“Ten o’clock.”
“Ten o’clock this morning?”
The man sucked his teeth. “He’ll be here straightaway. Now do what I said and sit.”
A wooden bench with no cushions was pushed against the wall. Honoree sat with her knees pressed together, holding her hands in her lap, striving for prim and proper and wishing she’d worn plain clothes.
A steady stream of folks, men mostly, paused to glare at her before they reported a theft, a man who beat his wife, a bartender who brandished a rifle, or a minister whose collection box was missing.
Honoree sat stiffly, tolerating the scrutiny for an hour before Officer MacDonald strolled in and sat next to her.
“Hello, Honoree.”
“You remember me?”
“Of course I do. We’ve met a few times before.” He removed his hat, like a gentleman talking to a lady. “You were a child with long braids the first time we met. You asked Officer Murray and me to find the man who drove the car that killed your father.”
“I don’t recall meeting you before the Dreamland Cafe,” she said with a gulp in her throat. “I do remember Officer Murray. He would drop to one knee whenever he talked to me so that we chatted eye to eye.”
MacDonald grimaced for no apparent reason. “The second time we met was three years ago on the corner of State and Twenty-Sixth Street.”
“You were with Officer Murray, and I asked him about the Bailey family. They were missing.” She steadied her nerves with a deep breath. “Then you knew I lied when we talked at the Dreamland Cafe. Why didn’t you mention this then?”
“I was looking for a killer. Not a lovesick little girl. Besides, you didn’t remember me, and now I understand why.”
“Where is Officer Murray?”
MacDonald lowered his head. “He died. Killed in the line of duty. One of three hundred and twenty-nine murders in Chicago in three hundred and fifteen days, according to theTribune.” He tapped his hat against his knee. “I had a feeling that afternoon at the Dreamland you wanted to talk. Is that why you’re here, to talk about George Mills, or Houdini, as he was called?”
She blew out a breath. “What if I told you a colored girl witnessed a white man—someone who worked for Capone, but wasn’t Capone—kill a colored man? What would you tell her to do?”
MacDonald scratched his brow. “To put one of Capone’s men behind bars, a judge needs hard proof. You give the cops that, and nothing other than a bullet in my back will keep me from doing my job.”
“Even if he’s a white man?”
“Decent cops want the killing to stop. Too many dead bodies in the streets because of bootlegging and racketeers.”
“What if the bullet ends up in my friend’s back?”
“Trust me. I can help your friend.”
“She’s not a trusting girl,” Honoree said with a short laugh.
He nodded. “I understand, but when you and I talked at the Dreamland, I asked you about Ezekiel Bailey.”
“You did.”
He smoothed the brim of his hat. “He’s been running with some of Capone’s boys. Him and Archie Graves. Maybe he could help you and me.”
Honoree stared at her hands. “You think Ezekiel knows who killed Houdini? Or do you think—” A knot twisted in her chest. “He didn’t kill him.”
“Maybe not, but he’s in league with Capone’s boys and what they’re doing in Bronzeville”—he paused—“that information might be helpful.”
“She’ll think on it. My friend, that is.” She started to rise, but MacDonald touched her arm.
“When you make up your mind, come see me,” he said. “You never struck me as a gal who didn’t think for herself.”
Honoree now stood firmly on both feet, her purse held tightly in her hand, her coat buttoned at the throat.
