Chapter 4
OTHELLA
Savoy Ballroom, Chicago
Everything about the Savoy is top-notch: the colorful lighting, the beautiful red leather lounges, and that new dance floor—so smooth you can glide across it.
There are also two wall-length bars, one at each end of the remarkably long dance floor, staffed by the best bartenders in the city.
The waiters, too, are dapper, in bright white dress shirts and large red bow ties as they serve the lounges and box seats.
The highlight is the music. Two bands alternate on one stage every night, so the music never stops.
One hour, I swing to Benny Goodman and his orchestra.
The next hour, I shake my hips to Chick Webb and his band.
All night long, the most jumpin’ jazz and the hottest music play on a brightly lit stage against a blue-sky backdrop.
When I leave Chicago, I’ll miss the city’s nightlife the most—the nightclubs, the juke joints, the Savoy Ballroom, and all the dancing.
I am a swell dancer, too. Folks think I’ve been dancing since I was a kid. That’s how good I was right off the bat.
Swing. Lindy Hop (or jitterbug). Shimmy.
Foxtrot. Just name it. And Perry is an excellent partner.
Such a strong boy! He can fling me between his legs, over his head, and around his waist as easy as pie.
And I ain’t no pint-size filly. Pleasantly round in all the right places and extra busty, I have a healthy figure that has helped me draw (and keep) the attention of some roughly woven men, both colored and white.
But Perry wins the prize for handling me on the dance floor, and sometimes in the bedroom, too.
My heart races in my chest. “Lord have mercy,” I say out loud.
Could it be that I am gonna miss Perry Merriweather?
Have I lost my mind? I can still feel the weight of his big body on my chest, my fear, as he slammed me into the sofa and wrapped his fingers around my throat.
I lean against a wall and close my eyes.
I’ll miss many things about Chicago, but Perry Merriweather better not be one of ’em.
“Excuse me, miss. You can come right in.” The ma?tre d’s voice is a rope, pulling me back to my senses.
“Thank you,” I reply as I walk by, briefly noticing that he didn’t charge me the thirty-cent admission fee. Tony must’ve left word—that’s a good sign.
As I stroll past the lounges and tables, I take everything in, committing it all to memory. This might be my last visit to the Savoy.
A row of young, doe-eyed cuties sits at the hostess station in one of the lounges, ripe for the picking.
They are various shades of beautiful, all flashing come-and-get-me smiles.
Silk-covered legs crossed at the ankles and skirts hiked up to mid-calf reveal just enough leg to tease but not enough to signal for a copper.
I was one of them before I met Perry, searching for a dance partner and whatever else I could get from a man.
I flash a broad smile at the girls as I walk by.
I arrive at his box and am surprised to find it empty.
Not that I expected Tony to be waiting for me, but I thought some of his pals would be around.
I stroll casually to the front and wrap my fingers around the railing.
The music is loud and the band is swinging hard and fast. The dance floor is hoppin’.
My hips sway, my fingers snap, and my head moves from side to side.
The band’s rhythm is so hot that the whole building feels like it’s bouncing on springs.
The music takes hold of me, and I forget the troubles this day has brought me until the crowd parts before me like the Red Sea.
In the center of the swirl are Tony Schaefer and his goons coming toward me.
For a white man, he certainly is quite a nice slice of beef.
Some men can change the quality of a room with a handshake or a tip of the hat, while others fade away like wilting flowers, their backbones melting like ice on a hot day.
But Tony shouts his power. Everyone knows he is one of them—a mobster, a hooligan, a tall drink of trouble.
“Hey there, doll.” Tony leans over the railing and kisses me while his bodyguards form a protective circle around him.
“Hey there yourself,” I reply, fluttering my eyelashes. “It’s been too long.”
He flashes a charming, toothy grin. “Likewise, sugar. Likewise.”
Decked out in a double-breasted beige suit and Oxford shoes, his hair slicked back with pomade, he is aces no matter what he wears. “You look delicious.”
I shimmy around the gate to join him outside the box. “I need to be close so you can hear me over the music.”
“That’s right, baby girl. I want to hear every word you have to say,” he says, his gaze fixed on my cleavage. “You look like a ripe, juicy tomato.”
“Oh, I don’t know how to react when you say things like that.”
“Try to think of something.”
I laugh. “Thank you for the compliment, and for really seeing me. I don’t want to take up too much of your time, so I’ll get right to it, if that’s okay?”
“Sure, sugar. Just tell me what you need.”
“I’d like to borrow some cash, a loan against Perry and my next payday.”
He frowns. “I’m surprised. I pay y’all enough. From what I hear, you two are quite the team and make a decent haul with your cons. So why you asking me for more money?”
“Perry left town two days ago and cleared out our stash. I kinda get why, though. He was mighty worried about his mama. She’s sickly, and he took off to Joliet lickety-split when he got the call.
That’s where his family lives—in Joliet.
” I talk a mile a minute. A lie sounds better when it spills out of your mouth.
Tony’s right eye squints. He doesn’t believe my story, but I keep at it.
“I called Perry yesterday and asked him to wire me some cash. I don’t think anyone got my message. With so much happening—his mother so sick, maybe dying in the hospital—nobody’s paying attention.”
Tony pulls me closer, not too gently. “You’ve always struck me as a judicious girl,” he says, minus the flirty tone he had just a moment ago.
“What does judicious mean?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says dismissively, his attention shifting elsewhere.
The music has changed. It’s no longer jazz or swing but a number called, “The Peanut Vendor.” My mother used to do a dance she called the rhumba.
“They’re playing my song,” Tony says. “Let’s dance.”
“I can’t rhumba,” I lie, not wanting my last dance at the Savoy to be in Tony Schaefer’s arms.
He senses my hesitation—and I don’t think he likes it. “Goddamn it, Othella. Do you think I don’t know you’re telling a bald-faced lie?” He grips me tightly, his hand around the back of my neck. “I said we’re gonna rhumba.”
He spins me onto the dance floor, and I stumble into his arms. He says it’s the same, but it isn’t the same dance my mother did in our kitchenette. Still, I follow his lead and hate every second.
“Could you please loosen your grip on me? You’re hurting me.”
He chuckles. “I don’t care.”
“I can’t talk if you’re holding me like that.”
“Then shake your head if you’re gonna stop lying to me.”
I lock eyes with him. “Okay. You got me. I need some dough to leave town and hoped you’d help me out ’cause you like me and I’ve done you a favor or two before.”
“That wasn’t a favor.” He touches my cheek, his thumb sliding over my lower lip. “That was a good time. And you’re right, I do like you, Othella, and I’ll help you. Give you all the cash you need to get out of town, but first, you gotta do a job for me.”
My heart races. “I can’t. You don’t get it. I gotta leave tonight.”
He shakes his head, smiling all the while. “Nah. You ain’t going anywhere until you lift something for me.”
“I can’t.”
His hand tightens around my neck. “Give me a good reason why you can’t.”
“Perry is out of town. Remember?” My veins feel like they’re about to burst. “I don’t have a partner.”
“You’re the queen of the fingersmiths, aren’t you?”
“No one calls me that,” I reply.
“I do, and I’m the only one who matters.”
“I don’t need the dough bad enough to do a job solo,” I lie again.
“Yes, you do need it that badly,” Tony says, loosening his grip on my neck. “You need it worse than you know.”
“How’s that?”
“The coppers are looking for you, honey. Or they will be by morning, and they’ll throw you in jail if Perry’s brother doesn’t find you first.”
“What are you talking about? Why would Jerry Merri-weather be looking for me? And why would the police want me? They’ve got nothing that proves I did anything.”
“You killed your boyfriend and the cops want to arrest you. Meanwhile, Perry’s brother, Jerry, just wants to bash your head in.”
I’m sure I didn’t hear him right. “What are you talking about?”
“A neighbor heard y’all arguing this afternoon, saw you run out of the apartment, and called the cops. They found his body on the living room floor.”
I step back. “Perry ain’t dead. He can’t be. I didn’t hit him hard enough. And he talked to me right before I left.” I start shaking so hard I think I’ll fall. “He wasn’t dead, I swear to you. When I left that apartment, Perry was alive!”
“Calm down—no need for histrionics.” Tony leads me from the dance floor to his box. “When he was found, Perry lay dead on his living room floor, a gash in his head that was the size of a baseball. The Smokador you used to kill him was covered in blood.”
The pounding in my chest is unbearable. “I didn’t kill him.”
“Doesn’t matter what you say. Nobody will believe you, especially not Jerry. But that’s where I come in. I’ll keep him off your back, and the coppers, too. Most of ’em in that neighborhood work for me. How do you think I found out so quickly that Perry was dead and the police were looking for you?”
Tony lights a cigarette. “So, you’re gonna do this job for me, and I’ll pay you and protect you until you’re safely out of town. Deal?”
Fuck. Is Tony telling me the truth about Perry?
Is he really dead? I swear, he was alive when I left the apartment.
But if the cops have my name on a ticket, it doesn’t matter whether I killed him or not.
They’ll arrest me if they find me, and I can’t go to jail.
I’d be no good in jail. Christ. But if the cops don’t catch me, what about Perry’s twin, Jerry?
“Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Good girl,” Tony replies.
“So, what do you want me to steal?”
“Nothing big, just a pocket watch from an old man.”
We move to a quieter part of the Savoy, a room in the back, so Tony can give me the rundown on the party I’m about to crash.
It’s at Robert Abbott’s mansion—he owns the Chicago Defender.
He and his wife are hosting a reception for their guests, Count and Countess di Abbatino—or Josephine Baker.
The famous showgirl and amazing dancer, she is someone I’d love to meet.
But I know I won’t get within ten feet of her.
What if I acted a fool and drew all sorts of attention?
That wouldn’t be good for a gal trying to steal a watch.
“How can a colored man make that much cabbage without having served time?” he says.
“Some damn newspaper for colored folks shouldn’t earn him that much money—especially during the Depression.
I bet he’s running a scam. Ain’t no way he’s wealthy and legit.
” Tony has a bunch of Negroes he either works with or goes to bed with, but funny how he hates a colored man who makes more money than him.
He says almost the same thing about the mark, the only part of his rant I commit to memory—the bits and pieces I need to do my job.
The man is Major Leonard Thomas, and Tony’s object of desire is a priceless pocket watch—soon to be in my clutches. It will be a simple grab and go. Lickety-split and I’ll be on my way to the midnight train, just like that.
Finally finished, I head to the ladies’ room to change into a gown one of Tony’s goons fetched for me.
I touch up my makeup—rouge, raspberry-red lipstick, and mascara—and tame my unruly eyebrows.
But there’s nothin’ to be done about the dress.
It’s a pale blue gown with drop sleeves and a pink bow around the waist—they call it the sweetheart look—and something I’d never wear voluntarily.
As I put the final touches on my hairdo—a neat bun at the nape of my neck, my long bangs swept to the side and pinned behind my right ear—I keep thinking about what Tony told me about Perry.
What if Tony lied just to get me to steal this pocket watch?
What if Perry isn’t dead? On the other hand, does it even matter?
I know I heard him call after me. He was alive when I left.
I’m still leaving town. It’s all aces once I deliver the watch, and Tony pays me my money.
But can I leave Chicago without knowing for sure if Perry is dead?
Shouldn’t I check with someone other than him, just in case Schaefer is a big fat liar?
Another glance in the mirror. I look as good as I’m gonna look for the job I have to do.
I just wish I could stop thinking about what Tony told me about Perry.
Did I kill him? I don’t rightly know. I wish I could find out for sure.
But I can’t ask Tony. I’ll have to get the truth from somebody else.