“You’ve got the dough?” He waved a feathered fan, revealing the pistol.
“Threatening to bomb this place, that wasn’t a good idea.”
“Sure it was, or else you wouldn’t be here.”
He stood, all glittering six-feet-three of him, and walked toward me, the gun held straight and sure, pointed directly at my midriff.
“Turn around, lean against the wall.”
I did as told.
He patted me down, his large hands covering every inch. “Where’s the dough?”
I turned to face him. “I don’t have it.”
Despite his considerable makeup and the dusky half-light, I could see his complexion deepen with anger. He slapped me sharply across the face. I staggered, but managed to stay on my feet. He looked as though he wanted to slap me again.
“Lanie, I like you. I like you very much. But make no mistake about it: I will shoot you if you try to screw me over. Now where the hell is my dough?”
“It’s outside.” I wiped my lip. It stung, but there was no blood. “It’s the weirdest thing. I didn’t feel like carrying the extra weight.”
“You want to know about extra weight?” He grabbed my hand, forced it to his breasts. Made me feel one, then the other. They were hard as rocks. “Grenades,” he said. “And dynamite up my sleeve.” He was ready to blow the place to kingdom come.
“I don’t have the package on me. It was too dangerous.”
“Where is it?”
“In the ladies’ room.”
His lips curled into a grim smile. “I’m tempted to kill you right here.” He put his mask back on and shoved me to the door. “Move.”
I opened the door and a wall of sound hit me. The music was loud and boisterous, and the crowd was in high spirits. Queenie’s gun nudged me forward.
The path to the ladies’ room took us back across the dance floor. Blackie’s men should’ve been on high alert by now. They should have noticed my disappearance, sensed that something was wrong. As soon as I stepped on to the dance floor, they would see me. They’d have to. And then it would be over. Blackie’s men would take Queenie out and free me from this nightmare.
I started toward the main area, and felt the gun press harder into my side.
“Wrong direction,” Queenie whispered.
“But—”
“Don’t insult me, Slim. The boxes are filthy with cops.”
I tensed. “Then what—”
“Turn left. We’ll go around the side.” He gave me another jab.
We walked along the perimeter of the dance floor. It was less packed there, and blanketed in shadows. During the short time I had been in the room with Queenie, the crowd seemed to have doubled. I wondered if this was the last time I’d be here.
Blackie’s men weren’t particularly trying to hide now. Just a glance upward and I saw them, glimpsed the business end of a rifle poking over the edge of the balcony.
Queenie saw them too. He bent and hissed into my right ear: “If they take me, I’ll take you—you and every other damn fool in the place. You got me?”
I nodded, knowing it was true.
A little further, we passed a cop. I didn’t know him by face, didn’t need to. You hang around cops long enough, you learn to recognize them. Same expressions. Same stance. Same way of watching. This one was standing at the edge of the crowd. In costume, like everyone else, but modest. Some kind of western outfit. A good choice. A workman’s shirt, some denims, a cowboy hat. To onlookers, the holster and gun made sense. It’s like hiding in plain sight. His costume was good, but he didn’t seem to know it; he looked embarrassed. That was the tell. You didn’t come to the Faggots’ Ball if you were the kind who got embarrassed. You stayed home and read about it in the newspaper afterward.
Queenie made him an instant after I did. The cop glanced our way.
“Smile,” Queenie whispered.
I tried, but my lips felt numb.
“Come on, now,” Queenie said. “Do it like you mean it.”
I gave a polite nod. The cop hesitated, then smiled back and tipped his hat. His eyes lingered for a moment before he returned his attention to the crowd.
“Good,” Queenie whispered. “You just saved his life. Now, go.”
We moved fast after that. My thoughts raced ahead. The ladies’ room would be crowded. Queenie might end up killing someone.
“You won’t want to go in there,” I said.
“Why not?”
“It’ll be crowded. You’d better stay outside by the door.”
“Oh, so now you’re looking out for my interests?”
“No, mine. If somebody does something stupid in there, then you’ll do something stupid.”
“Like shoot?”
“Yeah, like that.”
We reached the door of the ladies’ room. “Hold it.” Queenie stopped me. “You sure it’s in there, Slim?”
I nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “Then we’re heading in there together. I’m not going to stand out here like a fool, waiting to be recognized. I’ll hang by the door while you get the dough.”
I pushed open the door to find a knot of women bunched just inside.
“Shit,” Queenie muttered.
There were seven or eight women waiting in line ahead of us—Park Avenue types on an adventure trip to Harlem, a club by the looks of them. They were all dressed similarly: white empire waist dresses and little gold tiaras.
“I ain’t got all day,” Queenie hissed. “Where’d you put it, Slim?”
I motioned toward one of the stalls by the far window. “In the tank, fourth one down, second from the wall.”
Queenie whipped out the gun and leveled it at the women. With screams of terror, they backed up against one another and huddled against the wall. Queenie was so close he couldn’t miss if he pulled that trigger.
“Now, this is how we’re going to play it, ladies: my friend here has to fetch something she foolishly left in the stalls. Nothing will happen as long as you stay quiet. But if you move, if you even make the slightest noise, I’ll fix you. Got that?”
Seven heads bobbed in unison.
Queenie turned to me. “Go get it.”
As I took a step toward the stall, the door behind Queenie banged open and a woman stepped inside. She glanced at Queenie, registered the gun, and said, “What the hell?!”
“Get over there.” Queenie gestured for her to join the other women against the wall.
She cocked an eyebrow at him and put her hands on her hips. “Now, I know you ain’t talking to me.”
“I said—”
“Now, you obviously don’t know me, but I—”
Queenie cocked the trigger.
The woman merely smiled. “You can’t be that stupid. You let loose and them cops out there, they gonna be all over you.”
Queenie hesitated. He glanced at me, at the frightened pack of women. “What y’all staring at?” He leaned back to me. “What the fuck are you waiting for? Go get it.”
I started toward the stall again, but the woman grabbed me by the arm. “Uh-huh,” she said. “I gotta go bad, so the next one’s for me.”
Queenie lifted the gun with a roar, then swung and clipped the woman on the jaw. She staggered backward, but didn’t go down. She dabbed at her bloodied lip.
“Why you stupid mother—”
“Make another move, say another word,” Queenie warned, “and I’ll shoot. And I don’t give a good hot damn who comes through that door, cause hell or high water, you’ll be dead.”
She glanced at me, like we were in this together. We weren’t. She was about to get herself killed, and perhaps others with her.
“Don’t be stupid,” I said. “If you want to die, then that’s on you. But once he starts shooting, all hell will break loose, and it won’t be just you. It’ll be me and maybe others too.”
Something changed in her eyes and I knew she was going to back down. I shoved the stall door open and went inside.
Queenie now stood just outside the stall, where he could keep an eye on me and the other women. “If you bring anything out of there—anything but the dough—then I will take you down.”
I lifted the toilet tank lid and peered inside. I didn’t see the package. My heart stopped. Where could it be?
I plunged my hands into the water and felt around frantically. Then my fingers touched something. There! It’s there!
I snatched the parcel out. It looked untouched. I was so relieved I clutched the dripping mess to my chest. Then I emerged and held out the parcel to Queenie.
“Dry it,” he ordered.
I grabbed a towel and hurriedly wiped it down.
“Now open it,” he said.
I unfolded the layers of oilcloth to expose a dry envelope. I showed Queenie the bearer bonds.
“Very good.” He snatched the envelope out of my hands and shoved it into his bosom between the grenades. “Okay, now you go out first.”
I moved past him, deeply aware of the gun trained on my back. The other women stared hard, their mouths parted in fear. Even the loud-mouthed one seemed to have finally understood what was at stake.
Then I was at the door.
“Hold it,” Queenie said behind me. “We’re going to take it slow, just like we did when we came. No sudden moves. No secret hand signals or stupid shit like that. You got me?”
I barely managed a nod.
It was not enough for Queenie. “What was that, Slim? I didn’t hear you.”
“Y-yes,” I stammered. “I understand.”
“Good.” He gave me a little push.
We stepped into a corridor off the main room and started to retrace our steps. The party was in full swing. It seemed as though we had been in that bathroom for hours, as the party was wilder, the crowd louder, the laughter raunchier.
I had to get Queenie out of there, away from all these people. I picked up the pace, pushing through the crowd. I glanced over my shoulder, saw Queenie an arm’s length away.
“Which way?” I mouthed.
He motioned toward the right.
Up ahead, where we had entered, a cop was stationed on the corner.
We almost made it.
My gaze touched the cop, merely brushed him, but he felt it. He turned. Our eyes met, and I suppose he saw something there, because he shifted to the left, to Queenie, and he definitely saw something there.
He was fast, but not fast enough. It was over in seconds. One shot and a man was down.
There was a sudden hush, then a terrified scream. Queenie reached for his breast. Pulled out a grenade. With his teeth, he yanked out the pin.
“No!” I screamed, and lunged toward him.
Queenie batted me aside and lobbed the grenade. He threw it high. Then he yanked me by the arm and shoved me forward. “Go right and keep to the side.”
Behind us, the blast was deafening. By then, we’d turned the corner. We were in the corridor. More screams, big chunks of plaster raining down, and smoke. So much thick smoke. And a rain of warm red drops and soft pink matter.
Queenie pointed forward. “Up there. A stairway. We’re taking it to the roof.” He knew exactly where he was going.
I scrambled up the stairs, with Queenie pushing me from behind. I had to hold my long skirt to keep from tripping. In no time, we were one flight below the roof. Moonlight filtered through the dingy skylight overhead. There was a commotion downstairs. Blackie’s men. They’d gotten through.
“Hurry up!” Queenie gave me another shove.
We moved up the last flight of steps double-time, but the cops clattering behind us came into view. One fired off a shot that passed just under Queenie’s nose. He produced a second grenade, pulled the pin, and tossed it down at them. I twisted away and dashed up the stairs. The grenade exploded below. People screamed, the building shook, and Queenie laughed. Within seconds, he had caught up to me.
“We’re in this together, Slim.”
The door to the roof was locked. He shot off the lock and yanked open the door. The frigid cold was a shock. I was half-naked and in sandals. Queenie dragged me to the edge of the roof and peered down.
The street below was brightly lit and swarming with cops, most of them watching the Casino’s main entrance. Blackie had blocked off both ends of the street, from Eighth Avenue to the river. Traffic was snarled with angry drivers who simply wanted to get through.
“There’s no way out,” I said, trembling. “Please, Queenie, this is madness.”
“Shut up!”
He glanced left, right, then saw something that made him smile. “Over there.”
The roof to the Casino adjoined that of another building, and that adjoined another. We clambered from rooftop to rooftop, building to building, until we reached the last structure overlooking the river. The street below had been barricaded, but only one patrolman stood guard, and he was directing traffic.
“Here,” Queenie said. “We go down here.”
I glanced at the fire escape. It looked none too safe.
“No,” he said. “We go right through the building. Hidden from prying eyes.”
He found a loose brick, used it to bash off the padlock securing the door to the inside, and hustled me down a poorly lit stairway.
The place was a warehouse, closed for the night. Queenie pried open a window and made me climb through. We were in an alley between buildings. The cop directing traffic was more than half a block away and hadn’t noticed a thing. Queenie stepped in front of a car paused for the light, put his gun in the driver’s face, and told him to get out. Then he ordered me into the driver’s seat. He piled in beside me and said, “Drive!”
“Where to?”
His answer stunned me.
CHAPTER 41
Ten minutes later we pulled into the dark alleyway that ran between 139th and 140th Streets. I navigated past the other parked cars and drew to a stop behind the Bernards’ house.
Queenie let us in through the back door and guided me up the small stairway that led to the ground floor. The first thing I noticed was the smell. It was a mixture of blood and human waste.
When we rounded the landing, I glanced into the front parlor. It was immaculate and undisturbed. So where was the odor coming from? But then a cold breeze swept through an upstairs window and down the stairs, and I knew.
None of this is real, I told myself. It can’t be.
But it was. The situation was real and dangerous and my chances of survival were dwindling with every step.
Think. Stay calm and think.
Could I lock myself in a room? Send a signal to someone in the street? Find a telephone? Maybe even start a fire?
I felt a deepening sense of dread. If I did somehow survive, then I’d be climbing these steps in nightmares for months to come.
Queenie prodded me with the gun. “Get going.”
At the parlor level, I paused. “It’s so quiet in here.”
“Looking for Junior’s mommy and daddy? They’re upstairs, waiting for you to join them.”
I saw the blood when we reached the second-floor landing. Droplets marked a trail leading from front to back. Queenie nudged me down the hall toward the front bedroom. I made it as far as the door. Even the gun at my back couldn’t make me go further.
Alfred and Phyllis Bernard were in there all right. Each had been trussed to a dining room chair, their wrists bound behind them. Both were nude and drenched in blood, which also spattered the walls and the ceiling, dotting the floor leading to where I stood.
“Go on. Get inside. I want you to take a good look.”
Queenie gave me another shove. I came up short before Phyllis Bernard.
Overkill did not begin to describe it.
Her head was thrown back, her knees tied together. Her eye sockets were gaping blood-filled holes. Her eyeballs hung on her cheeks, barely attached by strands of tissue. He’d finished her off by slashing her throat.
He’d emasculated Dr. Berna
rd, stuffed the genitals into the doctor’s mouth. Bernard’s eyes were intact but grayed over. From the way they bulged, he appeared to have been garroted. There was a silk tie around his neck. It had been knotted into a bow tie and cinched so tight that it cut into his flesh.
“What do you think?” Queenie asked.
He stood at my side, surveying his handiwork. I didn’t answer.
A large gilded mirror hung on the wall above the fireplace. Scrawled on it was a message in red lipstick: To Phyllis, you blind bitch. May your eyeballs RIP. To Daddy Mojo: For all the years you made me suck, now it’s your turn. Kick it, baby.
So much hatred. So much fury. Why?
The most chilling line came last: Hi Lanie, I’ll be seeing you.
“I had planned to be long gone when you found this,” Queenie said, “but obviously my plans had to change.”
Trembling, I backed away. He grabbed hold of me, but I pulled loose.
“I’m going to be sick,” I gasped, and he stepped aside.
I hurried down the hall to the bathroom and came to a stop. Quick impressions of a bloody butcher knife in the sink, watery pink stains in the tub, pink splatters on the walls. I lurched toward the sink and snatched up the knife, but Queenie was right behind me. He grabbed my arm and bent it back, then wrenched the knife away. He studied it for a moment, faintly smiling, as though examining a favorite memento. Then he regarded me and without a word punched me in the gut. That was it. My stomach heaved. I dropped to my knees, leaned over the toilet, and let go.
Queenie stood in the doorway, watching with disdain. “Tough crime reporter, huh? I thought you would handle it better than this.”
I ignored him, gasping and puking my guts out. Two wretched minutes later, I leaned against the wall, feeling dizzy and gripping the chain to flush the toilet. Anger replaced sickness. “You gutted those people. You slaughtered them.”
“I gave them one last grand old time.” He hauled me to my feet.
I swatted his hand away. “Is that why you brought me here, to give me a grand old time too?”
“Mm-hmm. But not the way you think. We’re business partners. I told you: I’m gonna give you what I’ve given no other, a chance to write my story, to see inside my head. So you can drop the self-righteousness, Slim. You’re gonna earn fame and fortune off of me, and you know it. Now, come on upstairs. We’ve got to change.”
Black Orchid Blues Page 20
