Bacchanal
Page 33
The tide turned for Stephanie when, in April 1917, a $10,000 investment in the local lottery paid dividends. She soon employed her top lieutenant, “Bumpy” Johnson, and paid the police bribes.
With Madame’s success and keen fashion sense, she earned the moniker “Queenie” in Manhattan, while Harlem’s residents took to calling her “Madame St. Clair.”
Queenie employed many Harlem residents in “policy” making—a combination of gambling, lottery, and investments. Around this time, she also became active in the pursuit of civil rights for African Americans. Her tool: writing newspaper columns and articles advising Harlem’s citizens of their rights, advocating for the vote, and calling out police brutality and corruption.
Her outspokenness earned her an eight-month stint in prison on what was believed to be a trumped-up charge. The first of two such tours.
The end of Prohibition in 1933 meant that Jewish and Italian crime families were in desperate need of new revenue sources. They turned their attention to the previously uninteresting numbers racket in Harlem. Enter “Dutch” Schultz. Queenie and Bumpy were never known to back down, and this time would be no different.
They went on the offensive, bombing Dutch’s storefronts. The war between them carried on, yielding casualties on both sides. Eventually, though, Stephanie ceded some control to the Italians. Schultz was shot, reportedly by order of “Lucky” Luciano. Among other things, people described Queenie as arrogant, sophisticated, and educated. So none were surprised when she sent a telegram to Dutch’s hospital bedside that read, “As ye sow, so shall ye reap.” Her parting shot made headlines across the country.
But all the violence had taken its toll. Queenie handed over much of the policy-making business to Bumpy. After leaving the numbers game, she turned her attention back to activism. In a move that would prove a bad decision, she met and married Sufi Abdul Hamid, born Eugene Brown. Much has been written about Hamid’s questionable past, and readers can do their own research on this matter. But after Hamid and another woman attempted to steal Queenie’s money so they could start their own business together, things quickly went downhill.
The marriage ended, and though the details are murky, Hamid was shot in 1938. Queenie was charged and convicted of attempted murder, but she denied it. In another infamous quip, she said, “If I had wanted him dead, he would be dead.”
After her release from prison—some say three years later, while others say a decade—Queenie continued writing and advocating for civil rights. By this time, Bumpy had also left the numbers game and had come to live with his friend, taking up reading and writing poetry.
Queenie died quietly and still quite wealthy in Central Islip, New York, in 1969, just shy of her seventy-third birthday. Bumpy had died a year previously from a heart attack he’d suffered in a Harlem restaurant.
Queenie had no children that we know of. There was no host of cousins, nor aunts, nor uncles. So much of her life remains a mystery, and I believe that’s just the way Madame St. Clair would have wanted it.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I was not born with a fountain pen in hand. I didn’t begin crafting stories at the tender age when other children were skipping rope or playing stickball. Neither did I pursue writing in college. No, I came to writing late—what some might consider really late. And that suits me just fine.
I can say without a shadow of a doubt that writing a book is simultaneously the most challenging and the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done. And I thank you, Eric, for driving me to the keyboard. You suggested, urged, and at one point, I think, demanded that I write. Few people can truly see you; I’m glad you took the time to see what was really in my heart.
And to my parents, Hosea and Ressie. It took me too long to recognize their individual and joint sacrifices. Things they did so that I could grow up in the kind of nourishing environment that allowed me to believe that I could do anything. They taught me the meaning of hard work, discipline, and tough love. In more ways than one, I wouldn’t be here without them.
To my siblings, my family (shout-out to the Henry, Galloway, and Strange clans), and my friends, and to every one of you who at some point or another put up with me, showed me a kindness, and supported and loved me.
I’m forever indebted to my agent, Mary C. Moore, for her willingness to be agent, editor, and cheerleader. You are a rarity these days, someone who looks for potential, not the quick home run. To my editors Adrienne Procaccini and Camille Rankine: I thank you for helping me make this book better than I ever hoped for. For understanding my vision and for believing in my work.
To everyone at 47North who helped bring Bacchanal to the world: thank you for all you do and for going on this ride with me.
Lastly, to my mentors, my beta readers, and to you, my fans: fist bumps, hugs, and thanks.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Veronica G. Henry was born in Brooklyn, New York, and has been a bit of a rolling stone ever since. Her work has appeared in various online publications. She is a graduate of the Viable Paradise Workshop and a member of SFWA.
Veronica is proud to be of Sierra Leonean ancestry and counts her trip home as the most important of her life. She now writes from North Carolina, where she eschews rollerballs for fountain pens and fine paper. Other untreated addictions include chocolate and cupcakes. For more information, visit www.veronicahenry.net.