Unsure of what to do, but recognizing the accuracy of what Henson had said, the butler relented. “Remain where you are.” He closed the door, footsteps retreating through the foyer. Soon, through the frosted glass of the front door, Henson noted a shadow approaching. The door was flung open.
“Matt, darling,” Lacy DeHavilin said, a toothy smile on her face. She was a fifty-plus zaftig white woman who dressed in swirls of scarfs, shawls and bursts of color. She put her arms around his neck and hugged him tight.
“Come in, come in.” She pulled him in. The butler stood to one side, stone-faced yet somehow managing to suggest a sneer.
“Bring us some refreshments, Solworth. Some of that chicken with asparagus and dill from last night will be fine. You like it cold, right, Matt?”
“Sure,” he said.
“And white wine, of course.”
“Of course, madam,” Solworth said.
“We’ll take it in the study.” She led the way, taking Henson by the hand.
The two walked deeper into the house, original paintings by Jacob Lawrence elbowing for space next to a Pablo Picasso, these over sculptures by up and comers like Augusta Savage and collections of surrealistic works. In her study, one wall was filled with first editions and another wall was adorned with various totems and symbols of the occult. They sat on the couch, DeHavilin tucking a leg under.
“Matt, you’ve stayed away too long, you must bring me up to date on your activities. I was just at a meeting of the editorial board of Opportunity the other night and damned if your name didn’t come up.” Opportunity Magazine was published by the Urban League.
“I’ve been meaning to get back in touch, Lacy.”
“Liar,” she said, “but I forgive you.”
The door opened, and the butler wheeled in cold roasted chicken, red potatoes—also unheated—and drinks. He looked at neither Henson nor his employer as he served portions on their plates and left. They ate, plates on their laps. She nibbled, and Henson, hungrier than he realized, ate with vigor.
“But I know you too well, Mr. Henson. You didn’t simply drop by to renew old acquaintances.”
“I’m afraid you got me, Lacy.”
“We’ll see.”
“I might be wading into the thickets on something and came to find out what you know about the Weldon Institute. Word is you were invited to one of their soirées a few months ago.” He munched heartily on his food.
DeHavilin was filing her empty wine glass. “In a nutshell, it’s a utopian enterprise run by Hugo Renwick.” She paused. “No, I’m being too dismissive. Hugo is more grounded than that, though he did back a project called Llano del Rio in the California desert several years ago. It was an attempt at a socialist commune that, sadly, didn’t succeed.”
“I know that name,” he said. “Renwick was one of the backers of a Fred Cook expedition.”
“You hold a grudge?”
“No,” he said. “But is he a kind of socialist, like Asa?” He referred to their mutual friend A. Philip Randolph, the radical head of the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters. The largest black labor union in the country.
“Oh, I think your gorgeous self makes you the most dangerous negro in America. Or at least, in my boudoir when I can get you in it.”
“You can’t tell, I’m blushing.”
Smiling, she continued. “Hugo’s a capitalist, but one with vision, a futurist to borrow that term from the painters. Our version of a Fabianist I suppose.”
“He wants to better our country for all.”
“Technology being the tip of the spear to accomplish that,” DeHavilin added.
She sat back holding her glass, taking him in. “Among other things, he employs an old friend of yours, Bessie Coleman.”
“Doing what?”
“Apparently test flying some sort of science plane of his.”
“He has real money, then.”
“Indeed he does. Steel, tires, and construction. And he has a degree in engineering.”
“What else do you know about his institute?”
She drank him in deep. “You’ll have to force that out of me.”
“Lacy…”
“Matt…” She leaned over and gave him a quick kiss and got up.
DeHavilin went to an assortment of records in a free-standing walnut cabinet that housed her gramophone. She selected a 78 platter, removed it from its sleeve and placed the record on the turntable after powering up the machine. She deftly set the needle in place, a minimum of hisses and pops accompanying the revolving disk as the music played. He expected to hear a swing jazz tune as such was a favorite of hers. But rather than an up-tempo blast from a clarinet, he heard chimes, cymbals, an organ and, coming in and out, an instrument he couldn’t identify.
“What is that?” Henson said. “It sounds like electric wind.”
“The inventor named it after himself, a thereminophone by Leon Theremin. Isn’t it simply transcendent?” DeHavilin sprayed some perfume on from an atomizer. “The organ player is an Indian gentleman named Chandra Mutrhraji, and you simply must accompany me when he comes back to town for a concert.” She walked to the study door and turned the lock. She closed the drapes and lit some candles and incense, humming a tune. Then without further preamble, DeHavilin began undressing.
Well, Henson concluded, unbuttoning his shirt, he had known this might happen if he came to see her. His duty required much of him, he reasoned with a crooked grin. DeHavilin was now only wearing one of her long scarves she’d wrapped partly around her, waving an end at Henson as she came over and let him take her in his strong arms. She nibbled his bare chest.
They made athletic love on and off the couch. On a wall behind them was a photo of
