Then Hang All the Liars

by Sarah Shankman

  Tomorrow, Emily promised herself, she’d give the Adamses a jingle. Or maybe, with luck, she’d run into George tonight at Margaret Landry’s party.

  Two

  In the middle of an opening-night party at the Players, a theater in Sweet Auburn just across the street from the Ebenezer Baptist Church and down the block from the first home of Martin Luther King, Jr., Sam Adams hid behind a potted palm. She was pretending to be a wallflower—actually more like a wall poppy in a bright red silk dress that did nothing to hide any of her considerable charms. She was sucking on a Perrier while she eavesdropped on two young girls.

  “So when’s Chill coming back from New York?” The blonde who was asking had a lot of vinegar in her voice.

  “Friday, Saturday—I suppose.”

  The I suppose was to let the blonde know she didn’t really care, didn’t give a hoot if Chill, whoever he was, was here or gone, and especially didn’t care that this little bitch with the twenty-four-karat hair was getting to her. But she cared all right. This long, tall drink of iced café au lait cared a lot. She tossed her head, and her wavy mane of brindled brown and russet did a flip over a golden shoulder.

  “So, what’s the story? I thought you two were something, an item, you know, and here he’s gone off to New York for three weeks.”

  “I told you already he’s up there getting a gig together.”

  “A what?”

  “A gig. A date at a rap club.”

  “Well, I guess I don’t know about all that kind of thing, Laura.”

  Sam shot a quick look back to Laura, the one she was rooting for. The girl was some black, some white, maybe a tad of something else exotic, the kind of mix that comes out gorgeous, which is what she was. Green-eyed, golden-skinned gorgeous, and so slender in a chartreuse silk slip of a dress that Sam dropped the last bite of a cheese hors d’oeuvre she’d been holding into the potted palm.

  “I know you don’t know, sugar,” Laura said, getting into it now. The blonde was about to get burned. “They don’t teach you Scotties nothing about show business, do they?”

  The girl’s range was something—from miming this little blue-eyed belle’s upper-class mush mouth to street talk without a bump.

  “Why, no, they don’t.”

  “Just teach y’all napkin folding and thank-you note writing?”

  “They most certainly do not! I’m an econ major.” The blonde straightened her back and jiggled her shoulders. “And I don’t know why you’re being so mean. Acting like you went to public school or something. I just asked you about Chill. I don’t know why you’re so upset.”

  But whatever Laura had stuck in her craw, she wasn’t giving it up so easily.

  “They teach you other stuff when you take your field trips over to the Squeeze?”

  Her tone was light, as innocent as cotton candy.

  Sam jerked and almost dropped her Perrier atop the discarded cheese puff. Incredible. Here she was lurking on deb types on the off chance she’d pick up some skinny about the joint on Peachtree at Tenth, and this pretty thing just fired its name like a bullet. She couldn’t believe her luck.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Uh-huh. I bet you do.”

  “I do not.”

  “Get real, Miranda. I know all about you.”

  “You do not!”

  With that, Miranda, finally realizing she’d bitten off more than she could chew, stomped away, flouncing the pink skirt of her party dress, just exactly the same shade, Sam bet, she’d worn when she was four. Showing a very neat little pair of legs.

  Certainly neat enough to shake up the dirty old men who were paying for peep shows and perhaps other kinds of extracurriculars staged by young girls of a certain station over at the Tight Squeeze.

  *

  Sam hadn’t been able to get the tip off her mind, the one her plainclothes friend Charlie had handed her over a beer last week. His beer. She’d been off the sauce for almost a decade.

  “Funny, ain’t it?” he’d asked, sliding an eye for the thousandth time over a badly painted nude hanging in Manuel’s front room. Sam’s favorite hangout was an old-fashioned place known for its camaraderie rather than its interior decoration.

  “What?”

  “I was just thinking, for all of its Bible-thumping, Atlanta’s one of the few places in the country where it’s legal for strippers to fraternize. Peel all the pretties off and shake it right in a man’s face.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Strip joints.”

  “And why to me?”

  “Hold your horses.” He took a long sip of beer. “Now about these strippers.”

  Sam couldn’t hold them. “You think this ace investigative reporter gives a damn about peelers? Ecdysiasts? Stripteuse?” She leaned back in the booth and dragged that last one out through her elegant nose, then slurped up another oyster.

  “You punch the button on your thesaurus?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But you didn’t say the magic words.”

  “So?”

  He reached under his badge and ID for his pen, then grabbed one of Manuel’s napkins. Charlie had a flair for the melodramatic, spent his nights off playing in amateur Gilbert and Sullivan productions. Sam had caught his not-bad baritone in H.M.S. Pinafore, which is why he said he kept doing her favors—so she wouldn’t tattle on his secret life. The truth was, she’d cozied up to and disarmed a shooter in a shopping-center parking lot the second week after she’d moved back to Atlanta and, in the process, saved Charlie’s life. It wasn’t the sort of thing that slipped his mind.

  She’d turned the napkin around. “I can’t read your writing.”

  “Society strippers.” He said it louder than he meant to, and a passing waiter shot them a look that Sam ricocheted back at Charlie.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You’re repeating yourself. Sure you don’t want another soda? No? Well, I’m talking about little girls in special, live-and-in-color performances over at Tight Squeeze, the strip hole. Talking doing the hootchy-kootch, then sometimes joining the clientele later for private parties—if you know what I mean.”

  “Who and how little and why?”

  “Well, we got a few from Agnes Scott—college tuition’s awfully high these days. Maybe the fifteen-year-olds do it to keep themselves in crack-flavored bubble gum. Or just for kicks, little rich girls flaunting their behinds. Hell, what do I know?”

  “Names?”

  “Let’s just say their daddies’ faces, frequently pictured on the front page of your rag, are gonna be awfully red if this gets out.”

  “We’re talking precocious girly acts and you’re hinting at occasional freelance juvenile prostitution starring the cream of nubile Atlanta society?”

  Of which, she reminded herself, she’d once been a part.

  “That’s pretty much the size of it. Photos of Vanessa Williams lost her the Miss America tiara ain’t got a thing on this stuff.”

  “Why me? Sounds like yours. You guys too busy?”

  “Sounds like a mine field blowing up is what it sounds like. Ain’t nobody downtown gonna touch it with somebody else’s dick.”

  Sam’s left eyebrow lifted. “Which is why you’re giving it to me?”

  “Don’t want to be messing with a man about his little girl.”

  “You think I do?”

  “Sammy, love, I think these folks are right down your alley. I also think you got a natural curiosity that, no matter what, is gonna get the best of you.”

  *

  So she’d opened a file and was hanging around in potted palms, which was pretty much how she worked, her deal with the paper being that if they wanted to steal her away from the San Francisco Chronicle, it would be on her terms. She dug up her own stories, unless they had something downtown that was too tasty to pass up, and she always worked alone. She dropped into the office in the rare off-moment, skipped the whol
e chain of command, reporting only grudgingly to Hoke Toliver, the managing editor, whom she’d just now spotted across the Players’ vestibule.

  He was giving her his Jack Nicholson grin behind the back of his wife, Lois. Sam raised her glass of Perrier with her middle finger extended; he saluted her with his ginger ale. Hoke was a recovering drunk, too, the only thing they had in common, she frequently reminded him. Except our mutual and enduring lust was his predictable reply which she just as routinely ignored.

  Suddenly there was a flurry of excitement, a drum roll, and then a burst of applause as Margaret Landry entered the room. Heads swiveled. Sam listened.

  “You were wonderful, sugar.”

  “Child, ain’t you something?”

  “Lady Macbeth’s got nothing on you!”

  An admiring swarm circled Margaret, but then it was her theater, her performance, her party, and she was the star.

  She surely looked it this opening night. She’d changed from Lady Macbeth’s robes to a flowing gown of gold cloth. Her hair was a reddish halo. Margaret Landry was a short, light-skinned black woman built like a diva. Her broad face was beautiful, her smile dazzled. She beamed now at the young beauty, Laura, who had enveloped her in a big hug.

  Then someone boomed, “A toast to Lady Margaret.” Sam recognized the speaker. It was Mayor Andrew Young. He raised his glass and added, “To her talent.”

  “Her beauty,” said Congressman John Lewis.

  “Amen,” called someone from the crowd.

  “Her spirit.”

  “Tell it, brother,” a woman added.

  “And her soul,” concluded former Mayor Maynard Jackson.

  The power was certainly out in force tonight.

  “Amen!”

  Feet were stomping, gold bangles jingled. The dressed-up and sophisticated crowd was making sounds like old-time religion, having a good time.

  Sam did a quick 360-degree turn around the room. Blacks outnumbered whites by about two to one, the same as the general population of New Atlanta. Not that there was anything ordinary about this crush of political and cultural movers and shakers, so elegant they glittered when they moved.

  A band tucked in a corner began to play. She bounced with the music, glad to be there. Yes indeedy, she’d done right coming home.

  “Ms. Adams! I am so delighted that you could come!”

  It was Margaret Landry, the lady herself. God, the woman positively glowed.

  “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. And I’m so flattered you recognize me.”

  “Why, everybody knows you. What with the fantastic work you’ve done in the past year, there’s never going to be any hiding your light under a bushel. My dear, you’re a star!”

  Margaret’s delivery had a kind of magic. A charisma that grabbed your attention and your imagination and thrilled you. She was bigger than life, a force of nature. Her very presence brought tears to your eyes.

  “Why, thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me.” She reached up and tapped Sam’s chin with a plump forefinger, giving her a dimple, Sam knew it. “Thank yourself.”

  And then, razzle-dazzle, Margaret was gone.

  Oh, yes. There was no place on earth Sam would rather be at this moment. These were good times. Good people. And no matter how long she’d hidden out there in California pretending she was a sunshine girl, Southerners were her kind of folks.

  She said as much to the good-looking older man who had just slipped his arm through hers, her Uncle George.

  “Indeed, indeed! Couldn’t agree more. Can’t imagine why you ran off and left us for so long.”

  She flashed him a watch-your-mouth look, but he just smiled.

  “You know,” he went on, “I remember when Margaret Landry first came to Atlanta, bound and determined to found her own acting group and equally set on its being the city’s first multiracial theater.”

  “People said it couldn’t be done, didn’t they, George? But you helped Margaret prove them wrong.” Miriam Talbot slid in and patted the arm of her neighbor and constant companion.

  “Well, I didn’t do all that much.”

  “That’s what he always says,” Miriam said to Sam. “But you know he used the weight of Simmons and Lee to do a lot of good. Certainly more than other attorneys I could name.”

  “Now, Miriam. Hold on. She’s still mad at Burton Simmons for serving divorce papers on Beau,” he said to Sam.

  “I know.”

  “And what are you grinning about?” Miriam asked Sam. “I swear, between the two of you, you certainly know how to pick on an old woman.”

  “Old woman, hell.” Sam hooted. “Besides, I can’t help it. You know I think stringing up would be too good for your son Beau.”

  “Ladies. My dear sweet ladies,” George interrupted, though he knew their bantering was all in good fun. Or almost all. “Samantha, how long are you going to have to be back in Atlanta before you relearn your good manners?”

  “If it hasn’t happened in a year, George, I wouldn’t be holding my breath,” Sam answered. “Besides, reporters don’t have manners. Not if they’re any good.”

  “And you are that.” He rumpled her dark curls. “We need more like you spreading the good word about the South.” He gestured around the room. “About successful ventures like this one.”

  “I think you have me confused with some other writer. Mine’s the murder and mayhem beat. Remember?” Then she cocked the trigger of an imaginary pistol at Hoke Toliver as he once again passed within firing range. “Of course, this week my esteemed managing editor is trying to con me into doing some color on a bus hijacking in Savannah.”

  Miriam turned just in time to see Hoke waggling his ears back at Sam. “I swear, that man hasn’t changed since he was a bad little boy coming over to play with Beau. Does he think that new editor brought you here to have you write about such nonsense?”

  “May I warn him that you’re going to put him over your knee if he doesn’t shape up?”

  “I might do just that.” Miriam paused as a waiter approached with a tray of champagne glasses. “Here, dear.” She carefully handed a tall glass to George who, mindful of his failing eyesight, took it gingerly. She turned back to Sam. “What are you working on these days?”

  “Strippers.”

  “Oh. Well!”

  “My dear,” said George, “I’d have thought by now you’d have learned better than to ask questions like that of Sam. No more than you’d want to know the details of Beau’s days.”

  Her son was the state’s chief medical examiner.

  “Oh, my goodness, no. I’d never ask.”

  “Sounds like a good plan to me, Miriam. Never does any good to ask men questions anyway.” The words riffed up and down the scale.

  Sam turned to find the owner of the wonderful voice, and there stood the most beautiful old woman she’d ever seen—every inch of five feet tall. Her posture was queenly, with clouds of white hair piled high like a crown. Sam straightened her shoulders.

  Miriam did the honors: “Felicity Edwards Morris. Samantha Adams.”

  “I’ve heard wonderful things about you from my sister, Emily. A beautiful woman isn’t long in Atlanta till word gets around.”

  “Considering the source of the compliment,” Sam said and smiled, with a nod toward Felicity’s loveliness, “I’m quite flattered.” Then she couldn’t resist reaching out and touching Felicity’s dress. “Is this a Fortuny?”

  Felicity ran a hand down the tiny pleats of fuchsia silk. “Yes, it was an antique when I bought it. A rather extreme example of the wisdom of buying good things, don’t you think? Sometimes I feel like a walking museum.” She tapped George’s lapel. “Have you had fun reconverting this prodigal child into a belle since she’s been home?”

  George rolled his eyes.

  “I’m afraid I’m incorrigible,” said Sam. “Though I’ve never gotten the South out of my blood, I never was much of a lady.”

  “You should have known
her when she was a teenager. She finagled me out of a little green sports car in lieu of a debut,” said her uncle. “It hasn’t gotten any better since then.”

  “What a delicious idea.” Felicity laughed. “You modern girls! I wish I’d half your spunk.”

  “Why, you went off to New York when you were just a child,” said Miriam.

  “Oh, yes, but—well, that was very different.”

  Sam watched as Felicity’s face clouded over. Her eyes unfocused and slid off somewhere. She began to sway, and Sam reached out, afraid that she was going to fall. But then she realized there was a rhythm to the motion, and Felicity was humming. Sam leaned closer.

  “Come to momma. My sweet…embrace me.”

  The words were jumbled, though she had the right tune.

  Sam turned to Miriam, but she and George had been lassoed into a conversation with a judge.

  Felicity began a graceful turn. The little fuchsia pleats curved and flowed.

  “Naughty baby…momma…embraceable…”

  Sam looked around the room. Neither cops nor doctors were ever around when you needed them. Where was Beau?

  “Hi, sweetie, are you having a good time?”

  Sam whirled. Thank God. The ever-capable Emily Edwards was throwing her arm around her sister’s shoulders.

  “How are we doing here?”

  Felicity shook her head, puzzled, but then her violet eyes snapped. She was on her way back.

  “Aren’t you proud of yourself, seeing all your hard work come to fruition tonight?” Emily continued as if Felicity hadn’t missed a beat.

  Felicity smiled up at her, all dimples now. The bad moment, whatever that was all about, was gone.

  Then Miriam and George were back. “Emily,” he exclaimed. “How nice to see you!”