“Okay, eventually a meet will be set, but we come loaded for bear.”
Meleneaux’s smiled and sipped her coffee. “Better clean off papa’s shotgun.”
That same morning, Matthew Henson arrived ten minutes ahead of schedule at Hugo Renwick’s estate out on Sands Point in Long Island. He’d been driven there by a chauffered Pierce-Arrow Runabout. Several of his neighbors saw him being picked up in the fancy car earlier. That wasn’t as impressive as seeing the white driver holding the rear door open for him.
“Go on now, Matt,” one said proudly.
“Have a martini for me,” another said.
“Way to go, Mr. Matt,” Henry the newsie had cheered, a raft of papers under his arm. He flipped the kid a fifty-cent piece, winking. “I want to see that report card, you hear?”
“Yes, sir,” the thirteen year-old called back.
He’d been helping the orphan with his math and history homework when he could. He made a mental note to make sure he followed up with the youngster soon on that. Sitting in the rear of the fancy car, Henson waved sheepishly at his neighbors as he rode away. The day was bright and clear, and he had to fight dozing as the car ran smoothly along the roadway. Eventually, they arrived at their destination. Henson tried to not gape at the immensity of the brick and wood structure set amid lush foliage as the car came to a stop at the front steps leading up from a circular, gravel topped driveway
Lavish was an understatement for the mansion and grounds. It was part Tudor and part medieval castle, 12,000 square feet that fronted the Atlantic. There was a tennis court, a six-car garage, a guest house bigger than most single-family homes, a boat house, and on and on. Henson wasn’t so much envious as astounded. He shook his head and made up his mind to appear matter-of-fact in the face of all this excess.
“Hello, Mr. Henson, come this way,” a pretty blonde-haired maid said, after opening the front door.
“Sure.”
Henson was escorted out to the pool. There, lounging in chairs under an umbrella were Bessie Coleman, Shorty Duggan and another man he took to be Hugo Renwick. They had a half full glass pitcher and tall slim glasses beside them on a glass table.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Coleman said.
“Hey,” he said to her and the mechanic.
“Mr. Henson, I’ve heard nothing but good things about you from Bessie.” Renwick stood, the men shook hands.
“Thanks for having me, Mr. Renwick.”
“Hugo, if I can call you Matt.”
“Why not? This is some spread.”
“It is a bit much,” Renwick admitted, sitting back down again as Henson also took a seat. “But in my defense, it is also where the Institute is housed.” He waved toward the house. “If things go as planned, this will be a citadel of the new world we’re working to usher in.” He paused. “That why we’re happy to have the talents of Miss Coleman.”
“Us colored gals are doing big things,” Coleman said.
“Have some lemonade and sit a spell.” Renwick poured him a glass as Henson sat.
“What do you know about our work, Matt?”
He told Renwick about his meeting with Nikola Tesla. “But would what you’re up to be a reason for violently attacking you?”
“Black and white working together as equals? That’s a future some ain’t too keen on,” Duggan observed.
“A color blind world, huh?” Henson said dubiously. “How about a world where color only matters for identification? Where what you did and who you were was what counted?” Renwick countered.
“Amen.” Henson held his glass up, tipping it toward the other three. He sampled his refreshment, enjoying the drink’s tartness.
“Me and Shorty are still of the mind that shoot ‘em up was about the Skhati,” Coleman said. “It’s a one of a kind aircraft any one of these greedy plutocrats would want to call their own.”
“Would one of those plutocrats be Fremont Davis?” Henson asked.
Renwick leaned forward. “Curious that you brought him up. Isn’t he the one who blocked you being accepted into the Challenger’s Club?”
“I was young and foolish then,” he retorted. When Henson had returned from the North Pole he’d been feted. It wasn’t the same as what Peary received, but among black Americans in New York and elsewhere, and a smattering of white left and liberal press like The Nation and The New York Times, he did receive praise and recognition. Enough so that he had believed the all-white Challenger’s Club of big game hunters and explorers would open its doors wide to him.
“My then-wife, encouraged me to apply,” Henson admitted.
“Eva,” Coleman said.
“Yeah.”
“Why do you say it’s curious, Hugo?” Coleman said.
“I don’t know about the attack on the airfield, but I have it on good authority that Davis and Dutch Schultz are working together for the time being.”
Henson asked, “Why and how do you know this?”
“I don’t go around with my head in the clouds all the time like my reputation suggests, Matt. I do attend to earthly matters as I have to protect my various interests.”
“Meaning?” Henson said, irritated by his evasiveness. Or maybe he was just showing off to impress Coleman.
“About two or so years ago, he and I sat on the board of a petroleum enterprise. Davis, as you know, has most of his money tied up in an overseas freight business.”
“That’s how he became a big game hunter,” Henson finished. “Using his freighters to take trips to Africa and Asia.”
“Exactly. At that time there was a strike going on at the Brooklyn docks, tying up his and other owners’ ships from loading or unloading. One of the straw boss longshoremen eager to please was an acquaintance of Mr. Flegenheimer, already on the rise. Seems the two had grown up
