Harlem Redux (66 page)

The gunman gave me a nod. “You! Come here.”

Queenie and I exchanged another glance. Then I took a step forward. The gunman produced handcuffs and tossed them at me. I caught them instinctively.

“Cuff up the songbird,” he said. “You,” he told Queenie. “Hands behind your back.”

If there was one thing I’d always told myself I would never do, it was to be an accomplice to a crime, to in any way assist a kidnapper or killer in harming me or someone else. I had read, and written, so many stories in which the victims had cooperated with their killers. They had done so in the minute hope of surviving, but all they’d really done was make it easier for their killer to get them alone, isolate them and do what he felt needed doing.

I’d always said I would resist. I wouldn’t cooperate. I wouldn’t make it easy. No me. Oh, no.

But now, here I was, and things appeared differently. They weren’t so cut and dry. For one thing, someone else’s life was at stake, not just mine.

 
“Well,” the gunman said. “Shall I shoot you or shoot somebody else?” He glanced down at the Ralston girl, still unconscious on the floor. “How about her?” He turned his gun, took aim.

“No!” I pulled Queenie’s hands behind his back and slipped on the handcuffs.

He flinched at the touch of cold steel. “Please, no, Slim. You—”

“It’ll be all right,” I said, trying hard to sound calm.

I snapped the cuffs shut, and when the gunman ordered me to step back, I did.

He made Queenie stand next to him, checked the cuffs and nodded. Then he grabbed Queenie and started backing out. He wound his way to the rear exit, back stage left, and kept the singer in front as a shield.

Queenie panicked. “Oh come on now, people! Y’all ain’t gonna let him take me like this, are you? Somebody do something. Please!”

People stayed frozen to their seats. No one was willing to play the hero. Not in the face of that weapon.

Queenie’s eyes met mine. “You! Slim, you—!”

The whine of police sirens rent the air. The cops were probably headed to another emergency, but the killer assumed the worst. He pushed Queenie aside and sprayed the room with gunfire. All hell broke loose. People stampeded toward the door. Wall sconces exploded. The room fell dark. Plaster and dust showered down.

I heard screams. I heard cries. I dove under a table and covered my head. Bullets ripped up the floor two inches from my face. I couldn’t believe it when they didn’t touch me.

“Motherfucker! Get your hands off me!” Queenie cried.

I heard the back door bang open. I heard a scuffle and a scream. Then the door slammed shut and all I heard was the heavy thumping of my terrified heart.

* * * * *

About the Author

* * * * *

Persia Walker is the author of three acclaimed historical novels,
Black Orchid Blues
,
Darkness and the Devil Behind Me
, and
Harlem Redux
. She is also a contributor to the anthology
Mystery Writers of America Presents The Blue Religion: New Stories About Cops, Criminals and the Chase
. She won the Author of the Year Award by the Go On Girl! Book Club.

Persia has served on the Mystery Writers of America mentoring panel and as a member of the board of the MWA's New York Chapter. She is a former news writer for The Associated Press and Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, Inc.

For more information, visit her online at
PersiaWalker.com
or
Facebook
.