gem’s charms?
“But Gem didn’t stop there,” Rachel said. “First, she went after Lilian’s marriage to Sweet, then she went after her friendship with me. She made out like there was something between Sweet and me or that I wished there was. See, I knew Sweet before Lilian did. We grew up on the same block. His family moved there after you guys left. Lilian knew that I’d met Sweet before, but I’d never told her that we’d known each other as kids. It was a long time ago and it wasn’t worth mentioning. But Gem used it. Twisted it around. Put it in Lilian’s head that I liked Sweet.”
“Surely Lilian didn’t believe her.”
“No, but that was just the beginning.”
David could well imagine. He knew Gem’s methods.
What a waste of human energy.
Rachel said she had to leave. He showed her to the door. At the last moment, she stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips against his cheek. He was surprised, but pleased. She took his hand.
“Walk me to work, why don’t you?”
“All right.”
As he turned to get his coat from the closet, he had the feeling that he was being watched. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Annie, standing at the foot of the stairs. Guilt gripped him. He didn’t know why.
“I’m just going to walk her to the hospital,” he said, wondering why he felt bound to explain.
Annie nodded, but said nothing. Shouldering his way into his coat, David turned back to Rachel and gave her a quick smile, then hustled her out the door. He sensed Annie’s eyes on his back until the door shut behind him.
She stood there a moment longer, then continued upstairs to David’s room. As she set about straightening up, her mind was in turmoil. She didn’t like what she’d seen at the doorway, didn’t like it at all. But what could she do about it?
Nothing,
she thought.
He’s a grown man. And cain’t nobody do his thinking for him. He’s got to follow his own mind.
“But how could he … ?” she muttered. “After all that’s happened, how could he start up with that child again?”
She saw his suitcase lying side down on a chair and went to it with the thought of setting it in his closet. Without thinking, she flipped it open.
Hm-humph! Didn’t even take his clothes out. He sure don’t mean to stay long.
She saw one shirt, some underwear, and two pairs of socks.
Didn’t bring much, neither. And his clothes—they look taken care of, but …
well, he sure don’t dress like he used to.
She started to unpack the suitcase herself—
Lay everything in his dresser nice an’ neat for him—
then thought better of it.
I sure don’t wanna try to force him. Don’t wanna upset him.
She lowered the suitcase lid and turned to the rest of the room. She’d remade his bed and was about to wipe down his desk when she saw that he’d found his old Bible. He’d left it lying open on his desk. She was surprised and pleased. She smiled wistfully.
Why, I r’member the day I gave him that. It was back in the days of the Tenderloin. His first Holy Communion Day. He was one proud li’l boy. Only nine years old.
She’d scrimped for a year to be able to buy him that small Bible ...
even paid extra to get his name written in gold on the cover.
“You’re a man, now,” she’d told him. “A man in the sight of God.”
The two of them had sat together, two or three evenings a week, and read it page for page. He had asked questions—
Good, smart questions—
And she’d done her best to give him good answers. And he’d believed— believed with his entire heart—in a loving God, a forgiving God.
