“I haven’t had the opportunity to go,” Ling admitted. “My parents need me in the restaurant.”
“I managed an hour yesterday.” From his knapsack, Memphis pulled out three library books and opened the topmost to a drawing. “There are some slave and native accounts that mention the man in the hat. One from a diary at Jamestown, and another in Salem just before the witch trials. I found a few sightings dating from the American Revolution and the Civil War and Reconstruction,” Memphis said, opening the other books to the pages he’d bookmarked with slips of paper. “Seems he’s drawn to the energy of unrest, like Dr. Fitzgerald said. And he has many names: The King of Crows. The leader of the dead. The man in the stovepipe hat. The beguiler. He who returns. The bargain master.”
“Why so many names?” Theta asked, hoping Memphis would direct the answer to her. But he didn’t look at her once.
“I think it’s to confuse people. Some of those Diviners talked about him like he’s a god. Others say he likes sowing confusion and chaos, that he likes playing games.”
“Which is why we’re not gonna trust him blindly,” Sam said.
“We have to trust him a little if we’re going to find this Eye,” Ling said.
“The only other curious thing I found was a mention of the man in the hat keeping a messenger, some poor caged spirit who can go back and forth between his world and ours.”
“Like Western Union?” Alma asked.
“Telegram from the dead,” Henry mused. “Gee, I really hope it’s a singing telegram.”
“Why does he need a messenger?” Alma asked.
“Don’t have the answer to that yet,” Memphis answered.
“How come we haven’t ever heard any of this before?” Henry asked. “None of this is in our history books.”
“Maybe the historians weren’t looking in the right places,” Memphis said. At Henry’s quizzical expression, Memphis added, “I mean, who cares what a bunch of Diviners have to say?”
The phone rang again. “Good morning, Diviners Investigations,” Mabel said, her pencil ready.
“I am famished!” Alma announced. “I know a swell joint not far from here. Anybody else hungry?” She looked at Ling.
Ling reached for her crutches. “I’m always hungry.”
Alma smiled brightly. “Miss Chan, you are going to eat like a queen today. Do you like pork?”
“I’m half Chinese,” Ling said, as if that should settle it.
“I better shove off, too,” Memphis said.
Theta came and stood by his side as he put on his coat and wrapped the scarf she’d given him as a Christmas present around his neck. “Hey,” Theta said, smiling shyly.
“Hey,” Memphis said back without smiling.
“Nice scarf.”
Memphis said nothing.
“I saw that Langston Hughes is giving a reading up at City College,” Theta tried. “I thought maybe we could go if—”
“I’m busy,” Memphis said.
“Memphis…” Theta started.
“Isaiah’s waiting. ’Scuse me,” Memphis said, brushing past her.
Theta looked to Henry, who came and hugged her. She felt like crying but she couldn’t. Not yet. She still had to meet with Roy.
Theta had arranged to have lunch with Roy at a restaurant not too far from the theater. She’d wanted to be in a public place, where he couldn’t do anything to her. It had been a few days since his ultimatum, and she still hadn’t figured out what to say to Mr. Ziegfeld. She wished she could make it all go away.
When she saw Roy sitting at a table at the back, Theta’s stomach clenched. Slowly, she made her way to him. He stood up, pretending to be a gentleman, not for her sake but for everybody watching, Theta knew. Before he could help her into her chair, Theta sat down across the table from him and ordered a coffee, black, no food. She didn’t plan to stay long.
“Gee, you look pretty, Betty. Sorry—Theta. Can’t get used to that,” Roy said. “’Course, I woulda picked a different name, something that didn’t make you look so highfalutin odd, but you probably didn’t give it much thought.”
Theta hated how that little slap he’d attached to the compliment got to her. She pulled out her cigarettes. Roy scowled. “Ladies shouldn’t smoke.”
Theta wanted to smoke, though. Badly. She wanted to blow the smoke in Roy’s face. At the thought, her hands warmed. What if the fire sparked here in the restaurant and everybody saw? She put the cigarettes away and dropped her trembling hands to her lap, relieved when they cooled once more.
“You talk to Mr. Ziegfeld yet?” Roy asked.
“I been trying. He’s been busy with a new show,” Theta lied.
Roy glowered. “That’s why you need me as your manager. I’ll get him to pay attention,” he said, and Theta cringed, imagining Roy acting overly familiar with Mr. Ziegfeld, embarrassing her. “As it happens, I’m making a name for myself here already. I been working for Dutch Schultz. You heard of him?”
“The gangster?”
“Gangster,” Roy scoffed. “He’s a businessman. A real regular fella! He’s taking over some nightclubs up in Harlem. Gonna let me run one.”
“Oh. Harlem, huh.”
“The coloreds don’t know what they’re doing. Dutch is gonna set up shop. He just needs those high-hat Negroes like Papa Charles and Madame Sera-something outta the way first. That’s where we come in.”
“Whaddaya mean?” Theta asked, her heart racing.
“That ain’t your business. It’s man business. You just keep singing and dancing and get me that meeting with your boss.”
“Yeah. Sure, Roy.”
“I gotta do some business for Dutch. I’ll be in and outta town over the next week or so. And when I get back, you have that meeting set up for me. Okay? I sure would hate for Mr. Ziegfeld to find out some other way that you got a husband, Betty,” Roy said with a satisfied smile.
Every bit of Theta’s fire left her. She was so cold inside. Cold and dead.
That night, the Diviners went out on their first good lead. The owner of a former flophouse near the seaport that was scheduled for demolition called to say that his workers were too spooked to go inside anymore. They had heard strange crashes, thudding footsteps, and a woman’s crying, but they could never find the source of those noises. Tools would go missing, and later, they’d find those tools had been arranged neatly on the floor of a room where no one had been. Windows latched at day’s end would be wide open the following morning.
The Diviners entered the decaying house with flashlights blazing. It smelled of mold and urine and years of neglect. More than that, there was a great sadness to the house, a palpable storehouse of human misery. They traveled upstairs to the fourth floor, flashlights bouncing off the rotting floorboards.
“Feels cold,” Ling said in warning as they approached the last door on the right.
“Yeah,” Memphis said, watching his breath come out in a bluish puff.
Condensation freckled the tarnished brass doorknob.