The man smirked and pulled on a pair of black gloves. “I’m Mr. Adams. This is my associate, Mr. Jefferson. And you are Charles King, Papa Charles to people in the know. Businessman. Banker. Investor. Owner of several nightclubs, pool halls, and various other establishments.”
Papa Charles put on the genial face he used to great effect with policemen looking for illegal booze and drunken customers spoiling for a fight. “Well, well. You seem to know my résumé pretty well. What can I do for you gentlemen?”
There were two of them. One was a warning. Two were a problem.
“You fellas with Dutch? Is that what this is about?”
“No,” the smaller man said. He gave the globe a spin, letting the tip of his finger hover close to the twirling surface.
“Well, then. We open again this evening ’round eight o’clock. Got an outfit outta St. Louis playing, the Bee’s Knees. They’re real good. Some say the bandleader’s the next Duke Ellington. Come back then.”
“Where’s the healer?” the other man, the bigger one—Jefferson?—said.
“Who?” Papa Charles said.
“The healer. Memphis Campbell. And his brother, Isaiah. Where are they?”
Papa Charles realized he had misread the moment. This was bigger than Dutch or Owney. And far more dangerous. His fingers fumbled under the desk for the gun taped there. The smaller man was on him in a blink, the piano wire wrapped tightly around Papa Charles’s neck above his starched collar. The most important banker in Harlem kicked and clawed, but there were two, and they worked in perfect sync like well-trained musicians trading riffs. The big man pinned Papa Charles’s arms to the chair. The smaller man yanked up on the wire. And the last thing Papa Charles saw before the sharp edge of the wire slit his throat and the life drained from him was his opulent office in the basement of an empire he’d built with nothing more than his wits and his will in a country that told him he could.
In a country that could take it all back.
Mr. Adams let Papa Charles’s lifeless body drop back against his velvet chair. He removed Papa’s pocket square and used it to wipe down the piano wire. “Burn everything,” he said. “We’ve got old friends to visit.”
Mr. Jefferson splashed the room with kerosene. It splattered down Papa Charles’s bloodstained bespoke shirt, over the beautiful desk, and across the envelope addressed to City College. Mr. Jefferson trailed the kerosene over Claude’s lifeless body and down the hallway beneath the Hotsy Totsy as he and his partner backed toward the alley door.
Mr. Jefferson lit a match, watched the flame dance down till it nipped his fingers.
With a smile, he tossed it in.
Theta slept snuggled next to Memphis, and for the first time in ages, she had no nightmares. There was only one curious dream. In it, a Cherokee woman, part of a long line of Cherokee trudging, exhausted, across a winter trail, turned to Theta. “It’s just beginning,” the woman said.
BLUE SKIES SMILING AT ME
Evie was still asleep as Sam got up and dressed. It was coming on eight. He hadn’t slept like that—deeply, soundly—in a very long time. There had been a dream, and in the dream, the sun shone down on streets slick with morning dew so that they shone like gold. Sam had walked those streets, and in the dream, he was happy. Toward the dream’s end, the wind had kicked up, hinting at a storm at Sam’s back, but he’d awakened to see real sun leaking through the drawn drapes.
He was happy. He was happy.
He wanted to wake Evie and kiss her again and again, tasting happiness on her mouth as if he could get drunk from it. But she looked so peaceful with her hair fanned out on the pillow that he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he scribbled a quick note—gotta run an important errand. I’ll be back by ten. He wrote I love you, then scribbled it out. Too soon? Too soon. Instead, he addressed the note to “Lamb Chop.”
She’d be so annoyed.
Grinning, he grabbed his fisherman’s cap and coat. “I love you,” he whispered quietly. “Ikh hob dikh lib.” He kissed Evie’s head. She rustled in her sleep, turning away. “Fine. I see how it is. I just wasted my best Yiddish on you,” Sam joked to himself.
He loved her. Was in love with her. Had always loved her. And it seemed that she loved him, too. It was funny how the world could change on a dime like that. One minute, you were some poor chump pining after a girl you thought didn’t feel the same way about you, and the next, you were lying together, arms entwined, chest to chest, so close you could feel her heartbeat under her soft skin. You were looking into her eyes and seeing your whole future written there.
There was a lot to fight. The future battle was daunting. But right now, this moment, was a time for hope, too. For fresh starts. For forgiveness.
Sam said hello to everyone on the street. He laughed. What was happening to him? What was happening to “Don’t See Me” Sam Lloyd, the lone wolf, the I look after myself bad boy? It was funny how their odd little family of friends had changed him. Made him feel safe. Theta, Memphis, Henry, Jericho, Mabel, Ling, Isaiah, and especially Evie. They’d been there for him. Opened the parts of him he was afraid would be closed off forever. Why had he wasted so much time bottling up his feelings? What did that ever get anybody but dumb fights?
He had friends. He had a home in them.
And Evie was home, too.
The sky had bloomed into endless fields of blue. Not a cloud to be seen. He was walking faster now, that sudden flowering of hope pushing him on. He’d tell Evie everything. Let her know that he loved her. Let her know how much he loved her.
The glory of that sky, the hopeful fluttering in his heart, this was all. And so he hadn’t noticed the two men in the dark suits, following him so stealthily that they might as well have been moving shadows.
“Sergei Lubovitch?”
At the mention of his real name, Sam whirled around, his eyes widening. He put up a hand just as Mr. Jefferson embraced Sam like a long-lost cousin and jabbed a palmed syringe into Sam’s thigh. “Too late. Don’t move,” he whispered. “Wouldn’t want to hit an artery.”
Sam collapsed in Mr. Jefferson’s arms. He heard a woman asking, “Gee, is he all right?”
“Help,” Sam croaked. He was going numb. His mouth barely worked.
“My cousin is sick. We’re taking him to the doctor,” Mr. Adams lied. He and Mr. Jefferson dragged Sam toward the brown sedan.
Sam’s eyes sought the eyes of people on the streets. Help me. Can’t you see this isn’t right? But the people liked the answer the men in the dark suits had supplied; it absolved them of any responsibility, and they moved on with their busy lives. Only one person seemed alarmed—a kid shining shoes. He looked from Sam to the men and back again, suspicious.
“He don’t seem okay, mister,” the kid said. “Say, ain’t that Sam Lloyd?”
Yes! Yes, it’s me, Sam thought.