Reach the Shining River (6 page)

“Yeah,” Mickey said. “It’s Friday.”

11.

Talk
to
Roddy
Hudson
.
He’ll
help
you
out
.

So Hutchins had said, almost casually, at the Mission Hills meeting. Then Lloyd reminded Emmett to call him. And reminded him again. Nothing casual about it.

Roddy was the golden boy. Son of a millionaire, college football star, valedictorian at St. Louis University. First in his graduating class at law school. Only a year older than Emmett but already headed the state’s Criminal Division in Jefferson City. Six-foot-two, dark-haired and big-boned, with an aw-shucks smile and a modest air too natural to be faked.

Everyone knew Roddy. Among Fay’s society friends he had been the city’s most desirable catch. And the women did not stop talking about him when he married Laura Varnell, a drop-dead beauty and heir to Charles Varnell’s huge ranching fortune. They were society’s darling couple and featured weekly in the
Tattler
. Even after their move to the state capital, they continued to set the standard for the
beau
monde
of southside Kansas City. The guy had it all.

So why hadn’t Lloyd’s cronies given Roddy the job? Emmett had thought hard about that before picking up the phone. For all Hudson’s brilliance, he lacked a crucial advantage: proximity. He was 150 miles away, halfway across the state in a place that, for all its political importance, was still a hick town. The boys needed someone at the heart of the action, someone who could do the local dirty work, someone they could trust. So they had called on Emmett just as Emmett had called on Mickey.

After their secretaries had played telephone tag all week, Roddy and Emmett arranged to have lunch on Saturday at the Aztec Room. Roddy made it clear he expected a full report. And progress. The Perkins brothers would be busting his balls on this, that went without saying.

Needing distraction, Emmett got up early that morning and played eighteen holes on the public links. When he got back to the house, Fay’s car was gone.

“The Plaza, I reckon,” Hattie said when Emmett asked where she was.

“She didn’t tell you where she was going?”

Hattie was rolling dough for biscuits, and her dark arms were dusted with flour. She pushed a wisp of hair from her brow with a powdered palm. “M’s Whelan’s whereabouts her own affair, I do believe.”

“You got that right, Hattie.”

He brought his clubs to the basement and cleaned his spikes. When he returned upstairs, the biscuits were in the oven and Hattie stood in the doorway, hands on her hips.

“Mr. Whelan. If I may ask.”

“Yes, Hattie.”

“I got me a luncheon appointment. One o’clock.”

“What do you know. So do I. You’re not dining at the Aztec, by any chance?”

She caught herself before answering, flashed a saucy look. The whites of her large eyes had a yellowish tinge. She had Cherokee cheekbones, straightened hair that rose high from a parting on the left, and a wide-winged nose above the fullest lips. She had removed her apron. In the heat she wore a sleeveless cotton dress and sandals. Long legs. Still in her twenties but with a shift to her hip that said she’d been around.

Emmett found himself looking elsewhere.

She said, “One o’clock on a Saturday is my usual quittin’ time, but if I don’t get the streetcar by noon…”

“Mrs. Whelan didn’t say when she’d be back?”

“No, sir.”

He walked past her into the kitchen.

“You head out when you have to, Hattie. Those biscuits ready yet? I’ve got an appetite.”

She waited before answering, finally broke her pose and started washing cooking utensils.

“You jus’ have to wait like everybody else.”

He took an apple from the fruit bowl and bit into it. He needed a bath. He needed to dress for lunch. But he leaned against the counter. The radio was tuned to the Lucky Strike Hit Parade. Kay Thompson singing “Red Sails in the Sunset”.

“You like that music, Hattie?”

“No, sir, I do not. M’s Whelan set the station and I forget to change it.”

“I think it’s kind of snappy.”

Another glance.

“What kind of music do you like?” he asked.

“The Lord’s music be best. Songs of praise.”

“I’ve heard you singing when you polish the floor.”

“A hymn the best way to pass the time there is. Word of God be a helpin’ hand.”

Her voice was like good Kansas soil. She rinsed the mixing bowl, and the water flowed down her bare arms and dripped onto the linoleum. She smelled of sweat and patchouli oil.

“How about the music in the Negro district? Do you like that?”

“The clubs? You talkin’ ‘bout Twelfth Street?”

“Yes.”

She frowned. “Not bad, considerin’ it the devil’s music.”

“Have you been to the Sunset?”

“What you know about the Sunset, Mr. Whelan?”

His familiarity had made her bold. Her tone was coy, almost playful. Though her hands kept washing, her eyes were alert to his words.

“Not much,” he said.

He waited.

“Big Joe Turner tend bar there,” she said. “Liable to be shoutin’ the blues at
any
time.”

Suddenly she sang:

Evening

You
come
and
you
find
me

Must
you
always
remind
me

That
my
man
is
gone
.

She sang with her head thrown back, her eyes closed, her body swaying. Her large rump shifted rhythmically beneath the tight cotton.

“Those biscuits smell like they’re done,” he said.

She was looking beyond him. He turned. Fay stood in the doorway, slowly removing her white gloves. She wore a pillbox hat with beaded veil, a flannel suit, and high heels. Shopping bags bearing the names of expensive southside stores lay at her feet.

Hattie switched off the radio.

“Oh, don’t stop the music on my account,” Fay said.

“Hattie was just telling me that she has to leave by noon,” Emmett said. “I’m having lunch with Roddy Hudson, I think I told you that.”

Fay didn’t respond, didn’t even look at him. She folded her gloves and put them in her handbag while Hattie slid the biscuits from the oven. Her eyes on her maid, Fay clacked across the linoleum in her heels and said to Emmett, “Bring in these bags. And there are more in the car.”

An hour later Fay stood in the doorway that led into the garage while he unlocked the car. She had changed into slacks and a silk blouse. Her eyes glittered and her slender throat was blotchy.

“Roddy Hudson,” she said.

“What about him?”

“I suppose your business with him can’t wait until the weekend is over.”

“Roddy works in Jefferson City. He can’t make it up during the week.”

She scowled. The scene in the kitchen had filled her with fire and ice. “I know where he works,” she said. “Big man in the capital, now. And yet he and his insufferable wife still act as if the whole of Kansas City hangs on their every movement.”

“What does this have to do with my meeting?”

“You’re out all night. Play golf all morning. I come home and find you – ” She stopped mid-sentence, her hand at her throat. “Oh, go on. Have your martini lunch and leave me here alone.”

As he drove away from the neighborhood, he saw Hattie waiting for the streetcar, and it was all he could do not to offer her a ride.

12.

Arlene boarded the streetcar and made her way to the rear, aware of heads turning. The men smiled and swallowed. The women frowned. Some of the women, anyway. She wore a navy sequined sheath, backless, with dark stockings and ankle-strap high heels. A fabric flower at her low neckline and blue opals on her ears. She took her seat. The car rocked along uneven rails.

On her way to work. Her first night back at the club since Eddie’s death.

“Fine, evenin’, ma’am. Very fine.” A zoot-suited young man lifted his hat and flashed a gold incisor. She cut him with a frosty glance.

She was dressed for singing, not for public transport, but had saved her cab fare for the journey home. It was too hot for a coat, and she wore a loose-knit shawl over her bare shoulders. The streetcar careened down Twelfth Street. Birds perched on the electricity wires. The street ahead was dusky and lined with the glow of Friday-night neon. Arlene peered back at Alice’s house. Wardell must have gone inside; the porch was empty. The car lights dimmed. Protect him, Lord. And me so I can care for him.

Fear shaped her days. All week she had kept to the house, watching Wardell, cooking, listening to the locusts. But the world would not leave her alone. On Wednesday, a week after the meeting at the Watkins, Cal had driven her to the offices of the
Call
, where she met the detective from Chicago invited down to investigate Eddie’s death. Loren Parks his name was. At first she had refused to meet him, but Cal convinced her that it was the best way to protect Wardell.

If the man was supposed to make her feel better, it didn’t work. They met in a hot, cluttered room at the rear of the newspaper. He was middle-aged, with scaly skin and a high hairline. He looked like the reporter he was pretending to be, with crooked spectacles and fingers stained with black ink.

He asked her about Eddie, Virgil Barnes, the Park Hotel, the Friendship Brotherhood.

“It’s a Negro men’s association,” she told him.

“A benevolent association?”

“If you want to call it that.”

“What would you call it?”

“An excuse for men to get together on a Tuesday night when they don’t want to be somewhere else.”

“Ah. Eddie Sloan was a member?”

“Yes, he was. And Virgil Barnes.”

“I see. Do you know where they meet?”

“You mean
met
.”

“Well, yes.”

“On Cleveland Street, I believe.”

“Above a funeral parlor?”

“I don’t know. I never attended.”

He made a note. He asked her about the morgue. About Wardell’s discovery. Each question was like a slap.

“I wonder if it would be possible for your son to lead me to the scene,” he said.

“No.”

“It would be a great help to the investigation, Mrs. Gray. A great help towards solving this awful crime and having at least a chance of seeing justice served.”

“The police have no interest in justice.”

“There are authorities higher than the Kansas City Police.”

The small room, with its peeling walls and cracked window, closed in. Her head grew light and her breathing troubled her. “Mr. Parks, I need a glass of water.”

He fetched it for her, but it did not help. She needed to be with Wardell. She asked Bill Carter to call a cab and waited in the cooler vestibule, while Parks and Carter whispered at the editor’s desk.

Before she left, Parks thanked her. “You’ll think about what I asked?” he said.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

It was the first time a white man had ever called her “ma’am.”

*

At the club, Piney Brown greeted her with a bear hug and a toothless kiss.

“Ain’t you lookin’ good,” he said.

“I’ve felt better.”

“C’mon back here.”

He led her to a rear booth, hand at her back. The club throbbed with the blues. On the bandstand was a piano trio riffing behind a huge, barrel-chested man on tenor saxophone. Arlene had never heard him before, but the guy could play. Big Texas sound. Real swing feel.

Standing in front of the stage, swaying back and forth, was a young woman who showed up most weeks, trying to make an impression on Piney. She wore a loose dress and a hair band and had her hair teased out like Bessie Smith. She closed her eyes and sang:

Then
I
began
to
fall
so
low

Lost
my
good
friends
,
nowhere
to
go

I
get
my
hands
on
a
dollar
again

Gonna
hang
on
to
it
till
that
eagle
grins
.

“You going to hire that girl, Piney?”

“Why should I? She already workin’ for free.”

He served her shredded pork barbecue and okra. She wasn’t hungry but made the effort while he sat across from her, twisting the rings on his misshapen fingers.

The band took a break. The piano player stayed onstage, vamping blues chords.

“My new partner?”

Piney nodded.

“Not Otis?” she said.

“You and me both know Otis ain’t right.”

“I’m not so sure, Piney.”

The pork went down like a horse pill, but she did not stop eating. Piney was outright proud of his cooking.

“What you frettin’ for? Think I’d pair my sweet soul sister with jus’ anyone?”

“Question of familiarity.”

“Question of swing, I would say.” Piney pointed his chin towards the piano. “Phineas Jordan. Remember that name.”

She finished eating, got ready, and took the stage. The piano man
was
good. Knew the songbook and put the singer first. Different enough from Eddie not to spook her.

But the night lay ahead of her like a hard road. Emotions had been high all day. Apt to cry at any old thing: the wail of a train, smell of honeysuckle when she hung out the wash. How would
their
tunes affect her? “Lady Be Good.” “I Must Have That Man.” Bedroom songs.

She turned them into requiem. Forgetting Eddie was impossible, she knew that, so she sang to him, wherever he might be. The Friday night crowd, large and local, heard the sorrow in her voice and responded with respect, more church in their calls than hoedown.

When the first set was over, she retreated to the dressing room – a storeroom behind the booths full of beer crates and broken chairs. Phineas kept his distance and sat at the bar. Piney brought her a drink and shut the door. His face was pale.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“You seen ’em?”

“Who?”

“Ofays at the back. Pinstripe boys.”

“It’s a Friday, Piney. Those types like to slum it after making their dollar.”

He shook his head. “These ain’t your usual downtowners. They got an
interest
.”

She sipped her beer. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Shit.” He pressed his hand against the door, as if testing for fire behind it. “Tuesdays, same time each week, I get a visit. So much in an envelope. That be police. Thursdays a second visit, different gig. Rackets. So many percent and you be wondering how they know your take. But only a fool think he can hold back any of
that
juice.”

Tight-lipped and watery-eyed, Piney rubbed the stubble on his chin and shook his head. “Them weekday boys? They flunkies. Bagmen. Gentlemen outside, they top cats. And with due respect, Arlene, they ain’t here for the music.”

“This have something to do with… you know?”

“Somethin’ do with somethin’,” he said. “That’s a fact.”

He stood and opened the door a crack. Peered out then left, suddenly. He was back in moments, followed by two white men in dark suits.

“When you going to get a real office, Piney?”

The room grew small. She became matronly, arranging a triangle of chairs and clearing empty bottles from a paint-stained table.

“May I get you gentlemen something to drink?”

“Take a seat, sweetheart. We don’t need a drink.”

There were only three usable chairs. She looked at Piney and he nodded. She sat.

The men smelled of cigar smoke and cologne. The lead man was broad and fleshy, with thick lips and oily hair. Arlene felt his attention like a rash. The other was older, with pocked cheeks, small eyes, and a lantern jaw.

“You too, Piney,” the younger man said. “Sit down.”

The quiet one stood with his back to the door, hat in his hand. The other sat slowly. His knee touched hers.

“Pretty singing tonight.”

She nodded.

“Quite a crowd.”

“Arlene, she draws,” Piney said.

The man ignored the comment. He was looking at her. Close up his skin was large-pored and closely shaven. Teeth like a horse.

“You know who I am, Arlene?”

“No, sir.”

“I’m your boss.” He turned in his seat. “You could say that, Richie, couldn’t you? I’m her boss?”

“Say whatever you want.”

The seated man wiped his mouth with a large handkerchief. Gold links glinted against lightly soiled cuffs. Though well-dressed, the men were scuffed at the edges. The man beside her had a blankness around his eyes. The kind of man who could easily turn brutal.

The moments in the morgue came to her and she lowered her head. She had to concentrate not to be sick.

“You all right, sweetheart? That beer going to your head?”

“I’m all right.”

He took a cigar from his pocket and let it rest unlit between his fingers.

“How’s business, Piney?”

“Passable, Mr. Lococo. Passable.”

Piney’s pronunciation of the name was careful.

“There’s a depression on. Men out of work all over the country. All of us in gainful employment should all be thankful. That right, Richie?”

Richie didn’t answer.

“All be thankful.”

Piney’s eyes, bloodshot and alert, swiveled from one man to the other. Arlene stared at her half-empty glass of beer.

Mr. Lococo seemed to lose his train of thought. He tapped the table lightly with a signet ring.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.

“Wha’s that?” Piney blurted.

The man gestured in a way meant to suggest generosity. “Like I said, I’m the boss around here. So to speak. I heard about Eddie Sloan. An employee of the club, after all. A tragedy.”

She watched the man closely. His tone had shifted. She noticed for the first time that he had a slight lisp.

“I know the details,” he said. “What the papers said, what you might have heard. I know what you could be thinking.”

He extended his hand and exposed a palm, nicked and quilted. Tobacco stains on his fingers.

“And I’m here to tell you,” he continued carefully, “that it is not what you might think.”

He waited for a response. Piney’s tongue was circling his mouth, running between gum and lip.

“You’ve come here to express your concern,” Arlene said.

“Sympathy, I would say. Respect. And a word of caution.” He shifted the cigar from one hand to the other and dug in his pocket for a lighter. “A tragedy, like I said. But over and done with. So the best thing for everybody is, say no more about it. I mean, you don’t know who might come along asking questions. Trying to stir up trouble.”

Piney snuffled and shifted in his seat. “You don’ have to worry about us, Mr. Lococo.”

“You say respect,” Arlene said.

“That’s right.”

“How is it respectful to ignore a man’s death?”

“Arlene.”

She was shaking. “How is it respectful,” she said, “to ignore injustice?”

Piney looked terrified. But Arlene felt only the chill of the morgue, the gashed cheek and gaping mouth.

“He was a kind, decent man,” she continued. “Eddie was. Never harmed anyone. Never. Whoever killed him was evil.”

Piney looked at the floor between his feet. With a click, Mr. Lococo’s lighter flared, and he spent a long time lighting his cigar. Smoke billowed in the small room and caught at her throat. “Sweetheart,” he said, gesturing at the bottles and empty kegs, “I own this joint. People come here to enjoy a drink and listen to the music. Eddie Sloan was a draw. Like you. I take his death personal. A tragedy, like I said.” Richie had edged forward from the closed door. Mr. Lococo leaned close. “We are in agreement on this, Arlene.”