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With a satisfied groan, Sam leaned back against his chair, his hands on his protruding gut. “Ling. How would your mother feel about a Jewish son-in-law?”
Theta sat next to Memphis and watched Mr. and Mrs. Chan laughing about some private joke. They were a mixed couple, and they were happy. No one seemed to be bothering them. But they were also here in the few blocks of Chinatown. What happened when they crossed Canal Street into the rest of the city? What happened when they went out into the rest of the country?
Memphis passed Theta a bowl of rice. Their fingertips touched and she smiled.
Evie raised her cup of tea. “To Theta.”
“To Theta,” the others echoed.
“What’s the matter?” Ling asked, because Theta was crying.
“This is the first family dinner I ever had,” she said.
“The first of many,” Evie promised.
“You did it,” Memphis said. “You stood up to Roy. He can’t hurt you anymore.”
Theta nodded. She had won this round. But Roy would be back. She knew him too well.
On the way back to the Bennington, Theta stopped the taxi outside the theater on Forty-second Street, taking a long look at it. She scribbled something on the back of a sheet of paper torn from Memphis’s notebook, addressed it to Mr. Ziegfeld, and shoved it under the theater’s closed doors. The note read: Dear Flo, Thanks for everything. I quit. Theta Knight.
THIS LIFE WAS GOOD
Papa Charles sat at his polished mahogany desk in his office at the Hotsy Totsy with his ledger books in front of him. Around him were the trappings of the successful life he’d made for himself since arriving in New York at the age of sixteen with nothing more than his wits and his dreams: A photograph of Papa Charles in his Elks Club sash, shaking hands with Harlem’s elite, another of him with Harlem’s winning basketball team, the Harlem Rens. An antique globe nestled in its wooden cradle. The cigar smoldering in a marble ashtray—a gift from a famous bandleader who’d played the club. The last of the Hotsy Totsy’s revelers had stumbled out at six or seven, just as the sun made its entrance. It was eight now, and except for his bodyguard Claude on the other side of the door, Papa Charles was alone. It was good. This life was good.
Dutch Schultz and the white bootleggers were a problem, though. Seraphina had been right about that. He should have made a stand well before now. He’d thought that using Memphis’s talents would appease Owney Madden and forge an alliance. But those men only cared about money and power. They were loyal to a code of violence, nothing more. When the hour was decent, Papa Charles would go to Seraphina. That only left one other thing to make right.
Papa Charles pulled out the letter of recommendation for City College that Regina Andrews had asked him to write for Memphis. He signed his name, sealed it up in an envelope, and left it for the day’s mail.
There was a knock at the door.
Had Claude forgotten something?
“What is it?” Papa Charles called.
The door opened, and two white men in charcoal-gray suits entered so quietly they might as well have been shadows. They shut the door behind them, and even this was noiseless. Where was Claude?
“Charles King?” the smaller man said.
“Who wants to know?”
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?”
