Black Orchid Blues

by Persia Walker

  “Why?”

  “Just do it.”

  I did, but I wasn’t too thrilled with the tone of his voice. I was about to let him know it when … well, something about the way he put his pencil down and rose from his chair made me hold my tongue.

  He rounded his desk and came up to me. Then he reached around my waist, closed the blinds that covered the glass panel of his door, and took me in his arms. “Because,” he said, “I want to do this.”

  His kiss was luscious. It was so hard, so probing, that it left me dizzy. Then he released me, stepped back, and reopened the blinds.

  “Now,” he said, “let’s get down to business.” He gestured for me to take a seat and perched on the edge of his desk. “How’d it go with the Bernards?”

  I summed up their reaction to the cigar box.

  He was thoughtful. “So the Black Orchid really is related to the Bernards by marriage. Well, well, well.”

  Then I described the phone call from the kidnappers.

  “I don’t like it.” He rubbed his chin. “The Bernards are in over their heads.”

  “They’re terrified we’ll go to the police—”

  “We have to.”

  “What?”

  “I went to see Ramsey.”

  “Oh.” I suddenly felt ill. Ramsey was the executive editor. What he said went, and he was no fan of mine. “What did he say?”

  “Bottom line is we have to tell the police what we know.”

  “Shouldn’t we put the family’s wishes first? We don’t have the right to make this kind of decision on our own.”

  “By keeping mum, we could be doing them more harm than good. And we could be setting ourselves up for charges of obstruction.” He paused. “I’m sorry.”

  “All right. But can I at least warn them?”

  “That’s up to you. And you will tell Blackie about the box and the letter in it.”

  “The letter! But—”

  “You don’t need to give the name of the family or individuals to whom the letter was addressed. Okay?”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “You don’t have a choice.”

  “No,” I said slowly, “I don’t.” I eyed him as if he were a traitor. “The Bernards will be furious.”

  “I’ll accept that.”

  “You’ll accept it? I’m the one who’ll have to deal with them.”

  “If you can’t handle them, just send them my way.”

  All I could do was shake my head. “You’re stirring up a hornet’s nest. And for nothing!”

  “I’m looking out for this paper.”

  “We’ll upset the Bernards. They won’t talk to us anymore.”

  “They’re not ‘talking’ to us now. They only let you in because of that damn box. It’s the kidnapper who’s cut you in, not them.”

  He was right.

  “Fine. But what about Blackie? He’ll demand to know our sources.”

  “You just don’t tell him. Simple.”

  “Yeah. Simply impossible.” I gave him a look of utter exasperation. “So, when’s this little interview supposed to take place?”

  “Whenever we can arrange it. The sooner, the better.”

  “Like tomorrow?”

  “Like right now.” He leaned over his desk and pushed the phone to me.

  I looked from the phone to him, quietly fuming. “I gave the Bernards my word.”

  “The decision’s been made.”

  With obvious reluctance, I picked up the phone and held it in my lap. I cranked it up and stuck the black horn-shaped receiver to my ear, leaning forward and shifting slightly away from Sam as I did so. Then I lightly rested my thumb on the drop hook—cutting off the connection—and started dialing.

  “Detective Blackie, please,” I said, talking into the dead mouthpiece. “This is Lanie Price of the Harlem Chronicle calling.”

  Sam went back to sit behind his desk.

  I went on: “He’s not there? … Working the Cinnamon Club massacre. … Yes … Yes, I know, but …” I glanced at Sam to see if he was listening. He was sitting in profile, staring at a map on the wall.

  My imaginary conversation continued. “Mm-hmm, I see … Yes, I understand, but … Well, would you at least take a message, please? … Yes, a message … All right, I’ll just—”

  I stopped abruptly, stared at the bell-shaped mouthpiece. “Would you believe he hung up on me? Said Blackie was too busy to talk to nosy reporters.” Sam swiveled back around. “I thought you knew everyone down there.”

  “Yes, well, there’s always a new one.” I replaced the receiver, set the phone back on Sam’s desk. “You see? I tried. They don’t want to hear from me.”

  “Try again later—and next time, take your finger off the hook.”

  The phone suddenly rang. He reached for it and I got up to go. But he raised a finger for me to wait.

  There’s more? I wondered. I dropped back down in the chair and prepared to wait, worried and fidgeting.

  He kept the call short, hung up, and paused in thought. Whatever he had to say, I was not going to like it.

  “Given what’s happened,” he began, “I’ve decided to put out a special edition. It’ll—”

  “Sam, no!” Memories of the Todd case, when one of my articles inspired a killing, shot across my mind. “This is a man’s life we’re talking about. Telling the police is one thing, but printing it is another.”

  He held up a hand. “We’ll only report on the news conference. We won’t mention the cigar box. That make you happy?”

  Happy wasn’t quite the word for it. Relieved, though. “Thank you.” I moved toward the door. “I’ll get to work on the story, right after the news conference.”

  “No, Lanie, you won’t.” His voice stopped me.

  I turned back, puzzled. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re off the story.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  I felt as though I’d been punched. “I … I don’t understand. Why?”

  “Journalism 101. You don’t report on a story when you’re part of it. And you are definitely part of this one. Whether you wanted to be or not, you’re knee-deep in it. And it’s affecting your judgment.”

  “No, I—”

  “Decision’s made.”

  “But I’m objective.”

  He gave me a sorrowful look. “No, baby. You’re not.”

  “Don’t baby me. I’m a professional, just like you. And I do my job, just like you.”

  “I know that.”

  I threw up my hands. “I don’t believe this! Who are you giving it to?”

  He nodded to a point past my shoulder. “Selena.”

  “Selena! You can’t, she—”

  He raised a hand to hush me. “Now, I know you don’t like her.”

  “Oh, and you do?”

  “Lanie, don’t go there.”

  “Not possible. I don’t like her. I don’t trust her. And neither should you.”

  “Why not?” He met me eye-to-eye. “Fact is, Selena has never done anything to undermine my trust. And, unlike someone else I know, she has never done anything to endanger this paper.”

  Another reference to the Todd case. It stung. “That’s not fair.”

  “But it’s true. You don’t like her. Fine. To do your job, you don’t have to.”

  I forced myself to swallow my anger. While I had lost the fight to keep my story, I sure meant to have a say over who got it. I tried to sound reasonable: “Sam, please. She hasn’t earned the right to cover a story like this. Why not George Greene?”

  “Greene’s good, but he’s distracted. His wife is expecting a baby any minute. I need somebody who’s going to give this story his all—just like you would—and that person is Selena.”

  “But—”

  “I repeat: decision’s made.”

  We stared at one another for several long seconds. How could we have moved so quickly from a warm kiss to the coolness of t
his decision? He’d known what he was planning to do when I entered the office. He’d already been planning to take my story away when he held me in his arms. I felt so betrayed.

  There was nothing left to say. I went to the door, grabbed the knob. “Blackie’s news conference starts in ten minutes. I’ll talk to Selena as soon as I get back.”

  “You’ll talk to her now, and you’ll take her with you.”

  Stung once more, I turned back. “This is wrong, Sam. Wrong.”

  “It’s done.”

  It took all my strength not to say what was on my mind. I left. Even did so without slamming his door. I was proud of that.

  I strode past Selena’s desk. “Get your stuff. You’re coming with me. Now!”

  CHAPTER 18

  I hurried over to my desk and grabbed my hat. I was just swinging my coat over my shoulders when the telephone chirped. Although I was in a hurry, my hand went to it automatically. Before I could even say hello, a big voice boomed in my ear.

  “Hello, dahling! Comment ça va?”

  “Jack-a-Lee?” I was surprised to hear his voice. It wasn’t even noon yet. Like many denizens of the night, he rarely went to bed before five a.m. and usually slept his days away.

  “I know, dahling. I’m stunned myself. I just couldn’t sleep.”

  “No?”

  “No. You see, ever since our little tête-à-tête, I’ve been wondering. How can I help Lanie? Hmm? Dear, sweet Lanie. And then it came to me. So utterly simple. And so appropriate.”

  Selena sauntered over to me, her dark eyes furious at the way I’d spoken to her. She opened her mouth to say something but I held up a finger to shush her, then spoke into the phone. “I have to go. I have a—”

  “Don’t rush me, dahling. Let me savor it. It isn’t every day that I get to help you, a star reporter, break a major case that not even the New York Police Department, with all of its frigging detectives, can crack.”

  I covered the mouthpiece with my hand, held it away, and spoke to Selena: “Blackie’s starting a news conference over at the station. It’s about the Black Orchid kidnapping. You can go on over and I’ll meet you in a minute.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “You mean, I—”

  “Yes. Go!”

  She gave me a smirk and a knowing nod. “Finally, Sam realizes that you can’t cover shit.”

  “And you’ll be deep in it if you don’t get going.”

  She turned up her nose and trotted away with an air of self-importance. As soon as she was out of earshot, I removed my hand from the mouthpiece and put the phone back to my ear. Jack-a-Lee was still prattling on.

  “… It’s so obvious they don’t know their asses from their elbows. But you, m’dear, are sharp as a ta—”

  “Jack-a-Lee, what is this all about?”

  “Why, I told you. I’m going to help you break this case wide open. And when you win whatever awards you people win, I want a front-row seat and my name featured prominently in your little acceptance speech.”

  “You have thirty seconds. Then I’m hanging up.”

  “Patience, dahling. I just want to confirm our little arrangement for next Friday’s ball. It’ll be a front-page photograph, hmmm? Just like you promised. I have the most luscious outfit. I’m sure to win top prize. You’ll die when you see it. Trust me, this’ll be one costume they’ll remember. I’ve just about outdone myself.”

  “I’m hanging up now.”

  “All right! All right!” He gave an exasperated sigh. “I’ve done what no one else could do, would have even dared think to do.” He paused dramatically.

  I said nothing.

  He sucked his teeth. “I tell you, Lanie. You are turning into a—”

  “Jack-a-Lee! One, two, three—”

  “Okay, okay! I have set up a meeting between you and … guess who?”

  I straightened up. “Olmo? You’ve found Olmo?”

  “Hell no! Much better than that. I’ve set you up with the man himself.”

  “Stax Murphy?” I dropped down in my chair and lowered my voice to an intense whisper. “You got me an appointment with Stax Murphy?”

  “I sure did.”

  “How did you …? You said—”

  “I’m a miracle worker. What can I say?”

  “Oh, Jack-a-Lee, thank you—”

  “Save the gratitude for later. You’ve got to get a move on.”

  “Why? When is it?”

  “Now.”

  “What?”

  “He’s sending a car for you. Look for a black Packard. It should be pulling up downstairs in front of your office building door …” he paused and hummed, “in exactly two minutes.”

  “But—”

  “Like I said, no need to thank me, dahling. I know I’m wonderful. Get going. If you’re not there when they pull up, they won’t stop. Play nice, have fun, and toodle-loo. I’ll see you at the ball.”

  Then he was gone. I hung up and sat for a second. Was I going to do this? Was I really going to meet with Stax Murphy? On my own, with no backup? My gaze roamed around at the newsroom, not really seeing anything.

  Yes, I was.

  I grabbed a sheet of paper, thinking I should type a note. But words failed me. If this didn’t work out, they wouldn’t know where to find me anyway. Meanwhile, I could be missing my ride.

  Ignoring the elevator, I slammed through the door leading to the stairway and rushed down the stairs. I really should’ve left a message, told someone what I was up to. But there was no time.

  No time.

  They had planned it that way. Timed it so that I wouldn’t be able to notify anyone or set up an ambush. Timed it so I wouldn’t have time to think.

  Then again, if I had said something, Sam wouldn’t have let me go. I put thoughts of him aside.

  Why did Murphy want to see me? Was this a trap? Had he heard that I was looking for him and now considered me a danger? Did he want to silence me? Why hadn’t I asked Jack-a-Lee what he’d told Stax Murphy?

  No time, that’s why.

  My heart was pounding when I got downstairs. I sprinted across the lobby just in time to see a black Packard ease past the front door. It was the kind of large, ostentatious car that told the world you had dough. I caught up to it and banged on the front passenger window. The man inside glanced up and the car slowed to a stop.

  I stepped back as the door flew open. A heavyset man emerged. He wore a long, black coat and a fedora pulled down to one side, obscuring most of his face.

  The build, the clothing: his resemblance to the kidnapper was so strong that bolts of fear shot through me. But there was a sense of exhilaration too. I was on the right track. This wasn’t the Black Orchid’s kidnapper, but he wore his uniform.

  He was a branch from the same tree.

  CHAPTER 19

  He forced me into the backseat. Another large man waited inside. Within seconds, I was cuffed and blindfolded. The cuffs were heavy. They weren’t tight, just cold, and at least they’d cuffed me with my hands to the front.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  They said nothing.

  “Are we going far?” I asked.

  They said nothing.

  Suppose this was a trap? Was Jack-a-Lee really just a convenient go-between, or was he working for Stax? He’d given me Olmo’s name. He wouldn’t have done that if he’d been working for Stax, would he? Maybe that’s it. He’d asked around, gotten too close, and now Stax had him. Maybe he’d made the call under duress. But no, he hadn’t sounded nervous. He’d sounded just fine.

  I tried to clear my head. These men who picked me up had not been rough, simply efficient and silent. Their demeanor revealed nothing about Stax’s intent.

  If Stax meant to kill me, then what would I do? What could I do? Panic surged through me once again. What in the world had I been thinking? Getting into a car with some strange men, heading off to see a kidnapper—a killer—with no word to Sam or the newspaper. Yes, Jack-a-Lee knew, but if someth
ing went wrong, he wouldn’t open his mouth.

  There was nothing I could do about it now. And truth be told, I would have done the same if I had it to do all over again.

  Stax could have only two possible motives in wanting to meet—to find out what I knew and then kill me, or to find out what I believed and then persuade me otherwise.

  The car swung sharply to the left and I swayed in the other direction. After a series of sudden turns, I gave up trying to keep track of the rights and lefts; there were too many. I couldn’t tell how long we drove in any one direction, either. I tried to listen for indicative sounds, but the windows were rolled up, sealing out everything but my own breathing. All I could say with certainty was that the drive wasn’t long, no more than five minutes or so.

  We rolled to a stop. I heard the front passenger door open, then mine. The dank smell of the river hit me.

  “Get out!” a rough male voice said.

  I stumbled out of the car. A chilling breeze slapped me in the face. It scissored around my ankles and I heard the rumble of metal doors opening. Strong hands gripped me by the elbow on either side. Hard voices warned me of steps, then dragged me up five metal stairs. I tripped over an iron bar on the floor at the top, in what must have been the doorway. They caught me and led me inside, then the doors closed behind me with a hollow clang. I sensed that I was in some expansive, empty space, a warehouse, perhaps. But with the blindfold, I could see nothing.

  The hands guided me forward a few steps before one of the men said, “Hold it.”

  I heard another door open. There was a bang at my feet. A disgusting smell, of fecal matter, of rot and mildew, wafted up.

  “The stairs are right in front of you,” a voice said. He was to my left, behind me. “There’s about twenty of them. One of us is already in front. I’ll be in back. Go slow and you won’t trip.”

  “Can’t you take the blindfold off?”

  No answer. Just a light but firm pressure at the base of my spine, the prod of a gun muzzle. Tentatively, I put one foot forward, seeking that first step. I found it and eased down. Every step felt as though I were hanging out into the middle of nowhere. I would take a step with my right foot and then bring my left foot down next to it. I managed to get down three stairs this way. Then my right heel caught and I pitched forward. The henchman in front caught me and straightened me up.