“Is there nothing you can’t do?” She dipped her nose toward the coffee, breathing the smell in deep, seeking to clear the fuzziness in her head. On the table was one of his throwing stars. She picked it up, examining the weapon.
He grinned at her, tearing off a piece of bacon. “Careful with that.”
Holding it between thumb and index finger, she turned the shuriken. “What if you electrified this thing?”
Henson raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”
“It’ll make it much more effective.”
As they talked, Henson was impressed that Destiny Stevenson wasn’t just a pretty face and a knock-out body.
“Miriam called me yesterday to glow about Charles’ upcoming speech,” she mentioned. “About how proud I’ll be of him.”
Henson chuckled. “Guess she’s figuring to be your stepmom, huh?
She made a face.
“You’re not much on his ways?”
“I guess I haven’t really sorted out what I think. My mom was his bookkeeper. She always told me he was my father, and it wasn’t like he was a complete stranger to us growing up. But I’m not his only out of wedlock child.”
“Have you met any of your half-brothers or sisters?”
“Two of my sisters, yes. I also think there’s a son out there somewhere. Now, one of the half-sisters I met is a big believer in Charles’ mission. Has some kind of position with his organization. I’m sure she’ll be out here for the event.”
“You think what he does actually, you know, uplifts the race?”
“Or is he just a huckster?”
Henson shrugged as he poured more coffee for both of them. “Plenty say he provides hope, tells us not to fear the white man, do for self—and, as he admitted the other night, in addition to the ones he runs outright, invests his money in other peoples’ businesses.
The official name for Daddy Paradise’s organization was the Peaceful Grace Ministries. They operated restaurants, a freight line, moving companies, gas stations and even a string of roadside motels for the negro traveler in the segregated south.
“Ministering to the body and the soul. Now if I’m not mistaken, he himself has said he is not a Christian in the traditional sense. He mixes in Catholicism, Buddhism and Santeria among other spiritual teachings.”
She cocked her head. “You looking to join the cause, Matthew?”
“Just trying to get a sense of the man.”
“Doesn’t the New Negro have to be responsible for more than just themselves?”
“Yeah,” he nodded, lost in thought.
She rose, letting her robe fall open. She straddled his lap, putting her arms around his neck. “Maybe right now you best concentrate on getting a sense of the Daughter. Or are you out of too worn out from last night, Mr. World Explorer?”
“The Arctic got ice, baby?”
She kissed him, working her hand under his shirt. Like before, she marveled at the scar tissue her fingers caressed. The overgrown skin crisscrossed his body, testament to years of hard living.
Their lovemaking on the chair had it creaking and wobbling, but it didn’t break.
Fremont Davis stood across the street from Matthew Henson’s residence in the brisk morning air. He was in a topcoat and gloves, smoking a thin black cigar. Passersby gave him the once-over but kept on. Probably some he assumed thought him a landlord out seeing about one of his properties. Such a notion brought a small smile to his face as he puffed away, his keen eyes fixed on the window he knew looked out from Henson’s livingroom. He’d brought one of his hunting knives with him, contemplating simply walking up to the man’s place, knocking and putting the blade to him when he opened the door, the sleep not yet out of his eyes.. Not a kill strike at first, for he needed that sumabitch alive to tell him where he’d hidden the Daughter. He’d skin him slowly to get him to talk. Henson might, he also considered, be quick enough to evade the knife thrust and counterattack. Well, he concluded, matters were in motion for him to realize his goal. He’d made certain of that. Davis tossed the cigar away and strolled back to his parked car.
When they were done, Henson and Stevenson said their goodbyes. Downstairs he walked along, hands in his pockets. A group of kids, none of them no more than twelve, ran past him laughing and goofing with each other. What Stevenson didn’t know was that he did have to be responsible for more than himself. Since his breakfast with Henrik Ellsmere it had been on his mind he needed to make things right with his son Anaukaq, Ackie he’d called him. He hadn’t seen him in what, almost six years? Their only communication were infrequent letters back and forth. Was living his life, being rootless and taking off for parts of the country or the world whenever he felt like it so important? Sure, he’d rationalized that his kind of life was dangerous and no place for a child. But how could he visit on the young man being fatherless like he was early on in his own life. He caught a glimpse of his haunted eyes in a storefront window.
Henson stopped at a drugstore and made a call to his lawyer. It was still early, and he called him at home. The lawyer answered on the second ring. They exchanged pleasantries then Kunsler filled him in on what he’d learned so far.
“I haven’t been able to track down Ellsmere,” Kunsler said, “but I’m pretty sure the G-Men have a tail on me.”
“Same here,” Henson said. “He doesn’t seem to be with me this morning, but could be they’ve got a team on us. Four at least, I figure. You find out anything about those red hots in
