Chapter 15
Paranoia rattled through my nerves—made me jumpy with fear at the noise in the city. I had a feeling someone wanted to kill
me. Like they were watching me, waiting for the chance to finish what they started.
It wasn’t the first time I’d felt this way, but now I couldn’t shake it. I’d escaped death, and it felt as though it was impatient
with my outrunning it. It was on my back closer than ever.
In the late afternoon, the doors at 40 West 135th still swung open. A place that had once seen the strength of the UNIA was
now a quiet sanctuary. Loners drifted in, seeking peace from a world that seemed to want nothing but to cause harm.
I pushed through the heavy doors, slipping inside. The hush of the nearly empty church was only broken by the shuffle of occasional
footsteps.
I knelt at the altar, staring up at Jesus, who looked down from the stained glass, nails in his hand and feet. The sight of him, and the mood of the church, brought to mind everyone I’d known who simply was not here anymore.
“This is all too much, God,” I whispered. “Why didn’t you take me with them?”
I waited for an answer, but nothing came—just the creak of wood and the flickering light from some candles in my periphery.
Someone cleared their throat behind me though, making me jump. I turned and found none other than Jordan, sitting in a pew
two rows back, watching me with a faint smile from under a dramatic church hat.
“Funny seeing you here,” she said wryly.
“Oh, hi,” I replied, trying to steady my voice at the sight of her. “I . . . um . . . didn’t know you were a churchgoer.”
“I don’t put too much stock in what was forced on us,” she said, folding her gloved hands in her lap. “But faith is different.
You can feel it, use it, without the books or the rules. And I feel it in this place.”
Jordan’s words made me feel closer to her, in a way. We all tried to hold onto some belief to get us through the rough times.
I went and sat in the pew beside her, and Jordan seemed satisfied by it, giving me a smirk and a slow nod.
“I hear you’ve been spending more time with young Jay,” she said. “You like the boy?”
“I—I don’t—”
“Ah, stuttering.” She gave a knowing smile. “There’s my answer. I asked you to keep an eye on him, and now you’re falling
for him.”
“I’m not falling,” I stammered. “Jay’s just a friend.”
Jordan’s eyes carried skepticism. “So, he’s not like his father? Not another rich boy looking to rip Harlem to shreds?”
“Not at all. Jay has his contradictions, sure. But he’s not like his father. He doesn’t dream of power and business. He cares.”
“So, you know the father?” Jordan asked, eyebrows raising.
“No,” I said, feeling like I’d revealed too much. “Well, we met one time.”
“So he’s power hungry.” She pursed her lips. “I knew it. I’m wary of anyone close with someone who dreams of power, even if
the kid himself is harmless. Power’s a family business. I got the feeling Old Gatsby’s the type to change the game on me when
it suits him.”
“Maybe, but Jay can’t help what he came from.” My gaze drifted around the church and then landed on a few worshippers sitting
with their heads bowed, hands clasped, desperate for a miracle to solve things. “Anyway, I’ve got bigger things to worry about
than Jay. Like why the man setting fires around Harlem is still on the loose.”
“Because they ain’t looking for the guy.” Jordan glanced around and then lowered her voice as she leaned toward me. “One of
my girls with cop ties says a rookie—Cannon Cleary—is on the case.”
“Cannon Cleary?” I echoed, feeling a jolt of surprise. “I don’t trust him to care a thing about this. His life’s mission is
to be accepted by the white man.”
Jordan shrugged. “Cops are giving him an award at a Buchanan banquet this week. Saw flyers in Manhattan. Might be a good place
to dig.”
So, Cannon was my next lead. No one at the police department seemed to care about the case, and maybe that was because Cannon was in charge of it. The thought of him running the show caught me off guard. Who was he, really? What was he up to?
And how did Jordan know all this, anyway? It was like she had one foot in the shadows, and the other in some all-seeing realm.
“Odd question,” I said. “Might you happen to know about anyone by the name of Pierre?”
“Pierre?” she repeated, familiarity flashing in her eye. “Oh yeah, I know a Pierre. Gambler at the Aphrodite Casino.” She
chuckled at the thought, shaking her head. “Used to buy from us because we let him haggle the price. What can I say? I felt
sorry for the guy! He’d lose all this money and then do anything to gain it back. Guys like that—they’d do anything for a
buck. Why you asking after that poor sucker?”
“He might be connected to the Buchanans,” I said. “Helping them cover up their messes. If I can track him down, I might be
able to find out more about the fire.”
Jordan’s smile widened at my knowledge, pride in her eye. “Sounds like a plan. Just be careful. That casino’s Italian turf—no
place for a Negro to play detective.” She paused, then added, “If you are planning on going there, stop by the warehouse first.
I’ve got something that might help. But after that, you can consider us square for giving me what I needed on the Gatsbys.
The son’s morals are better than the father’s—that’s good information. I can work with that.”
That night, at the diner, I was wiping the counter when the bell over the door jingled, drawing my attention.
Jay stepped inside, and my pulse picked up, but I forced my face into a neutral expression, like I hadn’t just been talking
about him.
He slid into his usual booth with only a glance in my direction. I wiped my hands on my apron, took a breath, and headed over,
sliding into the seat across from him, studying his face.
The energy between us felt different—more restrained. He looked tired, his gaze burdened by something.
“You okay?” I asked.
He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Sure. My father has me running around in circles trying to fix his problems
and no matter what I do, it’s never enough, but sure! I’m fine.”
“Oh.” His words were barbed, and I’d seen him annoyed before, but this was heavier than that. “That seems like a lot to carry.”
“It is, but if I don’t carry it, who will? That’s what the Gatsbys do, right? Keep up appearances and pray no one sees the
cracks.” He looked sadly at the table, his voice lowering. “Sometimes I think about just leaving. Taking a car and driving
until I run out of road.”
“So, you don’t like it here in New York?”
“Not always, no.”
The thought of Jay, who mostly seemed like he could navigate any environment, wanting to just run away from everything made
me see more in him. It was a restlessness I could relate to.
“What is it that you’d be running away from, exactly?” I asked him. “What problems of his does your father have you fixing?”
Jay’s face was steely as his eyes fixed on mine. It was like he was waiting for me to provide a guess.
“Are you working with Daisy to keep your father’s business running?” I asked, flat out. “I’m not talking about the school.
I mean the underground business.”
He shook his head. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he replied, though his tone suggested he knew exactly what I was getting
at.
“Your father has been talking to pushers in Harlem, for his second business. He wants to get clients from areas he’d rather
not go to himself. The poorer neighborhoods. Is that right?”
He paused, weighing my words. “Did Daisy tell you that?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “But it wasn’t hard to figure out.”
“Then there’s no point in hiding it from you anymore.” Jay gave a slow nod, leaning forward to keep his voice low. “My father
is a bootlegger, yes. But he has plans to leave it behind. He wants to build housing projects for Southerners coming up North. Only problem is, lots
of people aren’t keen on integrated communities, and sometimes having too many morals makes you lose in real estate. And his
properties are affordable, so we barely have enough to keep the mansion. That leaves me to do the bootlegging and keep us
afloat.”
“Your father’s awfully critical of street life for a man who profits from it,” I said.
Jay’s lips curled slightly together. “The whole point of organized crime is to keep it quiet. The protest wasn’t exactly quiet. It brought attention to all of us.”
“It was necessary attention,” I countered, my voice firmer than I intended.
Our conversation paused when Leanna stopped by to refill our water glasses. Jay and I both murmured our thanks, but our eyes
stayed locked, each of us holding something.
“Another question,” I said. “Does your father hate me?”
Jay hesitated. “It’s not hate. He just . . . doesn’t understand you. And anyway, I don’t care what he thinks.”
I leaned back, absorbing it. “I spoke from the heart.”
“And that’s all you can do,” Jay replied, a faint warmth in his voice. “I like you, and he’ll have to deal with that.”
“I like you too.”
Jay’s eyebrows lifted. “In what way?”
I wasn’t sure how to say it. Putting words to whatever we felt had always been risky. Instead of answering, I looked outside
the window, letting silence fill the space. My gaze fell on a lone man sitting slumped on a bench, hat pulled low over his
eyes, cigarette smoke curling up over his face.
“The normal way,” I said, shrugging it off. “You know, there are times when I want to run away too. And I might when I have
the means. But this fire situation nags on me in a way I can’t let go of. I have to get into this . . . Aphrodite Casino.
I hear there’s someone there who might have information.”
Jay’s expression turned serious. “Trying to play vigilante, are you?” But there was a hint of attraction in his voice. “You can’t get into that place alone. If you’re going, you should take me—and Zihan too. He might be helpful. You remember his father was a stuntman?”
I hadn’t thought about involving Zihan, but Jay was right. “So, you’re willing to be hands-on with this too?” I asked. “Even