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“On second thought, boo to fun. Really. Best to just stay in and read dead German philosophers,” Sam said, watching them go. “Me and my big mouth.”
Mabel sipped her soda water and gazed out at the dance floor. Evie and Jericho looked good together, the fancy Diviner and the golden god. For just a moment, the old hurts flared; Mabel tugged at her skirt, feeling plain and too earnest and out of place in this world because she was out of place in this world. But not in Arthur’s garret in Greenwich Village. She had a sense of purpose there, and as much as she loved her friends, she couldn’t help feeling angry that they could come up here and dance and drink while there were miners and their families living in tents. As for Jericho, well, he was no Arthur Brown.
Mabel gathered her belongings. “Sorry. I’m suddenly very tired. Tell Evie I said good-bye, will you?”
“Sure. I’ll, uh, tell the giant you said good-bye, too,” Sam said.
“Don’t bother,” Mabel said.
On her way out, Mabel passed Papa Charles. He strolled through the club looking dapper in his crisp white dinner jacket, a white rose in the buttonhole of his lapel and his hair slicked back, one of his ever-present cigars wedged between his thick fingers. He moved from table to table, welcoming his patrons, before stopping at Memphis’s table.
“Evenin’, Memphis. You enjoying the show?” Papa Charles said with a tight smile.
“Just saying hello to some friends of mine, sir.”
“Evenin’, everyone,” Papa Charles said, all charm. “Memphis, we have some business to attend to. I’ll expect you in my office. Five minutes.”
“Uh-oh. Dad’s sore,” Sam said under his breath once Papa Charles had walked away.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Memphis said.
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“Everything copacetic?” Theta asked, concerned.
“Guess I’ll find out.” Memphis looked longingly at Theta. He wanted to kiss her, but he couldn’t do that here in the club with everyone looking on. The bright young things drinking away their night at the next table kept casting sidelong glances at him and his friends as it was.
Theta leaned in and whispered in his ear, “Meet me at our lighthouse later.”
And Memphis didn’t care about the people at the next table or what Papa Charles was going to ask him to do so long as Theta was with him.
THE COTTON CLUB
Papa Charles’s chauffeured Chrysler Imperial rolled through Harlem’s neon-drenched streets, past the swells in their tuxedos, the dames in their furs and pearls out for a night of jazz and dancing. After a few blocks, the car stopped in front of the Cotton Club, one of the crown jewels of Harlem nightlife, where Manhattan’s elite came to hear the best of the best and buy overpriced, forbidden booze from the owner and premier bootlegger, Owney Madden. But the Cotton Club had a strict color line—most of the staff and entertainers were black; the clientele was white. Memphis had never been inside, but he’d heard the place was even decorated like a plantation.
So why the hell was Papa Charles bringing him here?
“You know Owney’s boys won’t let us come in. They got a color line,” Memphis challenged.
“Not when it comes to healing, they don’t.”
Memphis couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You brought me here to heal? Who? What for? Why are—”
“Memphis, Memphis: Just follow my lead and everything’ll be fine.”
At the front door, the attendant held up a white-gloved hand and jerked his head toward the side entrance. Told you, Memphis wanted to say.
“Doesn’t seem right,” he said instead as they knocked at the service door.
“I decide what’s right,” Papa Charles said. “Listen here, Memphis, we make friends with these boys, show ’em we can work together, and they’ll leave us alone, stick to their own territory. We make good with Owney, he’ll back us against Dutch and his boys. One of his boys got himself shot up in a turf war with Dutch’s gang. Owney’s outfit can’t take this fella to a hospital without too many questions that lead right back to Owney and the Cotton Club. This healing is a business deal. A peace treaty. You understand?”
Memphis understood, all right. He was being used. Just like when Papa Charles had had him heal Mrs. Carrington during the sleeping sickness. Memphis had foolishly thought that would be a onetime deal. His pride made him want to refuse. But maybe this could work to his advantage. Hadn’t Sister Walker wanted them all to work on strengthening their gifts? This was practice. At least that was what he was telling himself. Still, in Memphis’s mind, healing somebody who was sick wasn’t the same as healing some fool who’d gone and gotten himself shot up, probably while trying to kill somebody else.
A man wearing a holster let them in and showed them to a small room off the kitchen. “Wait here,” he instructed. Through the walls, Memphis could hear Duke Ellington’s band going to town. Memphis wasn’t allowed to come and see the show, but he was allowed to come through a back door in order to heal? His anger burned bright. To hell with Owney Madden and his color line! And to hell with Papa Charles, too.
The gangster returned. “This way.”
He led them to Owney Madden’s office. It was twice as big as Papa Charles’s, with expensive rugs and giant ferns and lamps that looked as if they belonged in a museum. For all Memphis knew, they’d been stolen from one. Owney’s man lay on a cot, moaning. His leg was propped up on a stack of pillows soaked with blood. A bloody towel had been wrapped around the bullet wounds in his thigh. He was pale and sweating; his breathing was shallow.
