“Bespoke is what the English call it,” his friend had told him, running his thumb up and down the underside of one of the suit’s wide lapels. For the last few months, he’d also told Henson, he’d been back in their village. “Anaukaq’s coming along as a harpooner,” he added.
Henson beamed. His own family environment had not been nurturing after his folks died when he and his sisters were young. His stepmother Nelle was a cruel, unfulfilled woman who beat him and the girls. Finally getting up some size, he’d said his goodbye to her with a sock to her eye and a warning that he’d be back if she hurt his sisters. He certainly needed to do better by his boy. What exactly was holding him back? Did he need to be a success before returning? And what was success as measured by what he did now for a living? A part-time travelogue show on the radio, hawking soda pop and swinging on ropes through gangsters’ windows. By hook or by crook, he could get back there if he really wanted to. After all, the Grim Destroyer didn’t care who he claimed, and given his current career—if that’s what it was—he could go at any time.
“I promise to make amends, brother.”
Ootah stopped chewing, swallowed his food and, clasping his hands together, bowed slightly at the man across the table from him. “By Peeshahhah who guides our way through storm and dark of day.”
“By Peeshahhah who guides our way through storm and dark of day,” Henson repeated, also clasping his hands together and bowing slightly. They evoked the name of the Great Hunter. There could be no dishonor.
And yet here he was, no closer to retuning to northern Greenland than he had been those four years ago. They’d also talked about the Daughter during Ootah’s several days in the city, which included the two being interviewed in The New York Amsterdam News and on the Clicquot Club radio show, plus a special broadcast from Abyssinian Baptist Church. Ootah had said no more than that the Daughter had been secreted away, and that he and only one other knew where it was. Henson hadn’t asked him who the other one was, as he’d assumed it’d either been Seegloo or Ooqueah, the other two Inuit who’d reached the North Pole. He didn’t want to know. Imagining word of the discovery might be found out one day, he wanted ignorance about its whereabouts in case he should be tortured to reveal any details.
Of course, that didn’t mean Egingwah hadn’t spied on his bother to find out what he was up to. That made Henson sound as paranoid as Peary had become, but there you had it. Word of what Ootah had moved could have made it back to the commander here in the States. Hell, for all he knew Egingwah, or whoever, could have returned to America.
It was also possible that Davis, upon hearing of the possibility of the Daughter, could have mounted an expedition on the hush-hush and gone up there. That was certainly the type of thing he’d do, wanting to test himself and satisfy his curiosity. And who knew, maybe the good Reverend Christofferson got to talking to his mistress one evening and blabbed about the tear sent from the sun goddess. That he’d asked about it could have been the source of the rumors. Back in town, he asked Renwick’s driver to let him off before reaching his home. From a payphone in a drugstore, he called Destiny Stevenson at her music shop.
“Hey, stranger,” she said sweetly over the line.
“Didn’t mean to disappear. I’m not that kind of fella.”
“I know you’re not.”
“You busy tonight? Want to drop by my broadcast at Smalls and we can get something to eat after?”
“Sounds great,” she said.
He gave her the details and rang off. He then walked back to his apartment, using the alone time to decide several matters, including what to tell the Weldon Institute. At his place, he reviewed the notes for his weekly broadcast and made his way to Seventh Avenue near 135th Street and Smalls Paradise, “Harlem’s Hot Spot” as it said on its menus. The cabaret was about two blocks from Striver’s Row. The nightclub had an elongated marquee over the main entrance with the name of the place—minus an apostrophe—in relief letters and pulsing lights. The building it was in resided next door to the Mayfield Beauty Shoppe offering extra marcelling. As the club was in the basement, Henson technically did his broadcasts for WGJZ in a supply room-turned-studio off the club floor. When the evening show was on, waiters would dance the Charleston while deftly holding trays and stomping the rug between the tables. The club could handle some 1,500 customers and was known to pack in hundreds more if, say, Cab Calloway’s band was playing.
“How’s it rollin’, Matt?” the doorman said.
“If I had your hand.”
“Yeah, man,” the stockier one said, pushing the swing door open to the still closed club.
He was an ex-heavyweight who’d had a so-so career in the ring.
Henson walked through the club where the staff was busy setting out utensils and cloth napkins on the tables. Several musicians were on stage, blowing or plucking their instruments going over their arrangements. A horn player nodded at Henson. The broadcast room was behind and to the
