“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.Buthe 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.”
