“Now don’t get me wrong, I ain’t calling for revolution, but I am saying like with those flyboys and their blimp, we need to put our heads together and pool our money and efforts for the betterment of all.” The stool creaked as he shifted his weight. “Well the ol’ clock on the wall and the steely eye from engineer Wally says it’s that time again. I must take my leave.”
Wally the engineer queued up the recorded music of the Clicquot Club Band. Over this, Henson talked as he brought the music sound level down some.
“And remember, there’s only one discovery of refreshment for me my fellow travelers, Clicquot Club Pale Dry Ginger Ale. Yes, pale…dry…ginger…ale. Made from only the purest of ingredients including naturally sweet cane sugar. It is a refresher like no other.” Henson flung his arms wide and the broadcast on a rapid-fire tom-tom beat like raindrops splattering on a tin roof.
“Good stuff, Matt,” the younger man said.
“Thanks, Wally.”
“Say, I hear the muckety-mucks at Zenith are talking syndication. Looking to get your show picked up on a few more stations. They’ve been getting inquiries from Pittsburgh and Baltimore, and even in a place called West Memphis.”
“Well, all reet.”
“Ha.”
Zenith Radio Corporation supplied all the radio equipment for the studio in the night club and had paid for the installation of the electrical machinery. The connection had been made years ago as Peary had used Zenith radios on his expeditions and had even appeared in a print ad extolling their virtue at one point. Yet, unlike other white controlled entities, the higher-ups in the company didn’t pretend that Henson did not exist. There was a fondness for him among them it seemed. The two men said their goodbyes after they stepped back into the larger area.
“You sounded good,” Destiny Stevenson said, rising from her folding chair.
“Why thank you, ma’am.” He bowed slightly, taking her hand and kissing it as if a wayward count on holiday.
“Oh, you charmer.”
They locked gazes, then he said, “I promised you dinner, as I recall.”
“You did, here?”
“It gets a might rambunctious out there at the tables. I was thinking more intimate surroundings.”
“You were, were you?”
In another part of town, the moon shone on a one-story garage where two others met in secrecy. They were in the office of Granady Truck Repair & Parts in the Bronx. The firm actually used the trucks to ferry illegal beer and stronger spirits across the five boroughs.
“Here it is,” Detective Kevin Hoffman said. He handed a file folder to Dutch Schultz. The plainclothesman looked more dour than usual.
Shultz handed the file unopened to his driver and bodyguard, Vin O’Hara. The gangster turned to go.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Hoffman said.
“Oh yeah,” Schultz grinned, nodding toward O’Hara. He had a lit cigar between his kid-gloved fingers.
The driver reached into his coat pocket with his free hand and withdrew a stuffed envelope. He flipped it to the detective. As this happened, O’Hara managed to open the folder slightly and see the photograph clipped on top of the typewritten pages in there. He maintained his poker face.
“Don’t spend that all in one place, Judas.” Schultz laughed as the two hoodlums left.
Hoffman stood still for several moments then pocketed the envelope and departed as well.
At an eatery called the Sugar Hill Café on 144th Street near Amsterdam, Henson and Stevenson had a meal of smothered steak, collard greens and steamed carrots. More than once, Stevenson slipped her foot out of her low-heeled shoe and tapped her toes on his shoe. They had coffee after dinner.
“What else are you going to show a girl tonight, Mr. Henson?”
“You big city wimmen are kind of bold, aren’t you?”
“We must be bold if we’re to seize our future,” she said.
He frowned. “Your father says that, doesn’t he?”
“He does, indeed. And we have front row seats for the to-do.”
He sipped contemplatively. “I talked to your father, and I’ll be going over the security with OD day after tomorrow. Among the crew he’s rounded up a few former bodyguards for Garvey. The kind of gents who didn’t blink when they went up against them Kluxers.”
“You expecting trouble?”
“No, but I don’t want to get caught with my pants down.”
“Oh, no, we wouldn’t want that,” she teased. “What about the police?”
“What about them?” he huffed. “They aren’t providing any personnel, not even Cole Rodgers.” He had more of his coffee. “You’re not too full are you, Des?”
“I’m feeling pretty spry…pops.”
“Good, wouldn’t want you getting too sleepy yet.”
“What sort of night do you have planned, Mr. Arctic Adventurer?” She leaned forward, whispering, “We gonna do some exploring back at your place?”
Grinning Henson said, “Before we get to that, we got us some burglarizing to do.”
“Huh?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Five in the corner pocket,” Fremont Davis announced. He leaned onto the pool table and his stick struck the cue ball dead center. The cue ball rolled over the green cloth. At first, it looked as if he was going to hit his opponent’s ball, but the pool ball angled just enough away that it didn’t and then banged against the five solid just so. The ball rolled languidly, and dropped into the called pocket.
Hugo Renwick drew on his cigar and let out a stream of smoke. He stood holding his pool cue. The two men were in the red velvet-wallpapered game
