Read Black Orchid Blues Online
Authors: Persia Walker
“Don’t be. Sam’s tough. He’s coming back to us. You’ll tell him that for me, won’t you?”
“Of course I will.” He stayed only a few minutes.
Blackie dropped by an hour later. “Lanie, you’ve got to get home, get some rest.”
“I am resting, here.”
“This is no good.” He quickly got to the point: “You got no business doing this thing with Lovetree. It’s dangerous.”
“I know that. I also know that I have no alternative.”
“Why not?”
“Because of her.”
“Who?”
Sheila,
I wanted to say. But what would be the point? Blackie wouldn’t understand. Or maybe he would. Though he’d still say it wasn’t my job. And perhaps he was right. Yet somewhere along the line, it had become my job—and I was going to see it through.
“Have you made a plan for tonight?” I asked.
“We talked to the owners of the Casino last night. Also reached the guys who host this thing. They wanted to cancel it. We told them it was too late for that.”
“And probably too risky. Even if a cancellation was announced every hour on the hour on all the radio stations in New York, hundreds would still show up. And Queenie might blow the place up out of pure spite. Were you able to talk to the Bernards?”
“Yeah. It took some convincing, but Dr. Bernard agreed to cooperate.”
“So you collected all the money?”
“Yes, and we need you to go to the station house, so we can properly tape it to you.”
“That wouldn’t be wise. Queenie’s been a step ahead of us this whole time. I’m sure he’s expecting something, and he’ll definitely be watching. The last thing we need is for him to see me heading to the station.”
“Then we’ll do it at your house. I’ll send a female officer over.”
“In plainclothes.”
Blackie gave Sam and me one last worried look, then brushed past Dr. Maynard on his way out. The doctor had been in earlier, but I’d missed him when I was grabbing breakfast. He picked up Sam’s chart and studied it, then checked his pulse and examined his pupils. When he was done, I signaled him to follow me to one side and spoke in a hushed tone.
“Yesterday you said that the next twenty-four hours would make all the difference.”
“I know, but it’s too early to tell what’ll happen. I don’t believe in false promises. But I do believe in hope.”
I was going to hold on to that. Sam would be fine. He had to be. He was going to come back, strong and whole, for himself, for me, for all the people who loved and respected him.
“The nurses said you were here all night, and you’ve been here all day,” Dr. Maynard said. “You need to take a break.”
He was right. I couldn’t do anything there. But suppose something happened while I was gone?
I turned back to Sam. The rise and fall of his chest was barely detectable. I took his right hand in mine. Without knowing what I was about to say, I bent and whispered in his ear. “You come back, you hear? Come back to me.”
His hand remained limp. There was no response, no sign of any recognition that he’d heard me.
“I’ll be back tonight,” I said, then walked away.
T
he Manhattan Casino was a fancy hall at 280 West 155th Street, just east of Eighth Avenue and within walking distance of the Harlem River. Less than twenty years old, the Casino was a popular venue for charity balls, basketball tournaments, and boxing bouts. Many were star-studded occasions. A range of folks—from James Reese Europe, the guy who set France on fire with jazz, to dancers Vernon and Irene Castle, to Broadway music composer J. Rosamond Johnson—all held events there.
But none of those happenings ever attained the notoriety of the Faggots’ Ball, which took place every year in late February. Hamilton Lodge No. 710 of the Grand Order of the Odd Fellows, one of Harlem’s most venerable social clubs, hosted it. The lodge advertised the party simply as a masquerade ball, a costumed event. It made no reference to “the life.” But the ball was known as an all-out bash of gay frivolity. Men donned their finest and most exotic female attire, and enough stars turned out to fill a galaxy.
That night, snow and ice covered the streets under a moonlit blue-black sky, and the air was bitter cold. But it didn’t matter. Thousands were swarming the place. People were standing in long lines at the ticket windows. Hundreds of others shivered across the street, behind police lines, and tried to get a good view. Every time a limousine drew up to the canopied entrance, the crowd surged forward.
Singer Nora Holt was just stepping out of her white limo, wearing a silver silk gown, when I arrived. She got a rousing cheer. Others, usually noncelebrities, were less lucky. When they stopped to pose and preen, the remarks were often catty.
“There goes Sherry!”
“Why that’s Candy! Girl, can you believe it?”
“And you see what she’s wearin’?”
“Lawdy! Some poor chicken’s running around with no feathers!”
The Casino had a legal capacity of roughly six thousand. That night, it must’ve been holding closer to seven. Inside, Hollywood A-listers Tallulah Bankhead, Beatrice Lillie, and Clifton Webb chatted with Astors and Vanderbilts. Bankhead was stunning in white organdy. Barbara Stanwyck was lethal in black and red sateen, and Kay Francis was innocence personified in baby-blue satin with white ruffles.
Of course, high Harlem was there too. I spotted A’Lelia; her constant companion, Mayme White; and man about town Harold Jackman. Langston, Robert, and Wallace were there too.
As usual, John C. Smith’s twenty-piece orchestra was providing the music. His musicians put out a vigorous and admirable effort, but they could barely be heard above the excited babble. You could make out the
boom-boom
of the drum, and every now and then the saxophone and cornet players struck a note that soared above the rest, but the singer might as well have sat down; you couldn’t hear a word he sang.
Some of the men’s costumes were aggressively macho, but suspiciously skimpy. There were muscular, weightlifter types decked out in facial war paint. They wore itsy-bitsy loincloths and illustrious feathered headdresses. They carried hatchets or spears. There were swaggering Roman gladiators, Greek gods, and Spartan warriors all running around half naked.
However, most of the crowd under that sky-blue ceiling and giant crystal chandelier wore costumes of feathers and sequins, of glitter and silk and satin. There were sexy señoritas in black lace fluttering red fans, debutantes in frothy pink chiffon and rhinestones. And then there was one extravagant creature called “La Flame.” The fellow attended year after year, wearing the same thing. No one dared mimic his costume, which was simplicity itself: a white satin stovepipe hat, a red-beaded breastplate, and a white sash. They were all bound and determined to outdo one another, to officially become the belle of the ball.
Mardi Gras in Harlem. The partygoers pranced around, hands on hips. Every once in a while, one would catch the eye of an admirer and give a bold
come hither
look. One told her dance partner, “Oh, sugar, you’re making it so hard for me to stay a lady!” I overheard another bold one say, “I’m a oneway man now. Which way would you like?” Meanwhile, a third informed a cop who grabbed her by the elbow, “No need to get rough, officer. Everyone will get their chance.”
Speaking of cops.
Blackie had refused to tell me more than the bare bones about his plan. Officers disguised as drag queens were apparently going to circulate among the crowd. As soon as they spotted Queenie, they would move against him. The only problem was that Queenie had clearly said that any attempt to arrest him would result in him blowing the place up. Blackie thought Queenie was bluffing. I didn’t, and I couldn’t understand Blackie’s willingness to take the chance. I was sure he had something up his sleeve. As I wandered around, I saw that I was right.
The box seats that ringed the ballroom gave the best vantage point for viewing the huge dance floor. I glanced up at one of the crowded loges; the folks inside seemed normal, but I recognized one guy. He was a cop. And I had the feeling he was armed. Snipers. That would be Blackie’s ace in the hole. He’d rigged the box seats with sharpshooters. Worries about the killing of innocent bystanders? To be minimized, of course, through the use of expert marksmen. But to be avoided? No guarantees. A choice between seeing the hall go up in flames with the loss of dozens, even hundreds, and taking out an unlucky one or two was no choice at all.
I turned back to look at the revelers, at the open, laughing smiles, the heads thrown back in gaiety, the jealousy in some eyes and the arrogant amusement in others. These people stood on the precipice between life and death and didn’t know it.
It had to stay that way. I had to find Queenie and maneuver him into a position where Blackie’s men could take him, quickly and efficiently, before he made any moves.
As I made my way through the crowd, I ran into A’Lelia, and she wanted to know if I intended to come to her party.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot to RSVP,” I said.
She waved it away. “Baby, you know I don’t stand on formality. I’d love to see you, so come if you want to, and if you can’t, you can’t.”
Mayme was with her, and Wallace and Harold too. Mrs. Newcomb of the Newcomb Debutante Society stopped by to chat. All wanted to share juicy tidbits they hoped I’d use in my column. But I didn’t have time. I smiled and gestured, sometimes laughed at a joke or comment, but I never stopped searching that crowd. Every now and then, I thought I saw my quarry. I’d make my excuses and break away. But then, as I got close, I’d see it wasn’t Queenie.
The envelopes taped to either side of my rib cage scratched with every move. The bearer bonds made me Queenie’s target as much as he was mine. Two hunters seeking one another in a crowded jungle. No doubt Queenie was also scanning the room, much as I had, for Blackie’s undercover men.
The ground-floor ladies’ room was on the south side of the building. There were four women ahead of me, but the line moved quickly. I slipped inside one of the stalls by the window and locked the door. Then I shrugged out of my top and untaped the envelopes. I lifted the cover of the toilet tank and placed the envelopes inside. They were well-sealed in oilcloth, so there was no way for water to seep in. I replaced the cover, fixed my clothes, and emerged from the stall with a sense of relief. I just had to hope that no one found those envelopes before I could retrieve them.
I rinsed my hands at the sink and checked my face in the mirror. Despite all the makeup, my eyes looked tired. No surprise there.
I headed back to the party. No sooner had I rejoined the crowd than I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to find Jack-a-Lee. He’d squeezed his generous form into a peek-a-boo ruby-studded brassiere, a gold silk loincloth, and chartreuse-colored high heels. His see-through chiffon harem skirt was a passionate pink with gold edging. A bejeweled tiara and golden-blond wig completed the outfit.
“Lanie, dahling! It’s so good to see you.” He grabbed my shoulders and offered me two quick air kisses. Then he stepped back to appraise my outfit: a faux jewel-encrusted oriental crown, beaded sleeves and bodice, and a beaded girdle around my hips, over a filmy skirt.
“Let me guess,” he said, “Mata Hari! It’s fantastic, dahling. Not as good as mine, of course, but a wonderful try!”
I faked a smile, returned the compliment, and then started to move away—but he caught me by the wrist.
“Now, where are my photographers? I saw you come in. You were alone, no picture-snapper.”
“He arrived ahead of time. He’s here in the crowd, doing his job.”
In truth, I’d forgotten all about my promise to Jack-a-Lee. The newspaper had sent a photographer, however. It always did.
“Do you see him now?” Jack-a-Lee asked.
“He’s over there.”
“Where?”
“There.”
He eased around behind me and I pointed across the room. Ned Johnson was busy taking a photo of Langston and A’Lelia.
“Just go over there,” I said. “Tell him I sent you.”
“No, dahling. Not good enough. Introduce me. Make sure he gives me the right treatment.”
“Please, Jack-a-Lee. Not now. I don’t have time to—”
“I’m going to stick by your side till you do.”
He meant it.
“All right. Fine.”
After introducing him around, I wanted to leave him with Ned and the others, but Jack-a-Lee insisted that we take a couple of group shots. Then Langston and A’Lelia walked off. Ned disappeared before Jack-a-Lee could demand another photo, and I started to turn away too.
“Not yet,” he said, and rammed something small and hard against the small of my back. A pistol.
I stiffened. “Jack-a-Lee?”
“Don’t make a move unless I tell you to.”
“What—?”
“Let’s just say I’m helping a friend.” My mouth went dry. “Who?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
“The gun’s not necessary.”
He put his lips close to my ear. “But it does add a certain
je ne sais quoi, n’est-ce pas?”
We passed under the thick curtain that separated the main ballroom from the side rooms. In less than ten seconds, I was out of sight of Blackie’s men. Had they noticed? What were they doing? Maybe nothing. To anyone watching, it would have appeared that I’d simply walked off with a friend: perhaps not a wise thing to do, but certainly not alarming. It could take them awhile to realize what was happening, and I might be dead by then.
Jack-a-Lee opened a door and gestured for me to enter. I stepped into a small, dark room, which smelled of a musky perfume.
“You’ll thank me later,” Jack-a-Lee said.
“Well, I’ll certainly have something to say about it. That’s for sure.”
He gave me a shove, then stepped back and closed the door.
A
ll noise from the outside became dull and muffled. A shadow shifted in the dark. There was a soft rustling, the sound of breathing. I realized I was being watched.
“Queenie?”
“Right here, baby.”
A lamp flickered on to my left. Queenie sat next to it, legs crossed, looking calm, cool, and regal. His mask, a golden full-face affair, hung from a string around his neck. He wore a red and gold satin gown. Rhinestones covered crepe de Chine sleeves. A tiara with dozens of feathers and dotted with rhinestones was perched atop his head.