“Memphis! Memphis!”
Outside Floyd’s Barbershop, Memphis turned to see Rene, one of Papa Charles’s runners, waving him down. “Memphis! Papa Charles wants you.”
“What for?” Memphis said, his heart racing a little at the thought. Papa Charles didn’t just send for people without reason.
“Didn’t say. Just said to come get you and bring you to the Hotsy Totsy. Now.”
A crow cawed from the top of the lamppost.
“What’re you squawking at me for? Why don’t you make yourself useful and tell me what Papa Charles wants?”
The crow squawked again and fell silent.
“Thanks for nothing, bird,” Memphis said, hugging himself against the cold.
At the Hotsy Totsy, Memphis entered Papa Charles’s well-appointed office, nodding at Jules and Emmanuel, Papa’s bodyguards, who sat outside his door, Tommy guns resting on their laps.
“Memphis, come in,” Papa Charles called from behind his big desk. “Have a seat, son.”
Memphis perched on the edge of the chair. He tried to lick his lips but his mouth was dry. The heavy smoke from Papa Charles’s cigar made his eyes burn. Papa Charles folded his hands on his desk and looked at Memphis.
“Memphis, I’ve known you for a long time. Knew your daddy well. Your mama, too.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I’ve always looked after your family, haven’t I? I made certain that Isaiah had a new baseball glove, or I sent one of my boys over to fix Octavia’s icebox when it wasn’t working?”
“Yes, sir,” Memphis said, his unease growing. Was he in some sort of trouble?
“And when you got arrested a few months ago, who got you out of jail?”
“Those cops framed me. They were dirty for Dutch Schultz and trying to send you a message,” Memphis protested. If he hadn’t been working for Papa Charles in the first place, he wouldn’t have gotten pinched, so it seemed unfair of his boss to bring it up now.
Papa Charles made a We all know how it works gesture. “Still,” he said, blowing out circles of smoke. “I have done you favors, yes? The time has come I need a favor from you.”
Memphis swallowed hard. “What sort of favor?”
“You know Mr. Carrington, owns the big store on One Hundred Twenty-fifth?”
Carrington’s was a department store where mostly white people shopped. Memphis had been inside once, but when one of the store detectives seemed to go everywhere Memphis did, he’d left in a hurry.
“Yes, sir. I know it,” Memphis said tightly.
“Mr. Carrington has been a good friend to us. And he needs a favor. I heard this morning that his wife has the sleeping sickness.” Papa Charles tapped his cigar against the side of a silver ashtray. “Part of my job is to look out for Harlem, for what is in our best interests. We don’t need the trouble people are having down in Chinatown. Don’t want the health department up here shutting down our businesses and restaurants and clubs. It would be very bad for all of us if this got out.”
“So why doesn’t Mr. Carrington get a doctor? He can afford one.”
“Doctors haven’t been able to cure the sleeping sickness. Mr. Carrington remembers you, remembers your work at the Miracle Mission.” Papa Charles picked a stray thread from his spotless wool trousers. “If we do a good turn for Mr. Carrington, he’ll do a good turn for us. Like help to keep Dutch Schultz’s men from causing us trouble.”
The whole mess of the situation was dawning on Memphis. “Papa Charles, you know I don’t do that anymore. Not since my mother.”
“Memphis,” Papa Charles said on a sigh, and then he gave Memphis the sort of stare that got things done in Harlem. His words were quiet and deliberate. “You think I was born yesterday? I knew the minute Noble Bishop came into Floyd’s talking about a heavenly healing that it was you. Do you deny it?”
Memphis looked down at his hands.