Trudy descended the stairs. “She’s an eager beaver, isn’t she?”
“Did you decide?” Honoree asked, stepping out of her pantaloons.
“You gonna ignore my question?” Trudy strutted over to her crate but didn’t sit. “Ten clams? How about you sweeten the pot?”
Honoree gritted her teeth. Double-dealing and Trudy were like bacon and eggs. “I’m not changing anything. The deal is the deal.”
Undressing, Trudy eyed Honoree’s dress, hanging on the wall. “That is pretty. One of your better designs.”
Honoree might not be Coco Chanel, but she knew her way around a Singer sewing machine. “You need to take your eyes off that number, Miss Anne.”
“No need to insult me.” Trudy stood naked with a hand on her hip.
Honoree giggled. The moniker Miss Anne was a name Black folks called an arrogant, sex-crazed, uppity white woman who liked to mess around with colored men. It applied in reverse to Trudy.
“I was only complimenting the dress. I like the rhinestones.” Trudy slipped into a short silk robe. “What if Archie asks where you are?”
“Tell him I went home sick.”
“Why don’t you tell him yourself?”
“I’d rather avoid him.” People already knew about her and Archie’s past, but what they didn’t realize was how much she still feared his temper. “If he sees you instead of me on that stage, he’ll figure I must be sick, and we won’t have to fight about it.”
“Still ain’t enough cabbage for me.” Trudy put her other hand on her hip. “You know what—I’ll do it, if, and only if, you do something for me.”
Honoree couldn’t stop the I-should-have-known sigh that parted her lips. “Go on.”
“Deliver a package to the bartender at the Dreamland Cafe.”
Honoree gulped. Heaven help her. How did Trudy know about the Dreamland? “I’m not going anywhere near the Stroll.”
“Don’t bushwa me. Every chorus girl on the Stroll is talking about Mr. Buttons’s invitation-only audition. And when someone like you talks about missing a performance, I can add two plus two.”
Honoree was boxed in. What choice did she have but to do as Trudy asked? “Okay. Fine. I’ll deliver your package.”
“Here.” Trudy handed her an envelope.
It was an ordinary thing, not thick or thin, just brown, and sealed. But gooseflesh formed on her forearms as if she’d reached into a block of ice. She dropped the envelope into her purse. “What’s the barkeep’s name?”
“You don’t wanna know what’s inside the envelope?”
Honoree slipped a seashell-pink shift over her head and hips. “I’m only the postman. The less I know, the better.”
Trudy shrugged. “Houdini. The barkeep’s name is Houdini.”
“Will he know I have the envelope?”
“He’s aware somebody’s going to deliver it. Just mention my name, and he’ll know what to do.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Don’t you ever get uptown?”
Honoree shrugged.
“You won’t have any trouble finding him. Everybody knows Houdini. Most popular barkeep on the Stroll. Jolliest man you’d ever meet. Big belly. Big smile. Big bald head.”
Clearly Trudy liked the man. Houdini must be a saint to make someone like Trudy bubbly.
