Reach the Shining River (14 page)

24.

Emmett was not a member of the Kansas City Club, but he had been there as Lloyd’s guest once or twice. During the boom, six orchestras had played in the fourteen-story building, including a dance band on the roof garden, and the club kitchens could serve a six-course dinner to a thousand guests in less than two hours. These days, the Depression made it more elite than ever. The tone was polished hardwood and art deco glass, the membership rich and reactionary.

“Mr. Hudson is in suite 822, sir. If you’d like to wait in the library I’ll let him know you’re here.”

The 822 was a club within a club, known for its stiff drinks and serious poker. If Roddy was in a session, he could be a while. Emmett took a copy of the
Star
from the newspaper rack and brought it to a leather armchair by the window. In the distance, smoke rose from the Negro district. Closer to hand were the County Courthouse, City Hall and, just beyond them, the soiled redbrick façade of the Schumann Hotel.

He scanned the headlines but couldn’t concentrate. In his jacket pocket was a surveillance report Mickey had delivered that morning. He had read it so often he knew it by heart.

11
:
55
am
–
Departed
Oakwood
house
and
drove
north
on
Prospect

12
:
37
–
Left
car
at
Morello’s
Garage
on
Walnut
and
took
taxicab
to
corner
of
McGee
and
Seventh
Ave

12
:
56
–
Entered
Schumann’s
Hotel

2
:
17
–
Departed
Schumann’s
Hotel
,
hailed
taxicab

2
:
31
–
Arrived
Morello’s
,
collected
car

2
:
39
–
Drove
south
on
Prospect

2
:
57
–
Stopped
at
Piggly
Wiggly
grocery
store
on
57th

3
:
21
pm
–
Arrived
Oakwood
house

The numbers played in his head: 12:56 to 2:17. An hour and twenty-one minutes. The rear of the hotel was visible from Emmett’s office. At one-thirty yesterday afternoon he had been eating a sandwich at his desk and, for all he knew, staring as he chewed at its tarred roof and curtained windows. The hotel did not have a bar or restaurant. It had little daytime traffic. In spite of its central location, it was as safe a place as any for a tryst. As long as you weren’t being tailed.

“Emmett.”

It was Roddy, out from his poker session quicker than expected.

“You rescued me,” he said with a wince. “Down thirty bucks, and Roy Bartell was on a roll. The guy doesn’t touch a drop, but he has the waiters freshening our bourbon every five minutes.”

Roddy led him to the President’s Bar, where he ordered himself a cocktail and Emmett a soda. They took their drinks to a quiet table in the corner.

“Since when have you stopped returning telephone calls?” Roddy asked. His face was flushed and the knot of his tie was crooked. Before Emmett could answer, he added, “Lloyd isn’t happy.”

“Is that right?”

“He wants evidence.”

“Don’t we all.”

Roddy bared his teeth. “Not all of us have been tasked with finding it.”

“I’m doing my best.”

“So far your best isn’t good enough.”

Roddy’s voice was frayed and his tone brittle. There was none of the bonhomie of their Aztec lunch.

Emmett set his drink on the tabletop.

12
:
56
–
Entered
Schumann’s
Hotel
.

2
:
17
–
Departed
Schumann’s
Hotel
,
hailed
taxicab
.

An hour and twenty-one minutes.

“Actually, I do have some news,” Emmett said. “Sloan and Virgil Barnes were both members of a local fraternal association. And I found out Richie Timmons was present at the riot on Saturday.”

Roddy raised a palm. “What about the crime scene?”

“I’ve got a clear lead.”

“After a month on the case I expect more from you than leads. There are four more Negroes dead. From what I hear, their deaths could be related to the Sloan killing.”

“Who’s telling you that?”

“How many more colored have to get murdered before you get anywhere? Before you even identify the crime scene? And meantime Lloyd and I can’t get you on the phone, even though your secretary is telling us you’re in the goddamn office.”

Roddy lit a small cigar with trembling fingers and dropped the spent match in the ashtray.

Hand in his pocket, Emmett fingered Mickey’s surveillance report gingerly, as if it might singe his fingers.

“I’m on the crime scene. I’ve found the kid who led the cops to Sloan’s body.”

Roddy waved his hand in front of Emmett’s face. “Keep your voice down. What kid?”

“A Negro kid who goes to Crispus Attucks Grammar School. Found the body on the riverbank. His people brought the police in – which they regret. Whole thing went underground as soon as the cops were involved.”

“Was it Timmons?”

“I would think so.”

“Is the kid prepared to testify?”

“I haven’t talked to him.”

“Why not?”

“I’m still working on it.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It appears he’s been abducted.”

Roddy blinked and stared, as if he hadn’t heard, then tapped his cigar above the ashtray. “My God, Whelan, you do have a way of complicating matters, don’t you?”

“It’s not me who’s doing the complicating. Obviously, I’m not the only one who knows that
he
knows something important.”

“
Jesus
!” Roddy hissed, slapping the table so that Emmett’s drink spilled. “Abducted? By who?”

Emmett had made discreet enquiries at police headquarters, the
Star
, in the neighborhood. Nobody had heard anything about a kidnapping. He’d checked the latest court filings and probed the clerks for any gossip. No word there, either. Mickey was on the case but hadn’t turned up anything.

It all pointed one way.

“If I were to guess,” Emmett said slowly, “I’d say Timmons.”

“It’s always guesswork with you, isn’t it? Anyone can
guess
, Whelan.”

The worst of this dressing-down was that Roddy was right. Any investigator worth his job would have turned these leads into something concrete by now. But most investigators had a bunch of flatfeet at their disposal, a fully equipped lab, access to records.

“Lloyd tells me you’re racking up the expenses,” Roddy said. “Where’s all this money
going
?”

On his way to meet Roddy, Mickey had stopped at the Schumann and slipped the day clerk ten bucks to show him the daily register. There was an entry at one o’clock the day before for a Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe. No other details. After some grilling, the clerk admitted he had been working at that time. But he claimed not to recognize a photograph of Fay. He was, he said, “no good with faces.”

Roddy’s face was dark with daytime drink and anger. “I’m going to say this one more time. We have a small window here. If the Feds don’t get what they need from us, they’ll go elsewhere. Maurice Milligan did not get to be federal attorney by waiting for others to build his cases. Word is he has Pendergast on income tax evasion, and it’s only a matter of time before the Boss falls.”

“So why does he need Timmons?”

“He doesn’t need Timmons,” Roddy snapped, “
you
do. Do you think Lloyd and his pals will be happy with Pendergast in the clink for three to five on a tax rap? Out on good behaviour in twenty months? For God’s sake, Whelan, his organization is murdering innocent men.” He stubbed the cigar violently in the ashtray. “And if you don’t deliver the goods, you’ll be prosecuting drunks and wops on your two-bit county salary for the rest of your life.”

The country-club reserve had completely fallen away. Flushed and twisted, he straightened his tie, stood up, and bolted down the rest of his drink. “We will not have this conversation again. You’ve got to shit or get off the pot. I don’t care whose family you’re married into.”

He returned to his game.

Emmett fingered the report.

2
:
57
–
Stopped
at
Piggly
Wiggly
grocery
store
on
57th

As Emmett drove home, a black Plymouth appeared in the rear view, the third time since leaving the club. He pulled over to the side of the road and let it pass. A woman driver. He sat, listening to the engine idle, thinking of the clicks on the phone. He rejoined the road and headed home. After ten minutes he passed the Piggly Wiggly.

Since the riot, he and Mickey had stopped using the phone. So when Mickey slid the report on Fay across Emmett’s desk that morning, it had been a surprise.

“So what next?” he’d said.

Mickey coughed into a dirty handkerchief. “What do I do next – that what you’re asking?”

“Yes.”

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“On what you want.”

Emmett stood and crossed the room. He stayed away from the window. He didn’t want Mickey thinking he was looking down at the Schumann. “I want to know.”

Mickey’s tone was dry, ultra-careful. “Know more than you know already?”

“All I know is she was in a hotel.”

“For an hour.”

And twenty-one minutes.

Emmett picked up an ashtray and threw it hard at the window. The crack was almighty but the blow only chipped the glass.

Mickey jumped to his feet. “Jesus Christ, Emmo.”

Emmett strode across the room and thrust his face at Mickey, so close he could smell the stale whiskey on his breath. “Proof,” he said savagely. “I want proof!”

“What – photographs?”

He had turned away. “Don’t talk about it, Mick. Just fucking do it.”

25.

“Not the only one. Lot of them boys needed money.”

“All of them.”

“Well, yes, all. You could be right about that. But what would they do to get it? How far would they go?”

Something about the men’s voices made Arlene pause. Whispery. Careful. She had come in from the front porch to get herself a glass of water. Her legs were heavy and her head foggy. But the tone of these words blew the mist clean away.

Piney was sitting on the back steps with Jake Barlow, another club manager, drinking beer and smoking. They had come over to offer moral support. Were on a break.

“Take Eddie,” Jake said.

“Eddie worked for me.”

“Yes, he did. So you know how much he was taking home. Or wasn’t.”

“Nobody takin’
nothin’
home right now.”

The men were right there, a few feet away. The kitchen window was open and the smoke from their cigarettes drifted through the torn screen. Arlene stood at the sink, as still as a scared deer.

“When the man come to Eddie and ask he want a job, what you think he said?”

“What my boys do after hours their own business.”

“Where he went after hours done got him killed.”

“Keep your voice down,” Piney said. “You
guess
it did.”

“Be an educated guess.”

“Eddie kept his eyes open. He was a smart individual.”

“Some folk say he a little
too
smart.”

She crept back to the front porch. The floor of her house was like a ship’s deck in a storm. Out front her pine rocker creaked in the light wind. The sun beat down on the empty street like the worst kind of bad luck.

In the distance was the sound of a marching band. For a week, the only music in the district had been funeral marches. Behind closed doors was a dark sickness waiting to spill onto the dirt streets. Everything she knew was unraveling.

Where
he
went
after
hours
. She had always thought her house was where he went. So who was he working for? Why hadn’t he told her? The last night, as it had so many times, replayed itself in her mind. Their parting words.

I’m
not
inclined
.

Well
,
then
,
don’t
bother
.
Don’t
bother
on
my
account
.

Tomorrow
night
be
better
.
Our
customary
evening
.

You
rather
spend
time
with
Virgil
than
me
then
you
go
right
ahead
.
See
if
I
care
.

Well, he did care. Cared enough not to tell her what might be dangerous for her to know. To let her think he was thoughtless.

No one she had ever met had been more thoughtful.

She collapsed in the rocker and covered her face with her hands. Was that why Wardell was taken? Because of Eddie needing a little extra cash?

From the back steps came sounds of laughter.