At the gathered clapped, Henson left in the company of his lawyer, flashbulbs going off in their faces like grenades. The two men went past Venus Melenaux and Queenie St. Clair. The two women exchanged a shared indecipherable look.
“That was close,” Kunsler said, driving away from Liberty Hall. Grey smoke could be seen through his rear window as the burning building was mostly extinguished. “Imagine if that goddamn ray gun actually worked? Something like that in the hands of that coo-coo bastard Schultz.
His friend regarded him grimly. “Think I ought to turn over a piece of the Daughter to Tesla?”
Kunsler drove along, silence building between them. “If another madman should posses that kind of power.” He shook his head. “Isn’t it better we have a way to check him?”
Henson nodded.
“What about Davis?” Kunsler asked.
“He ain’t the type to go back into the woodwork.”
“Yeah. But look, you saved the day, Matt. The black and white press are gonna latch onto the Dutch Schultz angle we feed them. Not to mention the mystery of the thing they had up there and the unknown aircraft.”
The explorer smiled wanly as he sat quietly. That night he stayed at Kunsler’s place as the press was camped out in front of his apartment building. He made a phone call.
“Hello, Destiny,” Henson said when the receiver was picked up on the other end of the line.
“Hello yourself,” she said.
They talked for a long time. Then he went to sleep, gathering himself for the last push.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
As Kunsler had predicted, the black and white newspapers were filled with news about the attempted massacre at Liberty Hall. Though it was the negro press that had the best frontpage pictures of the burning building and the famous Harlemites, their faces a chiaroscuro play of light and dark as they watched the building burn. One of the black presses evoked the Greenwood incident instigated by whites, the Tulsa Black Wall Street slaughter of 1921.
While the dead hood was identified as a known associate of Dutch Schultz, there was as yet no hard evidence linking the gangster to the crime. Through his lawyer, Schultz denied any involvement and expressed his outrage at such a heinous act by clearly deranged individuals. Kunsler was busy fielding calls for interviews for Henson from such outlets as Time and Look magazines, as well as a Greenwich Village illustrator named Elmer “E.C.” Stoner, who it turned out was a negro and was interested in collaborating with the explorer to produce a comic strip based on his exploits. He’d sent over some sample sketches and the two were perusing these. And in further consultation with his client, it was determined that The New York Amsterdam News would get first crack at a Matthew Henson interview.
As to what had exploded up there on the partially completed building next door to the hall, it was put forward by the police the hoods must have had grenades with them and one was struck by a bullet. Various eyewitnesses countered that as they told of seeing a bright flash and discharges akin to lightning. This in turn was the source of vigorous speculations in cafes, beauty parlors and many a speakeasy over watered down gin—in and out of Harlem.
To the chagrin of many in Washington, D.C., including those on the so-called Medusa Council, Daddy Paradise’s stature had increased. He might not be the black messiah, but as he had hired Henson and the latter, the black community knew, had prevented mass killings. The spiritualist at this moment in time was ascendant. As donations flowed in, Paradise announced he’d hired architect Vertner Tandy to design and oversee the building of an all-glass and metal pyramid-like structure. This edifice would utilize the fairly recent process of chrome plating for its details, and would house a spiritual sanctuary, offices, a trade school and local businesses. Further, Matthew Henson was being hailed as the Hero of Harlem in presses of all stripes in and out of New York. Denied his proper recognition after reaching the North Pole, he was now, all these years later, the toast of the town.
Reverend Stafford, the informer, was racked with envy. His government contact was no longer available to him, the phone number disconnected. He received no further communication from the Bureau though he tried several times reaching out to them.
Before those occurrences, still jailed in the Tombs in Lower Manhattan, Two Laces lay on his cot in his solitary cell smoking a cigarette, when one of the jailers appeared at his bars. “There’s a mouthpiece here to see you, Two Laces.” He had a key in the lock and was opening the cell door.
“About damn time,” the crook said, sitting upright and grounding the cigarette out under his feet. He yawned and followed the jailer along the hallway of other jail cells to a room down another corridor. He stepped inside, his eyes having to adjust to an unexpected gloom.
“Hey, what goes?” he said, the door slamming shut behind him. “Where’s the shyster?” he said. There was a table and two chairs in the room, but no one sitting down.
A hand came from behind, covering his mouth, as a muscled arm pulled him back. Two Laces had his hands on that arm and was trying to break free when the knife blade opened the front of his throat. He gagged on his own blood, holding hands to his severed throat as he
