“Oh, thank God.” Honoree tried to stand, but her limbs twisted with pain. Nothing worked—her arms, her ankles, or her head. “Help me, Bessie. Please, God, help me get away from him.”
Holding the broken broom handle in her fist, Bessie seemed to be in a trance. A noise rustled next to Honoree, and she turned. Dewey’s leg had twitched. With his hand flat on the sawdust, he pushed up onto his side and rose to his knees, shaking his head. “I’m gonna kill both you bitches.”
Dewey reached for Honoree with a bloody hand. Bessie stood behind him, holding the stick.
“I never liked fucking you,” Dewey said to Bessie. “Such an ugly cow of a girl.” He turned toward Honoree, who scooted away from him.
“Come back here. I ain’t finished with you yet.” Dewey held her ankle and wrenched it until she screamed.
Bessie raised the stick above her head and plunged the broken broom handle into Dewey’s back. He grabbed at his chest, expecting to see what had struck him, poking through his sternum, but then he tumbled forward, collapsing onto his chest, head twisted sideways, eyes wide open, mouth gurgling.
Honoree had seen plenty of blood lately, but Dewey’s blood was everywhere.
CHAPTER 44
HONOREE
Wednesday, December 30, 1925
“We gotta call somebody, Honoree! We gotta call somebody right away.” Bessie pointed at Dewey’s body. “We can’t move him. He’s too big.”
Honoree’s ribs ached; jabbing pain circled her waist and crawled up her spine and across her shoulder blades. She grabbed the front of her drop-waist dress, pulling the fabric away from her skin, making room for the sob clawing at her throat—she opened her mouth, and a deep, hollow wail filled the room.
Once she dreamed of Broadway. Of Paris, France. Of the Dreamland Cafe. Dreams. “The blood. There’s so much blood.” And some of it was hers.
“You’re right,” said Bessie. “We need to clean up the blood.”
“Yes, we need to—” Honoree tucked her legs beneath her and tried to rise to her feet, but she only made it as far as her knees and then only while using the wall as a crutch.
“That’s okay, Honoree. I’ll go upstairs and call Jeremiah. He should be at the auto body shop. We need to hurry, though. Before Pete gets back.”
“Where’d Pete go?”
“He went to buy some lemons. Told me to come down here and tell you. That’s when I saw Dewey and killed him.”
God help her. “There was nobody upstairs?” Honoree asked. “There were lemons down here. He must’ve forgotten. Where were you, Bessie?”
“I was in the kitchen, making a sandwich.” Bessie was staring down at Dewey’s body. “Pete came, ate half of it, and asked me to watch the bar while he went to the store. He didn’t know where Dewey had run off to.” Suddenly, she kicked him in the leg and waited with her foot lifted off the floor, ready to jam her heel into his head if he moved.
His eyes were wide open. “He’s dead, Bessie. He won’t be waking up.” There was no flailing like a fish out of water, the way her father had died, or even Houdini. Death had sneaked up on Dewey.
Honoree’s heart pounded wildly in her chest, a drum line marching against her rib cage. Bessie’s breathing was steady. Honoree looked from her to Dewey’s body and clamped a hand over her mouth to push back the vomit rising into her throat.
“It’ll take Jeremiah a few minutes to get here,” Bessie said. “While I’m gone, you find a bucket and some rags. We need to clean up the blood.”
“Why aren’t you scared?”
“I’ll be right back.”
Bessie bounded up the stairs, and every muscle in Honoree’s body recalled every blow, every slap, every pain Dewey had inflicted upon her.
She leaned heavily against the wall, her legs soft like wet sponges, and her knees, warm taffy. “Oh Jesus.” Honoree slid to the floor, lowered her head into her hands, and the room went black.
“Honoree. Honoree! Wake up, Honoree!” Bessie was at her side, her hands under her armpits, helping her to her knees. “You must’ve fainted.”
Honoree struggled to her feet. “I’m all right. I can help.”
“You don’t look good.”
