He parked near an apartment building on 145th and after remembering to put the spark lever down, as he best be away again shortly after the sun was up, locked the car. Tacked to a light pole nearby was a handbill announcing the upcoming presentation at Liberty Hall by Daddy Paradise, entitled, “Equality and Prosperity, the Road to True Freedom.” Word was, numerous notables would be in attendance, including A. Philip Randolph and the Reverend Adam Clayton Powell, Sr.—these Harlemites, along with the likes of Queenie St. Clair, and rumor had it, numbers king Casper Holstein. This whispering about his name was far-fetched and had originated with Miriam McNair to boost the gatherings’ allure. He often didn’t venture far from his nest at the Turf Club. Tickets were selling briskly.
O’Hara stood atop the stoop, the vestibule unlocked. He continued up to the fourth floor. When he reached there he wasn’t winded. He knocked lightly on the door of apartment 4B. It swung inward before he’d finished, the person on the other side having heard his approach.
The woman was the arresting-looking Petersen who had made the two-way radio call from the car. She was dressed conservatively, and her hair was brushed away from her intelligent face.
“Hey, now,” she said, stepping back to let him in.
“Hey yourself,” O’Hara said, taking off his hat and coming inside. He had met her before, and was again struck at her mixed features. One of those black women who must have Cherokee or something like that in her family, he’d concluded. The door closed.
Sitting around a square table were three others including Oscar Dulane who nodded at O’Hara.
“OD,” O’Hara said.
Dutch Schultz’s man was the only white person in the room. He seemed at ease as he took off his coat and laid it on the arm of a club chair near the curtained window. He joined the poker game in progress.
“Deal me in,” he said, laying a five on the table. “I’m feeling lucky.”
“Good to hear,” Petersen said, sitting back down.
“Dealer antes,” said the other woman in the room, Venus Melenaux. As usual, she was dressed in a man’s suit—or rather a man’s suit tailored for her. She was the banker, and changed out O’Hara’s bill for singles and four quarters. The game recommenced with a hand of five card stud.
On a sideboard were sandwich fixings, warm bottles of beer and corn liquor. At one point after several hands O’Hara and Dulane stood there. Dulane poured more liquor in his glass and O’Hara cut off a couple of slices of bologna, and, with a piece of cheese, put that between twin pre-sliced bread, packaged loafs of such having recently been introduced in markets.
“We’re just gonna step out for air and a smoke,” O’Hara announced, holding his sandwich.
“Don’t be long,” Melenaux joked, “I want a chance to earn my two dollars back betting into your flush that should have been mine.”
“Yes, ma’am,” O’Hara said, smiling and bowing slightly. He started on his sandwich while descending the stairs.
Outside, the two didn’t shoot the breeze. They talked about Schultz’s activities regarding Harlem.
“I don’t know exactly what’s in that crazy bastard’s mind, OD,” O’Hara said, blowing smoke from his cigarette into the air. “But I do know Flegenheimer is focused on the upcoming Daddy Paradise talk at Liberty Hall. Told his man Two Laces to sniff around and see what he could learn.”
“Okay,” said Dulane, eyebrow cocked. “I’ll make a few inquiries of my own. And let Matthew know if I find out anything hinky.”
“But careful asking around, yeah?” He took a last puff and, after throwing the cigarette away, dug on the side of his gums for the remains of his sandwich. He then swallowed.
“Like walking on eggshells,” OD said.
“Ain’t that the truth.” They both returned to the card game.
Henson and Stevenson lost track of time and any modesty, and somewhere in the dead of dark morning, got to sleep after their romantic labors.
“Oh my,” Stevenson said when she awoke in the morning, her mouth cottony and a dull ache behind her right eye. She looked over. Henson wasn’t in the bed. But she could see him busy in her kitchenette, taking items out of the icebox.
“How you feeling?” he asked, chopping up an onion. He looked at her and not at his hand as he expertly worked the blade to dice the onion as a chef would.
“Fine,” she said, scooting out of bed and fetching her robe in the closet, aware he eyed her nude form. She exited and used the facilities down the hall.
She returned to find bacon frying, and the aroma of fresh coffee had her salivating. Or maybe she just wanted more of her guest, fantasizing other wicked things to do with him. Stevenson straightened up the bed, and after folding it back into the wall, went to the
