The Red Storm (7 page)

The band of all coloreds sat on the stage cueing up their instruments. Most of the players I knew as regulars at the colored establishments I went to.

The lights weakened and the anxious crowd hollered with approval. Storm went on stage wearing another elegant black dress, and I prepared myself for a lackluster routine. To my surprise, it was even worse.

Her whiskey-burned voice was suitable but at times caustic on the ears; however, it was never her pipes that were the problem. It was her performance that came up lacking. Yet the crowd went for it. The booze probably helped, but Zella's silhouette and stunning dress were good enough distractions as any to forget her poor showmanship. It seemed Zella had found a suitable crowd.

A few minutes after her set, Zella cornered me at the bar.

“What'd you think?” she asked.

I lied. “It was solid.”

“Yes, I thought so, too.”

She ordered a martini and, upon getting her drink, looked at me. “You ain't drinking tonight?”

“I was going to get something, but Ethel behind the bar was too busy pretending I ain't here.” I motioned to the blond cake-eater barkeep.

Her gray eyes lit up and she spun around to the bar. “Pete, come here for a minute.”

Pete went to Zella like a love-struck puppy.

“Yes, ma'am?” he asked

Zella lobbed her drink in Pete's face. Momentarily stunned, he yelled, “Why'd you do that for!”

“Because you're an ass.”

The remark sparked Pete to lunge over the bar at her. He hadn't made it clear over when I hard-pressed him back. I did not intend to push him as hard as I ended up doing. I sometimes forgot my own strength. As opposed to landing back on his feet, which I wanted to happen, he fell against the retaining wall, colliding onto the stacked alcohol jugs and martini glasses.

With fists clenched, I was ready for the oncoming throng of attacks that often ended up ensuing in situations like this. Instead, the crowd looked up at what was going on, shrugged, and went about drinking or doing whatever the hell they were doing.

“Say, let's go out to the courtyard. I could use some air,” Zella said.

The back courtyard was quieter than the bar. Only a few birds stood around punching the bag with each other. One drunk had passed out on a hammock set up between two banana trees. Zella located herself near the bubbling water fountain at the center of the yard, and asked, “Butt me.” I gave her a cigarette and she took a long drag and said, “Didn't think you'd make it. Is this business or a social call?”

“I went to the room your old man was staying at.”

“Oh? You find anything?”

“Depends on how you look at it,” I said.

I drew out the telegram and handed it to her. She gave it a hard look. “That's a nice riddle you got. What'd you think it means?”

“I think it's pretty self-explanatory. The telegraph said they found his Achilles heel. Bill Storm never valued his life much. The heel is obviously you.”

“Should I be flattered?” she asked.

“I wouldn't be. I think he came here not to see you, but to warn you or protect you. Bill Storm was not someone to overreact or get scared off. So if he felt it urgent enough to come here, this person plays a rough game.”

She dropped her cigarette on the ground and violently crushed what was left of it out.

“Okay, if that's how it's going to be. I want to hire you to do some protection work for me. That is, till this thing blows over or if you can get to the bottom of it. What'd you say?”

“It might be wiser to bring some law in on this.”

She laughed. “Most of the cops in this town are on the take or tainted. I should know. I've seen them take bribes from club owners to look the other way. Who's to say they won't do the same for this?”

“If that's how you feel, I ain't going to argue with you. I want to look more into this, though, and I suppose I can watch over you for a few days.”

“Thought you'd come around,” she said. “But I'm gonna tell it to you straight. I ain't gonna be playing no damsel in distress. I can handle myself just fine, understand? I'm just too caught up with my singing right now to be dealing with this, and you seem to know what you're doing without me gettin' into your references. Besides, having a big ape like you around might put a scare in them bums that try to give me the feel-up.”

“I'm going to need some money out of you up front.”

“You're sounding a bit greedy,” she said.

“I ain't doing this work for charity. I'm going to need some money to cover expenses, at least a twenty-dollar retainer. If I don't use it all, I'll reimburse you the rest of it, or it can go into my fee, which is ten dollars a day.”

“Ten dollars a day? You're a chiseler is what you are, mister. My plumber don't even charge that much.”

“Yeah, but your plumber ain't doing protection work. If there was chance of him being shot at or having to deal with gettin' muscled up on while fixing your pipes, he'd be charging the same, if not more.”

“Fair enough. It's not banking hours, so I'll see about gettin' you that twenty dollars tomorrow.”

“That'll be fine. When do you want me to start?”

“Tonight. I need a lift home. Pete was going to take me, but I think he's changed his mind.”

*   *   *

Her place was on Pratt Drive along the London Avenue Canal. For most of the drive she talked about her singing, and how she was close to getting signed to a record company.

It was when we were nearing her place she said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you. I'm living with my auntie. Her name is Betty. She's nice, but a little protective. Don't worry about her though. She's just old and a bit senile these days.”

I parked the bus in front of a one-half-story Creole-style cottage that had a gabled roof parallel to the street.

Inside the house, glass French doors opened to a dining room where an elderly woman sat almost in the dark. Her face was old and withered and looked like it had been worn out long before its time. Wrinkles lined her colorless skin, and her hair was the shade of ash. Thick glasses covered her tired, puffy eyelids.

“You really should stop waiting up for me,” Zella said.

“Sorry, child. I get worried when you are out so late. A terrible fright comes over me.”

“Stop being such a flat tire, auntie! I can handle myself fine without you being as jumpy as a cat. Besides, I got Mr. Fletcher here. He's going to be watching over me.”

The old woman looked at me with either disdain or disgust, likely both.

“I don't much approve of you bringing his kind into my house,” she said.

“Your house? I'm paying for this place, and it's only because you're family that I'm letting you park here. I should've told you to take it on the heel and toe the minute you started scaring off every decent boy that came calling. But I didn't.”

With shaky hands, the frail woman stood up with her ivory-handled cane. “I don't have to take this from you, child. I'll pray tonight that someday some sense comes over you.”

She limped out through one of the doors, which led to her room.

“She ain't so bad,” Zella said. “She gets grumpy when I'm out late.”

“I'm sure she's a ball during daytime hours.”

“Not really, but what you gonna do? Anyway, enough of that. I'm going to fix myself for bed. It's late and I'd hate for you to drive back to wherever you live. You can sleep on the couch if you like. I'll be sure to bring you some blankets.”

“Don't bother, it's a warm night,” I said.

“Suit yourself.”

Zella exited through one of the doors. I strolled into the drawing room. It was fitted with a black leather Chesterfield sofa in front of a polished steel and brass coffee table. On top of the quarter-inch-thick glass top were a few fashion magazines and an empty ashtray.

I fished a cigarette out of my pocket, and was midway through smoking it when the smell of lavender drew me to the door. Zella was leaning against the entryway. Her robe was open enough to reveal her black camisole and lace-trimmed tap pants.

“I'm off to bed,” she said.

I crooked my head away from her and said, “I'll see about fixin' some coffee when you get up.”

“That'd be grand,” she said, and left.

The rest of the night was quiet, except for the chirp of various night birds and outside traffic. I lay awake smoking and looking up at the ceiling.

I struggled to think of the situation at hand. All I could focus on was Zella in her black underwear. I cursed my weakness. It didn't matter that she was the daughter of a man I came to loathe. A daughter I was helping perhaps because of some misguided belief that she could be the redemption for all the ugliness Storm had caused, and by helping her I could try to wipe my own hands clean.

Yet, tonight she showed she wanted some sort of control over me by using a tool women had used for their benefit for centuries. That being the womanly art of seduction. I did not know what her goal was in trying to do this, but I needed to refocus.

Abstaining from sexual thoughts was something I learned long ago in training camp. The old wisdom of sex weakening a fighter before he even steps into the ring had been passed on to me by my trainer. I do not think he actually believed it, but he knew it was a good way to keep his fighters out of trouble and focused on training.

I dispensed with my thoughts and was at last able to sleep. But it wasn't peaceful. I never slept peacefully. I dreamt of another man I had tried hard to forget, Hank Doyle. Hank was a good young heavyweight who also wanted a crack at the belt. A jovial man, he was easy to like. We often sparred with each other before our fights and even went out on the town a few times. It was only a matter of time before a promoter got the idea of having us square off with the promise the winner would be in line to fight the champ.

Fighting guys you knew was common. It didn't matter if you liked a guy or not when the bell rung. That night, I showed Hank no mercy. He took a beating. I knocked him down six times in the early rounds but the referee refused to stop the fight.

By the start of the championship rounds Hank had taken a beating. Looking to end it, I staggered him with a hard jab. He managed to slip my right but I followed it up with a left. I knew before the punch hit that it would end the fight. It hit so hard it caused several women to scream as Hank fell straight back, arms and legs akimbo.

The referee did not even bother to count him out. He simply raised my hand up and the bloodthirsty crowd roared. They had gotten their money's worth.

It was not until I had removed my gloves that I saw Hank still lying in the middle of the ring, his handlers and a doctor huddled over him. They tried to revive him, to no avail, and so he was carried off on a canvas stretcher. I found out the next day that he was pronounced dead not long after he got to the hospital, from brain hemorrhaging.

The dream had me repeating the fight over and over as if it was preparing me for one day having to face him again.

*   *   *

I awoke early in the morning to the sight of the coffee table flipped over and the glass top split in roughly two halves.

Zella stood perched over me with an amused look on her face. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

I erected myself, rubbed my eyes with my fists, and said, “I'm sorry about that. I'll pay for the damages.”

“It's all jake. I never liked the table. Aunt Betty is the one that wanted it.”

“I'm glad I could help you get rid of it, then,” I said.

“You know, you really scared me last night. I woke up hearing this crash, and when I came in, you were tossing and turning on the couch saying stuff that wouldn't be very ladylike to repeat. I was going to try to wake you up, but was afraid you'd clock me.”

“I suppose I woke your lovely aunt up as well,” I said.

“No. She takes pills. This entire house could come down around her and it wouldn't wake her. You want coffee?”

“Please.”

I cleared the mess I had made, putting the smashed table out back. When I came back, Zella had coffee prepared at the dining room table.

“We can go to the bank and collect that fee you need, and then you can drop me off at the club after we're done. I'm meeting with the boys to go over our material for tonight.”

“That will work. I need to get back to my flat for a bit.”

“What did you dream about?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Most of the time I can't remember.”

“You have a lot of anger issues, don't you?”

“I've been told that.”

“I do, too. I just don't try to suppress them. Maybe that's why I sleep like a princess.”

“Not all princesses sleep well.”

*   *   *

The phone was ringing when I got to my flat. It was Brawley.

“Get over to City Hall. Emerson wants to see you. You might want to bring that hotshot mouthpiece of yours, too.”

Brawley was referring to Jim Prescott, who was representing me. My previous lawyer and good friend, Jean Fisher, had been murdered less than a year ago, shot coming out of court with a not-guilty verdict for a colored man accused of rape. When the American Bar Association would not allow Fisher, and any other colored, for that matter, to be a member, he joined the National Bar Association in the late twenties. It was Fisher that retained me to do legal assistant work for him, which included finding witnesses, interviewing, conducting legal research, and performing other activities Fisher did not have the time to do. He was directly responsible for my current profession. Fisher also helped push for me to get licensed.

I had been forwarded to Prescott after Fisher's murder. Prescott was gracious enough to take me on as a client, and charged me a fraction of what his normal fee would be, perhaps because Prescott had been good friends with Fisher as well, but I think it was predominantly because of the pro bono work I do for him. I had located enough key witnesses when he needed them for him to realize I would be no use to him in jail.