Black Orchid Blues

by Persia Walker

  “No!”

  His lips twisted into a snarl. “Not again. Please, Slim. Don’t make me—”

  “I said no. I’m not going anywhere with you.” I was not being brave, I was exhausted. The farmer’s death had shocked me, had snapped some fine filament of trust I thought I’d built with Queenie. It had shattered my last illusions about any influence I had over him.

  “I genuinely liked you,” I said. “And I wanted to help you. Despite all you did, I actually thought I could save you. But nobody can.” I shook my head. “I must’ve been out of my mind.”

  He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Instead, he fell back a step. He raised one hand to his forehead and blinked. A look of confusion crossed his face. He blinked again and shuddered, like a dog shaking off water. For a moment, he seemed to be choking. He heaved down, gasping for air. Then the spasm was over. He fixed his eyes on me and said, “Get in the car.”

  “No.”

  He grabbed me by the arm and dragged me to it. I tried to throw away the farmer’s keys, but Queenie forced my hand down. I kicked and clawed, but he was stronger. He yanked open the driver’s-side door and shoved me inside. Keeping the rifle trained on me, he went around and clambered in the other side.

  “Now, it’s Canada,” he said with gritted teeth. “Canada or bust!”

  CHAPTER 50

  The Studebaker was several years old, but its wheels had a better grip than the Ford had. The dirt road leading from the barn to the main road circled past the house. As I maneuvered my way, the car rocking from side to side on the uneven surface, I peered over toward the house. A curtain twitched at an upstairs window.

  I shot a look over at Queenie, wondering if he’d seen it. He sat forward, leaning on the butt end of the rifle. He was tense, his eyes moving left and right like searchlights. Still, he did appear to have noticed the slight movement.

  “Hope you’re satisfied,” I said, more to distract him than anything else.

  He glanced at me, but kept his silence. I felt reassured. If he’d seen anything, he would’ve reacted.

  “You know what I’m thinking?” he said. “I’m thinking that Farmer John probably wasn’t living there all by himself—not in a big house like that.”

  I said nothing. Maybe he had seen something. Maybe he hadn’t needed to. Logic was telling him what a chance glance had told me—that there was somebody left to sound an alarm.

  “I’m thinking,” Queenie continued, “that maybe we should go back and clean house.”

  Imperceptibly, I pushed down harder on the gas pedal and the car picked up a notch. Queenie didn’t seem to notice. He’d shifted and was staring back at the house.

  “Turn around,” he said.

  I acted as though I hadn’t heard him and pressed even harder on the gas pedal. The increase in speed was obvious now.

  Queenie swung around. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Getting us out of here. That’s what you wanted, right?”

  “I told you to—”

  “Turning around, it’s not going to work, not on this road. Furthermore, if there’s anybody back there—and that’s a big if—they’ve called the cops already, don’t you think? We go back there now, we’ll be sitting ducks.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Funny how you can go from not giving a damn about me one minute to being my best friend the next.”

  I just kept my eyes on the road. After a few seconds, Queenie settled down, faced forward. I let out a slow breath.

  “Signs up ahead,” I said. “We’ll be on the main road in a few.”

  Queenie tensed. “There could be cops. Do it right, Slim. Do it right.”

  For the next five or six minutes, we rode together in tight silence. There were no cops. I relaxed a little. Then we hit a road where the snow had melted and the driving got better. I relaxed a little more.

  Another ten minutes went by.

  Soon the road turned upward to a steady slope. Steeper and steeper it went. It narrowed and bent at unexpected angles. I was not a confident driver under the best circumstances. This was the worst: a narrow, twisting road with a drop-off on one side to a cold, rushing river below. The higher we climbed, the worse conditions became. Patches of ice on the road and a gun at my side: nervous was an understatement. Our speed slowed to a crawl.

  “Pick it up,” Queenie said, staring up at the rearview mirror.

  I shook my head. “I can’t. There’s ice and—”

  Queenie twisted in his seat to look backward. “Pick up the fuckin’ speed. Now!”

  “Why? What—?”

  Now I glanced up at the mirror. A police car. Around five car lengths back. It had crept up on us. I was sure that thirty seconds earlier it hadn’t been there. Was it after us, or did it just happen to be behind us? I almost hoped it was the latter. A chase on this road would kill us all.

  “Move!”

  Queenie jerked back around. He slammed his foot down on top of mine, forcing the accelerator to the floor. The Studebaker hitched forward, gathering speed. Behind us, the police siren suddenly split the air. No doubt about it, they were after us now. We were moving fast, but they were moving faster. I dropped my gaze back to the road. How long could I drive this fast without losing control?

  Then the tires lost their grip and the car swerved to one side.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Queenie yelled, and grabbed the wheel.

  We fought for control, the car zigzagging right and left. Up ahead, the road veered sharply. We were going to hit the turn at full speed. I tapped the brakes, hoping to slow down, but Queenie kept his big foot firmly pressed down over mine.

  “Stop!” I screamed. “You’re going to get us killed!”

  The car hit the bend. I wrenched the wheel hard and the car swiveled around. The force threw Queenie up against me. The impact of his body mashed me against the door. The Studebaker spun once, then twice, and came to a nerve-rattling halt.

  Later, I would recall an eternity of silence—maybe due to a momentary deafness caused by the crash—but in reality, the whole thing couldn’t have taken more than seconds. I was aware that Queenie was reaching across me, flinging open the driver’s-side door.

  “Get out,” he whispered.

  “But—”

  “Get out!” He flinched as though against some inner pain. “Please! I can’t hold her back much longer. Just do this for me.”

  “What—?” Then I saw the dark chocolate of his eyes. “Junior?”

  “Go!”

  In a panic, he gave me a strong shove. I fell out of the cab and landed hard, with a jolt that sent off fiery spikes of pain. Grabbing my injured side, I barely had time to scramble away. He slid behind the wheel, slammed the door, and hit the gas. The car shot forward, swerving left and right, and I had this image of Junior and Queenie battling it out behind the wheel.

  I got to my feet and ran, stumbling after them, holding my side and trying not to slip and fall. Every step sent shards of agony through my rib cage.

  The road bent in another sharp turn fifty yards ahead. The vehicle swung around it and the police car swept past me. Seconds later, I rounded the corner, just in time to see Junior headed straight for the railing. The wind whipped around my ears. The Studebaker cut through the railing like a knife through butter and flew out over the rocky incline.

  For one breathtaking moment, the car hung suspended.

  I could see Junior clearly. He even turned to look at me. I’d never witnessed a look of such utter relief. Then he withdrew, just faded away before my eyes. Relief turned to shock, then horror. It was Queenie’s face now, contorted with rage as he realized what had happened. That he had lost. That Junior had succeeded in killing them both. That he had indeed “just laid down and died,” but in his own way, in a place of his own choosing, and in doing so, he had left Queenie to face one last task, the ultimate task: to experience the heart-stopping, mind-numbing terror of a horrific death.

  “NOOOO
O!” Queenie’s scream rent the air, frenzied and furious. He threw up his fists and beat the windows. Then the car tipped forward and plunged out of sight, down, down, down, to the fast-moving river below.

  CHAPTER 51

  The sight of Queenie’s death so hypnotized me that I didn’t register the presence of the police. It must have mesmerized them too, because at first they didn’t make a move against me.

  Soon after, however, they took me into custody.

  They knew who Queenie was, and that I had been his hostage. So theoretically, I was a victim, and there should have been no question about me going free. But there was the matter of the farmer’s death: they wanted to make sure it was Queenie and not me who pulled the trigger. Since Queenie was gone, I was the only one left to face the music.

  They had a doctor wrap my ribs and then let me make a phone call. I phoned Blackie. I asked him about Sam and he said there had been no change. Blackie told me he had already heard about Queenie’s death and my detainment. He would be there the next day, he said. In the meantime, he would put in a call to the local authorities. He warned me, however, that since the crash happened outside of his jurisdiction, he had no official say over how long the police upstate could keep me for questioning. Though he believed they would listen to what he had to say.

  They did. I don’t know what he agreed to, what kind of deal he made, but it worked. I suspected that all they cared about was getting the credit for hunting down a cop-killer.

  A cop-killer: that’s all Queenie was to them now, just another perverse footnote in the annals of New York City’s history. Given the havoc he wreaked, maybe that was all he deserved.

  But his victims earned an explanation. His victims and their families, and maybe society at large, deserved to know what had created him. Queenie’s murderous nature had nothing to do with his physical condition; it had nothing to do with his being a trannie; it had everything to do with the abuse he’d suffered—that Junior had suffered—as a child.

  Incest, child rape, those were embarrassing, shameful secrets that no one talked about. Folks in fine homes, if they acknowledged those problems at all, claimed they were aberrations of the poor, the ignorant, the uncivilized. No doubt, Harlem’s upper crust, especially, would be horrified if I wrote about the subject. We were a struggling community, trying to get white America to see us as something more than animals. An exposé on what had happened behind closed doors among one of the community’s most respected members would do more harm than good. That, I knew, would be the reaction.

  And maybe everyone would put it down to one family’s aberration, a family that was gone now, with no one left to continue the denial or accept responsibility for the truth. I decided to try, anyway.

  Those were my plans—but for the moment, they could wait.

  What couldn’t was Sam.

  His eyes were closed when I walked into his hospital room. He still had dark half-moons under his eyes but he was less wan than before. I eased down into the chair next to him and took his hand.

  “Sam?” I whispered. “Can you hear me, darling? It’s over. I’m here and the whole thing’s over. We can’t afford to lose you. We can’t lose each other.” No response. I kissed him on the cheek, then brushed my fingertips over his forehead. “Sam, please. Come back to me. Please, don’t leave me. Don’t. I’ve missed you so very much.” A tear slipped down one cheek and fell onto his forehead. I turned away to reach for my handkerchief and he moaned.

  I shifted back, afraid to believe what I’d heard. “Sam? Sam, darling?”

  The moan came again, this time with a flutter of eyelids.

  Then his eyes were open.

  I thought about Hamp and about lost chances. And I thought about receiving another one, and I knew I wouldn’t let this one go.

  * * *

  It took weeks of hospitalization and rest at home, but Sam recovered. After three weeks, he returned to the newsroom in a wheelchair. We gave him a standing ovation. Eventually, his legs healed and he could walk again on his own.

  On a balmy evening in early May, I had Sam over for dinner. He and Mrs. Cardigan. She came early, and brought an apple pie. When she saw the mess I was making in the kitchen, she shooed me away, practically took over.

  It was a nice dinner, quiet and happy. There was a lot of laughter too, something that house of mine hadn’t heard in a long time. I resolved right then and there to do it more often, to have folks over.

  Across the street, the Bernard house was locked and still. There was a big For Sale sign on the front door.

  “No takers for the time being,” Mrs. Cardigan said. “More curiosity-seekers than anything else. Every now and then, a real estate agent comes by, takes somebody in. But that’s rare.”

  “It’s going to be awhile,” Sam said, “before the publicity dies down.”

  Mrs. Cardigan shook her head. “It’s gonna take more than awhile for that.”

  Afterward, as I walked Mrs. Cardigan to the door, she twittered, “I’m so glad you found that young man. He’s a keeper.”

  “Thank you. I think so too.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “Good night, Lanie, and thank you for having me over.”

  “Actually, you ended up doing most of the work.”

  She waved that away. “It was a pleasure.”

  She left and I went back to the parlor, where Sam sat sipping coffee on the sofa. I paused in the doorway, watching him. If he’s the kind of man I think he is, the kind who sees you for what you are, who you are, and still wants you, then never let him go.

  Sam glanced up and saw me. “How’re you doing?”

  “Fine.” I sat down next to him, cuddled up under his arm. “You’re looking awfully serious.”

  “Just thinking, that’s all. Remembering something a friend said.”

  “Was this friend wise?”

  I thought about it, and then smiled up at him. “Yes, actually … in his own way.” And that made me remember. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.” I told him about my desire to write a story on child abuse and I told him why. He hadn’t heard the entire report about Junior and Queenie. I’d kept the details to myself during his recovery, but now I shared them all. He listened without saying anything until I was done.

  “There’ll be blowback,” I concluded. “Will you back me?”

  He was thoughtful, then shook his head. “It’s the kind of story I once might’ve gone after. It’s not the kind of story we handle, though.”

  I was so disappointed. I’d so hoped his answer would be different. “Sam—”

  “Shh.” He laid a fingertip on my lips. “No, we don’t handle that type of story—but I guess it’s about time we did.”

  A grin spread across my face from ear to ear. “You mean it?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

  “Oh Sam,” I sighed, and snuggled up against him.