Chapter Twenty-Five
Eunice
New York, New York
Dear Mrs. Carter:
I need to speak with you about an important matter. Please meet me tomorrow, Thursday, at the Chock full o’Nuts at Penn Station at noon. This is urgent. Please do not share this with anyone and please come alone.
Miss Polly Adler
I slip the letter back into the envelope in which it was delivered. Peering out of the jitney’s window as it rumbles down Lenox Avenue, I am as perplexed—and as hopeful—now as I was when I first opened Polly’s note nearly a day ago.
“You sure are quiet, Mrs. Carter.” Edward Johnson, the proprietor of Harlem Jitney Line, draws me from my thoughts. He glances at me in the rearview mirror of his Buick.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson. I was just reviewing some matters for work.”
“I beg your pardon for interrupting,” he says, his slow Southern drawl showing plainly that he hails from the red clay hills of Mississippi. “But I sure was glad to get your call. Harlem’s own lady lawyer ought not be climbing on and off the subway every day.”
“I’ve been driving lately.”
“Oh! Well now, you ought not be driving yourself around the city either,” he says, kindly scolding me. “A lady of your standing ought to be escorted every time she steps out of her house, whether for work or for pleasure.”
I nod. Mr. Johnson has no idea he may never have spoken truer words.
“We’re all mighty proud of you in Harlem. The colored lady lawyer taking down all the crooks.”
I chuckle. “I’m not doing it alone, Mr. Johnson.”
“Well, we know you’re doing your share of the work and then some. Yes indeed. Anytime you and Mr. Carter need a ride, just ring me. You know my outfit has four men, four cars now.”
“Congratulations,” I say, just as Mr. Johnson eases the Buick to the curb on the corner of 34th Street and Broadway in front of the Hotel McAlpin.
We make arrangements for him to return in an hour. Then, the moment my shoe strikes the pavement, I’m swept into the chaotic rhythm of the city. Despite the biting thirty-degree chill, the sidewalk is bustling with the lunchtime throng.
I navigate through the crush of the crowd to the wide glass door of Chock full o’Nuts.
Although I’ve been to this coffee shop before, I draw a deep breath, then brace myself before I step over the threshold—my constant habit, no matter the establishment.
When I enter and see the colored and white patrons inside, I exhale.
The sharp scent of fresh-brewed coffee mingles with the chatter and the clatter, and it all warms me. My eyes circle the diner. The booths and tables are packed with patrons. There are a few stools at the counter, but I’m certain Polly wouldn’t want us to be sitting in plain sight that way.
In the far corner, partially obscured by the swinging kitchen doors, I spot a narrow booth. It isn’t ideal for the average customer, but it is perfect for this meeting—away from prying eyes and ears.
I slide into the seat facing the entrance. Crumbs dot the tabletop, but just as I settle, a young, weary-looking waitress approaches. It’s not even noon, yet the lines in her face bear the weight of a day that has already been too long.
Still, she offers me a tired smile. “What’ll it be, hon?” she asks, wiping the surface down with a gray cloth that appears to add more grime than it removes.
I pause. Polly asked for a meeting; I didn’t expect to share a meal with her, although I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee at least.
“I’m waiting for…a friend,” I say. “We’ll order when she arrives.”
“All right, hon,” she murmurs, and shuffles to another table.
I glance around the diner. This isn’t the most elegant of eateries, but it is a perfect place to blend in with the city’s working folk.
Again, I take out Polly’s note from my satchel. It’s still uncanny to me. The very moment this letter arrived, Murray and I were discussing this exact matter.
—
“I’ve been telling you to speak to the girls, but, Eunice, I’ve been thinking…what about the madams? You should speak to one of them.”
“If the girls won’t talk to me, what makes you think a madam will? They’re under the same threats, if not worse.”
He shrugged. “And maybe that’s the point. If Luciano’s behind this prostitution racket, the madams may be more desperate than the girls to see him fall.”
I took notice of Murray’s words—if Luciano is behind this.
I’m gathering names, I’m assembling wiretaps, and every day my evidence inches closer to Luciano.
Yet Dewey still clings to the hope that they will pin Luciano for something else.
Something the men of this city will see as more worthy of prosecution than prostitution.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Carter?” I glanced up at my secretary. “This was just delivered for you. The boy said it was urgent.”
“Thank you, Miss LaFrance.” I noticed the perfect cursive on the outer envelope before I opened it and quickly scanned the three lines.
“Something wrong?” Murray asked when I didn’t raise my eyes from the letter.
“No, no.” I tucked the letter back inside. “I’ll think about what you said, Murray. Perhaps there is a way.”
Long after Murray left, I sat, turning Polly’s letter over and over. Murray’s insistence that I find a madam to speak to, and then, as if on cue, a letter arrives from Polly Adler—is this Providence?
—
The bell above the front door jingles, and my gaze shoots to the entrance.
It only takes a moment to recognize Polly, even if today she’s dressed rather plainly, bundled in an oversized wool coat.
This is one of the few times I’ve seen her—in person or in a photograph—without a mink stole.
Her overcoat and fedora are a far cry from the glamorous ensemble she wore to court.
Her fedora dips low, casting a shadow over her face and masking her expression for a moment. When she glances up, her eyes meet mine. And I wonder: Will Polly Adler be the definitive fracture in the foundation that has kept this racket standing?