“Correct. Two Laces was originally part of Casper’s outfit, but they had a falling out over the usual story, a frail.”
“I’m guessing the Dutchman is using Two Laces to help him move in on the Harlem numbers game.”
“That’s right. Like everything else that hothead covets, once he sets his sights on it, he’ll stop at nothing to quench his thirst. At some point you have to figure it’s going to be all-out war between him and the likes of Queenie and Casper. Let colored folk control that kind of money? Sheet. What self-respecting white man would let that go on?”
They both chuckled dryly.
“Any idea who on the force or in Tammany Hall he has in his pocket?” Henson said. As he’d predicted, there had been no report of the dustup at the apartment building where’d he rescued Destiny Stevenson.
“No, but he’s been known to have meets over at the Cayuga Democratic Club”
The Club was a white-run organization that courted black votes in Harlem where the Club’s building was located. An enterprising young man named J. Raymond Jones had started the Carver Democratic Club as a way to build up black voter empowerment.
Henson rolled a few ideas around in his head. “This has been very helpful, Slip.”
“You want me to keep nosing around?”
“No, this is good, thanks.”
“Thanks for the fifty.”
The line disconnected.
As Henson locked up, he considered it made sense from the point of view of Dutch Schultz to kidnap Destiny Stevenson, as her father was tied in financially to St. Clair’s loan operation. Maybe to force Daddy Paradise to sever those ties. Yet, except for sending Two Laces to brace him, the Dutchman had shown a restrained hand. That was not like him—this was a man who would bury an icepick in your head, then turn around and order a shrimp cocktail.
Walking toward his home, Henson wondered who had Schultz’s ear and if this was about money and/or power. The attack on the airfield didn’t seem to be his handiwork. He wouldn’t use out-of-town muscle.
Back in his apartment, laying on his back in bed, not truly asleep or awake, he relived an incident that happened during that last push to reach the North Pole. He and the others were crossing a rivulet of moving ice floes. He was pushing a sledge loaded with provisions, no dogs. Just then the floating hunk of ice he was on tipped upward due to the shift of weight, and he was plunged into the bone-freezing water. His hood was torn off, and he let go of the sledge least it drag him down for good. But he was wearing fur gloves, and couldn’t get a good grip on the ice. It was tantalizingly close, but might as well have been yards away. He was a goner and his only thought then was he was close, so close, to his goal.
Cold numbed his extremities, and try as he might, he couldn’t swim well enough to remain aloft. His legs refused to kick, and he was having a hard time keeping air in his lungs. Ready to meet the Grim Destroyer, it was then an ungloved hand grasped him by the nape of his neck and, struggling together, he was hauled onto the floe. It was Ootah, who had not only saved his life, but managed got the rest of the supplies across as well.
They nodded stoically at each other.
His kamiks—sealskin boots—were removed and replaced, the water beaten out of his bearskin pants, and then they hurried to catch up with the rest. That was just how it went out there, all in a day’s work. Peary, too, it turned out had also fallen into the water and had been saved by the other Eskimos.
Henson came fully awake. He hadn’t recalled that near-death occurrence in a long time. Was it an omen of things to come?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
` “It does seem after solidifying matters in Chicago, Los Angeles is the city to expand in, Queenie.” Charles Toliver and Queenie St. Clair walked along Amsterdam Avenue a little after breakfast. Each wore stylish clothes and hats. One of her crew trailed not to far behind doing bodyguarding duties.
Toliver continued. “Negroes in Los Angeles have been enterprising. They’ve started an insurance company, a film outfit, not to mention the two newspapers, The Eagle and The Sentinel.
“A legit bank, huh?” she said.
“Homefolks from Texas, Louisiana and Oklahoma are finding their way there. Escaping onerous racism for the more sunbaked variety,” he said, grinning. “Jim Crow might be applied with a more subtle hand….”
“But it’s applied nonetheless,” she finished.
“Yes, ma’am,” he affirmed. “But it’s wide open out there.”
On they went, discussing their plans. Thereafter, she returned to her office at the Palmetto Ambulance and Funeral Services. Venus Melenaux was waiting for her with a typewritten note she handed across. The numbers boss read it quickly.
“They’re demanding fifty thousand dollars for the return of Casper.” Queenie St. Clair said, sitting behind her desk, tossing the message onto it.
“That’s the price,” Venus Melenaux confirmed, sitting across from her. “We gotta let those bastards know it’s gonna take us a few days to raise a ransom that steep. In the meantime, we need some proof Casper is okay. To our advantage, Dutch’s men think we’re part of his gang anyway.”
“When the drop is made, they’ll gun whoever we send down and take the money,” St. Clair determined.
“That’s my figurin’,” Melaneaux said.
St. Clair had followed up on the lead Tommy Riordan had provided. She calculated if she could be the one to free him, a grateful Holstein would be a useful asset down the line. Particularly if she could pull it off with Toliver and a few other bankers actually establishing a bank lending to
