He took a sharp breath. “It’s the same for Jerome. Whatever he writes, it’s never colored enough. We have better luck with pseudonyms.” Logan’s cheeks puffed with the brittle joke. “He’s Jervis Carter, and I’m Leopold Lenox—just a plain old pair of buckras from Boise or Omaha or anywhere other than Harlem.” His humor faded. “He could really be something. He has a letter from T. S. Eliot saying his poem was very good. From Eliot.”
Julia had once met the proud and proper Tom Eliot at a party in London. She could understand how he and Jerome would share literary tastes.
“If I’m not a poet, I’m nothing,” Logan said. He raised a hand to stay her objections. “Forget the fancy education, the damn foreign languages. I’m colored, and that’s all anyone can see. We thought big changes were coming after the war and all. A new day, right? Yeah, well, what’s new is how fast the doors slam shut when we come knocking. Ballot box? Union hall? ‘Sorry, boy. You’re not eligible.’ There’s always another fee you can’t pay, another requirement you can’t meet, all of it perfectly legal. Those shiny new office buildings shooting up all over town? The ones looking for lawyers and accountants and brokers and all? ‘Not hiring today, boy. Try the custodial office. The kitchen might need help.’ ‘You think your money’s good enough to live in our neighborhood? We’ll burn your house down before letting you set foot in it.’ It goes on and on and on.”
Julia swallowed. She traced a line of perspiration blooming along her scalp. Tears pricked her eyes, which Logan pretended not to notice. They weren’t tears of sympathy, though she felt that, but of shame. Shame at her own proud eagerness to embrace the modern new world, believing it bright with promise and possibilities. She’d thought that was what modern and new meant.
“I didn’t know,” she said. She had known, vaguely, but thought those things were the backward remnants of the old world, the world that had died in the great slaughter. Wasn’t a new society meant to rise from the war’s rubble? That promise of a more wise and just future was the only thing that made memories of the war bearable.
“So what’s left?” Logan said. “If Negroes want to show we contribute to this country too, on a par with whites, the only place left is Culture, with a big C. Art, music, theater, literature. For me it’s poetry. On the same level, just as good, period. Not good ‘for a Negro.’”
“But you are on the same level. Those prizes prove it. Jerome’s letter from Eliot.”
Logan thumped the table. “And look what the fool did with it. When someone like that says you’ve got talent, wouldn’t you leap at a fellowship to Chicago? That’s where Jerome should be, not hiding in some hellhole. Instead he follows Eva around like a lapdog. Her book’s shim-sham compared to his, and they both know it. But she waltzes to the bank while he sweeps floors for a snake. Just to hang around her.
“If they get out of this thing alive, I’m afraid Eva will ditch him,” he said more quietly. “She’ll decide poetry is boring and breeze off to write more Hot Harlem hooey. It’s all about Eva. Now he’s going down with her ship. And for what?”
The clock ticked. Dust sifted through the jaundiced light. Eva would never abandon Jerome. Wise or foolish, she’d stick by her man. Julia thought of that fateful manuscript page. If Eva hadn’t wanted to embellish her dedication to Jerome, Goldsmith would have the book now, Timson would be alive, and Eva and Jerome would be strolling the sidewalks of Paris.
“Where is she?” Julia said.
Logan sucked his lips. “I told you. I have no idea.”
Julia listened with every muscle, but she heard only truth. He didn’t know. Her one friend who knew these neighborhoods, Logan had been her last hope, and he didn’t know.
That left dread. The sole remaining route to finding Eva was through the person Julia most feared, Jerome Crockett. He too had vanished. He too had powerful reasons to take Eva’s manuscript. Despite Eva’s denials and Logan’s regard, Julia saw violence beneath the man’s stony countenance. Give him a gun and time alone with Timson—Julia could almost hear the shot. Why else had he disappeared that morning? Chances were good he was hiding somewhere in a nearby warren of back alleys and back rooms. If anyone knew where Eva was, Jerome would. Possibly they were together.
“Jerome, then. Do you know where he is?”
She waited.
“Logan?”
He hoisted a basket of books onto his hip.
“No one’s seen him since the murder,” she said. “He looks more guilty than Eva.”
“Jerome is not a killer.”
“The cops are looking for him. If I can talk to him, I may be able to help them both.”
Logan shifted the heavy basket to his other hip. “He’s dead if they find him.”
“Maybe not, if I reach him first.”
He squeezed his eyes shut.
“Help him, Logan. Where is he?”
“I got a note last week.”
It was so low she could barely hear.
“He’s holed up backstage over on Seventh Avenue. At a joint called the Half-Shell.”
CHAPTER 22
The entrance to the Half-Shell was a short flight of stairs down from the noisy pavement on Seventh Avenue. Smaller and more intimate than Carlotta’s, it was unremarkable in its plain decor. No paper-and-glue jungle vines, no white plantation pillars. The dim stage was barely large enough for seven or eight performers. A dozen or more round tables, each with four chairs, filled the dining
