Honoree’s stomach lurched. Had she heard him right? “You know each other?”
The expression on Ezekiel’s face didn’t contradict her words.
“How?”
Archie held her wrist. “Come to my office, and I’ll explain.”
“Let her go,” Ezekiel said.
Archie spread his fingers, letting go of her wrist. “Don’t get turned inside out, boy. Me and this girl go way back. She’s not worried about me. I would never harm a hair on her pretty head.”
Honoree rubbed her sore wrist, but confusion took her breath as she looked from one man to the other.
Archie had done what Ezekiel had told him to do without hesitation. She’d never seen Archie do anything another man asked him to do, not without a fight. “How do you two know each other?”
Archie’s chest puffed up. “Ezekiel is my new business partner, my policy wheel operator. I’m opening a policy betting station right here at Miss Hattie’s. My own concern, or I mean, Ezekiel and my business concern.”
Drawing air into her lungs was a struggle. Honoree couldn’t believe her ears. “Ezekiel, you’re not a doctor?”
Archie laughed. “Why would you think this boy was a doctor? He’s one of the best wheel operators in Harlem, come home to Chicago to make his mark.”
“So you’re mobsters?”
“No, Honoree,” Archie said sharply. “We’re racketeers. On our way up the ladder to policy kings. We don’t kill people.”
Honoree’s head hurt, and her eyes burned. Ezekiel was a policy wheel operator, and Archie was opening a policy station at Miss Hattie’s. Ezekiel Bailey and Archie Graves were partners.
“I’m going to vomit.”
“Don’t you dare.” Archie grimaced. “Already got enough puke mixed in with the sawdust.” He pointed at the door. “If you’re that sick, go on, scram. Get yourself home.”
She covered her mouth and nodded goodbye. A block away from Miss Hattie’s, she leaned against a brick wall, but she didn’t vomit. There wasn’t anything in her stomach but shock and surprise.
The wind stirred, and an icy breeze too cold for October threatened to freeze her where she stood. She put on her coat, almost forgotten on her arm, and ran.
At the first intersection, she hailed a Checker cab.
“Where you headed, ma’am?”
“The Dreamland Cafe.”
CHAPTER 9
SAWYER
Saturday, June 20, 2015
“Iwon’t make it back to California this week, Mitch.” I’m on my cell, lying in bed at the Freehand, a hostel in Chicago’s River North neighborhood, convincing my man in LA to chill. “I’ll send you your money in two weeks or the week after. Promise.” Mitch’s reply is loud, profane, and, frankly, justified. I booked his production studio two months ago, and he’s waited a bunch of weeks to get paid. And yes, I avoid his calls. Usually miss them altogether, but he caught me this morning.
“Man, I’m telling you, this trip to Chicago—dude, the woman is amazing,” I say. “You’ll see. I’ll send you some footage on Friday. I’m seeing her later today.”
Mitch is good people, and I owe him an explanation. I need him to understand why I’ve chosen to return to Chicago (instead of giving him his money). But I’m not sure how to explain it. My sister’s ghost is to blame, but that won’t fly with Mitch—or anyone sane. I could point to the 110-year-old woman I suspect of hiding a mysterious past. But what if I don’t get what I need from Honoree? Between her age and temperament, it’s a crapshoot. If the reel of film is a lost Micheaux, Mitch will wait until hell freezes over to be part of this project. But I won’t know the deal about the film for two weeks.
“Come on, give me a little more time to sort this out,” I say.
Mitch complains about how he’ll never work again with another wannabe Spike Lee. I start to explain that I’m not so much Spike as Lee Daniels, but that would only confuse him. Referencing Spike was a hat trick for him.
“She’s one hundred and ten years old and only stays awake an hour at a time. Getting what I need from her may take a week or two.” (Or until my money runs out and I have no place to stay.)
