Downtown Strut: An Edna Ferber Mystery (Edna Ferber Mysteries) (8 page)

Staring at both young men, I was intrigued by the overnight transformation. Waters, the overly serious, indeed, often ponderous, young boy, so earnest and yet always incredibly boyish, seemed now older than Lawson, as he assumed the role of comfort giver. He kept glancing at his friend, his eyes old with compassion. Lawson, that fashion-plate hero with that matinee-idol affect, looked crushed, rattled, slumped in a chair with his shoulders drawn forward and hunched up; his face, light-complected to begin with, now seemed delicate parchment, breakable. As he leaned forward into the lamplight, I noticed small flecks of white, bits and pieces of tissue, perhaps, or lint. A disheveled young man, wholly consumed by a confused and insidious grief. I had trouble looking at him.

But I needed to. “Lawson, how are you?”

He looked up, smiled thinly. “I’m all right, Miss Ferber.” Clearly he wasn’t.

“What’s going on at the apartment?”

Waters answered for him. “Lawson hasn’t gone back. He
won’t
go back there now. I picked up some clothes and things for him. He’s staying with an uncle in Queens. Temporarily.”

Lawson muttered, “Better.”

“What?”

“Better that way.” A heartbeat. “I had to deal with Roddy’s father, who is, you know, somehow related to my father.” He sucked in his breath. “He wanted nothing to do with it. Arrangements and all. He didn’t even want to show up. Just…indifferent. The cops told me he walked out on them. Like…Roddy was dead…years before.” Lawson stared into my face now, the eyes wide. “He was horrible.”

“You’re not doing well, Lawson,” I offered.

A wispy smile. “Big surprise, no?” He looked at Waters. “I’m sorry about the way I acted yesterday morning. I’m sorry, Miss Ferber. I don’t know why I was so out of it, dizzy and all. I felt like I was walking in a fog or something.”

“I noticed that.”

“Well, Bella and I…the night before. You know, we drank too much, got into a fight, but, I don’t know, I’ve passed out lots of times before, but this time I woke up so groggy, like I didn’t know where I was. I sort of stumbled home.” A pause. “Home.”

Waters commented, “You’re gonna die from that bootleg gin you drink.”

Another slight smile. “That’s what’s for sale in Harlem.”

Waters frowned. “Another fight with Bella?” He shook his head.

“She told me it was over. We’re done. Like I didn’t know that. But she was serious this time. So we drank and we fought and…well…”

“The police kept asking me why I was there with you, Miss Edna,” Waters suddenly said.

“I know. They’re baffled by all human behavior that doesn’t fit onto an index card.”

“I talked to Harriet when I went to pick up some of Lawson’s things,” Waters began. “The cops interviewed her and I guess she was belligerent.”

“But why?”

“She doesn’t trust them.”

“Surely she wants Roddy’s murderer caught?”

“I guess so, but…it’s hard to explain, Miss Edna.”

I grumbled. “I don’t get it.”

“She told me that her father, Mr. Porter, gave the cops a hard time. Just like the way he treated us, you know. He wouldn’t open the door at first, then fought against giving an interview. He told different stories—claimed he heard music in the apartment just before I went in. Then he changed his mind. What’s clear is that he didn’t like Roddy. He doesn’t
care
that he’s dead.”

I narrowed my eyes. “But why?”

A shrug of the shoulders. “Who knows?”

“Well, there has to be a reason.” I looked at Lawson. “Any ideas?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “They argued over things.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno. The rent was late. Often. Roddy mocked Mr. Porter—the way he never lets go of that Bible.”

“Roddy didn’t believe…”

“Roddy said Mr. Porter is an old-fashioned Negro, the kind who thinks everything is copasetic, you know. Swell. Don’t rattle the chains.”

“Did Harriet say anything else?” I asked Waters.

“Strangely, she seemed, well, happy when she told me about her father, who is a man she fights with and ignores. But I guess his belligerent attitude with Detective Manus made her look at him differently.”

“This is making little sense.” I bit my lip. “I can’t imagine that gentle boy arguing with anyone.”

Lawson looked up, startled. “Roddy could be gentle, yes, but he could be real stubborn, too. Ornery. He liked things a certain way. The fact is he always thought the super was a fool and was always ready to tell him so.”

“Well, I think he is a fool, and I scarcely know the man, but…”

“You know, I didn’t see much of Roddy lately because I stayed at Bella’s.” He looked into my face. “I mean, I sleep on the couch there…late at night. Most times Roddy was at work. But he did tell me that Mr. Porter was on his case.”

Waters got up, stretched, and began walking around the room. His mother, who had been silent, watched him, her eyes wary. He stood by the dark window and stared down into the city streets. Then, suddenly, his shoulders convulsed and he started sobbing.

“Waters,” his mother called out. “What, honey?”

He faced us. “Harriet told me something else. Roddy was stabbed with his own knife. I didn’t know he kept a knife on his nightstand. He was
afraid
of something.”

“Lawson?” I asked.

He nodded. “There’ve been break-ins on the street. A month back, a prowler came in through the back window, which Roddy’d forgot to lock. It looks out on the alley. He took some cash. I guess twenty dollars. Some junk stuff. Since then Roddy kept the knife there. I joked that he’d never use it. I mean—Roddy? Can you imagine Roddy fighting off someone with a knife? But he felt safer, I guess. Especially since I started spending my nights at Bella’s. He was alone.”

“He didn’t manage to fight off his murderer,” I commented. “From what I saw, there didn’t seem to be any signs of struggle. He was asleep, I guess, and woke to find a knife plunged into his heart.”

Slumping back into his seat, Lawson moaned. Immediately I regretted my words. I wasn’t painting a pretty picture. “I’m sorry, Lawson.”

“They’ll get him,” Rebecca announced. “They
have
to.” She motioned to Waters, who sat down next to her. She leaned into him, affectionately.

At that moment I realized I’d not mentioned Detective Manus’ conversation with me earlier. Quietly, I summarized: the arrest of the homeless felon named Harold Skidder Scott, the discarded cigarette pack, Lawson’s gold ring and Roddy’s cuff links, hidden in the bundle of rags. I sat back, satisfied. But if I expected both young men to look relieved or gratified, I was wrong because both wore quizzical expressions, dumbfounded.

“What, for heaven’s sake? I would have thought this news would please both of you.”

Waters muttered, “Him?”

Lawson scoffed. “Skidder Scott?”

I gasped. “You know him?”

“Everybody knows him. I didn’t know his name was Harold. He’s one of those guys who are always around the neighborhood. You know he’s up to no good. A junkie, drunk, you know. Begs for money, food. He stands outside the Catagonia Club when people are going in or out. He crashes rent parties. Steals small stuff.”

“Well, the police found his fingerprints…and your ring, Lawson.”

“I don’t see it,” Lawson said. “My ring was worthless. Not gold. I wouldn’t leave something good out like that.” A pause. “I just don’t see him
hurting
Roddy.”

Waters was nodding his head up and down. “Skidder Scott. God, even I know that man. He’s, well, harmless. A local character. He stands and yells at the cars going by. He hates…cars. Roddy even said he’d put him into a short story someday. A Harlem drunk in an alley…or something. A big bushel of a man, but harmless.”

I bristled. “Apparently not.”

The two young men glanced at each other, Lawson still looking puzzled. “Skidder always runs from a fight. Yeah, he takes stuff but not when someone is home…sleeping. I suspected he was the one who broke into our apartment and took the money Roddy had on the bureau. But the cops wouldn’t even come out when we called them.”

Waters added, “He’s a big beefy man, true, but he looks kind of weak. You know, a soft sponge of a guy. Roddy, waking up, could fight him.”

“Not if he’s startled when he’s been sleeping.”

Suddenly Waters jumped up, nervous, and looked at his mother. “I wonder if there’s more to the story, Ma.” Then he looked at me. “Miss Edna, Skidder Scott did things for money, but if he broke in that door, Roddy would have heard him, no? He would have yelled out. And Skidder would beat it out of there.” Waters circled the room, frenzied, his mind clicking away. “Skidder wouldn’t come into the apartment like that—rush at Roddy. He shuffles along. You know, I think somebody else planned this.” He turned to Lawson. “That’s it, Lawson. Think of the Skidder we know. Lord, people make
fun
of him. This is…”

I interrupted. “Lawson. Waters. Come on, let’s be realistic. A felon, notorious for breaking and entering. It’s inevitable his luck would turn and he’d find someone home…”

“Lawson, tell her,” Waters pleaded.

“What?” Lawson asked.

“Do
you
think it’s Skidder?”

Lawson stood up and stared out the dark window. For the first time since he’d arrived he acted…alive. He swung his arms crazily, and his dark eyes, wide now, were lit by fire. “Listen to Waters, Miss Ferber.”

“Somebody killed Roddy,” Waters stated dramatically. The words hung in the air, choice and rich. “Somebody
else
.”

“Waters…”

“Help us, Miss Edna.”

“For Lord’s sake, Waters…”

“You know people,” Waters said. “Lots of people. People will listen to you. No one will listen to us. To me and Lawson. You can talk to people. Someone has to talk to Skidder. There’s a story behind this.”

“Someone had it in for Roddy.” Lawson’s voice was quiet and low.

Waters was nodding.

Grimly, I thought: the Negro Hardy Boys, young men in a hurry, driven, excited, an adventure now, something to distance themselves from the awful grief and the nagging horror. Boys at their games, macabre though they were.

“No.”

“Miss Edna, please.” Waters’ eyes looked into mine.

Lawson was nodding in counterpoint to Waters’ pleas.

“No,” I repeated. “No.”

Chapter Seven

No, of course not.

As Rebecca leaned into the breakfast table the next morning, pouring my hot coffee, with a generous wash of whipped farm cream, she whispered, “Now, Miss Edna, don’t pay those boys any mind.”

I smiled as I reached for the cinnamon toast. “Your son is such a serious lad, Rebecca. And he does have a winning way about him.”

“The murder has thrown him off balance, I guess. And with Lawson playing Greek chorus to his pleadings, well, it could be a little intimidating.”

I munched on savory toast and reached for the
New York
Times
. “Never mind, Rebecca. I don’t think Detective Manus, all that male braggadocio and burst blood vessel, wants the
Show Boat
lady tagging after him, especially now that the police have put a
finis
to the case.” I paused. “Though Waters and Lawson did get me thinking. With the apartment door wrenched open, splintered, would Roddy still have been in bed? Was he that sound a sleeper? It puzzles me, really. People don’t shift character so casually, like this Skidder Scott character.” I shook my head. “What grown man calls himself Skidder?”

She laughed. “I suppose the nickname was given to him. No idea what it means.”

“It means I’m minding my own business. I have a long day ahead of me.”

Show Boat
and
The Royal Family
:—my one-two punch on Broadway. That should be my concern, not brutal murder up in Harlem. At mid-morning someone from Oscar Hammerstein’s office phoned to apologize for the missed meetings at the theater. No matter, I told the caller, but I noticed that he didn’t suggest rescheduling. Later, reviewing Jed Harris’ last minute changes to the dialogue in
The Royal Family
, I decided the man liked to tinker with dialogue simply because—he could. His maniacal hand excised some of the flavor and verve George Kaufman and I put into our dialogue. But at this late date I’d lapsed into utter resignation because, truthfully, my protestations, wily or innocuous, brought me nothing but indigestion and sleepless nights.

When I arrived at the Selwyn Theater, I watched the players wilt under Jed’s surprise noontime visit. “Do you really think you will be ready on December 28?” he screamed at them. Then, blithely, a mischievous smile on his unshaven face and a hum in his voice, he grasped my elbow and said, simply, “Lunch, Edna?”

I had little choice.

We settled into a booth at the Double R, a Brazilian coffee shop on West 44th and Sixth Avenue, a chaotic eatery I knew he favored, largely because the I’m-an-actor staff tripped over themselves serving him. It was always packed with theater folks. We sat at the back of the restaurant, with Jed insisting he face the front door.

“You afraid of armed theater critics?”

He smirked. “All critics, including your buddy George Kaufman, are congenital sissies. I might get an hysterical slap from Brooks Atkinson, but I don’t think he could even lift a gun without trembling.”

“You underestimate your foes.”

“When you only have foes, life is amazingly predictable.”

“And am I a foe?”

“No, you’re a maiden lady, twice my age, who’d love a romp in the hay with me.”

I bristled. “You’re a presumptuous cad, Jed Harris.”

He grinned. “I am that. But you like me.”

“I appreciate talent.”

“That’s an evasive answer.”

“It’s the only one you’ll get from me.” I sipped my coffee and gingerly picked at my tuna salad. Purposely, I avoided eye contact. I barely listened as he prattled on about a new car he’d just bought—a Marmon, whatever that was, a “nifty” car, he intoned, not some “tin lizzie flivver like you see
everywhere
.”

I stared at him.

A man notorious for his brusqueness and his cruelty, Jed had a keen sense of popular theater that was unrivaled. Yet, sitting there facing him, I suddenly believed his career would be short-lived—he’d burn out from self-congratulation and the ready availability of easy cash. Already he’d bought a yacht he didn’t need. A yacht, mind you. Moored at City Island, it cruised the placid waters of the Rivers East and Hudson. Still, I had to admit—and didn’t he read me well?—that this dark, menacing young man with the beard stubble and wolf’s hooded eyes, with the doomsday East European complexion and slender waist—well, he made my heart jump a bit. Few men did that—and lived to talk about it. But this dapper swell of the theater, so nasty and viral, fluttered my Victorian pulse. He’d be an easy man for me to hate— eventually I would, of course, I
planned
on it—simply because he was, for me, one of the few men I could actually love.

But now he was yammering on about
The Royal Family
and the empty threat of a lawsuit from Ethel Barrymore. Suddenly, he stopped, held his hand suspended in the air—so that I could appreciate his manicured nails, I supposed—and said with a grim voice, “So you begin the Ferber season!” It came out almost a threat, though I don’t know why I thought that. “Two Broadway openings, a day apart, right after Christmas. You will be wined and dined, feted, and will doubtless have more ego than is humanly bearable. This may be the last lunch we share where we can still talk as equals.”

I smiled sweetly. “Jed, you still have some reach before you’re close to being my equal.”

He roared. “You do like yourself a bit.”

“This is foolish talk, all of it. I’m a writer. That’s what I do.”

“Oh, come off it, Edna. Humility is not a cloak you don well.”

I’d had enough. “Tell me about Bella Davenport, Jed.”

My words slammed him back against the booth. He struggled to find a response, weighing, deliberating, and manipulating some elaborate lie he knew instinctively I wouldn’t buy. Finally, he leaned forward, ran his tongue over his lips, and actually winked. An unpleasant gesture that seemed girlish, high school antics. “A beautiful girl, no? Stunning, in fact.”

“She is that.”

“She is that,” he echoed.

“What’s the story, Jed?”

A sly grin. “I figured you’d bring it up. You’ve been
itching
to interrogate me. I must say, I was surprised to see that dicty crowd assembled in your living room. Flaming youth in black face. Edna Ferber’s Underground Railroad.”

“We’re talking about Bella Davenport.”

“If you’re probing into my sex life, Edna—very unseemly of you, by the way, and I doubt if any of your romantic characters would do so, since your heroines believe in Immaculate Conception—well, yes, love, I’ve seen her. I
did
see her.”

“Why?”

Now he laughed, loud and hearty, and heads swiveled. “I was sitting in on auditions for Lew Leslie’s
Blackbirds
, watching the young Negro performers stroll in and out, hungry for any part, and there she was, an ambitious young lady, that girl, driven, ready to flatter and preen and beg. She just assumed she’d get the part, even cozying up to the likes of Mr. Bojangles.”

“For Lord’s sake, Jed.”

“Well, she’s not a nice person, Edna. A liar, dissembler, manipulator, fabricator. Shall I go on?”

“But she knew who you were?”

“Who doesn’t in the world of theater?” A sigh. “She batted those eyelashes and cooed at me. You can’t trust her, by the way. She didn’t get the part because Florence Mills was a softer, less ferocious performer, and more talented, but she agreed to let me take her to Johnny Jackson’s restaurant up on 135th Street. Not surprisingly, she’d written a play.”

“Which you’ll not produce.”

“Of course not. I deal with quality plays, the likes of Kaufman and Ferber.”

I harrumphed, which tickled him. “She didn’t seem happy to see you in my doorway or in that chop suey joint.”

“I don’t suppose she wanted to advertise that she’s been keeping company with the plantation owner.”

“That’s crass, Jed.”

“Come off it, Edna. White or black, these actresses know the game.”

“Why keep your mouth shut about it? That awful silence that night in Harlem.”

“Well, I
did
see her. Past tense. No more. We ended on a sour note.”

“What happened?”

“I dumped her.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “None of your business.”

I went on. “Did you know the young man who died? Roddy?”

“No.” Said too quickly, I thought, so I didn’t know whether I believed him. Then after a while, “I didn’t
know
him. Yeah, I saw him at your apartment and then uptown at the eatery. Elsewhere. Once or twice. In Harlem. An insolent, dreadful boy. Bella talked of him too much. Lately she became obsessed with him. I guess he—spurned her.” He smiled, sickeningly. “For a girl as stunning as Bella, no man is allowed to refuse her. I believe some other girl likes him, someone she has contempt for.”

“Ellie.”

“Ah, yes, the young torch singer at Small’s Paradise.”

“Yes, that Ellie. As I suspect you already know. But you do know that Bella was seeing a young man named Lawson, right?”

“Of course, Edna. I have more of a history with these folks than you do. To tell you the truth. Bella talked nonstop about Lawson and how she was going to dump him. She rattled on to the point of utter boredom. And about her anger toward Roddy, who didn’t love her back. I don’t know why she thought I was interested in the messing around that Negroes do. So, yes, I’d already been through the theatrical wars with young Lawson. He came to some audition for a revival of
The Chocolate Dandies
. Cocky, too good-looking for his own good. He was perfect for the part because he
lived
the part. They didn’t hire him. Bella’s lover. Whatever that means. Two people using each other, a symbiotic organism that festers and bleeds. Pus and blood, the two of them. Bella actually arranged for me to read his full-length play, which I read. He’s hoping for Broadway. Downtown. A talented boy, but I’ll have nothing to do with him.”

“But why?” Exasperated.

“Ambition in a young actress is good, Edna. It hones the edges of their beauty. Ambition in a young man, especially a handsome Negro like Lawson Hicks, is unnerving and intrusive. Young Lawson has a lean and hungry look—such men are…annoying.”

“I like him.”

“Of course you do. He’s one of your romantic heroes, though unfortunately Negro.”

Jed reached for the check and stood up. Sitting there, my meal half eaten, I sneered, “So lunch is over?” He slapped some dollar bills on the table.

As he walked away, he looked back at me. “I knew there was a reason I never read any of your novels, Edna.”

I sat there, steaming.

***

The next afternoon I rode uptown in a cab with Rebecca and Waters, the three of us headed to a memorial service for Roddy at St. Mark’s A.M.E. Church on 138th Street and St. Nicholas. I hadn’t intended on going, though I grieved for his short, aborted life. Waters, phoning in the morning, had such a plaintive, wistful tone as he spoke of the service he and Lawson had organized that I found myself saying yes, of course I would go. When I hung up the phone, I realized he hadn’t asked me to go—I simply found myself saying yes.

Lamentably, I was the only white person among a smattering of local souls who knew Roddy. The emptiness of the church saddened me. Young people, dying young, usually had hordes of friends attending church—but not Roddy. Bella and Ellie, both dressed in black chemises and weeping, sat apart from each other. Bella wore a dramatic turquoise cloche, which made her stand out. Surprisingly, Lawson wore an old-fashioned black suit that looked like something he’d got from a thrift store. That intrigued me, especially considering he always looked spiffy, polished, the man-about-town from
The Smart Set
. He sat bent over in a pew, his head buried in his lap. There were a few relatives, I assumed, though Lawson whispered early on that he didn’t know these distant members of his own family.

“And his father’s not here.” Lawson was furious. “They didn’t talk after he left home, Roddy and his dad.”

Harriet and Freddy were conspicuously not there. The minister sermonized, though no one eulogized the sad young man. I was tempted to rise and say a few celebratory words, but I rejected the inclination as inappropriate. Bidden by the minister who said twice he didn’t know Roddy, as though to explain the impersonality of the service, Ellie finally walked to the altar, turned to face us, and sang “We Will Meet Him in the Sweet By and By,” her sweet, soprano voice clear and full, only breaking at the end, the last words lost in her swallowed grief. An organ echoed her lovely voice. Sitting on my right, Rebecca was weeping. And then, the minister blessing us, folks filed out.

Rebecca was in a somber mood. Tearful most of the short service, she kept brushing up protectively against her only son, as though to ensure he was safe, secure. A couple of times, straining against his mother’s smothering hold, Waters pulled away, but only slightly; the bond between the two of them—they only had each other—was too important to violate. I thought of my own mother, currently my housemate and my constant disapproving and censorious eye, luckily now spending the holidays with family visiting from Chicago. She trucked no such physical intimacy; her grip was patently psychological, and thus more destructive.

As I stepped onto the sidewalk and surveyed the street for a downtown cab, Rebecca was calling out to Bella and Lawson, both walking away, far apart from each other. Neither had said goodbye to us. Then she called out to Ellie, who was also bustling away from us, headed uptown. I thought the behavior unseemly and impolite. Reluctantly, the trio stumbled back to us.

“After a service,” Rebecca insisted, “it’s only right and proper to celebrate life.” They glared at her as if she’d announced an alien invasion. “We’ll have a bite to eat.” She looked around. “There.”

She’d spotted a small eatery tucked into the crumbling façade of an old brownstone, a hole-in-the-wall that looked, to me at least, dangerously prone to health code violation. “Hot soup and smothered pork chops.” She smiled. “And sweet potato pie. Not as good as mine, surely, but…” She tucked her hand into Waters’ elbow and moved us all toward the restaurant.