Harlem Redux
Page 42
“Everybody, wake up!” he yelled. “Take your seats and show your hands.”
But we were all too scared to move.
“I will count to three and then start shooting — for real. One … two …”
My heartbeat was pounding a hot ninety miles a minute, but my hands and feet felt cold. From the corner of my eye, I saw Queenie slip his right hand under the table. The gunman saw it too. He swung around and leveled his gun on us.
“Bring it out,” he said. “Nice and slow.”
Queenie gave him an insolent look and mouthed the word, “No.”
I was stunned. I’d talked to Queenie long enough to know he thought he could handle anyone and anything, but what the hell was he thinking of? Okay, so he had pride. He didn’t want people to see that he was scared. But this was not the time to act all biggity and try to impress people. He could get us killed.
“Queenie,” I hissed, “do as he says.”
“No.”
The gunman’s lips twitched, but he said nothing. He looked Queenie in the eye, made a slight adjustment in his aim, and squeezed the trigger.
Copper-jacketed pistol rounds erupted from the muzzle in a sheet of flame; a shower of shiny brass cases rained down from the breech. The firepower released with the slightest pressure of the gunman’s finger would’ve been enough to kill five men, much less one.
The stream of bullets ripped a trench in Spooner’s chest. Blood splattered everywhere. The Ralston kid crumpled in a dead faint. People shrieked. Some ducked down again, but others raced for the door. They were screaming, tearing at each other.
“Shut up and get back here!” the gunman swung around and yelled. “Shut up or I’ll mow you down.”
The bouncer looked down at himself, at his ravaged chest. He plastered his big hands over his gaping wounds, as if he could hold in the blood. Then he looked up at me, in mute sadness. He stumbled forward a step and his heart gave out. He sagged to his knees and fell, face down.
The gunman looked up from the dead man and pointed an accusing finger at Queenie. “You!” he said. “You made me do that!”
Queenie had gone gray under his elaborate makeup, gray and speechless. He had finally gotten it. This was not one of his tall tales, where he could play the star. This was real.
“Back to your seats everybody!” the gunman yelled. “Get back in your seats and show your hands. Do it, or I’ll start shooting. And I won’t stop till the job’s done.”
This time, folks moved. They scrambled to get back in place.
The killer turned back to Queenie and me. “Come over here, the both of you, where I can see you.”
We stood up and edged out from around the table, but kept our distance from him.
The gunman was taller than me, but not by much, which made him short for a man. The coat seemed to have padded shoulders, but I had the feeling that he would’ve appeared broad even without them, that he was built like a quarterback, muscular and stocky.
For the most part, he’d successfully masked his face, but part of it showed above the mask. His eyes had a distinctive almond shape and they were light-colored: blue or gray, I couldn’t be sure. The band of skin showing over the bridge of his nose, it was light, too. In other words, this was a white guy. Last, but not least, I detected an accent. European, northern European, perhaps. So, not just any white guy, but a European white guy. He’d sure traveled a long way to cause trouble.
“Now, you,” he told Queenie, “take the heater out or she’s next.” He pointed the gun at me.
I half-turned to Queenie to see what he’d do. Please, don’t do anything stupid.
Queenie slipped his hand through the slit of his dress. And lingered there.
He was going to try something dumb, like shoot from down there. I could see it in his eyes.
Don’t do it. Don’t do it.
Queenie looked at me and I looked at him. If he pulled a dumb stunt like that and I managed to survive, then I was going to kill him myself. That’s what I was thinking and that’s what I put in my eyes.
I guess he got the message.
He eased out with a small black handgun and aimed it downward. My lungs expanded and I inhaled big gobs of sweet relief.
“Put it on the floor and kick it over here,” the gunman said.
Queenie did as told. He kept his eye on the submachine gun the whole time. I still didn’t trust Queenie not to try something and I guess Mr. Tommy Gun didn’t either, so I understood why he was keeping his weapon trained, but I was beginning to wonder why he was training it on me.
“Get over here.” The gunman indicated the space right before him.
Queenie glanced at me. His eyes held doubt, fear and resentment.
“Do what he says,” I whispered. “Please. Just do it.”
“Come on,” the gunman growled.
Queenie’s gaze returned to the gunman. Stone-faced, he held up his gown, then stepped delicately and ladylike over Spooner’s body. He stood before the gunman, chest heaving, eyes narrowed and said with tremulous bravado, “Well?”
The gunman slapped him. He was half a head shorter than Queenie, but wide and solid. Queenie swayed under the blow but didn’t stumble. He seemed more stunned than anything. His hand went to his lip and came back bloodied. His jaw dropped in alarm.
“My face! You piece of shit! You hurt my face!”
The gunman slapped him again. This time Queenie went down. He tripped backward over Spooner and landed on the floor in a pool of blood. He screeched at the blood, scrambled away from the body, and got to his feet. Blood smeared his hands and dress. From the look on his face, he had finally gotten the message.
The gunman gave me a nod. “You! Come here.”
Queenie and I exchanged another glance. Then I took a step forward. The gunman produced handcuffs and tossed them at me. I caught them instinctively.
“Cuff up the songbird,” he said. “You,” he told Queenie. “Hands behind your back.”
If there was one thing I’d always told myself I would never do, it was to be an accomplice to a crime, to in any way assist a kidnapper or killer in harming me or someone else. I had read, and written, so many stories in which the victims had cooperated with their killers. They had done so in the minute hope of surviving, but all they’d really done was make it easier for their killer to get them alone, isolate them and do what he felt needed doing.
I’d always said I would resist. I wouldn’t cooperate. I wouldn’t make it easy. No me. Oh, no.
But now, here I was, and things appeared differently. They weren’t so cut and dry. For one thing, someone else’s life was at stake, not just mine.
“Well,” the gunman said. “Shall I shoot you or shoot somebody else?” He glanced down at the Ralston girl, still unconscious on the floor. “How about her?” He turned his gun, took aim.
“No!” I pulled Queenie’s hands behind his back and slipped on the handcuffs.
He flinched at the touch of cold steel. “Please, no, Slim. You—”
“It’ll be all right,” I said, trying hard to sound calm.
I snapped the cuffs shut, and when the gunman ordered me to step back, I did.
He made Queenie stand next to him, checked the cuffs and nodded. Then he grabbed Queenie and started backing out. He wound his way to the rear exit, back stage left, and kept the singer in front as a shield.
Queenie panicked. “Oh come on now, people! Y’all ain’t gonna let him take me like this, are you? Somebody do something. Please!”
People stayed frozen to their seats. No one was willing to play the hero. Not in the face of that weapon.
Queenie’s eyes met mine. “You! Slim, you—!”
The whine of police sirens rent the air. The cops were probably headed to another emergency, but the killer assumed the worst. He pushed Queenie aside and sprayed the room with gunfire. All hell broke loose. People stampeded toward the door. Wall sconces exploded. The room fell dark. Plaster and dust showered down.
“Motherfucker! Get your hands off me!” Queenie cried.
I heard the back door bang open. I heard a scuffle and a scream. Then the door slammed shut and all I heard was the heavy thumping of my terrified heart.
* * * * *
About the Author
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Persia Walker is the author of three acclaimed historical novels, Black Orchid Blues, Darkness and the Devil Behind Me, and Harlem Redux. She is also a contributor to the anthology Mystery Writers of America Presents The Blue Religion: New Stories About Cops, Criminals and the Chase. She won the Author of the Year Award by the Go On Girl! Book Club.
Persia has served on the Mystery Writers of America mentoring panel and as a member of the board of the MWA's New York Chapter. She is a former news writer for The Associated Press and Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, Inc.
For more information, visit her online at PersiaWalker.com or Facebook.