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He tucked away his notebook and didn’t look at it once.
Papa Charles came for him. Without a word, Memphis followed his boss to the back rooms of the Cotton Club, where Memphis healed up a couple of Owney’s thugs. And then he pocketed the money, though he’d long since forgotten what he was saving for. He spent too much money on a fine suit he didn’t wear but once. He bought a new leather glove for Isaiah. He stuffed rent money in Octavia’s fake sugar jar in the kitchen. At the club, there were drinks for the chorus girls who hugged his neck and told him he was “an angel.” When a dancer named Pauline kissed him and placed his hands on her hips, Memphis felt nothing. Hollow. Hollow. “My throat is dry. I hunger.”
“Sorry,” he told Pauline, and she cursed his name on the way out.
At the lighthouse, Memphis stood outside and tossed rocks into the Hudson, watching them sink. He’d known their love was bad odds. But wasn’t all love betting against the odds? He was the damned fool who’d gone and believed.
“I fear knowledge of my hunger.”
All of these thoughts weighed on Memphis as he walked up and down Madame Seraphina’s block, trying to work up the courage to ring her bell. When at last he did, she opened the basement door and smiled at him. The white turban she wore exposed the round, high-cheeked beauty of her face. The porch light made the apples of her cheeks shine as if polished.
“Come,” she said, and went inside.
Seraphina showed Memphis to her formal parlor, which had been painted a deep royal blue that made Memphis think of a sky just past sunset. She settled into the chair opposite his and crossed her long legs. “So. Here we are, you and I.”
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“I’ve come about my mother. You said she came to see you before she passed. I want to know why,” Memphis explained.
“Your mother was worried.”
That didn’t seem strange to Memphis. She was a mother. Mothers worried. “What was she worried about?”
“She said she’d made a bad bargain.”
“What sort of b—”
“You want information. I want information. You first.” Seraphina leaned back and rested her slim forearms on the chair’s plush velvet arms. “Four of my runners got shook down yesterday. I had to go to the precinct for them. I heard from other bankers. They are having the same trouble. Cops—and Dutch Schultz. Yet Papa Charles is untouched. How is Papa Charles keeping his business safe?”
If Memphis told Seraphina the truth about his healing, he’d be betraying both Papa and Owney. There was no telling what they might do if they found out he’d shared their secrets. Memphis’s stomach tightened. “Papa doesn’t tell me everything. I’m just a runner.”
“So you say. But I hear the two of you make visits to the Cotton Club late at night—yes, I have eyes on the streets, too. If you’re just a runner,” she sneered, “then why is Papa Charles taking you to see Owney Madden? What is Owney doing for Papa?”
“He just needed someone to come along,” Memphis lied. “For protection.”
Madame Seraphina smirked. “Protection is why he has Yannick and Claude.”
Memphis tried the power of his charm. “That’s all there is to it,” he said, tossing off a shy smile. “That’s all I know.”
Seraphina leaned forward, eyes flashing. “Do. Not. Lie. To. Me. I did not come to this country and rise up from its streets to be dismissed in my own home!” She cupped Memphis’s chin in her silk-soft palm. “Cowards ignore women. Men listen. If you will not respect me, you can leave. But then you will never know what your manman confessed to me.”
Papa Charles had told Memphis about the honor among men. Memphis hadn’t really thought much about how that honor was built on the idea of keeping women out. On a belief that they should not be trusted. After Theta, Memphis felt that Papa had been right. But Seraphina wasn’t going to tell Memphis anything unless he was honest with her, and he needed to know the truth.
“Some of his runners got arrested,” Memphis said carefully. “And Papa pays his dues.” Everybody had to pay off the police if they wanted to run a business. That was common knowledge uptown. “But these cops are getting paid by Dutch Schultz.”
“Everybody knows that,” Seraphina said, dismissing Memphis’s comment with a wave of her hand. “What is Charles asking you to do for Owney behind closed doors?”
Memphis hated to think about what Papa Charles would do if he found out Memphis had been telling Seraphina his business. “He’s having me heal up Owney’s men when they get hurt. Owney’s still more powerful than Dutch. Papa says if we get Owney on our side, make an alliance, we can keep Dutch from taking over. That Owney will protect us.”
For just a moment, Seraphina was so still that Memphis could scarcely hear her breathing. And then a laugh tore out of her, loud and guttural and tommy gun–quick. She slapped her knee. “Oh, Charles, Charles. You old fool.”
“It’s worked so far.”
“So. Far,” Seraphina said, drying her eyes. “Papa Charles thinks if he makes nice, these ofay will accept him.” She shook her head.
“I’m sure Papa Charles will look out for us,” Memphis said, feeling defensive.
Seraphina snorted. “Papa hobnobs with radio stars and the mayor. He thinks they accept him as one of their own, just another businessman. He forgets that in this country, he is a black man first. They will never let him in, not all the way. Owney will ignore his promise. And when Dutch Schultz calls the shots, the white people will back him. What do they care as long as they can dance where they like?” Seraphina lowered her chin and leveled her gaze at Memphis. Her eyes were flecked with gold, like a tiger’s. “No one feared the rabbits until they took over the garden. The white gangsters have been occupied with bootlegging. But now they’re pushing into our numbers game. Bit by bit, they will take all we have built. And they will destroy the Harlem we love.”
